High Anxiety (19 page)

“I’m serious, babe.” Then the phone went dead.

 

 

I arrived at
my office the next morning only minutes before my first appointment was due in, leaving me barely enough time to make coffee, toss back a cup, and check my messages. Gerald and Ellen had called again from Hawaii. Ellen was crying. It wasn’t working out. They were catching the next plane home.

 

 

Mr. and Mrs.
Freemont had lost an adult son in a traffic accident the year before, and their twenty-five-year marriage was suffering. Tragically, a high percentage of marriages failed after the loss of a child, even if the child was an adult. One reason the relationships deteriorated was because each parent was so caught up in his or her own grief that they couldn’t help the other. That was the case with the Freemonts. Bonnie Freemont had insisted on seeking therapy, and husband Len had begrudgingly agreed. It was the only time he talked about Jason, their deceased son.

Bonnie spoke first. “As you know, Saturday is the anniversary of Jason’s death,” she said, her bottom lip quivering.

I did not need a reminder; the three of us had been preparing for it, just as we’d worked hard to get through their first Thanksgiving and Christmas without their son.

“Have the two of you made a decision as to what you plan to do to make it a little easier?” I asked, not for the first time. They couldn’t seem to agree how to handle it.

“I still want to take a long weekend and get away,” Len said, “but Bonnie continues to insist on staying home and attending church so she can be with family and friends.”

She looked at him. “You don’t understand,” she said. “You don’t even try to understand. It comforts me knowing there are people in our lives who cared about Jason,” she said. “I don’t want to take a vacation and pretend it never happened.”

I looked at Len.

“I’m tired of people patting me on the back and saying stupid things that are meant to make me feel better,” he said. “Like how lucky Bonnie and I are that we have two other children, or how Jason is in a better place because, had he lived, he would have been severely handicapped for the rest of his life.” Len sighed. “It’s bullshit, because I don’t feel a damn bit lucky. I’ve been screwed out of a son.”

“Why can’t you stop being so angry?” Bonnie said, tears gathering in her eyes. “It’s not going to bring Jason back. And we do have two other children who need us. You are so caught up in your feelings that you haven’t stopped to consider theirs. They need a father,” she added, “but every time we mention Jason, you shut down.”

Len looked away. I could tell he was struggling with his emotions. Although Bonnie had shed an ocean of tears, which I think had been healthy for her, Len had grown bitter.

“Bonnie, you’ve just given me a great idea,” I said.

She looked hopeful. “I’m open to anything that will help.”

“I think you should spend the anniversary of Jason’s death celebrating his life.” They looked at me as though my hair had just caught on fire. “Seriously,” I added.

“You mean throw a party?” Len said.

“Yes, a party for those who knew and loved Jason. A party where each person could maybe stand up and tell the others what was so special about your son.”

They continued to stare at me in disbelief.

Bonnie finally looked at her husband. “It’s not a
bad
idea,” she said. “We could invite Jason’s friends. We could take our favorite photos of him and make posters. I could cook his favorite foods.” She swiped at a tear.

Len propped his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands together. His face was masked with pain. “I don’t know, Bonnie.”

She touched his arm. “Len, we’ve done nothing but grieve since we lost Jason. I think I would much rather spend the anniversary date celebrating his life than mourning his death.”

Len didn’t answer right away, but his eyes glistened. Finally, he covered her hand with his and nodded.

 

 

I saw two
more patients. By noon, I was famished and trying to decide what to select from the vending machine. I heard a noise at my door and looked up. Abigail Davis stood there holding two sacks from the sandwich shop downstairs.

“Surprise!” she said.

I was more than surprised; I was stunned. “What are you doing here?” I said in a none-too-friendly tone.

“I brought lunch,” she said. “I thought about it, and I decided that even though our working relationship didn’t turn out well, we could still be friends. Plus, I was in the building. I filled out a job application for a receptionist position in the bank this morning, and guess what? I’m pretty sure I got the job! Which means we can get together for lunch anytime we like,” she added.

Words escaped me. If I’d suspected that she was off her rocker before, I was now convinced.

“You can’t imagine how surprised I was when I came across the job in the classifieds,” she went on. “I mean, what’s the likelihood of that happening? Frankly, I saw it as a sign, so I called immediately. After I told the personnel manager, Mr. Cox, that I’d been working for you, he gave me the impression I was a shoo-in, so I’m counting on you to give me a good reference.”

I continued to stare, speechless, even as my brain ran through a list of possible diagnoses.

“The main thing I want you to tell him is that I got on well with people,” she said, “because I’m going to be dealing with a lot of bank customers.”

My confusion suddenly turned to annoyance, then outright anger. I took a deep breath. “Abigail, why the hell would you give my name as a reference when I fired you?” I asked. “Don’t you find that a bit odd?” I held up a finger. “Wait, odd simply isn’t strong enough. How about deranged? That’s more like it.”

She looked hurt. “Just because
you
didn’t appreciate my services doesn’t mean they won’t appreciate me at the bank. Besides, I need this job, Kate.”

“You threw out the roses Dr. Glazer sent,” I said. “You stole my Rolodex.”

“Why would I do something like that?” she asked innocently.

“So you could scare the hell out of my friends and family,” I said, “by calling them to say I was in a car accident. Why would you do that, Abigail? Did you get some kind of sick pleasure out of it?”

“How do you know it wasn’t one of your patients?”

“None of my patients dislikes me that much.
You
took the Rolodex, Abigail. You have a choice. Either return it immediately, or I’m going to file a police report against you for theft. And while I’m at it, I’m going to add breaking and entering. I know you were in my house.”

“And how would I have accomplished that?” she asked.

“You made a copy of the keys in Mona’s desk.”

She suddenly looked angry. “Go ahead and call the police,” she said, “but you can’t prove I had anything to do with it.”

She stood there for a moment. I could tell she was trying hard to get her emotions under control. “I came here hoping we could clear the air between us. When you’re ready to apologize, let me know.” She placed the lunch sack on my desk and walked out.

I arrived home,
pulled into my driveway, and cringed when I spotted Bitsy Stout headed my way. She did not look happy; in fact, she looked mad enough to spit the fire and brimstone she preached. But I’d had enough bullshit for one day. She waited until I climbed out of my car and closed the door before speaking.

“I have kept quiet as long as I can,” she said, “because I knew I had to calm down before I came over or I would say things unbefitting a Christian. But you have gone too far this time, Kate Holly, by having Brother Love arrested.”

“Maybe you’ll think twice before you send your army of religious crazies to my door,” I replied.

“Is that what you call people who care about your soul? Brother Love can’t sleep for worrying about you.”

“Tell Brother Love that my soul is just fine, and he needn’t fret.”

“You’re going to regret this come Judgment Day. There is a special place in hell for people like you.”

“Listen to me carefully, Bitsy, because I’m only going to say this once. I want no part of your religion, including the wrathful God you worship. Now, I’ve had a long day, and I don’t feel like talking to you, so I’m going to ask you as nicely as I can to get the hell out of my yard and stay out.” I turned for my house, unlocked my front door, and went inside. Mike was waiting, her tail wagging eagerly. I petted her and gave her a treat, then checked my phone messages. My mother’s voice came on.

“Kate, you’ll never believe what happened. Call me the minute you get home!” She sounded excited.

I dialed her number. “So, give me your news,” I said when she picked up.

“We found him!” she said. “We found John Smith.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Remember, Trixie and I told you about the love letters we came across in that old trunk?” she said. “Letters that Mr. Smith wrote to his sweetheart during World War Two?”

“That’s great, Mom,” I said. “How did you manage to locate him?”

“Trixie and I have been calling nursing homes. We’d almost given up. Then, yesterday, we phoned this facility called Magnolia Place, and the receptionist put us right through to him. Sadly, his fiancée died of influenza while he was away, but he never forgot her; in fact, it was the reason he never married. Isn’t that romantic?”

“It certainly sounds like true love,” I said.

“Trixie and I are taking him to dinner tonight. We wanted to invite you. I know it’s short notice and all.”

I immediately began combing my brain for an excuse, then decided I needed a night out. “Where should I meet you?”

“Pizza Hut,” she said. “The one not far from our studio,” she added. “Mr. Smith said they almost never serve pizza at Magnolia Place because the residents complain of heartburn.”

We settled on a time. I had less than an hour to dress and drive over, so I hurried upstairs to change. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way.

My mother, my aunt, and an elderly gentleman were already seated at a table when I entered Pizza Hut. My mother immediately introduced me to Mr. Smith.

He stood. “I’ve heard all about you, Kate,” he said. “I’m happy to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I said. We shook hands. Although he was frail, his eyes were alert, and he wore a kindly expression.

He waited until I sat before taking his own chair beside me. “I understand you’re a psychologist,” he said.

“All her patients are crazy,” my mother said.

“They’re not crazy,” Aunt Trixie told him. “They’re troubled.”

I smiled at my aunt, who was trying to be kind. Although most of my patients
were
simply troubled or confused, I’d had some real lulus as well.

The waitress arrived and took our order. We decided on a large pizza with the works. The woman walked away, and my mother leaned forward. “John was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed,” she said.

I turned to him. “I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”

“I would not want to go through the experience again,” he said solemnly.

“I was sorry to hear your fiancée died while you were away serving our country,” I said.

“Lenore was the love of my life. Would you like to see a picture of her?” he asked, reaching for his wallet. “It’s old, of course.”

“I’d love to.”

His liver-spotted hands trembled as he pulled the photo from a plastic sleeve in his wallet and handed it to me. “It was love at first sight,” he said.

Although the photo was worn and faded, I could still make out the face of the woman who had posed for it. “She was very attractive,” I said.

“My biggest regret, next to losing Lenore, was not having children,” he said. “I’m the end of the line.”

I passed the photo to my mother. She and Aunt Trixie studied it. “Such a lovely woman,” Trixie said.

“How long have you been living at Magnolia Place?” I asked.

“Going on ten years now,” he said. “It’s a very nice facility. Of course, many of the people who were there when I arrived have passed on.” His smile faded. “Don’t ever take your family and friends for granted. They are more precious than jewels.”

“That’s what I keep telling Kate,” my mother said, eyeing me as she passed the photo back to John, “but young people today are too busy with their careers and have little time for anything else.”

He gave me a kindly look. “I suspect Kate’s work can be demanding at times. She is working with people who are hurting. That is more than just a job. It’s a calling.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” I said, touched by his insight.

“Call me John,” he said. “And now I want to hear about this brave husband of yours who is fighting that awful wildfire.”

I told him about Jay, leaving out that we were separated. “I worry about him,” I added, “but he’s doing what he loves.”

“I’ll bet he has saved a few lives in the course of his job,” John said. “What a wonderful feeling that must be.”

“Did I mention my own husband was a firefighter?” my mother asked.

John shook his head. “I don’t recall that you did, but my memory isn’t so good these days.”

“He was very brave,” she said, “but he lost his life in the line of duty when Kate was about ten years old.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I’m sure it was very painful for both of you.”

“It was,” she said, “but he and I loved each other deeply. I feel blessed to have known him, even though he was taken from us.”

Trixie smiled. “Kate was a daddy’s girl. They were inseparable.”

John gave me a sympathetic look. “That explains why you worry so much about your husband.”

Our pizza arrived, and John closed his eyes the minute he took a bite. “This is so much better than the food we’re served at Magnolia Place,” he said, looking from my mother to my aunt. “I really appreciate the two of you taking the time to make an old man happy.”