She tipped the jar over and felt the small pipe tumble into her hand. Normally she would have stuffed the pipe and the baggy in her pocket, snuck into the forest behind her house before she lit up. But she didn’t feel like it. The dark splotches had her freaked out and she needed a hit. Her therapist, a friend of her dad’s who had been at the wedding, had explained that her behavior showed that she wanted to be caught by her father, that it was acting out, a cry for attention.
Cathy thought it was bullshit.
Anyway, she wasn’t worried about getting caught by her father anymore. What was the worst he could do? Hate her? Well, that was already pretty much the case anyway, so she figured she had nothing to lose. Besides, even the doctor treating her disease had said it would be all right to smoke if the nausea from the medicine got too bad. She didn’t think her father knew about the medical O.K. and that was fine by her. The less he knew the better.
She plucked a few buds from the baggy, breaking them up just a little by rubbing her fingers together, and packed them into the pipe. Using the lighter from the jar, she lit the pipe and sucked back the acrid smoke, holding her breath to let the pot do its magic. Soon her brain mercifully floated away and the stress dripped like wax off a candle. She looked in the mirror. The purple marks still registered in her mind as a bad thing, potentially a really bad thing, but the pot took the edge off. She knew what she had to do, what she should have done when she first noticed the marks.
Reluctantly, she packed the pipe away, sprayed half a can of Lysol into the air to cover her tracks. As she dripped Visine into her glazed eyes she made the decision to wait until after school to make the phone call. Better to do it outside the house. The last thing she wanted was for her dad to hear her on the phone and freak out like he always did. Some day he’d treat her with the respect she deserved. Until then she would sneak around behind his back.
Well, unless it turned out it was really serious, then she’d tell him. Asshole or not, he was still her dad.
Cathy grabbed her backpack from her room and headed downstairs. She just hoped she’d be able to see her doctor after school and get back home before anyone noticed. Since no one in the house seemed to care about her, the chances for success looked pretty good.
THIRTY-THREE
Dr. Stanley Mansfield removed his glasses and dug a thumb into the corner of each eye. He pressed hard, trying to relieve the sinus headache that had gathered momentum since he woke up that morning. Even his hair seemed to hurt. He knew he wasn’t ill. Just a bad case of nerves and stress. Maybe it was time to take a vacation. Get away and do a little fly fishing. He smiled at the ridiculous notion. It had been years since he had taken a break from his work. Then again, he thought, maybe that was why he found himself stuck.
The phone rang and killed all ideas about vacations and mountain trout. He considered ignoring it but the shrill ring was too much for his headache.
“Hi Stanley. It’s Lauren.”
Dr. Mansfield leaned back in his chair, “Lauren. How are you? How are Jack and the girls?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess.” Lauren’s voice tightened. He could tell she was trying to hold back her emotions but they were getting the better of her.
“What’s going on?”
“Still a little shaken up over everything,” Lauren replied after a long pause, her voice trembling.
“Take some time off. I’ll cover any cases you have here. Take time to be with your family.”
“I’ll probably take you up on that. I might take the kids for a trip. Get their minds off things a little, you know?”
Take the kids. He noticed she didn’t mention Jack. “Sure. Whatever you need, you know that.” There was no answer. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m sorry. You see, I…”
“Go on. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I need a psych referral. Someone good.”
“For the kids?”
“It’s not for the kids. It’s for Jack. This whole thing has really shaken him up. He’s had some hallucinations.”
Dr. Mansfield chose his words carefully. “I heard about his…uh…episode in Nate Huckley’s room. You know it’s normal for someone who’s been in a crash like this to have short term psychological effects. Post traumatic stress often occurs when the subject endures the kinds of event Jack went through. Especially when there are children involved.”
“I know all that,” she snapped. “But it’s just a little harder when it’s your husband and not some textbook study.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry,” he said.
Lauren sighed, “No, I’m sorry. I’m on edge. Jack doesn’t know I’m calling you and I’m not looking forward to the battle to get him into see someone. Do you know anyone good?”
“Yes, actually there is someone right there in Prescott City. I’ve known him a long time. He’s good and you can trust him. I’ll email you his information.”
“Thanks. Is there any way you could pull some strings and get him in today?”
“If you think it’s necessary, of course I’ll ask.”
“Please. I’d appreciate it.”
“I don’t want to intrude, but are you in any danger?
“No. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“These hallucinations haven’t led to violent behavior, have they?”
“No. Of course not.” Lauren shot back a little too quickly. She seemed to realize it, too, and paused to collect herself before continuing. “Look, thanks for the help. And I appreciate the offer for some time off. I’m going to stop in later today to check in on Felicia Rodriguez and then I’ll probably leave tomorrow for a few days, maybe a week.”
“God, I thought someone called you.”
“Called me about what?”
“Felicia Rodriguez suffered a massive coronary yesterday afternoon.”
“Damn, why didn’t someone call me? What’s her condition?”
Dr. Mansfield cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Lauren. She died.”
THIRTY-FOUR
The room didn’t look like a typical therapist’s room. Jack based this evaluation not on any personal experience, but from scenes in countless movies and T.V. shows. They always showed puffy leather chairs, cheap wood paneling and the obligatory couch where pathetic people stretched out while they spewed their problems to a paid stranger.
There was no couch in this room, though. Besides the executive leather chair behind a sprawling antique desk, the only furniture was a pair of sturdy wooden chairs, with thick armrests, facing each other in front of a fireplace. One personal photo sat on the fireplace mantle: a picture of a teenage girl standing next to a horse. Jack stared at the photo as he sat in one of the wooden chairs waiting for the therapist to show up. Unlike the rest of the room, the photo at least had a warm feeling to it. The girl faced the camera with an ear-to-ear smile, one hand holding the reins, the other patting the horse’s forehead. Staring at the picture relaxed him a little. And that was exactly what he needed to do. Unwind the tension. Slow things down. Get a grip.
Lauren had been diplomatic in her approach to get him to this session. When he’d agreed without a fight to see the therapist, her surprise hadn’t been lost on him. It was the fear in her voice that did it. And his own fear too. He still couldn’t piece together what had happened last night. All he knew was he had ended up with a baseball bat in his hand and had come out of his trance, or whatever the hell it was, just in time to stay off the evening news as a serial murderer. So when Lauren explained that Stanley Mansfield had arranged an appointment with a shrink for him, he had agreed right away. He also agreed that Lauren should take the kids down to their friends’ house in Baltimore. Just for a while. Just until he was sure he wasn’t going crazy.