TPG (4 page)

“You think she’s
friends with him?”

“Of course she is,
he’s her uncle.” Eddie stopped scrolling. “Shelton, right? It’s gotta be. She’s
the only Allie he’s friends with. Probably also the only chick he’s friends
with who isn’t four hundred pounds.” Eddie found her photo, then leaned back
and looked at Kyle, nodding with approval. “Very nice, my friend.”

Kyle turned red
and picked up the iPad.

He tried to look
at her profile, but all he could see was the picture. The rest was private.

“You want me to
come by tomorrow when he shows up?”

Kyle handed the
iPad to Celia and smiled. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it myself.”

“Thanks for the
iPad, honey,” Eddie said. “You can take it back inside and keep looking for
something that’s gonna bankrupt me.”

Celia wheeled
herself back through the open sliding door and said, “It won’t bankrupt you.
But I just have to figure out a place to put the litter box.”

“
A cat?
Don’t think your mom will go for
that one.”

As she slid the
door closed, Celia smiled and said, “Guess you’ll just have to sharpen up on
those persuasive skills.”

When the door
closed, Kyle said to Eddie, “She is definitely
your
daughter.”

Eddie leaned back
and sipped his beer, his expression turning serious, the playful flicker in his
eyes muted. “She’s way better than me,” he said. “I’d be cursing life every
chance I got for the shitty deck it handed me. Not her. Girl’s a goddam angel.”

Eddie took another
sip. For all of his bluster and bravado, Kyle knew beneath it all was a
father’s aching heart that cried out in pain every time he thought about his
daughter never walking again.

“Anyway,” Eddie
said, shaking away the thoughts, quickly regaining a lighter tone, “you, my
friend, are a glutton for punishment.”

Kyle shrugged.
“What choice did I have? He didn’t ask to come over, he said he was. And after
what he’s going through with his niece, who am I to say he shouldn’t?”

“That’s
exactly
what you should’ve said to him.
That you don’t have time for him. Be a bit of a dick once in awhile. It won’t
kill you. Or at least don’t be such a damn Goody Two-shoes. Look where it got
you with Trotter.”

Trotter was Henry
Trotter, a former patient whose family was suing Kyle for causing their son’s
death. It was the event that had precipitated Kyle’s decision to take a break
from practicing.

“Speaking of
which,” Eddie said, “what’s going on with that lawsuit?”

“We have a
mediation scheduled for next week.”

“Good,” Eddie
said. “Time to put that crap to rest already. You should have never written
that letter to the licensing Board questioning your own treatment to begin
with. You know it, and I know it. And so does every other sane person in this
world, even the weasel lawyer manipulating the system. That lawsuit is the
biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever seen on paper. It makes me embarrassed to
be an American when I think about it. That fuckhead who took the case should be
thrown in jail. Better yet, he should be shot. Even the notion of suggesting
that you did anything wrong is insane.”

Eddie always said
that but, in a twisted way, Kyle was glad the case was started. He wanted a
jury to hear how he had treated Henry Trotter, and he wanted an unbiased
finding telling him what he did, or didn’t do, wasn’t wrong. But lately he was
beginning to think Eddie was right. Maybe it was time to move on. Completely
move on.

Eddie took another
swig of his Heineken then set it down hard. “Now down to real business,” he
said, his thick eyebrows dovetailing at the bridge of his nose. “You’re coming
down to the shore with us after Bree goes to camp, right?”

“Don’t think so.”

“C’mon, man. It’ll
be fun. There are tons of single women down there. And you’ll have the room
downstairs. It has its own bathroom. Dana’s parents stay there when they come
down. It’s like they have their own little suite. In fact, I was thinking about
putting a little kitchenette in there off the hall so I never have to see
them.”

“I’ll see.”

“C’mon,” Eddie
egged him on, not happy with the half-hearted response. “Is it because it’s the
Jersey Shore and not the damn Hamptons? A beach is a beach. Sand is sand. They
sell the same Fudgy Wudgy bars down in Jersey as they do out in the fancy-pants
Hamptons.”

“Of course it
isn’t that. And they don’t sell Fudgy Wudgy bars in the Hamptons.”

“I don’t know,
man. You may have grown too soft from being with Sheila and her Hamptons
crowd,” Eddie said. “Too soft from being married to a woman whose secretary’s
bonus alone is five times the average person’s salary.”

“Me?” Kyle
laughed. “I’ve gone soft?” Kyle looked around at Eddie’s spacious home, the
fruits of his own successful career in private equity. “It’s not like you’re
exactly struggling. And if anyone’s grown soft, I would say it might be the
father who left work in the middle of the day when his son’s classmate bit him
in nursery school.”

“Damn right I did.
That fucking little shit was like a goddamn Pac-Man.” Eddie’s face turned
angry. “Did I tell you what that kid looked like when I went down to the
school? He had crazy eyes and was foaming at the mouth. The little shit almost
bit
me
! He’s destined for the short
bus. I mean, if your kid can’t control himself from biting, don’t send him to
fucking school. Keep Chompers at home and do the rest of us a favor.” He
pointed his finger at Kyle. “That wasn’t being soft, my friend. That was a
goddamn act of public safety. I would’ve gone down there and bit that little
shit myself if he’d sunk one more of his grimy little fangs into my kid.”

“Looks like I
struck a nerve,” Kyle said, smiling.

Eddie raised his
beer and tapped Kyle’s. “Here’s to the mysteries of parenting, another pillar
in life’s foundation where we don’t have a goddamn clue about what the hell
we’re doing.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

He had a problem. He knew it. The
highs were becoming too short, the withdrawals lasting too long, and both were
happening too often.

And he hadn’t
gotten nearly enough from the last hit. That was clear from the lackluster
performance. He needed more. His body was craving another one. But he had to
stall. There were still a few days to go. He couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He dragged himself
off the couch where he’d been sleeping most of the day and made his way to the
bathroom. Flicking on the switch, he winced against the bright light of the
four bulbs above the sink shooting through his shrinking pupils like a dagger
digging into his skull. But he let it happen. He wanted to see who he was
becoming. And when his eyes adjusted enough to see the image reflecting off the
mirror, he saw bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks, thick stubble.

An addict.

That’s what he
was. Corin was right; there was no question about it. He could rationalize the
reasons, justify the need, but he knew in his heart that he’d become hooked and
couldn’t give it up. He needed it. Craved it. Even if it was killing him.

He still tried to
convince himself that he’d stop soon, maybe in the fall. Maybe then he’d cut
back and begin stretching it out.

But it was so
tough to think about quitting when he was enjoying it so much. And it wasn’t
the rush or the high that was doing it. He’d been there before. This time it
was different. This time he was making up for lost time, for a lost life, and
being forgiven in the process. And he needed it. More than he ever knew. And he
couldn’t, wouldn’t, let it get away.

No, he thought as
he splashed some cold water on his face, he wasn’t going stop. He knew that.

But he still had a
heart. He still cared. And he didn’t enjoy the sacrifices needed for what had
to be done. But he’d learned to deal with them years ago.

Compartmentalization
was the key, a trick he learned back in high school when he’d found a book his
father had lying around. A book by Dale Carnegie, the master of
self-motivation. The chapter on compartmentalizing was the only one that stuck
with him. Carnegie essentially said that you had to compartmentalize worrisome
thoughts in order to not be overcome by them, tuck them away and don’t mesh
them with other parts of your life. Kind of like what great athletes
did—forget the strikeout from the last at-bat, don’t think about the ten
consecutive shots you just missed or the catches you just dropped. Tuck them
away. Forget about them and go into the next at-bat, the next shot, or the next
catch with a clear and free mind. Compartmentalize. Don’t have a conscience.
And that’s what he did. It was the only way he was able to function. Especially
when he knew he needed the young and healthy rather than the strung out and
sick, whose minds and bodies were too ravaged from the wear and tear of age and
abuse, for the process to work.

And he needed it
to work. He couldn’t let life pass him by with so many regrets. The older he
became, the more he realized the opportunity passing him by. He wanted to be a
part of what had eluded him, what his path up to this point hadn’t let him do.

There wouldn’t be
many more chances.

He saw how quickly
things could turn with just one bad outing; they were already talking about
sending him down. After all the good, one bad outing had already started the
chatter. They wouldn’t stand for another one. He knew that. He was too much of
an unknown, too much of a risk. He had to be on. They wouldn’t have the
patience with him. They’d chalk his past performances up to luck and everything
would be tossed out the window.

And there was no
way he was going to let that happen. Not now.

They expected excellence,
and that’s what he’d give them. Nothing less.

So he’d endure the
pain, the aches, and then he’d get his fix in a few days, this time taking it
all. Then he’d do his thing and once again soak in the roars of the crowd as
they chanted his name, something he realized he needed more than he ever
imagined.

And if the girl
woke up, something he doubted, or turned out to be anything but a vegetable,
something he doubted even more, he’d take care of her. Same with the man if he
ever piped up.

No loose ends.

He’d been too
careful to make sure there was no connection. He wasn’t about to let one slipup
ruin it.

And if he didn’t
do it, he was sure Corin would.

The man had too
much of an investment to see things go any other way.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kyle checked his watch as he walked
down the hallway. Still fifteen minutes before noon. He’d been nervous and edgy
all day, not at all looking forward to meeting Allie’s uncle. He kept going
back and forth with what the man really wanted, thinking Eddie was right, he couldn’t
possibly really believe Allie was attacked. It didn’t make sense. Kyle had even
called Tom again and was able to find out there was absolutely nothing out of
the ordinary in Allie’s blood work. Bottom line was she just had a burst
aneurysm. That was it. They happened.

So what the hell could her uncle possibly
want?
Kyle wondered. Did he really want to confront Kyle like Eddie
thought? Did he know about the texts?

As Kyle made his
way to the small, modest office Hunter College afforded him, squeezing past the
lone bookshelf against the wall and brushing up against the framed
What About Bob?
poster (a gift from
Eddie), he thought about the consequences of what would happen if Liam knew
about the texts. He could not only kiss his job at his little corner of the New
York City University goodbye, but probably his license as well. The Trotter
incident already had him on a bit of thin ice with the Board. If they found out
that he was also trying to sleep with one of his students and had essentially
abandoned her the night she had a hemorrhage, the story would likely push them
over the edge and cause them to revoke his license, maybe even more.

But as he nestled
into the creaky chair behind a pressed wood desk that could’ve easily been
found on Craigslist for five dollars, he tried to calm down, reminding himself
he hadn’t done anything wrong. He never slept with her. Didn’t even kiss her.
And he’d told the EMTs everything he knew, everything except for the man in the
alley. What else was he supposed to do?

Deep breaths,
he said to himself, trying
to slow down his spiraling thoughts.
Deep
breaths.
He closed his eyes and slowly drew in long, full breaths. But
instead of taking him to the calm place he was seeking, instead of stranding
him on a breezy beach in the Pacific with an ice cold Corona in his hand as he
watched the waves crash onto shore one after the other, his thoughts went where
they almost always went nowadays when he didn’t consciously occupy his mind
with other thoughts—to Henry Trotter.

Henry had been a
new patient of Kyle’s, but his story was like so many of Kyle’s other patients.
He was white, rich and looking to ease the guilt he felt for cheating on his
wife, looking to Kyle to give him a free pass. It wasn’t the clientele Kyle had
wanted when he first entered private practice, but it was what he fell into.
And once Sheila told him she’d been cheating on him, he realized it was what
he’d fallen into at home as well.

Kyle knew he
probably should’ve taken a break from practicing after she dropped her
bombshell. But he didn’t. He did the exact opposite. He threw himself into his
work, knowing the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. Alone
with images of his wife sleeping with another man, with the idea that he
wouldn’t get to see his daughter every single day, with the reality that his
life would never be the same again.

But the last thing
he should’ve been doing was giving advice to others. Especially
his
clients, people who were doing
exactly what his wife had done. People cut from the same cloth. People like
Henry Trotter.

Instead of going
into his typical routine with Henry during their first session and exploring
and analyzing the deeper issues behind why Henry was cheating, Kyle came right
out and told Henry to “man up.” Told him it wasn’t right to keep his wife in
the dark. He should either leave or stop fucking other women.

And the latter is
exactly what Henry did. He broke up with his girlfriend.

Or, at least,
that’s what the newspaper accounts said. Kyle didn’t know for sure. Henry never
made it back for his follow-up session.

He was killed only
a few days later.

According to the
reports, Henry was shot in the crotch as soon as he walked through his
girlfriend’s door after she’d begged him to come over because she wasn’t handling
the breakup well. She let him suffer for a good while, maybe as long as twenty
minutes the reports said, before finally ending his life by shooting him in the
head. She then jammed the gun in her own mouth and put a bullet through her
brain.

Kyle wondered if
Henry thought about him at all that night while he lay there writhing in pain
as blood gushed out of him. Wondered if during those moments when he knew his
life was over, when he knew he’d never see his kids again, he cursed Kyle for
the advice he’d given, and cursed himself for listening.

They were thoughts
and images that Kyle couldn’t tuck away, no corner of his mind deep enough, or
strong enough, to contain them.

They haunted him.
He couldn’t help but feel responsible, especially because it could have all
been avoided. The girlfriend was unstable. Had a history of it. If Kyle had
delved into it a little more, he probably would’ve uncovered it and guided
Henry a little more carefully. But he hadn’t. He’d been blinded by his own
adulterous wife’s actions.

He’d been
careless, something someone in his profession should never be.

The human psyche
was far too fragile, and his role far too powerful.

So he didn’t blame
Henry’s family for suing him. He screwed up. He even wrote to the State Board,
telling them what had happened. They cleared him of any wrongdoing; didn’t even
take long. But the decision wasn’t good enough. Not for him, and not for the
family Henry left behind.

“The summer
classes really bring out the hotties.”

Kyle looked up,
the voice jolting him away from his mental meanderings about Trotter.

In the doorway,
head turned as he looked down the hall, was a pudgy man standing no taller than
five-six with thick, dark, curly hair atop a round, chubby face spotted by a
scraggly beard. The man had small, puffy eyes behind thick lenses and was
wearing a faded blue Spider-Man T-shirt with sweat stains at the underarms. He
had on oversized khaki shorts and Birkenstock sandals, revealing gnarled,
overgrown toenails.

Kyle didn’t need
the introduction to know exactly who it was.

It was Allie’s
uncle, Liam Murdock.