The Murderer's Daughter (6 page)

Patient four was Dexter, a young man who'd lost both parents in a plane crash. The usual small-craft disaster, amateur-pilot Dad at the helm of a single-engine, probable heart attack. Lots of anger to work through, there.

Five was a woman whose in-vitro-conceived only child had perished from a rare liver disorder in infancy. Grace didn't want to think much about that one because kids got to her and she needed to preserve herself so she could be useful. If she felt she lacked expertise, she could call Delaware.

Last, and possibly least, was the new one, a man named Andrew Toner from San Antonio, Texas, who'd waited seven weeks for a slot to open up. Now that Grace thought about it, that was at odds with ambivalence, but who knew, she'd learn the details tomorrow.

What she did know was that it was a self-referral spurred, according to the info recorded by her service, by Mr. Toner's coming across some research she'd published. Not the typical treatises on stress and coping Malcolm and she had churned out for years.

The piece Malcolm insisted Grace write alone.

Grace regarded that article—all of her publications—as ancient history, but a patient citing it told her something about Mr. Toner: good chance he came from a frighteningly rotten family.

Maybe all he needed was permission to cut off some toxic relatives. If so, not nearly as complex an issue as Bev's or Helen's or the arm gouger's poor parents.

Grace could say that with authority.

Placing the appointment book back in her bag and still warmed by her bath, she shrugged out of the kimono and walked to the French doors opening to the deck. Turning off the weak bulb, she stepped out on weathered wood, stood bare and vulnerable as a newborn.

Taking in the murmured comfort of the tides as they rolled in, the swoosh of farewell as they embarked on the return trip to Asia.

A gust kicked up from the water. Sudden burst of energy from—Hawaii? Japan?

Grace remained on the deck as something other than time passed. Finally, she felt herself growing drowsy and made her way back into the house. She should've been hungry but wasn't. Going to bed on an empty stomach was fine. She'd had plenty of practice.

Now, of course, an empty gut could be filled by a humongous breakfast. The following morning, how wonderful life was when you ran your own show.

Relatching the French doors, she got into bed, crawled under the covers, drew them over her head. Taking a moment, as she always did, to reach under the box spring and pat the reassuring hunk of dense black plastic resting on the carpet beneath the bed.

Her house gun, a 9mm Glock, just like the cops used. Unregistered and perfectly maintained, same as the .22. Most likely, she'd never need either weapon. Same for the twin S&W .38 revolvers she'd bought at a gun show in Nevada last year and secreted in the file cabinet at her office.

Nighty-night, beloved instruments of destruction.

Curling fetally, Grace slipped her thumb between her lips. Sucked greedily.

S
he rose at dawn, famished, watched through the French doors as a gray pelican dove for breakfast. Shorebirds skittered along the tide line. An intermittent dot caught Grace's attention and she got up and wrapped herself in the yellow kimono and went outside.

Focusing her eye where the dot had last been, she waited. There it was again, a few yards north. California sea lion, drifting and submerging. Keeping a slow pace, lovely, entitled predator that it was.

Grace watched for a while, made coffee and drank the first of three cups while scrambling four eggs tossed with cheese, Genoa salami, rehydrated porcinis, and garlic chives. Buttering two rolls, she downed every greasy crumb. By seven thirty she was back on PCH, letting the Aston do its thing as she warmed herself with thoughts of the care she'd be giving all day.

Bev, soon to be married, was better dressed and coiffed and conspicuously more put together than the red-eyed young widow who'd first showed up at Grace's office shaking uncontrollably and barely able to speak. This morning, those eyes were clear, alternating between the warmth of pleasant expectation and flashes of furtive heat that Grace knew meant guilt.

No big puzzle: At a moment when the poor thing felt husband-to-be should take precedence, all she could think about was husband-who-was.

A thirty-year-old Portland firefighter when Bev met him, Greg had the equilibrium and easy confidence of a man whose body worked perfectly. Till it didn't.

The cancer that had ended his life was so rare there was no treatment protocol. Bev had watched him waste away.

Who could blame her for abandoning hope? It had taken Grace a long time to get the sweet, warmhearted young woman to see that the concept of
future
could still be relevant. Now Bev was about to embark on a second attempt at faith, good for her!

“I'm not terrified, Dr. Blades. I guess I'm just…anxious. Okay, honest? I'm scared as heck.”

Grace said, “Then you're ahead of the game.”

“Pardon?”

“If you were totally terrified, it would be understandable, Bev. Anything less than terror is heroism.”

Bev stared. “You're serious.”

“I am.”

Bev looked doubtful.

Grace said, “When did you start feeling anxious?” Deliberately downgrading from “scared.” It was her job to recontextualize.

Bev said, “I guess…a few weeks ago.”

“As the wedding date grew near.”

Nod.

“Until then, for the most part, would you say you were pretty happy?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Of course…”

“I'm marrying Brian. He's wonderful.”

“But…”

“No buts,” said Bev. She burst into tears. “I feel disloyal! Like I'm cheating on Greg!”

“You loved Greg. It's only natural you'd feel obligated to him.”

Bev sniffed.

Grace said, “To everyone else, Greg is a memory. To you he's the other man.”

That unleashed another torrent of sobs.

Grace let Bev cry for a while, then leaned in close and dried Bev's eyes and squeezed her hand. When Bev took a deep breath, Grace settled her back in her chair in a posture of forced relaxation.

In matters of healing, the body initiates and the mind follows.
Malcolm had told her that. Only once, but it stuck.

And it worked: Bev's facial muscles slackened. The tears stopped.

Grace gave her the softest smile she could muster. Bev smiled back.

A casual glance could register them as two pretty young women hanging out in a pleasant, well-lit room.

When the time was right, Grace said, “Because Greg loved you so much, we know one thing for sure.”

Bev looked at her through tear-smudged eyes. “What?”

“He'd absolutely want you to be happy.”

Silence.

Finally, Bev said, “Yes, I know.” That sounded like a confession.

Grace said, “Still, that bothers you.”

No answer.

Grace tried another tack. “Maybe instead of looking at Greg as laying siege to your emotions you could start thinking of him as a partner.”

“A partner in what?”

“The life that awaits you,” said Grace.

“Life,” said Bev. As if the idea was distasteful.

Grace said, “Let's be clear: What you and Greg had together was profound. And profound things just don't vanish because social niceties say they should. That doesn't make you unfaithful to Greg. Or to Brian.”

“But still,” said Bev. “I do feel unfaithful. Yes, you're right, to both of them.”

“To Greg for letting joy into your life. To Brian because you think about Greg.”

“Yes.”

“That makes total sense, honey. But think of it this way: The three of you—Brian and you
and
Greg—could tackle the agenda as a team.”

“I…what agenda?”

“The agenda of what lies in store for Bev. The agenda of Bev deserves to be happy,” said Grace. “Approved by unanimous voice vote.” She smiled. “For what it's worth, I second the motion.”

Bev shifted in her chair. Her lips set grimly. “I guess.”

Grace knew she'd come on too strong. She let Bev sit there and ponder for a while and when Bev hadn't shifted out of the relaxed position and her facial muscles had loosened again, she took
another
tack.

“Officially, your wedding's a celebration. But there's no need for you to snap into joy instantaneously just because you've printed invitations and people will be sitting in church. An emotionally shallow person could pull that off. But you remember what I told you last year: You're emotionally substantial.”

Silence.

“You feel deeply, Bev. You always have. Those stories you told me about taking care of wounded animals.”

Makes two of us, girlfriend.

Nothing from Bev. Then, finally, a slow nod.

“Feeling deeply is a virtue, Bev. It allows life to take on meaning and at some point your joy will be even greater than if you'd simply drifted with the currents.”

Long silence. “I sure hope so.”

Grace placed a hand on Bev's shoulder. “Of course you can't see that, right now. How could you? But it'll happen, there'll be joy in your future but flavored with even greater depth than if you didn't go through this, right now. That will be sweet.”

Bev stared at her. Muttered, “Thank you.”

Grace kept her hand on Bev's shoulder. Exerting just enough pressure to let Bev know she was cared for. Cared about.

“Take your time. Feel whatever you need to feel. Eventually, you'll sense that Greg's on board. That he approves and wants you to be happy because that's what people who love unconditionally do.”

The outer edges of Beverly's lips tugged wider, as if manipulated by a puppeteer. “You're scary, Dr. Blades.”

Grace had heard that so many times. “Me?” she said, innocently.

“Scary-smart is what I mean. It's like you have a direct view into here.” Patting her breast.

“Thanks for the compliment, Bev, but smart has nothing to do with it. Whatever I know comes from working at understanding people.” Grace leaned forward. “Because once we get past the nonsense, we're all the same. Yet unique at the same time. No one has lived your life or thought your thoughts or felt your feelings. Even so, if I was in your situation, I'm pretty sure I'd feel exactly the same way.”

“You would?” Amazed.

The honest answer: W
ho knows?

Grace said, “Of course.”

“So what would you do about it?”

Grace smiled. “I'd go talk to someone scary-smart. Because we all need help from time to time.”

Flashing to Malcolm. Sophie. The new experience of sleeping in a clean, sweet-smelling bed. Breakfast. Dinner. Tentative attempts to hug, however briefly.

Human touch Grace had to train herself to tolerate. Thinking about all that brought a smile to her lips, which was perfect, the moment called for a smile, let Bev think it was all about her.

Sighing, Bev hugged herself. “I appreciate what you're saying, Dr. Blades, but once I get back home…it might be difficult.”

“It might be. But you'll handle it. You always do.”

Bev pinged her lower lip with a finger. The finger that bore her diamond-chip ring. Brian, a plumber's assistant, splurging at Zales. “You're saying sometimes life needs to be difficult to be meaningful.”

“I'm saying when we're well put together emotionally, Bev—as you are—we learn to trust ourselves.”

Oh, do we…

Bev took a long time before she spoke next. “I guess I need to just roll with it.”

Grace said nothing.

Bev said, “Okay, I need to roll with it even if that means thinking about Greg.”

“Don't fight thinking about Greg. Greg was precious to you,” said Grace. “Why would you exile him from your consciousness?”

Bev thought some more, face tightening as if struggling with a weighty puzzle. “On the flight from Portland, Dr. Blades, I spent most of the time remembering. One memory really stuck with me. Like it was glued to my brain. There was a lake. We used to take a canoe and Greg would row me. He was so strong. Muscles on muscles. Each time he moved the oar, they rippled. The sun made them glisten. Sometimes we'd start out on a sunny day and it would rain and he'd be dripping with sweat and rain and just
shine.
”

She inhaled. “I'd sit in the canoe and watch him and…I'd
want
him. Right then and there. In the boat.” She blushed. “We never did anything like that. I never told him.”

Grace smiled. “You didn't want to rock the boat. Literally and figuratively. Balance is important to you and right now you're feeling off balance because life has taken a new turn.”

Bev gawked. Smiled. “You're more than scary, Dr. Blades. I bless the God that brought me to you.”

The rest of
the day rolled on with reassuring predictability. Grace knew that objectively she was young but sometimes felt as if she'd seen everything. That didn't sour her on her job, nor did it bore her. On the contrary, she found it reassuring and invigorating.

This is what I've been created for.

Nevertheless, she needed to make sure confidence never slid into smugness. Nor would she ever allow the Haunted to enter a millimeter of her private world.

Friendly, yes. Friend, never.

Because friendship was a limited concept: Pals and chums and confidantes—what the textbooks sanitized as a
social support system
—were fine when you stubbed your emotional toe. With deep wounds, you needed a surgeon, not a barber.

To Grace, the concept of therapy as paid friendship was a horrid cliché. The
last
thing patients needed was some sloppy, mawkish do-gooder brimming with sickly-sweet smiles, contrived pauses, the phony gravity of by-the-book sympathy, the smarmy rote of catchphrases.

What I hear you saying…

Cram a patient's throat with sugar and they'll choke.

Phonies who practiced that way either were money-hungry quacks or just wanted to feel good about themselves. Which was why you saw so many fucked-up people seeking second careers as
ahem
counselors.

Some of the Haunted came to Grace
seeking
the eye-locking, intensely theatrical
concern
they'd seen on talk shows and movies of the week.

I'm not a shrink but I play one on TV.

When the expectation was for Dr. Soft Voice, Grace dispelled it gently by supplying constructive reality. For four hundred fifty bucks an hour you deserved more than an emotional adult diaper.

You deserved an actual
adult.

Checking her desk clock, she brewed herself a strong shot of espresso, downed it just in time for the red light on the wall above her desk to illuminate.