Confidential, page 19
“Are you ever disgusted by me?” I asked quietly. I could get the words out only because I didn’t have to look at his face; I stared, up close, at the tufted buttons of the pillow.
“Never. What made you say that?”
“Sometimes when I think back to what I’ve done, I disgust myself.”
“After all our sessions, you still feel that way?”
I rolled back toward him. “Don’t take it personally, okay? You’re a great therapist. It’s just me.”
“‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” He was trying to smile, but I could tell he was a little hurt.
“I don’t think it so often anymore. Mostly, I feel good about myself. Like with all the writing you encouraged me to do. Haven’t you seen the change in me lately? Don’t you feel it?”
It was strange to see that I could bring out his insecurity. He’d told me that I was starting to own my power, and he was right, I was. I had some of what I craved: mutuality. I didn’t only depend on him to feel better; he also depended on me.
He smiled and kissed me. We didn’t normally kiss much, and he’d never initiated it before. He must have been feeling truly close to me. Or he was grateful for the ego stroke I’d just given him. They could be one and the same.
“I love you,” I said. I didn’t mean to; it just slipped out.
He brushed my hair back from my face, his gaze steady. He couldn’t say he loved me, too, but he must.
Then again, if he could make me come five times a night, why couldn’t he say what he really felt?
“Are you still with her?” I asked. “That woman I heard you arguing with in the waiting room?” I should have asked sooner (I’d wondered, of course), but I’d been too afraid. I thought that mentioning his real life would give him pause, that he’d reconsider our unorthodox treatment. Or had he done this “treatment” with other women, too? It would devastate me to think so.
But if that other woman was the impediment to his telling me how he really felt, then I needed to know that.
“That’s over,” he told me.
Then am I the only one? I was dying to know, but I wasn’t strong enough to handle the answer, not yet.
PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 48
DETECTIVE GREGORY PLATH
“You’re saying that Flora’s cooperating?” Greer asks.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you mean deflecting?”
She probably was, but so was Greer. So was Lucinda. It would be refreshing to sit in a room with a woman who was being straight with me. In a very strange way, it made me miss my ex-wife. She’s a good woman. I screwed that up, because back then, I was screwed up myself. That divorce was all on me.
But I need to pay attention to the woman in front of me.
“The subpoenas have been quashed,” I say. “The judge decided to uphold patients’ rights.” That fucker. He doesn’t care about justice; he cares about letting me know he’s the one with the power and the long memory. “That means I’m stuck getting all my information from you. You and others. I need to ask you, have you told me everything you know about Flora?”
“I’m pretty sure she stalked him.”
“You forgot to mention that last time?”
“I wasn’t sure if that was her I saw outside his building one time. There was this woman wearing a scarf on her head, like a disguise, and she was staring right at me. She had daggers in her eyes. It took me a while to piece it together and realize that the first time she approached me and introduced herself, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen her. She’d been stalking him for a while.”
“Or she was stalking you.”
Greer stares at me, and her whole cool-as-a-cucumber routine falls away. She looks genuinely scared. “What I know is, Flora has a lot of fury.”
“I don’t think she’s the only one.”
“You think I do?”
“Still waters run deep.”
“What did Flora tell you about me?” Greer asks, trying to put that fear back under wraps. “Because she doesn’t know anything. I didn’t tell her anything, because I didn’t trust her.”
“But what did Michael Baylor tell her?”
Her mouth falls open, like it never occurred to her that the doctor could have betrayed her. He was fucking two other women, one current patient and one former, and it never occurred to her?
“I thought you were smarter than that, Greer,” I say.
She stands up. “If you want to question me again, it’ll be with an attorney present.”
“If that’s how you want to play this, that’s fine by me.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve got my murderer. But I can’t charge her based on intuition. I don’t have records, and I don’t have physical evidence. Speaking of the latter, my gut tells me that Greer is the only one of these three who could cover up a crime so completely. Lucinda’s an obvious mess, but Flora’s a mess, too, just better disguised. They would have left hair fibers and fingerprints all over that body. They’re shedding little bits of themselves all the time; they can’t be contained. But Greer—she’s hiding something, for sure. Whatever the motivation, it’s got to be big. He crossed her.
I need those records. I can feel that they’ll show a woman who’s lost control before. They’ll show me who she really is.
And I know where that file is. I know anything in it is inadmissible, and I can never tell anyone if I take a peek, but it could point me in the right direction of something I can use. Even if she doesn’t crack, I can take her down. We’re talking about justice here.
BEFORE
CHAPTER 49
FLORA
I was learning how long it took for a bruise to fade. I didn’t want to burn through all my PTO waiting, so I was back at work, having also learned the inadequacy of makeup. As I was out on calls in various doctors’ offices, I found that the men—particularly the self-involved doctors who ought to know better—immediately accepted my explanation that I took a tumble down my stairs. I embellished it with a dingbat smile: “Klutzy me!” I stuck out my chest. Worked every time.
But once I was back in the office, Jeanie wasn’t buying it. She pulled me aside, into a conference room. “You can’t fool me,” she said. “I know the signs. And you know I know all the signs.”
Somehow, though, I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten about the man she was with before she found her sweet, kind, milquetoast husband. I’d forgotten about the man who almost killed her. I hadn’t known her then, but we used to be close enough that she told me anyway.
“You’re projecting,” I said. Projecting. A Michael word. It meant that people see in others what they are themselves, or what they hope to be, or what they hope to avoid. Jeanie was seeing the life she never wanted to return to. She was trying to save me.
She shook her head. “I’m seeing what you can’t. I should have left him a whole lot sooner than I did, but I was telling myself all kinds of bullshit. That I shouldn’t have made him mad. That it was somehow my fault. If I just did everything better, if I could only be what he needed, then he’d stop.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you, but that doesn’t mean—”
“You didn’t fall down any stairs.”
Her eyes were penetrating, but I couldn’t squirm. It would make me look like a liar. “Yes, I did.”
“Who is he, really? This guy you’re involved with.”
“I told you and Nat all about him.”
“No, you didn’t. He sprouted up out of nowhere, after months of shitty Tinder dates, and I’m starting to think you were hiding him for a while. That you were just feeding us those stories to buy you some time.” Shit, she was smart. I always knew that, but I didn’t know she could be this challenging, that she could pin me to the wall like a bug. “And you weren’t returning my texts very much, and that’s not how it is with just any new man. That’s how it is with an abuser. He isolates you. You’re prey, and he’s circling you and closing in.”
I laughed, with effort. “You’re way off, Jeanie.”
“So tell me about him.”
“What do you want to know?”
“His name, for starters.”
“I’m sure I told you this. His name is Michael.” I figured I’d minimize my outright lies. Michael was a very common name.
“What’s his last name?”
“Why the inquisition?”
“Why can’t you just answer the question?”
I decided to try a different tack. “I don’t have anything to hide and neither does Michael. But you’re right, I didn’t fall down the stairs. I just didn’t want everyone to know that I was mugged.”
“You didn’t want me to know? After everything I’ve told you over the years?” There it was again, the hurt. I hated doing that to her. She was a loyal friend; I just couldn’t afford that right now.
“I knew you’d ask if I went to the police.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t see his face. He pushed me down from behind and stole my cell phone and my cash. It was awful, and I didn’t want to relive it for nothing, because that kind of stuff happens in Oakland all the time. Without a description, what would be the point of talking to the police?”
She stepped closer. “Come on, Flora,” she said softly. “You don’t need to protect him. What you need is to go to the police. Domestic violence is a crime. He assaulted you.”
“Someone assaulted me, but I don’t know who it was.”
“I’m not going to judge you. I’ve done this dance myself. I walked into walls. I fell down stairs. I slammed my hand in a door. I was ‘klutzy,’ too.”
“That was your dance. It’s not mine.”
She ignored me, caught up in a terrible reverie. “It starts with little things. He needs to know where you are all the time. He’s jealous and possessive. He doesn’t want you out of his sight; he needs to be in touch all the time.” Boy, was she barking up the wrong tree. “At first, it seems flattering. You’ve never been with anyone so attentive. But he’ll get more and more controlling, and he’ll explode into anger, and he’ll do—well, you already know what he’ll do. He’s doing it so early, too. Usually they wait longer before they pound your face.” I tried to say something, but she wouldn’t stop talking. It’s like she couldn’t. “I’ve told you all about how I covered up the bruises and I lied for him. I lied to myself. I was in deep, but you don’t have to get there. Get out now.”
“I don’t want out.”
She gripped my arm. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll help you.”
“I’m telling the truth! I was mugged. I can prove it.” I wriggled out of her grasp and held up my phone. “See? It’s new. A mugger stole the last one.”
She hesitated. “I want to believe you.”
“I know you’re looking out for me. And seeing my face obviously triggered you.” Triggered. Another term I’d learned from Michael. “Maybe there are things from your past that you still need to process.”
“You’re telling me that I need therapy?”
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there. I was mugged. My boyfriend doesn’t abuse me; he cherishes me.”
I was remembering last night—how he’d accepted my apology and the lovemaking that followed. It must have helped me to sound convincing because Jeanie looked troubled, like she was starting to question herself and not me. She was wondering if she was still so damaged that she was seeing things that weren’t there.
“You amaze me,” I said. “You come out of this horrible relationship and go on to find a wonderful husband and create a family. You’re an inspiration. I want what you have, and I might have found it. Michael has been taking such great care of me since the mugging.”
And before that? Fortunately, she didn’t ask.
I hugged her. Then I wouldn’t have to look into her eyes. “I’m good. I’m in love.”
She wasn’t going to let me off quite that easily. She retracted her head and searched my wrecked face. “For some men,” she said, “this is love.”
CHAPTER 50
GREER
“I’m so sorry,” the harried-looking mom told me.
“It’s fine,” I said, smiling down at the ginger-haired little girl who’d wiped her grimy hands on my jeans and who was looking up at me with great curiosity. She sensed that I was an interloper, that none of the children running around the goat pen at the children’s zoo belonged to me.
But they could, that was the thing. They easily could.
Maybe not easily, given my age. But plenty of the mothers looked older than I did, and there was no shortage of options with my bank account.
“It’s completely okay,” I told the little girl’s mother. “She’s adorable. I know how it is.” Or I would.
She smiled at me gratefully. Then she addressed the child. “Let’s go, Livvie. We’ve got horses to brush.”
“Bye!” I waved at Livvie in an exaggerated way, and she gave me a delighted grin back. How old was she? Two? Three? I had no facility at guessing the ages of children. I’d never paid attention before.
But I could learn. I was a hard worker, and I’d become a full-time student. After all, I was already down to half days and titrating fast as Chenille had taken to her new role with alacrity. Power suited her. Power suits did, too. It was looking like I might never go back.
I would never have guessed that I could feel this way, that I could abdicate control happily. Yet here I was, in the middle of the afternoon at the children’s zoo, and I felt if not at home, then the possibility of home. There were moms who were messy and moms who were put together and those in between. I didn’t know what my mom wardrobe would be like, but the shopping could be fun.
I was observing the world of motherhood like an anthropologist in a foreign culture. In a way, it was. Typically, I went to the types of restaurants and bars for working lunches and dinners and drinks where no one would bring a child; I shopped at the same types of boutiques. I didn’t go to Golden Gate Park on weekends or to summer festivals. Unintentionally, I’d ordered my life in such a way that I ran into kids as little as one could. Now I was tracking families like they were Bengal tigers, fascinating and rare.
What I was finding was that for as many moments of irritation, frustration, and horror I witnessed, there tended to be a corresponding number that elicited contentment and joy. I watched parents help their little ones feed a goat, and sure, there was corralling (of the children, not the goat), but it was accompanied by such unfettered delight (again, the child’s, not the goat’s). If you could slow down, if you had nowhere else to be, if you could stop the world and just be there to bask in it—what could be better or more precious?
There was no reason I couldn’t be a stay-at-home mother. Devote myself entirely to the development of a human being. I could be the absolute opposite of my own parents, an idea that was enormously appealing.
It wouldn’t be forever, of course. Soon enough, the little bugger would be headed off to preschool and then kindergarten. But for a while at least, I could be all about my child. That little boy or girl would know how valuable they were to me, that they were everything, and everyone wants to move through the world with that type of assurance. When they have it, they can do anything, be anything. They don’t have to be a success, even. They don’t have to pursue it with all they have, to the exclusion of relationships, to the denial of self. They don’t need a lifetime of hollow victories.
I could do that for someone. Be that. What a staggering idea.
But first, I needed to hear from Dr. Michael. I couldn’t call him first. I’d look desperate. After an exit like mine, you couldn’t slink back. You had to wait until you were pursued. He’d come crawling. He had to. I couldn’t have been so wrong in my read of him. I read men all the time for a living. Or I did.
He must have been thinking about me. He was just having to wrestle with his professional ethics, his conscience, whatever. He’d call.
If he didn’t do it soon, though, I’d have to figure out how to prod him a little. How to push the thought of me to the front of his brain.
I’d been doing a little cyberstalking, trying to get some clues as to the best way to approach without approaching. I couldn’t just send him a friend request—again, too desperate. But could I show up in his social media feeds by some other, subtler means? Perhaps a targeted ad that he wouldn’t know was targeted, one for my company, with a great press shot of me.
The problem was, I hadn’t been able to find him on any social media, not under the name Michael Baylor. It’s possible he was protecting his privacy by using a pseudonym to avoid situations just like the one I was mulling. As a therapist, he probably wanted to remain a blank slate for his clients so they could do all their transferring. Wasn’t that what he called it? Transference, that was it. He said that was why I wanted him to impregnate me, because I was confusing him with someone else. Like with my father.
Bullshit. That wasn’t at all what this was about.
I didn’t have to date him. I didn’t need to hear a bunch of his high school anecdotes or get the rundown on all his ex-girlfriends. I’d felt him in the room with me. I knew him.
I could tell he had a good heart and he wanted to help people, but he was no altruist. No goody-goody. He had a more dangerous side that he had to rein in, and that was part of what attracted me. He’d get close to the third rail and pull back.
He was going to call. He wouldn’t be able to resist.
The fact was, the kind of therapist who was always by the book wouldn’t have lasted more than a session with me. And he definitely wouldn’t be the man I wanted to father my child.
The problem with donor profiles was that the people (women?) who wrote them sanded off all the men’s rough edges. They’d been neutered. No hint of danger there. It’d be like mating with Big Bird. It might sound crazy, but even though we were just talking about sperm, I wanted to feel like the donor was sexy.
