by Tom Bierdz
Could Megan have been so brazen, so conniving, to set me up right from the beginning? Was the cash a prop to throw me off? Make me think there were no official records of our interviews? Was it all a ruse? Everything? The attraction, the connection, the chemistry felt so real. I tore off my sport coat. My underarms were soaking wet. I had to consider that I was Megan’s alibi for Sasha’s murder as Detective Rollins suggested, giving credence to Sasha’s suicide. Emotionally, I refused to accept that I could be so manipulated. I could understand my falling for her. She is beautiful, sensual, desirable, the kind of woman most men dream about. But I couldn’t believe that everything that came afterward was faked. If so, she was the best actress ever, deserving of an academy award. By profession I was a student of human behavior, considered myself uniquely perceptive. That belief in myself had been well-grounded, reinforced by my training supervisors and by my patients. Yet, I may have been duped.
Although I still hadn’t conclusively accepted that Megan would actually sue me for sexual abuse, I
had to consider her threat real, especially now that there were insurance records. But that didn’t make a lot of sense. She had to love me, or at least see a future with me to want me to live with her. Then why threaten me? Even certain bloggers never listed life-altering threats as one of the ten ways to get your man. Her threat was plain vindictiveness. That mean streak. She would strike out if she didn’t get what she expected.
As confused and befuddled as I was, I knew one thing for certain: there was no way I was moving back in with her.
Due to scheduling conflicts Carrie and I didn’t get together until the end of the day when she strolled over to my office. Looking tired, she flashed me her most friendly smile, draped her coat on my couch and collapsed into it. “I hope you have a pick-me-up or I’m going to stretch and zonk out. This murder trial is killing me.”
“Coffee or single malt scotch?”
Grinning slowly, she said, “Single malt. I haven’t had single malt scotch since... She locked eyes, gave me a searching look and dropped the smile. “...since I can’t remember when.”
But her look told me she did remember. It was another lifetime ago when we were both kids working for her father, the night when we began a short but sweet affair. Although Carrie liked to tease me about having sex with her, we both knew it was a treasure to remain in the past, a fond memory like a first kiss or a first date.
I opened my desk drawer and removed the scotch. I had forgotten it was there, remembering only when digging out Gregory’s film. “If scotch aged in the bottle this would be more than fifteen years old.” I poured us each a glass. “How’s the trial coming?”
“Prosecution makes a pretty good case but it’s mostly circumstantial.” She sipped her scotch, made a face. “But I don’t want to talk about this now. I’ll be up half the night reviewing documents.”
“A good night sleep might serve you better.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Doctor. Tell me about your situation.”
“I moved out of Megan’s. If I don’t move back in, she’s threatened to sue me for ethics violations, sleeping with a patient.”
“Hmm. You’re not that good a catch!”
I smirked.
“Seems we talked about this before. You rationalized that she wasn’t the patient, her sister was. It might stand up in a trial in which case you retain your license but tarnish your reputation. Then, again, it might not. You could lose everything. You don’t want this to go to trial.”
I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, gulped my drink. “What if I don’t submit her insurance forms?”
“Pretend you didn’t see her?”
“Or that I didn’t charge her? What you’d call pro bono.”
“You’re a licensed psychiatrist. You still have to play by the same rules if you charge for your services or not. You saw her in your place of business.” She crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt. “She can submit the insurance forms if you don’t. She can subpoena witnesses like Bobby.”
“So I should submit the insurance forms.”
“Have you submitted any of your interviews?
“No, I thought she was paying cash. And with Grace gone...”
“Good, then hold off. That will buy us some time. Hopefully, you’ll be able to resolve things in the meantime.”
“I don’t think it’s resolvable.”
“I don’t understand how she thinks her tactics are going to get you back.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Look, I got to go.” She stood, put on her wrap, gave me a hug. “You know I got your back. Keep me in the loop.”
34
Bobby called me at home to say he was sick and not coming into work. He had a fever and had been vomiting. He claimed it had nothing to do with the few beers he had last night. I believed him. He sounded bad and he had dragged himself to work in the past when he’d been hung over. I did have a speck of doubt, however, wondering if his failure to push himself was due to my accusing him of taking the two-hundred dollars. I did say I was sorry, and planned to give him a more meaningful apology, but yesterday did not provide the occasion to do so. I took him at his word. He made the effort to call me early so I could make the necessary arrangements.
A steady, light rain fell but without the prior day’s wind. Fortunately, a Mariners golf umbrella I had ordered arrived so I could try it out and walk to work. One gets used to the rain living in this area. Still, there are days I tire of it, and days I resent it when it interferes with my plans. Then there are days like today when I welcome and appreciate it for its cleansing and nourishing properties; it seems to wash away the filth and grime, both realistically and metaphorically, and enliven the surrounding scenic landscapes. Perhaps, I felt a little energized because I hadn’t heard from Megan nor tried to reach her.
Was this the lull before the storm? I tried not to think about it.
Carrie wasn’t on the porch to greet me. I assumed the murder trial demanded her presence.
I unlocked the office doors, flipped on the lights, hung my coat and laid my opened umbrella in the corner of my office to dry. Since I hadn’t made my own coffee for such a long time I had to read the directions on the can. And when it was done, it didn’t taste as good as Bobby’s coffee. I made a sign that I put in the window by the receptionist’s desk that asked patients for their patience and said that Bobby was sick, that I was in conference, and would come out and get them at the appointed time.
With Bobby gone I didn’t want to rely on the taxi service to visit Greg, so I called Carlos and asked him to give Gregory the taxi money to come here and that I would reimburse him.
Greg showed up early for his appointment and I took him in right away as my previous appointment had cancelled. He liked taking a cab right from school as he was sure student were curious as to where he was going–one student in particular. He seemed in an especially good mood, dropped his backpack on the floor and his body onto the couch.
“You see girls in therapy too?”
“Yeah. Except for small children, I see anyone who wants to see me. Why?”
Greg bent his head down, keeping the grin on his face. He studied his foot as he moved it back and forth, as if it was going to do something magically, then looked at me. “How do you know when a girl likes you?”
She doesn’t threaten you with a lawsuit. How ironic he would ask me when I’d been wondering the same thing, albeit on a different level. “I take it that you like someone and wonder if she likes you.”
He nodded, his face aglow.
“Well, why don’t you describe for me signals you think she may be giving you and I’ll respond?”
“She walks with me to class a couple of times during the day.”
“With you alone or as part of a group?”
“Both, but usually w
ith me alone.”
“Are you in any classes together?”
“Yeah. Just one, photography.”
I was surprised photography was even offered. “Then you have to be one of the most knowledgeable in the class.”
“Yeah, the teacher calls on me a lot. Emily comes to me for help.”
I smiled. “Her name is Emily?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Does she smile and laugh with you, play with her hair, touch you?”
“All of the above.”
“Seems to me she likes you. Does that feel good to you?”
“Yeah, but—“ His face sunk. “She’s got a cell phone, an iPod, has friends on Facebook. I don’t have any of that. I use the computer at the group home, but I have to share it with the other guys.
”You’re feeling a little out of her league?”
“Yeah.”
I could hear Kevin asking for those things, saying everyone has them. We got them for Kevin. I could appreciate Gregory feeling disconnected. “Those are things, Greg. They’re important in some ways, but they don’t make who you are. From what you said, it doesn’t seem like it’s a big deal to Emily that you don’t have those things.”
“Maybe not now.”
“Well, Greg, you can choose to worry about something that may never happen, or you can choose to enjoy Emily now and see where it goes. If it turns out she’s over-concerned about material things you’re better off without her.”
“I guess.”
His expression told me that didn’t resonate with him emotionally, even if it needed to be said.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
He fidgeted, doing that thing with his foot on the carpet again. “A lot of kids my age are having sex...”
My stomach rumbled. I didn’t know how I felt about kids Greg’s age having sex. There would have been no question in my recent past that sex was special and should be reserved for that special someone, and that most kids, Greg’s age, were not emotionally capable to handle the ramifications. But that was before Kevin killed himself. I had wondered if he ever had sex. I thought it a shame if he hadn’t had the pleasure before he ended his life.
“...and I’m.” He hesitated, embarrassed. “And, I’m not.”
“Is Emily?”
“Well!” He looked surprised at my question. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She doesn’t look like the type.”
People made assumptions about what others did by how they looked and acted. Back when I was in high school the girls who wore provocative clothing, showed a little skin, and were, maybe, caught kissing in the halls, were deemed as the ‘fast’ or ‘slutty’ types. I’ve treated a couple of adolescents like that who were not anything like their ‘types’. It still holds true that you can’t judge a book by its cover. But I didn’t think this was a time for a teaching moment.
“Greg, there’s also a lot of kids your age and older who are not having sex. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Take it a day at a time. See where this thing with Emily goes. Don’t start putting up obstacles. If you listen to yourself and pay attention to your feelings, you’ll know when it’s right for you to engage in sex. And I’m here if you need to talk about this again.”
I couldn’t remember having any of those meaningful father-son discussions about sex with Kevin. I made broad generalizations about being discriminating, using condoms so he didn’t get anyone pregnant, and how his future demanded a college education, but he never approached me with any specifics. I don’t think he ever approached Hanna either. If he had, she never shared it with me. I had to stop lamenting about what I didn’t do with Kevin and concentrate on Gregory.
Thankfully, Greg changed the subject. “I almost forgot,” He said, digging into his backpack, “I brought the photos.”
I moved to the couch and began looking at them. He had oodles of pictures of eagles in flight, perched on wires, on tree tops, and even a few with eagles feeding their young. The shots were first class, good as any professional photos I’d seen.
“Those violet-green birds on the telephone line are swallows,” he said, looking over my shoulder, and the one with a white rump is a northern flicker.”
“And this is a doe and her fawn,” I said, holding a photo showing them in mid-air leaping over ferns.
I shuffled through the glossies with deep admiration for Greg’s talent, doing a double-take on a photo of the boat house. I scrutinized it closer, handed it to Greg and pointed, “Greg, look, right in that corner. What is that?”
“Looks like a rowboat.”
“That’s what I thought.” I tried to piece together the time between when the Sunday Megan called on me concerned about Sasha drowning herself after spotting the rowboat far out to sea, supposedly floating away, and our trip out to Brawny Lake when Greg took the pictures. Why was there a rowboat by the boathouse if it had drifted away? Nick could have rescued it, towed it back with his boat, or they could have bought a replacement. That is what I would have assumed had I no suspicions of Megan. Megan said Sasha went out for a walk, so I knew Sasha hadn’t gone out on the lake. If it had not drifted away and been brought back, then Megan lied to me. Why?
“Greg, how would like to go back to the area, shoot some more film?”
“Sure.” His face lit up.
We made plans to go back to the lake. I didn’t know what I expected to find, only that a strong impulse was driving me there.
35
Bobby was out for three days with some kind of virus that kept him in bed most of the time. I manned the office on my own. It was inefficient and inconvenient but workable on a temporary basis. I’d managed this way when Grace missed work on rare occasions. She sent me a post card from Paris, reminding me she wouldn’t be back to work for yet another month.
Although my mind was on Megan whenever it wasn’t focused elsewhere, I avoided her. Her threat to report me to the American Psychiatric Association could not be ignored; yet, I wasn’t ready to confront her without some kind of plan in mind. And, the more I learned of Megan, the more anxious I became. I needed to get to Nick’s place and check out the rowboat. Finding it would be one more thing to weigh the scale against her. A part of me wanted it to have drifted out to sea as Megan said; the same part of me that wondered what nightgown she wore to bed.
Yesterday Megan called when I was in therapy and left a message on my machine that she had drafted a complaint letter, and would sent it to the appropriate authorities if I didn’t soon move back in. She added that I shouldn’t bother getting back to her unless I planned to live with her.
We got off to a late start on our ride to Brawny Lake. After picking up Greg in my taxi, we had to motor to the storage facility where I kept my Porsche, and then wait for the owner to unlock the gate before I could get into my unit. He had to take his wife who fell and broke her leg to the hospital. His stand-by wouldn’t answer his phone. It was raining softly and we had to squeeze against the building where we were shielded by the overhang. We quickly lost the desire to speak and silently waited for the owner who assured me by phone that he was on his way. I had an urge to go home if this was any indicator how the rest of the day would go.
Greg perked up once he got behind the wheel of the Porsche. His mood elevated mine and soon we had deserted the city for the country roads, passing rolling hills and grazing cows, homes under construction, strawberry fields, and trees bursting with color. Dogwoods in white, red, and yellow, pear trees in white and plum, and cherry in varying shades of pink: a painter’s pallet.
Greg eased off the wipers as the sun broke through and drove off the clouds. He told me that Emily was easy to talk to and that he was more comfortable now. They were spending more time together and she didn’t mind that he didn’t have all the technological gadgets and
offered hers to use. She liked that he was interested in nature and wanted to go birding with him some time.
As we neared the store where we bought the film, I asked, tongue in cheek, “You have the film?” which led to a verbal replay of our last trip.
Although Greg was off from school it was a work day and I assumed Nick would not be home, so I didn’t bother knocking at the door and asking for permission to enter onto his property. Greg parked in front of the house and we sauntered to the boathouse in search of the rowboat. The image on the photo was minute, and I wanted to be sure it was there before accusing Megan of lying to me. The boathouse was nothing fancy, a sand colored, corrugated steel structure with a pitched roof, just large enough to contain Nick’s boat. A lakeside, steel roll up door kept out the elements and a boat lift raised it out of the water. From a distance we spotted what appeared to be an upside down rowboat resting in the grass on the near side of the boathouse.
“There it is,” Greg said, moving to it.
I nodded, observing the lime and mineral water stain build up on the hull. This was not a new rowboat.
“Hey! This is private property. Get away from that boat!”
I turned to see Nick, cautiously approaching with a shotgun. He dressed in baggy jeans, boat shoes, no socks, blue windbreaker, and a ship captain’s hat initialed with SYC which I took to stand for the Seattle Yacht Club.
