Unbreathed Memories (23 page)

Friday morning, thank goodness, he stayed home. I was touched when he cut my peanut butter sandwich into four narrow strips like I used to do for Emily. I dipped a rectangle into a mug of tomato soup that I was steadying with two fingers on the arm of my chair. I watched the bread wick up the soup, then popped it into my mouth. I wiggled my fingers in Paul’s direction, but all I could see was the top of his curly gray head behind
The Baltimore Sun
.

The sports page spoke. “What are you up to today?”

“Boring, boring, boring.” I dipped another piece of sandwich into my soup. “I can’t wait to get these stitches out.” I squirmed around on the sofa to face him. “They’re beginning to itch like crazy.”

Paul peeked around the page. “That’s a sign it’s healing.”

“And I’ve got cabin fever. Big time. I’m even missing Ruth and her holistic homilies.”

Paul laid the paper on his knee and held it there with the flat of his hand. “She’d probably wave one of those useless crystals over your chest.” His smile changed to a worried frown. “I wish there was something I could do.”

I fussed with the afghan that covered my legs and folded my arms over my chest before remembering that that wasn’t a good idea. “Ouch!”

“Careful, honey.”

“I want to
do
something, Paul. Something more exciting than walking back and forth to the bathroom.”

“You’re a clever girl, my love. You’ll think of something.” The corners of his mouth held the promise of a grin as he shook his head back and forth and returned to the paper. I watched while he breezed quickly through the basketball section and got to the page where they listed the local college scores.

Looking at him, I had a sudden inspiration. “Be my Marta Hallard,” I blurted.

“Your what?” The pages rustled.

“My Archie. My Lewis.”

Paul peeped around the newspaper. “What the hell are you babbling about?”

“Sidekicks,” I said. “Marta Hallard was the woman in
Daughter of Time
who helped Alan Grant solve the mystery of the princes in the tower while he was laid up in the hospital with a broken leg.”

“I get it. Archie is Nero Wolfe’s general factotum. And Lewis is that guy on Inspector Morse.”

“Right. In
The Wench Is Dead
, Morse is in the hospital and Lewis does the investigating.”

“I think I hear my mother calling,” Paul teased.

“No, honestly! I want you to find out something for me.”

Paul covered his face with the newspaper and groaned. “I’m not listening.”

“C’mon. It’s a piece of cake. All you have to do is check out Dr. Sturges with the Maryland Board of Physician Quality Assurance.”

“That’s a mouthful! What is it? Some sort of Better Business Bureau for doctors?”

“Exactly. Find out if there were ever any complaints against her.”

“And you think this quality-assurance bunch is going to tell
me
anything?”

“Of course they will. You’re a consumer.”

“Jeez, Hannah.”

“And while you’re at it, check out Dr. Voorhis, too.”

“And what’s in it for me?” His face was split by the crooked grin I loved so well.

“A night of wild, passionate sex.” I ran a hand lightly over my bandages. “On account.”

Paul crossed the room, leaned down, and planted a highly satisfactory kiss squarely on my lips. “Temptress.”

“Is that a yes?” I asked when I could breathe again.

“It’s a maybe.”

Ten minutes later, Paul went to meet a mid for extra instruction at the academy, leaving me ensconced on the living room sofa, fully provisioned with the remains of my peanut butter sandwich, an empty mug with a disgusting red map coating the inside, a portable phone, and the remote control. I polished off the sandwich and considered what to do next. Under normal circumstances, to distract myself, I’d clean something, like a closet or the refrigerator; the basement if I were really desperate for diversion. But I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything requiring stairs for at least a week, and it would be another four weeks before I could do any heavy lifting. My To Be Read pile had dwindled to just one book, a science fiction novel with a lurid cover that I decided I didn’t want to read anyway, no matter how many weeks it had been on
The New York Times
Best Seller List.

I lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack in the plaster that ran from the chandelier to the corner of the room nearest the dining room. Funny I hadn’t noticed it before. I thought about manicuring my nails, painting them bright red. I would do my toes, too, I decided. But no, the nail polish was upstairs, and besides, with the stitches, I couldn’t bend over far enough to reach my toes. I sighed and aimed the remote at the TV, clicked, and began grazing through the channels. I
watched Vanessa fantasize about Jake while Giovanni had Vanessa on his mind. On another channel, Kevin proposed to Amber before going into a sudden seizure. Two channels further on, Rick considered whether to tell Ethan and Charity how Tabitha switched Ethan’s sperm test results. And I thought my life was complicated. In a minute we’d have a little soap opera right here on Prince George Street: Hannah, paralyzed by boredom, tries to explain to Paul why she threw a brick through the television. Suddenly I wanted my folder, my notes, Dr. Sturges’s appointment book pages, and the collection of other items that Paul jokingly calls my Junior Detective’s Kit. But it was downstairs in the office, so I watched Margo consider how to report Caitlin as an unfit mother, then decided the hell with both of them. Stairs, schmairs. How hard could it be?

I flung aside the afghan and shuffled toward the hall in my bare feet. I took the stairs one at a time, slowly, leaning against the wall about halfway down to catch my breath. By the time I reached the basement I had to rest on the bottom step. Where was that blessed I-Med machine when you needed it? Tears of frustration stung my eyes when I realized down was easier than up. I might not be able to make it back upstairs on my own steam. When Paul came home he would find me still sitting there, weeping. Maybe he’d yell.

When the pain subsided and I could move again without wincing, I eased myself over to the desk and found my Junior Detective’s Kit was just where I’d left it. I lowered myself carefully into the office chair and rolled it over to the desk, where I could flip through the pages of my notepad and review the list of patients I had talked to. Wandowsky and Riggins. Check. I’d eliminated Jacobs and Cameron and several others. To see if
there was anybody I’d missed, I leafed through Diane Sturges’s appointment book pages again.

One name had appeared once, early on, so I hadn’t paid much attention to it—S. Gloden. Odd name, Gloden. I played with it, pronouncing the name over and over with different emphasis. Glod-en. Glow-den.

It was Paul’s habit to leave the computer on, so I wiggled the mouse until the screensaver on the monitor faded away, then clicked onto the Internet. At the Lycos white pages, I tapped “Gloden” into the search box. Nothing.
Gloden?
Maybe it was a typo for Logen, or … of course!

Golden!

I tapped in “Golden” and “Baltimore,” then used the pull-down menu to select “Maryland.” I tried, in turn, various zip codes corresponding to the neighborhoods around All Hallows, and on the third try came up with a winner. A Stephanie Golden lived on North Charles Street. Before I could talk myself out of it, I logged off the Net, picked up the telephone, and called her.

After four rings and no answer, I expected an answering machine to kick in, but in the middle of the fifth ring, someone picked up. “Hello?”

If this was Stephanie, she sounded a lot like my grandmother Reid. “Stephanie?”

“Yes?”

The almost familiar voice gave me such a warm, fuzzy feeling that I thought twice about pretending to represent the police department. It would be like lying to my grandmother. “Ms. Golden, my name is Hannah Ives. Can I talk to you for a minute about Diane Sturges?”

“Are you from the police?”

I decided if I talked fast enough and sounded ditzy enough, maybe Stephanie wouldn’t wonder where I had
gotten her name. “Lord, no. That’s why I’m calling
you
. I was a patient of Dr. Sturges and the police came to see me yesterday. They said they were talking to all of Diane’s patients, but I’m not so sure I believe them. They really scared me. They seem to think
I
had something to do with her death.” I paused and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Did they talk to you?”

“Oh, yes. And I gave them an earful.”

She seemed more than happy to give me an earful, too. Stephanie had been Diane’s patient for two years. “Before I went to Diane, everybody—my husband, my kids, my coworkers—thought I was a basket case.” She snorted softly. “I was a poster child for ACOA, trying to be everything to everybody. The little engine that could.”

“What’s ACOA?” I asked.

“Adult Children of Alcoholics.” I wrote “ACOA” on my notepad and wondered if I fell into that category, too. I had rarely seen him falling-down drunk, but Daddy certainly didn’t have his drinking anywhere near under control. Especially not these days.

“Is that what led you into therapy, the fact that one of your parents was an alcoholic?” The thought made me nervous.

“I think so.” She paused to consider. “When Diane came along, I was a hungry pup, ready to suckle on any breast that came my way.” Stephanie giggled. “So I got on with Diane right away. It wasn’t long before she became my mentor. She was going to help me kick butt.”

“I can understand the need to take charge of your life. Mine seems to be swinging completely out of control.”

“Mine, too, but I’m better able to handle it now. As I think back on it, though, I was probably just going through menopause, but Diane made me believe that
something terrible had happened to me, something so terrible that I couldn’t remember it.”

Where had I heard that before?
“Are you saying there was nothing seriously wrong with you?”

“Nothing that a few hormone pills couldn’t cure.”

I paused to organize my thoughts. “Diane and I hadn’t come along that far before she …” I faked a sniffle. “… before she died.”

“You were new to the group?”

“Very. Now I’m wondering if it wasn’t all for the best. I would have
hated
going to therapy if all I was going to do was be forced to think about terrible things!”

“I
did
hate going to therapy. With a passion. It was painful and tough, but in a way, that’s what made it so attractive. I thought if I could just make it to the other side, I would really have accomplished something. I’d be free! Maybe I’d be on the
Tonight Show
with Jay Leno.”

“So you joined up.”

“Yup. I bought a ticket on that pop psychology train and hopped right on. Diane was my fairy godmother, holding one hand for the journey while I was writing checks with the other.”

I laughed out loud. “You sound very cynical.”

“Well, it took me a while to realize that she was simply fleecing the flock.”

“How so?”

“It’s simple math, really. Fifty dollars a month for the group sessions at the church and a hundred dollars for each one-on-one. Multiply that times the number of patients …” She paused as if performing the calculations in her head. “Well, you do the math!”

I was. By my reckoning, Diane Sturges had to be pulling in at least $160,000 per year, even allowing time
out for vacations. “Not much of an incentive to help patients get well and move on, is it?”

“No. And Diane often made me feel as if I wasn’t doing my homework.” Somewhere on Stephanie’s side of the telephone, a teakettle screamed. She must have been talking on a portable phone, because I heard footsteps and the teakettle was choked off in mid-shriek. “I wanted so much to produce something for her that sometimes I’d make things up. But it was never enough. One time when I was being nonproductive, she fell asleep.” Stephanie apologized for the clattering crockery and made herself tea. “It was the same during group. I was beginning to crack under the peer pressure.”

“I felt a lot like that myself when I couldn’t get my Little Girl to talk to me.”

“Tell me about it! On the other hand, if I became rational, she’d sometimes scold me, telling me it was my job to
feel
, not to
think
.” Stephanie paused and took a deep breath. “I finally had enough.”

“So what did you do?”

“I told her that just because those other ladies had been abused, didn’t mean that I had. For two years I’d been walking on eggshells, terrified that I’d remember the incident with a capital
I
at any time. What if it happened while I was driving? Or in the grocery store? Or in church? Or holding my grandbaby? I’d wake up in a cold sweat at four in the morning and ask myself, ‘Stephanie! Are you about to remember?’ ”

“Did you? Remember, I mean.”

“No. Nothing ever came into focus for me, and I finally realized that there had been no incest. None at all. I told Diane I thought everyone in the group was only interested in helping me solve my problems because they were working so hard on trying to solve their own.”

“When did you last see Diane?” I asked, although I already knew what her answer would be from the information in front of me.

“The Tuesday before she died. I tell you, Hannah, when I heard about it on the news, I felt terrible, thinking that I might have been responsible.”

“Responsible? Why on earth?”

“They said a fall from the balcony, so naturally I thought …”

“Suicide?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why suicide?”

“I can’t tell you for sure. It’s just a feeling I had. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her that I’d come to the conclusion that I hadn’t been abused at all. I had expected an argument, but she just sat there quietly, as if I weren’t even there. Then she ended my session twenty minutes early and said she wouldn’t even charge me for it.”

“How odd.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I have to say that you seem fine now. Very confident.”