High Anxiety (4 page)

I knew he wasn’t referring to vending machines. “The woman with the pistol was old and on a walker,” I said. “Can you believe it?”

“Nothing surprises me these days.”

“She wanted to take out her daughter-in-law. Fortunately, the young woman escaped.”

“How?”

“Um, well, the bullet missed her. It hit a picture on the wall instead. It all happened so fast, you know? Like a movie played on fast-forward. Everyone reached for their cell phones and dialed nine-one-one. The police arrived within minutes. They arrested the old lady, thank goodness. She could use a little jail time. I hope they throw away the key. Of course, Mona got a scratch on her shoe and broke a nail, so she’s not happy with me right now. I’ll bet a good shoe repairman could do something about that scratch, though.”

I suddenly noticed Jay was looking at me oddly, and I realized I was babbling. If people babble, you know they’re not giving you all the facts.

“Thank God nobody was hurt,” Jay said, covering my hand.

We finished our dinner. I stood and began to clear the table.

“I’m pulling kitchen duty tonight,” Jay said, taking my hand. “You’ve spent enough time taking care of other people, including me.” He led me upstairs and into the bathroom, where he turned on the water in the tub and added my favorite lavender bath salts.

“You really know how to spoil a girl,” I said. My voice shook, and the backs of my eyes burned. My emotions were raw.

“Oh, Katie,” he said, gathering me close.

“I guess I’m suffering aftershocks.” I tried to laugh it off but did a poor job.

Jay continued to hold me as the tub filled with water. I prayed it would stay hot, because hot water in my house was a miracle akin to the parting of the Red Sea. Then, slowly and tenderly, he undressed me, kissing my bare shoulders, the hollow of my throat, my breasts. He helped me into the tub, and I gave a sigh of pleasure as the water enveloped me.

I thanked Mad Ethel, the name I’d given my house, for the hot water. I had named my house Mad Ethel after experiencing her mood swings. If she was having a good day, she gave me hot water and other things I’ve learned not to take for granted. On a bad day, fuses blew, the air and heat went MIA, pipes leaked, and there was barely enough hot water to brush my teeth. But my rent was cheap by Atlanta’s standards, so I kept my mouth shut when my landlord came around.

“I’ll be back as soon as I straighten the kitchen and set up the coffeemaker for morning,” Jay said as he headed out of the bathroom.

I leaned back in the tub and closed my eyes. I thought of Mona again, and I suspected she’d driven straight to the mall. Mona dealt with stress by shopping. I knew her decision to break things off with her boyfriend, the med student, had been difficult, but she had not wanted to arrange her life around a doctor’s schedule. Plus, she didn’t enjoy hearing about perforated organs at the dinner table, and perforations of all kinds seemed to play a big role in the life of a physician.

Jay returned and slipped off his clothes. He slid into the tub behind me and pulled me onto his lap, and we fit together like human puzzle pieces. He picked up what he called my girl soap and fat sponge and worked up a thick lather. He washed my back, my neck, and my arms before reaching around to my breasts.

Despite being weary with fatigue, my body responded. My belly warmed. Jay dropped the soap and sponge into the tub and slipped one hand between my thighs. All my nerve endings did happy dances when he touched me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood like flag-poles when he pressed his lips at the base of my head. He stroked me. He found what he called my magic button, and his fingertips played it like an instrument. From behind my closed eyelids, I imagined the music filling me and the tempo building, vibrating, pulsing. I felt the crash of cymbals, and my song was so rich and sweet and perfect that it brought hot tears to the backs of my eyes.

Our bodies were still damp when we lay down in bed. Jay’s lips touched me, and I was once again caught up in the same physical and emotional magic that only he could evoke. The coming together of two souls that recognized and celebrated each other. Jay filled me exquisitely, and we clung to each other and rode the sensations, our mouths and bodies fused. Afterward, he dragged the covers over us and gathered me close. I sank against his heat, feeling safe for the first time since I’d left the church.

“This is way so much better than shopping,” I said before sleep carried me away.

 

 

Monday morning came
too soon for me. The room was still dark when I opened my eyes and found Jay’s side of the bed empty. Six thirty a.m. A snoring Mike lay on her back at the foot of the bed, full belly frontal. Jay called it her “Playmate of the Year” look. I stumbled downstairs and was surprised to find him already dressed for work and sipping coffee in front of the television set. He turned the volume down and smiled at me, but I saw the concern in his eyes.

“What’s the latest on the fire?” I said, trying to speak around a wide yawn. I sat next to him and reached for his cup.

“It’s not good. The wind shifted during the night and sent at least a dozen firefighters to the hospital for smoke inhalation.”

I met his gaze.

“No casualties,” he said, as though reading my mind.

I sipped his coffee and stared at the screen where a CNN reporter was questioning a fire official. The aerial shots showed the mounting destruction; the flames seemed to lick the heavens. Dozens upon dozens of fire trucks, rescue vehicles, and patrol cars skirted the area, but they resembled toys when compared to the vast ocean of blaze.

Even so, I knew it could get worse.

“How many firefighters are working it?” I asked.

Jay took a sip of his coffee. “Not nearly enough,” he said.

I heard the tension in his voice and knew he was imagining what the crews were going through. It was his natural instinct to want to help, but with it being his first day back to work after his injury, he would be on light duty for a while. I was thankful for that, at least.

“How are you feeling?” I asked. “Are you sure you’re up to going in?”

He grinned. “If I start feeling bad, I’ll dive into the nearest phone booth and slip into my action-hero suit.” He gave me a tender kiss. “Did I remember to thank you for nursing me back to health and putting up with my buddies?”

“Last night was a good start.”

 

 

When I arrived
at my office, I went immediately to the small kitchenette in back and put on a pot of coffee. Then I checked my phone messages. A reporter from the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
had called. He asked me to call him back and left his number. I figured it was related to the shooting the night before and ignored it.

Twenty minutes passed, and I was surprised that Mona hadn’t showed. I was about to call her when the phone rang, and she spoke from the other end.

“I’ve got hives,” she said.

“Uh-oh. How bad?”

“Really bad. I used to get them as a kid, so I know how much worse they can get.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing stress often played a significant role in hives and that I was partially responsible. I should have insisted on going to the anger management group alone. “Is there anything I can do? Would you like for me to take you to the doctor?”

“No. But I can’t come into the office looking like I do. You won’t have anyone to answer the phone.”

“That’s why they invented the answering machine,” I said.

“It’s not just the phones I’m concerned about,” she said. “Some of your patients are very jittery when they first come in. I don’t like the thought of them walking into an empty reception room. Especially those with abandonment issues,” she added.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mona.”

“And what about those with poor self-esteem? Or those with PTSD?” she added. “Kate, these people need to see a smiling face when they arrive.”

“I’ll try not to let my sessions run over and keep them waiting,” I said, although Mona and I both knew there were times it was unavoidable, especially when the patient I was seeing at the time was in crisis.

“Maybe you should hire someone from a temp agency. I know it’s costly, but I think it would be money well spent.”

I wasn’t surprised Mona was so concerned. She had developed a close relationship with a number of my patients, which was why they often told her all their problems before they saw me. Mona then drew on her vast knowledge of psychotherapy from watching
Dr. Phil
and advised them. I had reminded her many times that
I
was the psychologist and it was
my
job to counsel those seeking therapy.

“Please try not to worry,” I repeated. “It will only make your hives worse.”

And I would end up feeling guiltier than I already felt.

 

 

I was still
feeling bad for Mona when my first appointment arrived. I’d been seeing Julie Newman for less than a month. She was an attractive woman in her midthirties who worked in advertising. She suffered from borderline personality disorder. I had treated several other borderlines, so I’d recognized the symptoms in Julie right away.

Minor stresses, like discovering the salad dressing in her refrigerator was past the expiration date, could ruin her day, so high anxiety threatened to send her completely over the edge. All she knew of the world was based on her feelings and was not necessarily rational.

I noted the tension in the lines on either side of her mouth and eyes. “How was your week?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I just learned yesterday that the company I work for is downsizing. I’m sure my name is at the top of the list of those who will be laid off.” She paused and took a deep, shaky breath. “I paced the floor until all hours last night. I think it would be better to go ahead and resign instead of living in constant dread. Also, it would be less humiliating.”

I gave an inward sigh. Borderlines were great at self-sabotage. “Didn’t you tell me a couple of weeks ago that you landed a big account, and you received a substantial bonus as a result?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Why would your company fire one of their top producers?”

She seemed to ponder it.

“You can’t afford to let yourself get caught up in a worry cycle,” I said, “and risk acting impulsively. You need to channel that energy into winning more accounts.”

“So, you think I’m overreacting?”

Duh. “What do you think?”

“I know I often turn everything into a major catastrophe,” she said finally, “but what if—”

“What if they
don’t
fire you?” I cut in.

“I guess I have a habit of thinking the worst.”

“You can change those habits, Julie. You can turn negative, self-defeating thoughts and behaviors into more realistic and positive ones, but it’s going to take practice.” I realized I sounded like an infomercial. “It can be done,” I added.

“I’ve been like this my whole life. I don’t think I’ll ever change.”

“It depends on how much you want it. Did you make the list I suggested during your last visit?”

“I haven’t had time.”

“You need to make time. On one side I want you to write down the negative feelings that are making you so anxious and depressed about your job. The worst-case scenario, so to speak,” I added. “On the other side, I’d like for you to write down several possible outcomes that are more likely to happen. I want you to do the same thing each time you start dwelling on how terrible something feels.”

“I suppose I could do that, even though I don’t know what it would accomplish.”

“Writing down your fears takes some of the power out of them, and you’ll be able to see how, in the end, most of your fears are illogical.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Oh, and don’t forget to bring the list to your next appointment so we can go through it.”

She took a deep breath. “I always feel so much better when I talk to you, Dr. Holly. You help me put things in perspective. I don’t know why I do this to myself.”

“In time you’ll do it less and less,” I promised.

Julie and I finished up, and I saw her out, only to find a TV crew waiting in my reception room. Julie shot me a funny look as she left.

A stately blonde holding a microphone stepped forward. “Dr. Holly?” she said.

“Yes?”

She held out her free hand. “I’m Blair Willow from—”

“I know who you are,” I said, taking her hand and shaking it. “I’ve seen you many times on the six-o’clock news.”

She looked pleased. “I tried to call but got your answering machine. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about the shooting incident last night at St. Francis Catholic Church.”

A bright light hit my eyes, and I winced. “I can’t discuss it,” I said, “for patient confidentiality reasons.” I tried to shield my eyes from the light. “Perhaps you could get information from the police.”

“Oh, but we wanted to meet you in person,” Blair said. “You’re being hailed as a hero for what you did. Had you not wrestled the gun away from—” She paused and looked at her notes. “From Beatrice Sully,” she said, “her daughter-in-law could have been fatally shot.”

“Again, I can’t comment one way or the other.” I wanted to end the interview. Even if Jay didn’t see it on the news, someone at the station would. I looked at the cameraman. “Would you mind turning off that light?”

Blair did not look happy; in fact, she looked as though she could chew the legs off my chairs. Obviously, she was accustomed to getting her way.

“One last question, Dr. Holly,” she said, and I could almost swear I saw a sneer cross her lips. “Is it true that you fired the pistol at a picture of Jesus on purpose, and that you’re an atheist?”

I was stunned by the question, especially since it had been asked by a professional. “Have a nice day, Miss Willow,” I said. I went inside my office and closed the door. I counted the pens in my oversized “Atlanta” coffee mug and was relieved to find an even number.