Bound by Suggestion (14 page)

I got
up early the next morning and stopped at McDonalds before heading across town. I didn’t bother to drive by Doug Mallon’s house, just in case Maggie was there. Not only would she recognize my car, but she knew Brenda’s and Richard’s as well. And what was the point of doing so, anyway? So I could compare my crummy old Celebrity with Doug’s BMW or Mercedes?

I parked down the street from a certain white Colonial in Lackawanna, and waited, sipping coffee. I took a bite of my stale, prepackaged Danish, then shoved it back in the bag. It was over an hour before I saw any hint of life from the house. The garage door opened and the silver Volvo sedan backed down the drive. The lady of the house sat behind the wheel. I waited for her to get a block ahead before I pulled away from the curb.

I stayed at least three car lengths behind her and wasn’t surprised when she pulled into the Wegmans parking lot a couple of miles from her home. She probably stopped there for the last few items she’d forgotten while grocery shopping the day before. Ah, life in suburbia.

Jogging to catch up with her, I saw Irene had grabbed a cart instead of a basket. I took one, too, and pulled a few items off the first shelves I came to, tossing them into the cart so it would look like I’d been there awhile and it was only coincidence when I accidentally crashed into her cart.

I’d come up with a vague plan, but executing it took more ingenuity than I’d expected. She seemed to anticipate my every move. Just when I thought I’d confront her, she’d take a different turn, and I’d be dodging other shoppers to catch up.

Finally, she paused long enough in the cake mix aisle for me to make my move. I aimed my cart straight for hers.

Bang!

“Excuse me,” I said.

Irene looked up. The momentary surprise in her eyes changed to contempt. She was Maggie’s older—by nearly ten years—sister. Bleached hair the color of muslin had been swirled into a French twist. God forbid she should ever let her hair down. Stout and matronly, she reminded me of an ill-tempered bulldog because of the deeply etched frown lines creasing her face.

“Small world, isn’t it?” I said.

“What’re you doing here?” she growled, blasting me with a wave of anger.

I’d forgotten just how painful her negativity could be.

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

She didn’t believe me, and I didn’t much care.

“I guess you know Maggie and I broke up.”

“I didn’t shed any tears,” she said, a steady stream of acidic sensations emanating from her.

“I understand you orchestrated it.”

“Of course I did. You’re not good enough for her.”

Talk about blunt.

“Why do you say that?” I managed, feeling close to choking.

“Number one; you’re a loser. You’re broke, you haven’t got a decent job, and you sponge off your family. Second, you attract trouble. You were mixed up with the woman who murdered Maggie’s boss at the bank. Your lousy driving last fall was nearly the death of Maggie. And that homicidal maniac could’ve killed my sister while she was babysitting your brother’s wife for you. You are bad news, mister. Stay away from Maggie.”

Irene stalked off, and I stood there, immobilized by her palpable hatred. I took a breath and become aware of other shoppers standing in the aisle gawking at me, their gazes judgmental.

“Just a little misunderstanding,” I said, though why I bothered annoyed me as much as my exchange with Irene.

My cheeks felt hot as I turned my cart around and headed for the exit. I saw a kid in the store’s uniform of white shirt, black pants and a maroon apron. His nametag said Bryan, proudly serving his customers for two years. “I have to leave. Could you put these back on the shelf?”

“Sure thing, mister.”

I slipped him a buck and headed for the door.

Irene’s speech had sounded rehearsed. Yeah, she’d probably been dying to tell me off, and had practiced in the shower, while driving her car. . . and here I’d given her exactly the opportunity she’d wanted.

You’re a loser
, she’d said.

Yeah. Maybe I was.

Richard let
the phone ring ten, eleven, twelve times. Was this the third or the fourth time he’d tried since lunchtime? The answering machine didn’t even pick up. Jeff often unplugged the phone when its shrill bleating would threaten to split his aching head. Richard hung up and headed for the door.

The white Celebrity was parked outside, so he knew Jeff was home. The last time he’d checked on his brother, Jeff had seemed drugged. What was he likely to find now?

Jeff’s apartment door wasn’t locked. Richard opened it, then gave a belated knock. “Hello?”

No answer.

He walked deeper into the darkened, silent apartment.

“Jeff?”

“Yeah,” came the flat reply from the couch.

Richard ventured closer, switched on one of the lamps flanking the couch. That’s when he noticed the rhythmic rumble of contented purring. Jeff was stretched out with a bundle of happy cat nestled on his chest, one hand idly scratching the back of its head.

“Are you okay?” Richard asked.

“Yeah,” Jeff said in the same monotone.

“No headache?”

“No.”

“Then why were you sitting in the dark?”

Jeff glanced over to the draped windows. “I guess I hadn’t noticed.”

Richard frowned. “Why’s your phone unplugged?”

“It’s not.”

“I’ve been calling for hours. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I didn’t feel like it.”

Richard sat in one of the upholstered chairs, his agitation growing.

Jeff continued to stare at the cat.

“Look, I wanted to talk to you about Krista,” Richard said. “I’m concerned about what you guys are doing.”

“Why? All I do is sit in on her sessions with a patient.”

“And you’re seeing her socially,” Richard added.

“Sort of.”

Richard heaved a sigh. “It isn’t ethical for a doctor to sleep with her patients.”

Jeff’s gaze shifted. “I’m not her patient. And we haven’t slept together.”

The word
yet
seemed to hover between them.

“And she’s not treating you?”

“I already told you, no.”

“Then what are you guys doing?”

“I’m helping her.”

“How?”

“Using this—this thing I do. Feeling other people’s emotions.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be someone’s guinea pig?”

“I’m not. I’m helping one of her patients.”

“
How?
” Richard repeated, louder than he’d intended, and sent the cat flying.

Jeff sat up, brushing cat hair from his shirt. “That’s doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“But I’m helping her patient to accept her feelings.”

“What’re you getting out of it?”

Jeff hesitated. “Not much. I’m thinking about quitting.”

“I’d feel better if you did.”

“Why?”

“It just doesn’t feel right to me.”

Jeff snorted. “Now who’s psychic?” He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes.

The silence lengthened. Jeff wasn’t known for oozing charm, even on his good days. There was a set to his mouth that seemed . . . wrong. But that didn’t make sense.

“You seem kind of down. What’s going on?”

Jeff didn’t answer right away. He let out a sigh and opened his eyes, but didn’t look at Richard. “I ran into Maggie’s sister, Irene. She said I’m a loser.”

“So?”

“So . . . she’s right. I mean, I can’t even support myself. No wonder Maggie dumped me.”

“Jeff, don’t let someone who isn’t part of your life influence the way you look at yourself.”

“She reminded me that I nearly got Maggie killed—three times.”

“She’s wrong, and you know it.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” he said, and seemed to sink in on himself. “It really doesn’t matter.”

Richard studied his brother’s face. There were lines around Jeff’s eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. Hell, the kid was a grown up—thirty-seven next week. He’d earned a few lines to mark his time on Earth. But Richard couldn’t shake the feeling it was more than that.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked. Wasn’t that his standard question these days?

Jeff glowered at him. “No. What do you want, anyway?”

“Brenda’s visiting . . . a friend.”

Jeff’s gaze sharpened; they both knew that meant Maggie.

“So, I’m batching it tonight. Are you hungry?”

“For what?”

“The original Buffalo Wings at the Anchor Bar. I haven’t been there since college.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“And you call yourself a native Buffalonian.”

Jeff shrugged. “Why not?”

There was that passivity again.

“Grab a jacket and let’s go.”

Jeff hauled himself up, shuffled toward the closet. He shrugged into the sleeves of his denim jacket, and then waited for Richard at the door.

The idea of brotherly bonding had soured. The evening would be an ordeal.

“Party, party,” Richard grumbled.

“We were discussing goals,” Krista said the next morning, her voice cutting through my foggy thoughts.

I had trouble focusing and squinted in the late morning sunlight flooding the room. Goals. Is that what we’d been talking about? I couldn’t remember.

Grace sat huddled in her wheelchair, her dull green eyes staring at nothing, her expression blank. The faded pink sweatshirt she wore was on inside out. Funny, I hadn’t noticed that before, either.

My head seemed too heavy to hold up. I rested it back against the recliner, taking a slow, lazy breath. I had only one objective these days: to get Maggie back. Everything else seemed inconsequential.

“Your goal for this week, Grace, is to eat in the dining room with the others,” Krista said.

“I’da’wanna.” Grace’s words were slurred; she sounded drunk.

I felt drunk. Punch drunk, maybe.

That didn’t make sense. But then, nothing seemed to make sense. Had I fallen asleep? The clock read 11:45, but I’d only just arrived. Hadn’t I? Where had over an hour of the two-hour session gone?

“Something’s not right,” I said. My voice wobbled inside my head. I leaned forward, intending to stand, but my muscles didn’t want to support my weight. Falling back, I tried to swallow, but my tongue felt too large for my mouth. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room.

“Why not?” Krista asked Grace, ignoring me.

“They’re all jerks. They wanna hurt me.”

“Who wants to hurt you?” Krista asked.

Grace sat up straighter, seemed to be waking up. “All those stupid guys at the home. They’re all ugly geeks and I hate them. I hate all guys.”

“Even me?” I asked.

She raised her head and glared at me, broadcasting a burst of intense hatred and fear.

“I won’t hurt you,” I said, puzzled by her reaction. “Why would you think I could hurt you?”

Grace pursed her lips, life flowing back into her eyes until they were afire with rage. “Because,” she blurted, fury filling her thin voice. “Just because!”

Her emotional outburst drained my already failing reserves of strength. I closed my eyes and heard myself groan.

“Couldn’t you be over-reacting, Grace?” Krista asked.

Grace’s face twisted into a grimace and she burst into tears. The tangle of her anger, fear, and humiliation swamped me.

“Stop,” I pleaded, fighting nausea. I slid down until my head rested on the arm of the chair. I twisted my neck and saw Krista calmly sitting between Grace and me, her face impassive as she studied us with cool objectivity—like we were subjects in an experiment. A slow smile creased her lips, but I didn’t feel encouraged. Suddenly, it wasn’t only Grace’s fear I felt. And I didn’t know what to do about it.

What was
supposed to have been a four-hour shift at the clinic had lengthened into nine. Richard removed his I.D. badge, stuffed the soiled lab coat into the laundry basket, then closed the locker door. Next on the agenda was a smooth single malt scotch on the rocks, a little Vivaldi on the stereo, and a leisurely read of that morning’s newspaper. Brenda wanted to add a hot tub to the deck at the back of the house. After spending the day on his feet, soaking in swirling hot water sounded heavenly. Maybe they could talk about it over dinner.

Richard left the doctor’s lounge and started for the exit. “Good night, Dr. A,” Donna the receptionist called, and he gave her a wave in return. She was working late, too. All the clinic staff seemed to share her sense of dedication. It warmed him.

Traffic would be heavy, but even during the worst rush hour, the hospital was only a ten-minute drive from home. After years of L.A. gridlock, navigating around Buffalo was a snap.