by Jason Starr
He crumpled up Dana’s note and threw it toward the wastebasket near the front door. It didn’t go in, but he didn’t bother to pick it up.
He took a quick shower, then saw he’d gotten a call from Jen, a thirty-fouryear-old patient with a history of clinical depression who was in an emotionally abusive relationship. He’d also gotten a text from her: please call me back doctor. Adam returned the call immediately, and Jen was extremely upset—sobbing, barely able to speak. She eventually explained that her boyfriend, Victor, had walked out on her for good. Adam talked to her for a long time, mainly listening to her and giving her a chance to express her feelings but also calmly pointing out the advantages of the relationship ending and reminding her how unhappy she’d been with Victor. Meanwhile, he was really probing for signs of a deeper depression. She’d once tried to kill herself in college, and he was particularly looking for signs that she was suicidal, such as extreme self-loathing, worthlessness, and hopelessness. But he decided that she was in the midst of an acute reactive depression and didn’t pose any immediate danger to herself. By the end of the conversation, she sounded much calmer and in control of her emotions, and she promised she’d call him first thing in the morning to let him know how she was doing.
Helping people get through difficult times in their lives always lifted Adam’s mood and reminded him of his real purpose in life. What was the famous Jackie Robinson quote? The only meaning your life has is the effect it has on other lives? Something like that. Anyway, Adam was looking forward to getting back into the swing of things at work, resuming his normal life. He sat down with his laptop for a while and answered his e-mail; most of it was work related, though a couple of friends had heard about the robbery and shooting and wanted to offer support and make sure everything was okay.
At around four, the guy from the security company arrived and programmed a new code, and Adam made him check and double-check to make sure the system was working properly.
“Don’t worry, sir,” the guy said. “As long as the system’s armed, nobody’s getting into this house.”
Adam wasn’t concerned. They had the alarm system and the new Medeco locks on the back door, and of course he still had his gun. He felt they’d be very well protected if, in the off-chance, someone—perhaps Sanchez’s accomplice— decided to rob the house again, though he doubted that would happen. There was just no way that a burglar, no matter how stupid or angry he was, would try to rob a house where a shooting had taken place, a house that had been crawling with cops and reporters. Why not rob another house in the neighborhood, or in a completely different neighborhood, someplace totally off the radar? Besides, there was still a chance that Gabriela’s murder had nothing to do with the robbery. Maybe Gabriela herself had been the second intruder last night and then had been killed in some random robbery attempt. Although Adam couldn’t imagine any logical scenario where he or his family could be in danger, he was glad he would be prepared for the worst nevertheless.
He microwaved leftover chicken and string beans and was eating at the kitchen table while rereading the sports section of the Times when he got a call on his BlackBerry with the ID fox broadcasting. He figured it was another reporter with a follow-up question, but it turned out it was Karen Owens, a producer from Good Day New York. She asked Adam if he would like to appear as a guest tomorrow morning.
“You’re kidding,” Adam said. “Why do you want me?”
“Why do you think?” she said. “You’re a big local news story, Dr. Bloom.”
Adam couldn’t think of any reason not to go on, so he said yes, figuring, What the hell? She told him how much she was looking forward to meeting him, and they arranged for a limo to pick him up in front of his house at six tomorrow morning and take him directly to the studio on the Upper East Side.
A few minutes after he got off the phone with the producer from Fox, he heard the front door opening. Still blown away by the call—was he really going to be a guest on Good Day New York?—for a moment he forgot he was angry with Dana and called out, “Honey, that you?”
He went into the foyer, noticing right away that she didn’t seem very happy to see him. Then he remembered the way they’d left off before and how angry he was at her and he said, “You’re back early,” tempering his enthusiasm.
“Why’s it early?” she asked, avoiding eye contact, taking off her coat.
“I don’t know. Usually when you go to Sharon’s you don’t get back till ten or eleven.”
“We just had coffee,” she said flatly, hanging up her coat in the closet.
“So anyway, you wouldn’t believe it,” Adam said. “Good Day New York wants me on tomorrow.”
“Great,” Dana said in a monotone.
Adam didn’t expect her to be excited, but he didn’t feel like playing their usual I-can-be-cold-and-distant-longer-than-you game either.
“I really think we need to talk,” he said. “Later, okay?” she said.
“Wait a second,” he said, and she stopped and stared at him. Her expression was so void of emotion she could’ve been staring at a piece of wood.
“I don’t think it was right what you said before,” he said. “What did I say?” she asked.
For a moment he couldn’t remember himself; then he said, “About how I’m screwing up your life or however you put it. How exactly do you think I’m screwing up your life?”
She let out a breath, looking down, and said, “You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way at all.”
Was she actually giving in? She almost never admitted any fault in an argument, or at least not until after hours of not talking to each other.
“Well, I accept your apology,” he said, “and I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t’ve just left like that. I know how much you hate it when I do that.”
“It’s okay,” she said and took a couple of steps toward the stairs.
“No, it’s not okay,” he said, and she stopped. “I was wrong and I’m sorry.
Forgive me?”
She nodded tentatively, now looking like she might start to cry. She didn’t usually get so emotional during their arguments; he figured it probably had to do with Gabriela and not him.
“Hey, come here,” he said.
She didn’t budge, but he went over to her, kissed her quickly on the lips, and then hugged her. She seemed uncomfortable, pulling back a little.
“Is that a new perfume?” he asked.
“What?” She seemed a little startled. “No . . . I mean, not really.”
“I like it,” he said as his cell started ringing. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the display, which was showing an unfamiliar 212 number.
“The hell is that?” he asked, squinting at the phone.
As he answered the call—“Yes?”—Dana rushed upstairs. “Mr. Bloom?” a woman said.
“Who’s this?” Adam asked.
“Grace Williams. I’m a reporter for New York magazine. Do you have a moment?”
The woman explained that she wanted to interview him for a feature story. Adam couldn’t believe it—what was going on here? He arranged to meet her tomorrow afternoon in midtown; then he ended the call and went to tell Dana the news. She was in the shower—he heard the water running—but when he tried the bathroom door it was locked. This was strange—Dana almost never locked the door when she showered.
He knocked on the door and said, “Dana, you okay in there?” No answer.
He banged harder and shouted, “Dana!” “What is it?” she shouted back.
“Nothing,” Adam said. “I’ll talk to you when you come out.” “What?”
“Never mind!”
Adam e-mailed his assistant, Lauren, asking her to move his lunch appointment to another day, and he started looking through his closet for something to wear tomorrow. Normally he dressed professional-casual—shirts, slacks, and sport jackets—but on Good Day New York he didn’t want to come off as some stuffy psychologist. He wanted to look cool, relaxed,
hip. Maybe he’d go for the sweater-and-jeans look, or was that too casual? He laid out dark jeans and a black crewneck sweater on the bed, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d wear a black button-down shirt with a black sport jacket over it—the Hollywood player look, show people that he was a successful psychotherapist but wasn’t trying to show off about it.
Dana came out of the bathroom in a robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. “You won’t believe the call I just got,” he said. “Now New York Magazine wants to interview me.”
“Did Clements call?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard him. “No,” Adam said.
“That’s not good.”
“It’s not good or bad,” he said, “but isn’t it crazy? First TV and now a magazine interview?”
“Sorry,” Dana said flatly, turning away. “I guess I just can’t get as excited about your fifteen minutes of fame as you are.”
“I’m not excited,” he said, ignoring the not so subtle put-down. “I’m just surprised. I really didn’t think this would get this kind of attention.”
“Is that what you’re looking for? Attention?” “Of course not,” he said.
Dana glanced at the outfit laid out on the bed.
“So I want to look good on TV,” he said. “What’s wrong with that?” “Nothing,” she said. “I just don’t understand why you have to go on the
show in the first place.”
“What do you mean? They asked me to. It’s helping me emotionally, with my glossophobia. And, besides, it could be some good publicity. Maybe I’ll get a few new patients out of it.”
“You could’ve said no. I don’t know why you want to bring more attention to us, I don’t see how that’s going to help make things any better.”
Adam, frustrated because he knew she was making sense but he didn’t want to hear it, said, “I thought we made up downstairs. Can we just stop this nonsense?” “That’s a good idea, let’s stop the nonsense,” she said. “I’ve been through a
lot today, and I really don’t want to get into this again right now.”
Adam was thinking, And what was that supposed to mean? I haven’t been through a lot? It was so typical—making him out to be the bad guy—but he didn’t want to argue anymore so he took the high road instead, taking a long deep breath, then saying, “Look, I understand how you feel, okay? You’re afraid, and I’ll admit it, I’m afraid, too. I mean, I think it’s highly unlikely anything’s going to happen, but I admit I won’t feel one hundred percent safe until it all blows over. But, honestly, I really don’t think running away to Florida is necessary, and I’m not even sure we could do that with a police investigation going on. Besides, the house is secure now, I’m confident about that.”
“What about the gun?” she asked.
He breathed deeply again, then said, “Okay, I’m willing to compromise. Right now I want it in the house, just in case, but when this blows over, when the police make an arrest and figure out exactly what’s going on, I’ll get rid of it.”
“You really mean that?” she said.
“Promise,” he said, raising his right hand as if he were on a witness stand. “I still think the gun saved our lives last night, but if you really don’t want it in the house, if it makes you this upset, I’ll get rid of it, okay?”
She was teary eyed again. “Thank you,” she said.
“Aw, come here,” he said, and he hugged her.
Now she was crying. He had no idea why she was so upset. Maybe she was just letting out stress.
“Come on, don’t be sad,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to get through this, I promise.”
She cried even harder, and then he moved his hands lower, around her waist. She seemed like she’d lost weight; felt a lot firmer, too. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex. Jesus, had it been a month? Two months?
He undid her robe with one hand and started to slide his other hand up over one of her breasts.
“Not tonight,” she said quickly, pulling away a little. “I’m just so worn out. I mean, because of the long day and everything.”
“I understand,” he said, moving his hand away, “but let’s definitely do it tomorrow night, okay? It’s been too long, you know?”
He stayed with her for a while longer, holding her, and then went downstairs to let her get some rest.
Adam was tired, too, but there was no way he was missing watching the news later tonight. He set the upstairs TiVo to record the Channel 5 news at ten and the Channel 4 news at eleven, and the downstairs TiVo to record the Channel 11 news at ten and the Channel 2 news at eleven. Meanwhile he planned to watch the Channel 9 and Channel 7 news on the downstairs TV.
At around nine thirty Marissa came home.
“I was just about to call you to see when you were gonna be back,” Adam said. “We have a new code for the alarm, I’ll give it to you in the morning.”
“Cool,” she said, and he could tell she was drunk.
“Went out drinking again tonight, huh?” he asked, trying his hardest not to get angry at her and have a repeat of last night.
“I met Hillary at a happy hour,” she said flatly. “Seems like a happy five hours.”
“I’m allowed to have a few drinks at a bar with a friend, Dad.” “I want you to cut down on the drinking, okay?”
She shook her head and went upstairs.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” he said. She didn’t stop, and he added, “No smoking tonight, and I mean it.”
A few seconds later he heard her bedroom door slam. He didn’t care if she got angry at him; he was going to stay on her case, keep giving her tough love until she got the message and straightened out her life.
At ten o’clock he watched the Channel 9 news. He’d thought his story would be the lead, but it was the third story, after a water main break in downtown Manhattan and a three-alarm fire that had killed three people and one firefighter on Staten Island. There was footage of a female reporter in front of the house, probably taken this morning. The reporter explained how during an attempted robbery Carlos Sanchez, who was unarmed, had been shot and killed by the owner of the house, “forty-seven-year-old Adam Bloom.” Then the reporter commented that Adam claimed he had believed Sanchez was armed when he shot him. Adam didn’t like that word—“claimed”—but he felt vindicated when Detective Clements, of all people, said in footage taken in front of a police precinct, “I believe Mr. Bloom acted appropriately in this situation. He has a license for the gun he used, and the man he shot, Carlos Sanchez, was an intruder in his house who had a history of violence.” Adam was hoping they’d show some of his interview from this afternoon when he thought he’d sounded so good, but instead the reporter was talking about how Gabriela Moreno, who’d worked as a maid at the Blooms’ house, had been gunned down early this morning at her apartment in Jackson Heights and police were investigating a possible link between the incident and the robbery in Forest Hills. Then the reporter was shown again in front of Adam’s house, and finally there was footage of Adam from this afternoon. He was disappointed, though, that they didn’t show his speech to the cameras. Instead they went to a sound bite of him saying, “I feel justified, yes,” and then cut back to the anchor desk. Adam was also disappointed with how he looked on TV. His hair looked okay—his bald spot wasn’t visible from the head-on angle, and the gray didn’t seem too prominent—but he looked older than he did in person, and he especially didn’t like the deep dark circles under his eyes. He’d thought the camera was supposed to add five pounds, not five years.
During the next hour or so he watched the other newscasts, including the ones he’d TiVo’d. They all covered the story similarly, with only minor variations. The Channel 4 news didn’t include any comment from Detective Clements, and unfortunately none of the segments showed any of Adam’s great speech. Channel 5 and Channel 11 didn’t include any statement from Adam. On the Channel 7 and Channel 2 news, both reporters paraphrased his quote about feeling justified, but they
seemed to take it out of context. Adam didn’t see why all the reporters seemed to love that quote so much, why they’d all chosen to include it in one way or another, while he could think of several other comments he’d made that had sounded equally good. Also, he was surprised that none of the stations had portrayed him incredibly heroically. He’d thought he would be, given the change in the reporters’ attitudes this afternoon and the new interview requests. Then again, the shooting of Gabriela was relatively fresh news, so he might not get the full hero treatment until the morning papers. Certainly after the interviews with Good Day New York and New York magazine ran people would have a more complete picture of what had really happened last night.
As he replayed the Channel 9 newscast for the second and third times, Adam wondered if any old friends and girlfriends were watching the news tonight. At least a few people in his past must have seen him, and they’d probably said to themselves or to the person next to them, “Adam Bloom? Wait, I know that guy.” He especially hoped Abby Fine had been watching. He’d dated Abby during his freshman year at Albany until he found out that she was cheating on him with his roommate, Jon. He’d read in an alumni newsletter that Abby lived with her family in Manhattan, so there was at least a chance she’d seen him on TV tonight. Adam felt like he looked good for his age and was probably better-looking now than he’d been in his early twenties when Abby had last seen him. He hoped she was watching tonight with her husband— hopefully he was dull and prematurely aging—and felt like she’d missed out.
As Adam shut down the house for the night, making sure all the doors were locked and checking and double-checking to make sure the alarm system was armed, he imagined what tomorrow would be like. After all the media exposure today and the likely stories in tomorrow’s papers, he would have to be recognized on the streets. Just for the hell of it, he might walk to work from the Fox studios to see what kind of reactions he got.
He had to admit that Dana had been right—he was enjoying this attention. He often told his attention-seeking patients that wanting attention was childish. He’d tell them, “Children want attention, adults want respect.” In his own case, although he was aware that he was acting childishly, he also knew that the media interest was fulfilling a deep-seated need in his psyche. While he had a successful practice as a psychotherapist—he made a good living and had helped dozens of people through the worst periods of their lives—one of his big issues was that he felt he hadn’t gotten enough recognition for his work. His doctoral degree from the New School hung on the wall in his office, but he’d never received any other honors or acclaim. He occasionally contributed an article to a journal but, unlike many of his colleagues, hadn’t published any books in his field. Carol, for example, had written several books, and sometimes it was hard not to feel jealous about her achievements. For the most part, Adam had become resigned to the idea that when he died he wouldn’t leave behind any legacy, but he still had a void in him, a strong need for attention that this whole situation was satisfying.
