Fatal Analysis (Psychiatrist Grant Garrick series Book 2)

by Tom Bierdz

  “Then you’ll stay?”

  “I’m just not ready to make that kind of commitment. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks–“

  ”A few months–“

  I rubbed my hands together. Shrugged. “A couple of months.”

  “Whatever. I’m simply asking you to move in with me. I’m not asking you to marry me.”

  “One thing leads to another.”

  A spark of anger crossed her eyes. “I want reasons. Why won’t you move in?”

  “I told you, it’s too soon.” I felt awkward the way she was staring at me, squeezing meaning out of every syllable. Her anger when she didn’t get her way was part of it. It frightened me. I needed to measure my words carefully.

  “If it was four months or six months, you’d move in?”

  She was pressing. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s what I thought. You give the short amount of time as the reason but there’s something else. What is it?”

  “I haven’t fully recovered from Kevin’s suicide and my divorce.”

  “You’ve been divorced for over a year and you may never completely recover from Kevin’s suicide.”

  “You’re right about Kevin, I may never...but I can put some more distance from it.”

  A tear ran down her cheek.

  I marveled at how quickly she could go from one emotion to another.

  “And how long am I supposed to wait? I remember you wondering why I hadn’t married. I liked being unattached. But that was before I met you. I hadn’t met Mr. Right before. That must sound over the top to a psychiatrist, but it’s true, Grant. I want to be with you.”

  I felt cornered. She wasn’t about to drop her probing without something more from me. I needed to be honest, at least to a point. I needed to risk she’d understand. I stood, paced. “I really do need time to sort things out. I’m really turned on by you. Every way, not just sexually. But there are times you scare me...”

  She looked sad, jerked her head as if she’d been slapped.

  I scratched my head. “Like the time you yelled at the waiter who brought you the wrong wine...”

  “I told you when I pay top dollar I expect perfection.”

  “...smashing those tennis balls at my head, and today how you ripped the head off the parking attendant.”

  “The waiter, the parking guy, they are servants. I pay them extra to treat me special and I get pissed when they take advantage...”

  “I’m not one of your servants!”

  “The tennis balls were an accident.” She stood, got in my face. “What the fuck do you do? Write down everything I do that doesn’t meet with your approval? Am I some object you want to dissect so you can write a scholarly paper on what makes me tick?

  “No! Hell no!” I grabbed her shoulders, shoved her back down on her chair. “I do what every other person does when testing out a new relationship. I try to be sensitive to those things that feel good and make me comfortable and to those things that don’t. I need to feel secure before I commit.”

  She looked at me, then moved her eyes away and focused on the floor. I saw her jaw clench and thought she was trying to swallow her anger before responding. I sat down on my chair, finished my Cognac.

  “Okay,” she said, slowly raising her head. “Let’s take a break, think about what was said, and talk about this again the next time we see each other. I’ll call you a cab.”

  I agreed and we hugged when the cab appeared.

  27

  I didn’t get much sleep the next night either. I tossed and turned, maybe squeezed in a couple of hours. I had the same sick feeling in my stomach this morning as I did when I got in the taxi after leaving Megan yesterday. My eyes were moist and I think hers were too, but I couldn’t be sure since my welled eyesight was bleary. I didn’t know where our impasse would take us. It was just probably a snag in the larger scheme of things, yet I was surprised how much I felt her loss. I fought to shake off the melancholy as I got ready for work.

  The forecast called for rain and it was already starting to sprinkle, so I grabbed my umbrella and began to walk to the office. I liked that the weather was subdued, matching my mood. I zoned out, shifted into autopilot, stepping to the pitter-patter of the raindrops on my umbrella and the rhythm of the cars thrumming on the wet pavement.

  Carrie puffed away on the porch, her long hair dancing on her London Fog. She waved as I appeared. I almost inadvertently warned her she shouldn’t smoke being pregnant before I shifted back into awareness.

  “I’m going to make my appointment this morning,” she said, as I drew closer. “I’ll shoot for Thursday morning as you suggested.”

  “That’s best for me. But don’t worry if you can’t work that out. I still have plenty of gaps in my schedule to move patients around.”

  She seized my arm when I reached the top of the stairs. “Thanks, Grant. It means a lot to me.”

  “Glad I can help.”

  I walked into my office and greeted Lindsey, my first patient, telling her I’d be with her shortly.

  Lindsey, the daughter of a friend, came home from college over the weekend and refused to go back. The friend hoped I’d be able to discover what the problem was and resolve it so she’d continue her education.

  “What’s this?” I asked Bobby, entering the inner office and spotting a baguette and slow cooker on his credenza.

  “My meatballs paisan!” Bobby kissed his fingers and gestured toward me. You have to stay for lunch today. I finally found the magic formula. Bam! I had to kick it up a little!”

  I laughed at his excellent Emeril Lagasse interpretation. “I can’t wait. Once you plug in that crock pot and that scent swings through this office you’re going to have to beat the hungry people off.”

  “I will with your permission. There’s a few of your patients I’d like to deck.”

  “Shh!” I put my finger to my lips and shouldered toward the waiting room. After a couple of beats, I invited Lindsey into my office.

  My mouth was watering as the garlicky, tomato aromas wafted into my office. Bobby finally hiked in the fixings, sliced the baguette and made two huge meatball bombers that were as good as any I had eaten in the past.

  Satisfied, I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “You really can cook, Bobby. I’m impressed. Bring in lunch anytime. I’ll gladly be your guinea pig.”

  Beaming, he said, “We have to cook for the class. It’s factored into the final grade. I think I’ll do Italian. Did you like the sauce? I made it from scratch.”

  “Terrific. You could bottle and sell it.”

  After we exhausted the subject of cooking and culinary school, I asked, “You ever see Megan get angry?”

  “Just that one time when she came in after her sister’s death. I mean, I didn’t personally. Her anger came through the walls.”

  “Yeah, that’s when I didn’t call her. How about between the two of you?”

  He rubbed his forehead, gave it some thought. “No, not really. She was extremely competitive when we played games. Intense. She won every time. I wonder how she’d react had I won. I don’t think she’d like losing.”

  “Yeah.” I leaned back in my chair, laced my fingers and pressed my palms together.

  “She have a temper problem?”

  “Uh-huh. Quick to fly off the handle. She can get pretty ugly.”

  “You thinking of breaking up?”

  “No, not yet anyway. But it’s a red flag.”

  Bobby wiped up the sauce that dripped down the side of the crock-pot. “My opinion don’t mean a lot, but a bird in the hand...If I had a perfect ten, like Megan, I’d put up with a little shit. I mean, how many perfect tens are going to fall into your lap. I’ve never dated anyone beyond a seven or eight. I’ll probably never date
a ten, and if I did it would probably never last.”

  “You got a point, Bobby.” I glanced at my watch. “You need to get back to your desk. My next patient should be arriving. Thanks for your feedback and for lunch.”

  The rest of the day was routine. Patients came and went. For the most part I was able to focus on my patients and escape my thoughts. Henry, a fifty-something accountant, who was fixated at the oral stage, was the exception. Throughout the interview he sucked on his empty pipe and railed about the neglect he received as a child. He was boring, constantly repeated his concerns, and stayed stuck in the morass of his own anxiety, failing to follow through on any of my suggestions. I found myself drifting off into my own concerns. I didn’t like whiners who refused to do anything about their situation. I had to deal with my countertransference. Henry was still sucking at the breast. I decided to approach him with a referral to a woman therapist at our next session.

  At the end of the day I expected Bobby to tell me that Megan had called and was disappointed to learn she hadn’t. I felt empty like a love-sick adolescent. With no more patients to focus on, my thoughts fixated on Megan as I walked home. There were no messages on my answering machine. I checked the dial tone on my phone to make sure it was still working. Nervous as an expectant father, I couldn’t unwind. Scotch didn’t calm my nerves. I couldn’t decide what to eat, continually opening and closing refrigerator and cupboard doors, either forgetting what was inside because I hadn’t focused, or expecting something new to appear. I don’t remember what I ate, if anything. Nothing I put in my mouth tasted good.

  I reached for the phone to call Megan several times, once even dialing her number before hanging up. What the hell was the matter with me? I was a grown man with a strong identity, a strong sense of self, and I was acting like a dependent child. I talked myself into abandoning the phone and spent the evening switching between the television, computer, and books, finding nothing to occupy my mind and constantly checking the time on the clock, waiting for Megan’s call. Finally, I went to bed early, tossing and turning.

  28

  To onlookers we could have seemed like a couple going on a trip as Carrie and I left the office, strolled over to her car and tossed her bag inside. It was cold, damp, and gloomy matching the mood for an abortion. There was no question in either of our minds that Carrie was making the agonizing right decision. Deep down she longed to be married with a family but she didn’t want to bring a child into the world this way: from a one-night stand, fathered by a hunk she didn’t know anything about. This modern Millie was steeped in traditional values, wanting to fall in love, marry, and raise a family in that order. Thankfully, she lived in a culture where abortion was legal, performed by experienced doctors where her ability to bear a child in the future was not jeopardized.

  She smiled and looked at me, her face peaked, “I wouldn’t be able to do this on my own.” She started the car, pulled into traffic. “This could have been special if it was our baby and I was going to the hospital to have it.”

  I smiled, not knowing what to say. I knew Carrie loved me. I saw our mutual love and respect as a brotherly-sisterly love, not as a love between a man and a woman. I suspected she did, too, and her comment was based on her need to alleviate her anxiety. We were connected like magnets. We’d been friends for over fifteen years.

  “You do think I’m doing the right thing?” She turned her wipers on to whisk away the rain that began to fall.

  “I do.”

  “You’ll do crisis management should I fall apart?”

  “You’re not going to fall apart. I’m here for you now and I’ll be there for you whenever you need me.”

  Her finger wiped away a tear that puddled in her eye. “Even if you move in with that blonde bombshell?”

  “Even if I move in with Megan.”

  “Are you?”

  “I guess so.” I avoided Carrie’s eyes, wiped the moisture off my window and looked outside, seeing but not processing what I saw. I had said it out loud, given voice to the thoughts I’d been struggling with, realizing on some level I had already made the decision.

  Nothing more was said until we reached the hospital. I stayed in the room with her after she was prepped until they wheeled her into the OR. I waited in the doctor’s lounge and reviewed some case files, making notes and assessing treatment goals. There were a couple of moments when I began to obsess about losing Kevin, connecting the abortion loss to my loss, but I flushed the nagging thoughts out of my mind.

  When Carrie came out of recovery and was released I drove her home, ignoring my suspension, because she was in no position to drive. I took a taxi and returned to the office.

  “Holy Shit!” Bobby shouted. “Did you read the paper today?” He sat at his desk, the paper stretched out in front of him.

  “No,” I answered half-listening from my desk where I was reviewing the case file for my next patient. I heard Bobby’s footsteps as he scrambled to my open door. “The cowboy psychiatrist. What was his name?”

  “Isley Hodges,” I said, looking up. “Why?”

  “He’s dead!”

  “What?”

  “Hit and run.” He scooted over to my desk, laid the paper in front of me so I could read the article. “It happened the other night. Apparently, he’d been crossing the street where he lived and had been run down by a motorist.”

  “No witnesses,” I said, following along with the article. “Jesus Christ!” I sat back in my chair. “The guy spends all that time in school and doesn’t even get a chance to practice, to enjoy the fruits of his labor.” My heart sunk, my sorrow compounded by our brief encounter.

  “Probably some goddamned drunk. Too scared to stop.”

  I thought about my DUI and how easily I could have struck somebody. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. One day you’re here, the next day you’re gone. It happens so suddenly. I liked the guy. I thought he’d make a good shrink.”

  I felt a little ashamed at myself pining over a woman when Isley, in the prime of his life with his future ahead of him, was cut down by an oblivious driver who didn’t even have the courtesy to stop. Had he, perhaps Isley’s life might have been saved.

  My next patient brought up the hit and run thinking I may have known the psychiatrist. I told her of my connection and we both lamented about the tragedy before getting down to work

  That evening I, again, waited for a call from Megan which never came.

  29

  It was like we were in a stand-off, neither one wanting to make the first move; both of us stubbornly believing we were in the right. At least, that was the spin I was putting on it. Megan’s refusal to call could have been something else entirely, some major emergency that took her out of town. I didn’t know a lot about her background. But even if something like that happened, I’d think she’d let me know. No, not calling was a choice. Did Megan need the time to reassess our relationship? That didn’t seem consistent for someone who demanded I move in with her. How could she change her mind so quickly?

  Did she want to teach me a lesson? And what would that be? That I was taking her for granted? Assuming she couldn’t live without me? That I had to work at the relationship? She had everything going for her–looks, money, smarts, and class–with no shortage of potential suitors. She boasted of enjoying a series of monogamous relationships. Was she tiring of me? Did she want to move on with someone new?

  Panged with jealousy I knew I didn’t want to lose her. She wasn’t perfect, but who was? She had a mean streak. But couldn’t I help her with it? I was a psychiatrist. Maybe if she had a long term, positive relationship with a male, with me, she could overcome it.

  In any case, the separation had shown me how much I missed her, how much I wanted to be with her, and maybe, even, that I loved her. If she wasn’t going to make the first move, I would.

  Bobby discree
tly learned Megan’s tennis schedule. I planned to show up at the court and challenge her to a game of tennis, but not before engaging Bobby into another practice game. Highly motivated, I was on my game with Bobby, serving zingers and wielding a formidable backhand. “Thanks for the game, Bobby,” I said, catching my breath. “Now if I can only play like that against Megan.”

  His breathing was normal even though I had run him ragged. “If she don’t take you back, you’ll have the satisfaction of beating her.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. I didn’t expect to be rejected.

  The next day I got into my tennis whites, grabbed my racket, and had Bobby drop me off at the tennis club before the prescribed time. I checked with the reservation desk to see which court Megan had reserved, then sat on a bench and waited, watching a couple of uncoordinated women play, occasionally tossing them their ball which rolled in my direction. One of them, knowing she was being watched, flirted with me by smiling and tossing her dark hair, and shaking her derriere more than necessary.

  Troy, Megan’s partner, appeared before long. He was tall, sinewy, good-looking, and only in his twenties. Nodding briefly at me, he cast his attention on the woman performing for her audience. I introduced myself and gave him a hundred dollar bill to go away. When their time was up everyone vacated the court.

  Megan appeared five minutes later, looking luscious in her tennis skirt, her hair held in a loose chignon. Her neckline was modest, not plunging as it was when we played before. Stunned to see me, she dropped her racket, clunking it on the floor. “Seems I have a new partner today,” she said, picking up her racquet.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “No, I prefer it.” She set down her racquet and bag, gave me a perfunctory hug. “Choose your side.”