Finally, there’s something to see.
I pull up one of the shots, staring hard at the image. The gray coat, the hunched-over posture – the man whose casket I saw lowered into the ground back home with my own eyes.It’s my father.
My eyes tear up as I grab another shot and then another, poring over every detail.
Suddenly, it’s as if I’m chasing him all over again. I’m out of breath, my chest burning. The room feels as though it’s caving in, and I reach out for the wall to steady myself. So this is what a panic attack feels like…
Desperate for air, I flee the darkroom, and when that’s not enough, I run around opening all the windows in my apartment.
I try to breathe normally, but I can’t.
C’mon, Kristin, keep it together. Somehow, some way, this has to start making sense. You just have to find the organizing principle.
It wasn’t my father, I tell myself, just someone who looks like him. Maybe someone’s trying to mess with my mind. It’s got to be something like that.
Christ, how insanely paranoid can I get? Someone messing with my mind? Who?
Out of nowhere, a sharp pain shoots straight up from my feet. My thighs and calves are throbbing, and I can’t stand it anymore. Not any of this.
Balling my hands into fists, I begin to pound at my legs. I’m literally beating myself up.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
Closing my eyes, I let go with a primal scream, and yet at the same time I have a very sane thought. This is no time to be alone.
Chapter 33
I CALL MICHAEL.
Actually, I page him. That’s how we work it on the weekends. The arrangement between us.
I’m the supposed big client to whom he gives direct access 24/7, so Penley doesn’t raise a tweezed eyebrow when he disappears into his study to call me back on his private line. I even have a name. Carter Whitmore. Sort of sounds like a guy in finance.
Two minutes later, my phone rings. I don’t bother with hello and cut right to the chase. “I need to see you.”
Before Michael can respond, I realize how that sounds, or at least how he might interpret it. Sexually.
“I mean, I need to talk to you,” I tack on. Strangely, I’m feeling better now. Calmer.
“Okay, so let’s talk.”
“Where can I meet you?”
“Oh,” he says haltingly. “We can’t do this on the phone?”
“I’d rather not.” Tell you that either I’m cracking up or it’s a whole lot worse than that.
“You sound stressed. Is everything okay?”
“No,” I answer. “Can’t we meet somewhere?”
“That’s the problem. I’m about to take Dakota and Sean to the Central Park Zoo.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you there. Ten minutes.”
Silence.
“What is it, Michael?”
“The kids,” he says.
“What, don’t you think they’d like to see me?”
“Of course I do. That’s my point, Kristin. They’ll like it so much it will be the first thing they tell their mother when they get home.”
“Then what if I just happen to bump into you guys?”
He chuckles in a way I immediately don’t like. Almost condescending. He can be that way, but not with me.
“I think you’re reaching,” he says.
Now I’m a little pissed. And yes, I am stressed, okay?
“You’re right, Michael, I am reaching. I’m reaching out to you now, and you’re not there for me.”
“C’mon, don’t be so melodramatic, Kris. Take it all down a notch.”
I press him. “What about later? Are you free after the zoo?”
The silence again says it all. “I can’t,” he responds. “I would if I possibly could. Penley made plans tonight with another couple.”
I’m about to vent the mother lode of frustration and a whole lot worse on him when he abruptly clears his throat.
“I’ll check on those figures for you, Carter. I’m on it,” he says in his best business voice.
Shit.
“Penley just walked in, didn’t she?” I say.
“Yes, Carter, that’s correct. You have such a good feel for these things.”
I listen to Michael babble on about debt ratios and the nonfarm payroll report. Give him credit, the switch over was seamless.
“Okay, she’s gone,” he says seconds later.
“What did she want?”
“The kids are waiting on me, so she was pointing at her watch and making an incredibly bitchy face – then again, what else is new?”
I can’t help a slight smile. I am calmer now, and I love it when he dumps on Penley. All the better for my Dump Penley campaign.
“So where were we?” he asks.
“Your not being there for me,” I answer.
Michael sighs. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he says. “Tell you what. How’s this? We’re supposed to drive out to Connecticut tomorrow to see my in-laws. I’ll do like I did last time and tell Penley that something came up with work. Better yet, I’ll blame it on you, Carter. ”
“Can you really do that? ”
“Sure. We can spend the whole day together, maybe drive upstate and have a picnic somewhere, and you can tell me whatever it is you want to talk about.”
The thing is, I want to tell him now -right now. At least I think I do. Which raises an interesting question. How much do I really trust him? This much?
“Michael, I – ”
“Oh, shit,” he interrupts, sounding rushed. “Penley’s heading back this way. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”
There’s no time to respond.
He’s gone.
I hang up as if in slow-motion. It’s hard to put the feeling into words. Empty? Numb?
Still alone?
Usually, just the thought of being with Michael makes everything better. No longer. At least not today. Because tomorrow isn’t soon enough for me.
Right away, I pick up the phone again.
There’s somebody else I need to call.
Actually, this should have been my first call.
Chapter 34
“THANK YOU FOR SEEING me on such short notice, Dr. Corey.”
I watch as my ex-therapist slowly – and I mean slowly – fills his pipe with tobacco from a plastic bag. I swear, glaciers move faster.
But it’s okay. I’m going to get some help.
“To be honest, Kristin,” he says, his eyes fixed on his pipe, “I’m not particularly happy about this appointment. However, given the way you sounded on the phone, the sheer desperation in your voice, I felt a professional obligation to see you. So here we are. What can I do for you?”
Gee, Doc, that really makes me feel welcome.
Still, it’s okay. I’m lucky he was able to make time for me.
A few Manhattan psychiatrists keep weekend hours, and Dr. Michael Roy Corey is one of them – at least during the spring, summer, and fall. That’s when he works Saturdays so he can take Mondays off to play golf at some public course near his house in Briarcliff Manor.
“No crowds on the course and my pick of tee times,” he once explained to me. That was about a year and a half ago, when he first became my therapist. Six months later, I stopped seeing him. I thought I’d worked out my issues.
Not that I could see these new ones coming.
I lean back into his familiar gray leather couch and describe some of the events of the past few days, culminating with spotting my dead father this morning. Dr. Corey listens while puffing away, not saying a word.
When I finish, I stare at him with expectant, hopeful eyes. Let the healing begin!
“Are you absolutely sure that’s your father in the photographs?” he asks, tugging at a fold in a salt-and-pepper sweater vest that almost perfectly matches his hair.
“As sure as I can be,” I reply.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Kristin?”
There’s a slight edge in his voice. Impatience, perhaps? Skepticism?
“It means I’m almost positive it was him.”