by Tom Bierdz
Later at the hotel I called Carrie to bring her up to date.
She answered on the first ring. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been down in the dumps. I went to O’Reilly’s first time since I had the abortion and Stud was there. I suppose I should call him by his name. Colby was talking to another girl. He looked good and from what I could overhear he had more depth than I gave him credit for. I didn’t even finish my wine. I had to leave.”
“You wondering if you made a mistake?”
“Yeah.” She blew her nose making a honking noise. “Maybe I’m too damn picky. My friends and relatives certainly are far from ideal mates. I’m going to grow old and become a childless spinster. Do they still call them that?”
I heard the snap of a lighter, lung action, telling me she was smoking a cigarette. “I thought you were cutting down on your smoking. Keep that up and you don’t have to worry about growing old.” I didn’t know if they were still called spinsters.
“I have cut back. I’m stressed.” She was talking through tears.
She needed reassurance. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to abort the baby you were carrying when you wanted to be a mother. Carrie had to deny herself by putting the needs of the unborn child ahead of hers, knowing the conditions were not right for nourishing a heathy child. “You made the right decision Carrie. You don’t marry someone you know nothing about. Hey, there’s nothing stopping you from dating Colby and getting to know him better. Who knows, he could turn out to be the one. If so, you can have another child with him.”
She sniffled. “I feel better already talking to you.” Clearing her throat, she added, “What have you found out?”
I sighed, scratched my head, pondering how I was going to condense this. “Megan was married twice: to Jack Collingsworth and Walter Pennington. Both were psychiatrists, much older. Both are dead, supposedly from heart attacks. I talked to both ex’s. Collingsworth ex, Melinda, is remarried and nonsuspecting since Jack had a lifetime of heart trouble. Norma Pennington is bitter, lives alone, and believes Megan killed Walter. She’s been unable to convince the police...”
“She should get an attorney.”
“Yeah. I think the lack of money is stopping her.”
“Megan’s dangerous, Grant. You can’t go back there.”
She wasn’t telling me anything that the palpitations in my heart and the goosebumps on my arms weren’t. “I know, but I can’t survive a sexual lawsuit or ethics violation.”
“I’ve met with Dr. Conrad Bernard from your psyche group. He’s keeping it hush-hush, but he can only delay an investigation for so long without something from the police. We’re going to have to meet with that Rollins dick.”
“Okay.”
“When are you heading back?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll call you.”
43
I did my morning routines and prepared for my return to Seattle. Once more I lingered at the window in my room for a long distance view of the Buckingham Fountain, thinking I didn’t have enough sense to get out of the way of the heavy spray. I told myself I hadn’t paid it much attention to know the fountain goes off every twenty minutes, that I didn’t realize it shot up one-hundred-fifty feet, and that I couldn’t have foreseen the sudden gust of wind. Excuses notwithstanding, it seemed to be a metaphor of my life lately. I’d been walking into situations with dire consequences, to where now I was hanging dangerously from a precipice, and if I wasn’t careful and hyper-alert ... I sucked in a bushel of air. I refused to consider the worst. I was ready to fight.
Bobby’s call came in my taxi to O’Hare. “There’s a Mr. Silas Hunt from the Seattle chapter of the American Psychiatric Association...
I heard him prompt Bobby in the background.
“...He wants me to verify the treatment dates for Megan.”
“Did you check his ID, make sure he is who he says he is?”
“Yeah.”
“Give him the dates but nothing else.” The cab jerked abruptly, sending me sliding in my seat. My arm caught the door. I almost dropped the phone. “Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?”
“Sorry, sir. Asshole run a red light,” the driver said.
“You still there?” I asked Bobby “Yeah. Close one, huh?
“Yeah.” Breathing to steady myself, I wondered if there was any part of my life to be normal and uneventful. “What’s my schedule look like for tomorrow?”
“You got four appointments starting at 10:00 am. The last is at 3:00 pm.”
“Shouldn’t there be a couple more?”
“Both Burgess and Kirshner didn’t want to schedule until they knew when you’d be back.”
My jaw clenched. I could hear Bobby telling them he didn’t know when I’d be back instead of basing my return on my flight tickets. If I had to extend my trip he’d have sufficient notice to cancel their appointments. “Unless the plane crashes, Bobby, I’ll be back. So call them and get them in!” Immediately, I knew I shouldn’t have been so harsh. He was flying by the seat of his pants because I hadn’t advised him how to act in my absence.
“Okay.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Greg wants to see you. He’s pretty uptight.”
“Put him in one of the holes. And, Bobby, if you put anyone in before 10:00 am let me know.”
“Okay. What time you coming in?”
“Late this aft.”
“Want me to be here?”
“Only if there are things you need to tell me. Otherwise, write good notes and stay close to your phone.” I snapped the phone shut.
Shit! The complaint investigation was beginning. Carrie thought she could delay them. I had to hope that they were merely substantiating Megan’s claim that she had been treated by me. Regardless, time was of the essence. We needed to see Detective Rollins ASAP.
I arrived at O’Hare in one piece and generously tipped the cabbie for avoiding a crash. Because of traffic on the expressway my wait was short. Almost too short due to the ensnaring inside traffic through security that was knotting my stomach. I couldn’t fathom missing my flight and hanging around the airport. I tried to shift my focus to the many military personnel, who I knew were eager to return home after a long tour of duty, and who seemed to be taking the snail’s pace through security in stride.
Fortunately, the man sitting next to me on the plane was not a talker and busied himself on his notepad. I spent the better part of my trip replaying Chicago, particularly my interviews with Norma Pennington and Melinda Barrister.
Late afternoon I arrived at the office. Bobby was gone and left me with notes. There was nothing of significance. Gregory and Kirschner had been penciled in for tomorrow, Burgess for next week. In less than an hour I finished with the nitty-gritty, sat behind my desk feeling only slightly anchored in my familiar surroundings. Still anxious and jittery, I was wondering how I was going to come down when Carrie breezed into my office. She gave me a big hug.
“Come on, I’m taking you to O’Reilly’s.”
“You don’t think we should stay here and talk?”
“Your whole demeanor–eyes, color, body language, tells me you need a break. Up and at um.”
I donned my coat, locked the office, and climbed into her car.
Carrie put the key in the ignition, then stopped. She turned toward me and said, “Do I need to start worrying about my car exploding?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You sound very reassuring.” The doubt in her eyes was apparent even in the low light.
I smiled. “Maybe if you were a psychiatrist.”
“Sasha Kovich wasn’t a psychiatrist.”
“True, but I’m convinced her death is somehow related but I don’t know how.”
“You
’re in the car. I could just be a related casualty.”
I could see she was really frightened. “Get out of the car. I’ll start it.”
“That’s silly. I was just being a little paranoid.”
“Rightfully so.” Unable to slide over the gearshift, I clambered out, scooted around the car and opened the door. “Out!”
Carrie slid out, stood near the door.
“You might just as well get in if you’re going to stand there. Move away.”
When she was a comfortable distance away I turned on the ignition. The motor hummed. I walked over to the passenger side while Carrie got in and drove us to O’Reilly’s. I told her about the investigator coming to the office to verify Megan’s treatment dates.
Since we had arrived at the beginning of happy hour the bar crowd hadn’t yet peaked. We sat at the bar, ordered beers, watched people straggle in. Carrie’s eyes followed every man that entered. A buzz of conversation hovered and snatches of words and phrases floated past as people sauntered for their spot in the bar.
“Looking for Stud?” I asked.
She flushed. “I didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“As obvious as we’re sitting on these bar stools. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
She laughed at the Seinfeld reference. We both enjoyed watching the Seinfeld reruns and shared them with one another. “I hope that doesn’t bother you. I need to follow up with Colby. See where that leads.”
“I understand.” I grinned provocatively. “It was my idea.”
She drank from her beer, changed the subject. “You’re in grave danger, Grant. Megan’s a killer.
We need to get that detective on board right away. And whatever you do, do not have any contact with Megan.”
“I’ve got patients I need to see tomorrow. Tomorrow evening or Saturday works for me.”
“My calendar is clear. Want me to call him?’
“No, I will. I’ll call tomorrow.”
We had a few more beers, laughed and joked. Thanks to Carrie, I unwound.
She dropped me off. I stumbled into my place. Pleasantly tipsy from the beers, I checked the calls on my answering machine, expecting nothing of importance since people in my immediate circle and my answering service called me first on my cell. Of the six calls, only one was noteworthy: it came from
Megan. “Grant, I can still stop the sexual abuse investigation. Come see me. Let’s talk.”
Instantly I sobered up. The little mellowing resulting from the alcohol and being with my friend evaporated. I wanted Megan to stop the investigation, but there was no way I was going to see her. I did not want to have a heart attack like Collingsworth and Pennington. Nauseated, I sat down. Panicky, my heart beat against my chest like a claustrophobic neurotic locked up in a small, dark room. If it didn’t stop I’d give myself a heart attack. I reached for the phone to call Carrie, then changed my mind, realizing I needn’t bother her as nothing was going to happen tonight. I needed to get hold of Detective Rollins first thing tomorrow. I got ready for bed and spent the bulk of the night tossing and turning.
44
Looking like a zombie with bloodshot eyes, I told my patients who asked that I hadn’t got much sleep at the conference. The ones who knew my background assumed I’d been whoring around. The fantasy gave one woman permission to be especially seductive telling me she wanted to sleep with me, and that she’d thrill me like no experience I had in the past. I told her I was flattered, but we were here to work and she was using her sexuality to avoid dealing with the intimacy issues she had. And, being wiped out, I didn’t have to wrestle with any countertransference feelings.
I pushed through my interviews shutting out Megan’s phone message best I could.
Sitting in the waiting room, his head down, making circles in the carpet with his foot, Greg looked dejected. He twitched a smile when I invited him in and shuffled, carrying his backpack, to the office ahead of me. Dropping the bag on the floor, he removed his jacket, tossed it on the far end of the sofa, and plopped down. “It’s going to rain,” he said.
Since Greg never talked about the weather I speculated he was referring to an ominous future. I nodded.
He cleared his throat, fiddled with his fingers. “My throat is scratchy. Can I have a drink of water?”
“Sure. You know where it is.”
He rose from the couch, started to leave the room when his foot caught on the strap of his backpack, nearly stumbling. Grinning sheepishly, he recovered and left the room.
I made a note in my yellow pad.
He returned with a half glass of water, set it on the table next to him and sat. After arcing his foot back and forth over the carpet like a windshield wiper, he gasped, “I almost set a building on fire.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. A tear formed in his left eye. “Mom came to see me. Bought me a burger at the diner. She fixed herself up. Wore make-up. Looked pretty in a pink dress. For a while I was proud she was my mom. Then she began.” He paused, clenching the muscles in his jaw. “Telling me about her struggles. How she barely made ends meet. She even said she borrowed money to buy me the burger when I was eating it. I gagged, almost threw up.” He began to hyperventilate.
“Easy. Breathe. You know I’m going to help you feel better.”
He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and drank more water. After a short pause, he continued, “She talks out of both sides of her mouth. She says she doesn’t want to burden me, that none of this is my fault, but she needs me home with her” He choked. “She don’t even bother saying she misses me anymore. Comes right out and says she can’t make it financially without me in the house.”
“And that makes you feel how?”
“Like shit! Guilty as all get out. I mean, she is my mother. I don’t want her to suffer because of me.”
“She isn’t suffering because of you.”
“Tell that to her.”
I waited for Greg to continue.
“It’s not fair. I didn’t ask to be put into that house. Other kids have normal families. They don’t have to deal with this bullshit.”
“Is your mother still working at that drugstore?”
“Yeah, but I think they cut her hours.”
“Let’s talk about the fire you almost set. Tell me about that.”
He discovered a stain on his jeans, licked his finger and tried to rub it off. “It was after she left. I was agitated, finding it hard to breathe. I needed to walk. Get some air. It was after dark. Cool. Windy. I lifted the collar on my jacket, shoved my hands into my pocket and felt my lighter...
I wasn’t aware that Greg owned a lighter. I was sure he started the dumpster fire with matches.
“...I walked behind the group home and had an urge to fire up the dumpster again, but I didn’t want to endanger any of the people inside. I stepped into the alley. As I walked I saw other dumpsters that belonged to businesses where no one was inside. I took out my lighter, then stopped. I wanted to set a fire. I don’t know how I stopped. I ran down the alley screaming until I was out of breath. I started to throw the lighter away but I didn’t.” His eyes were moist and he seemed to shrivel up like a balloon that had expelled its air.
“Thanks for sharing this. Now I’d like you to replay this scene you just described and think about what you were feeling.”
“Lots of things.”
“When you left the group home.”
“I was depressed.”
“Okay. What else?”
“I was losing it.”
“Yes. How about angry. Were you angry?”
“I was mad as hell!”
“Right! Why?”
He was on the verge of tears. “Because mom was blaming me for
her shitty situation. Trying to make me responsible...” He hesitated.
“Right. Go on.”
“...I’m working hard to get it together. Changing my life around. Doing better in school, on course to graduate where before I was going to flunk out.”
“Yes. You had every right to be angry. Anybody in that situation would be angry.”
He smiled. He needed to hear he wasn’t such a bad person after all.
“Let me tell you a little of what I know about fire-setting. Then you tell me if that fits. I think fire setting in your case stems from anger. It’s an act of aggression and a means of controlling your environment.” Noting the confusion on his face I explained, “There’s nothing you can do about your mother’s situation, yet you’re stuck in the middle of it. She makes you stuck. You’re probably too young to know about sticky flypaper but people used to hang those in their kitchens to catch flies. It was a thin sticky roll that stretched and spiraled out and hung from the ceiling or somewhere, saturated with something that attracted flies. The flies would be attracted, land on it and held captive, unable to free themselves. I think there was also some kind of poison on the paper. After a while, loaded with dead flies, the paper was garbaged. Your mother’s like that flypaper. You get caught up in her sticky situation.”
“She bugs me,” Gregory offered, getting into the flow.
“You are put into a situation with your mother that you are powerless to do anything about. Does this make sense so far?”
“Yeah.” His eyes opened wide.
“Fire-setting is a way for you to exert power over your environment.”
He scratched his head, thought about what I said. “Then I should burn my mother’s house.”
“If we operated logically, yes. But burning your mother or her house is forbidden, so you transfer the aggression elsewhere.”
“So after mom left I was filled with anger. I needed to release it and I felt compelled to set a fire?” He asked with a questioning glance.
