What Looks Like Crazy (2 page)

Bubba went on. “Uh-oh, Dr. Kate is not playing nice today. She is being rude. She does not appreciate that her friend Mona could be out having a good time instead of answering Dr. Kate's phone and putting up with her nutso patients.”

I gave a sigh. Mona was not only mouthy but as politically incorrect as they came. I had told her time and again not to refer to my patients as nutso, wacko, or screwball, and not to call the reception area the Asylum Holding Room. Mona always said it was done in fun and, besides, she'd had enough therapy in her life that she'd earned the right to tell it like it was.

What could I do? Mona answered my phone for free. I'd tried to return the favor by teaching her to use a computer, and Mona was now able to shop online.

“Okay, Bubba,” I said, taking him from Mona. “Tell Mona that Dr. Kate is sorry for being grumpy. Tell her that Dr. Kate is just stressed-out because she doesn't like having patients who try to jump off buildings. And Dr. Kate does
not
enjoy talking about men's penises, because she hasn't had sex in a very long time.”

“Excuse me?” A voice sounded from the doorway. I looked around Bubba and found a mousy woman with brown hair and clunky eyeglasses standing at the door. I was certain she'd heard every word.

“Who are you?” Mona blurted.

“Alice Smithers,” she said. She pushed her glasses high on her nose and looked from Mona to Bubba to me. “I have a one o'clock appointment to see Dr. Holly. I'm early. Am I in the wrong office?”

I wanted to put Bubba over my face and smother myself. Instead I raised my hand. “I'm Dr. Holly.”

 

I had almost
recovered from my embarrassment by the time Mona buzzed me to say that Alice Smithers had filled out her preliminary paperwork. As I invited Alice inside my office, I noted that she looked anxious. I didn't know whether it was a simple case of new-patient jitters, or whether she was second-guessing her choice of therapists, or both.

She sat on the sofa and clasped her hands together so tightly that her knuckles turned white. I attached her information sheet to my clipboard and took the chair beside her. I smiled and made eye contact, which wasn't easy considering that she knew how long it had been since I'd been laid.

Alice's gaze darted about the room before landing on my coffee table, where I kept a short stack of magazines, a bowl of potpourri-scented seashells, and a box of tissues.

“I'm Kate,” I said, offering my hand. “Is it okay if I call you Alice?” She gave a quick nod, unleashed her right hand from the left, and shook mine.

A lot of therapists spend the initial visit getting a patient's complete history, beginning from the moment they slipped from their mother's womb. I don't do that. I have a short attention span, and my eyes glaze over by the time they reach third grade.

I
do
like to know whether patients are taking psychiatric medication, though. There are certain drugs that are attention-grabbers, and if a patient is taking one of them, I can pretty much bet I'm dealing with a psychotic. I want to make sure those puppies are currently on their meds.

Fortunately Alice Smithers did not look psychotic. She looked scared.

“So, how can I help you today?” I asked, noting her interest in my latest copy of
National Geographic
. I'd started subscribing to
National Geographic
and
Smithsonian
magazine because I was treating a couple of gifted children. Those kids keep you on your intellectual toes.

“I never received this issue,” Alice said sadly, “and I'm almost sure I didn't receive the one before it. I can't imagine why I'm not getting my copies. I'm paid up for the year. I should probably call and complain.” She sighed. “I wish people would do what they're supposed to.”

“I'll be happy to lend you my copy,” I said.

She shook her head. “I prefer not to borrow things from people. I worry that I'll forget to return them. I used to have a good memory. Now I have to make notes to remind myself.” She looked embarrassed.

“I'm forgetful, too,” I said, trying to put her at ease. “That's why I stopped my Honor Snacks service. I kept forgetting to pay for them.”

“And you ate the snacks anyway?” She looked aghast. “Oh, I could never do that.”

“I always settled up with the company at the end of the month,” I said defensively. I decided I'd dropped another notch in Alice's opinion. Finally I glanced down at her file, and saw that she was twenty-eight years old, single, a bookkeeper for an office supply store. No medication was listed. “How can I help you, Alice?”

She hesitated. “I don't know where to start. I saw your advertisement in the Yellow Pages, and the words ‘caring and compassionate,' and I knew you'd understand.”

Mona had added those two words to my ad, thinking it would draw more patients. Alice was the first to mention it.

“It's about my job,” she said. “The absolute worst thing in the world has happened.” She covered her face with her hands. “I am so embarrassed.”

“Everything you say here stays in here,” I said. I realized I sounded like that advertisement on TV where potential visitors were assured what they did in Vegas stayed in Vegas. Which sort of made me want to go to Vegas and find out what was going on in the town.

Alice took a deep breath. “Last Friday, my boss said he was going to have to let me go because his wife had found discrepancies in the accounts, and money was missing.”

I didn't bother to hide my surprise. I could not imagine how a woman like Alice, someone who would lose sleep over a few missing quarters for Honor Snacks, had ended up in such a situation. But, then, people surprised me all the time. “How did you respond?”

“I told his wife I'd never stolen anything in my life.” Alice choked back a sob. “Which is the absolute truth,” she added.

She took off her glasses and reached for a tissue. I noted right away that, beneath the glasses and the tears, there was a very pretty woman who was, either consciously or unconsciously, doing a good job of hiding it. “I'm sorry you're upset, Alice,” I said gently. “Why do you think his wife made those accusations?”

“She—her name is Ellen—wants me gone,” Alice said. “I was hired to fill her position when she left to have a baby a year ago. Now she obviously wants her job back. She's been coming in the past few weeks to answer the phone, and she watches every move I make.” Alice sniffed and mopped tears. “If she comes back to work, they won't have to pay me. I think they're having financial problems.”

“Is money missing?” I asked.

Alice shrugged. “I'm very conscientious. But Ellen took the accounts and ledgers from me, so I have no way of going back and checking for possible errors. She took my office keys.”

“So your boss—”

“His name is Allen. Allen and Ellen Fender of Fender Office Supply,” she added.

“Does Allen think you took the money?”

“I don't know. He wouldn't even look at me when he fired me. I think he's ashamed because his wife bullies him. Also, I think he's afraid I'll tell Ellen about his affair.”

This was getting interesting. “Oh, so there's another woman in the mix?”

“I accidentally saw them together in Allen's office.”

“Did you tell Ellen?”

“It's not my place.”

“Did the Fenders threaten to press charges against you when they accused you of taking money?”

“Ellen said she wouldn't call the police if I left quietly. I told her I needed time to find another job.”

I could see the anguish in her eyes. “Do you really think you can continue to work there after what you've been accused of?” I asked. “You must be furious.” But Alice didn't appear furious. She looked like a whipped puppy.

“I don't get angry.”

“Yes, but if you didn't take the money—”

“Of course I didn't take it!”

“Then you've been wrongly accused,” I said. “You probably need to talk to an attorney.”

“I can't afford to hire an attorney, and I don't think they can either. I suppose I should update my resume and send it out as quickly as I can. I can't believe they're treating me like this,” she said. “I should have my head examined.” Alice suddenly laughed. The laugh became a giggle. “I
am
having my head examined, aren't I?” she asked.

As surprised as I was to see the laughter, I joined in. People have no idea how genuinely healthy it is to laugh. I could see the tense lines softening in Alice's face. “Do you have trouble expressing anger?” I asked.

The smile faded. “I don't like confrontation. I hate confrontation. I'd rather be boiled in oil. I'd rather have bamboo shoved up my fingernails. I'd rather—”

“I think I get it,” I said. “Most people don't like confrontation, but that doesn't mean you have to roll over and play dead. What the Fenders are doing to you seems very unfair.” My own job suddenly felt less crappy.

Alice stared at me for a full minute, then put on her glasses and straightened her back. “You're absolutely right,” she said. “I'm not going to make it easy for them. I'm going to tell them I do not appreciate being wrongly accused, and they're going to have to give me two weeks' notice. Plus I expect a good job reference. If they don't agree to that, then I'm going to threaten legal action.”

The change in her was remarkable. Dared I hope that the woman had a streak of spunk in her? “Good for you, Alice!”

“Thank you for helping me, Dr. Holly.”

“You're very welcome. And call me Kate.”

Alice reached for her purse and stood up. She started for the door. “You haven't used all your session,” I said.

“I'm done,” she announced. She opened the door and walked from the room, pausing long enough to write a check and hand it to Mona.

Mona and I both watched her leave. “Damn,” Mona said. “Is it me, or should we call the fashion police and have that woman thrown behind bars?”

“Not everybody can be as beautiful as we are,” I said.

Mona picked up the appointment book. “When is she supposed to come back?”

“She's not,” I said. “I seem to have cured her in one session.”

Mona pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Not even Dr. Phil can cure patients in one session. He always tells the people on his show to get follow-up counseling.”

Mona was a huge Dr. Phil fan and thought I should have my own show called
Dr. Kate
. “I guess I got lucky, huh?” I said.

“You can't build a successful practice like that, Kate. You need to spend more time with your patients. Milk it, you know?”

I didn't get a chance to respond. George Moss, another of Thad's rejects, threw open the door just then and stormed in. His bald head was slick with perspiration. The hair that remained stood in white tufts.

“You screwed up, lady,” he said, pointing at me. “I came here asking for help. But you failed, and now my wife has left me.” He pulled a vial from his pocket and shoved it in my face. “You see this? Do you know what this is?”

Mona and I exchanged looks. “A urine sample?” I said.

“Wrong. It's nitroglycerin. You make one false move, and you and your receptionist can kiss your sweet asses good-bye.”

I stood quietly
and listened to George Moss rant and rave and threaten to blow Mona and me to smithereens with his vial of insulin. As an advanced diabetic, George was forced to monitor himself several times a day and carry his insulin and syringe with him.

Thad had been kind enough to warn me beforehand about Mr. Moss's hysterics, and I'd agreed to see the man anyway. But Thad had not warned me that George, a man well into his seventies, insisted on wearing his shirt partially unbuttoned so the world could see his gold chains and medallion. The world was also forced to endure George's bony chest, dotted with age spots and sprigs of gray and white hair. Bad enough that I had to deal with a histrionic, but I was always tempted to raise George's rate every time I caught sight of that bare chest.

“Mr. Moss?” I said, trying to make myself heard above his tirade. “You are going to have to calm down.”

“Calm down?” he shouted. “Did you say calm down? After you've wrecked my life?” he demanded.

I knew George was perfectly capable of wrecking his life without my help. The man lived in constant crisis; like Mary's little lamb, drama followed George wherever he went.

“You are the worst therapist I've ever had,” George said.

I nodded in agreement, even though I was almost certain there were worse therapists than me. Then again, maybe George was right. Maybe I should have been a math teacher like my grandfather. If a math teacher had a bad day, he could simply erase his blackboard, grab his grade book, and go home. A bad day for me could have serious consequences.

“Mr. Moss, please lower your voice,” I said calmly. “I know you're upset, but I told you last time that I would not agree to hold a session with you if you threatened to blow up my office.”

I looked at Mona, who was filing a fingernail. “Mona, Mr. Moss isn't feeling well today,” I said. “Would you please reschedule him for next week?”

She nodded and began flipping through pages of the appointment book. “How about next Tuesday at three o'clock, Mr. Moss?” she said.

George's jaw dropped open in surprise. “You're kicking me out?” he said, taking a step closer to me. “You can't do that! This is an emergency!”

“Oops, three won't work,” Mona said. “How about ten a.m.?”

George Moss looked from me to Mona and back at me. “I'll have your license for this. I'll call the American Psychological Association and report you.”

“Take it or leave it, George,” I said.

He exhaled, and all the air seemed to leave him. He nodded.

 

My house and
office were both located in Perimeter Dunwoody, an area northeast of metro Atlanta. It hadn't been easy finding an affordable rental close to work. I hadn't taken that into consideration when I'd thrown my suitcases into my Toyota Camry and squealed from the parking lot of the loft I'd shared with Jay. I'd ended up at Mona's, where I spent three weeks drinking wine, crying on her shoulder, and watching Popeye cartoons on DVD. Mr. Moneybags had not only left Mona his mansion, his limo, and a gazillion dollars, but he'd also willed her his entire Popeye cartoon collection. Despite my Ph.D. in clinical psychology, I had yet to figure out why Popeye and Brutus were constantly coming to fisticuffs over a woman like Olive Oyl.

Unlike Mona's mall-sized home, my rental house was old and small. The front stoop sagged like a tired washwoman. The heating and air were unpredictable, as was the water heater, which meant that on a good day my hot shower lasted almost five minutes. Then, when I least expected it, the shower would run hot for fifteen minutes. Fuses blew, the ceiling leaked, and the refrigerator was on its last leg. Nothing was for certain; the house seemed to have mood swings. I'd named it “Mad Ethel.” I didn't complain to my landlord for fear he'd actually make repairs and raise the rent.

As I climbed from my car, I noticed my neighbor across the street peering out her window. Bitsy Stout was a member of the Pilgrim's Praise and Abundance Church, located a few miles from our neighborhood in what used to be a China Buffet. Her minister obviously preached hell and brimstone. Bitsy felt her job was to scare small children into going to Sunday school, by telling them what God did to Sodom and Gomorrah and that they'd better clean up their act or else. That way, Bitsy didn't have to deal with trick-or-treaters or Christmas carolers coming to her house. Kids rode their bicycles two miles out of the way to keep from passing her home and getting a lesson on Hellfire 101.

I'd never believed in a wrathful God. There was enough scary stuff going on in the world, with my family, and in the office.

I stepped inside my front door. My mother and my aunt had decorated my house. They were junk dealers who scoured garage sales, landfills, and flea markets for their finds. My earliest memory was of them grasping my hands and lowering me into a Dumpster for a broken table lamp. They repaired and painted the items in fiesta colors, added stripes and polka dots, and sold them out of their driveway. Which was why my house looked like a flea market had thrown up in the living room.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Its wooden cabinets were a dull brown, the wallpaper a 1970s pattern of ivy and latticework. The window looked out over a shaded, fenced-in yard in which the previous tenants had left a picnic table and where I sometimes drank my morning coffee and read the newspaper.

I looked inside my refrigerator. It held the bare necessities: a twelve-pack of diet soda, a pound of coffee, a bottle of soy sauce, and a single can of beer. My meals consisted of frozen dinners, canned soup, and takeout. I checked the freezer and saw that I was down to my last Salisbury steak dinner, which was about as appetizing as wood chips. I decided to wait. Later, when I got really hungry, it would sound more appealing.

I went upstairs to change. The only good thing that had come from my separation was all the weight I'd lost. In five and a half months, I'd dropped from a size ten to a size six. Before that time I'd dieted like every other red-blooded American woman. The bad news about losing weight was that, despite my having my clothes altered, they still hung on me. I could not afford a whole new wardrobe, but from time to time I got lucky and found something on a clearance rack. Had I been a size three, Mona would gladly have given me her seconds, and I would be wearing Gucci, Donna Karan, and Versace.

I slipped off my skirt and pulled on a pair of shorts. The elastic waist kept them from falling off. I caught my reflection in the mirror. Weekends at Mona's pool had bronzed and toned me, but my drab, dark brown hair needed something. Mona had a long list of suggestions for it, but I couldn't imagine sitting in a salon that long. I put it in a ponytail so I wouldn't have to think about it.

I'd barely made it downstairs when I heard the rumble of a truck. I knew that sound. My mother and my aunt had purchased a bright red 2007 Navistar CXT monster pickup truck to haul their junk. It weighed six tons and was twenty-one feet long. You could haul a lot of stuff in a truck like that—a small town, if you wanted.

The doorbell rang. I peered through the peephole and found my platinum-haired mother and my aunt standing on the other side of the door. They were identical twins, Dixie and Trixie, who still dressed alike, even in their midfifties. They wore their signature red overalls, the words “Junk Sisters” embroidered over their left breasts. They were exhausting. They were reminders that my family tree had shaky branches, that my gene pool was probably unfit for swimming. I considered slipping out the back door.

My mother raised a red and white bucket of fried chicken up to the peephole. “Open the door, Kate,” she said. “We know you're in there.”

My taste buds did a happy dance at the thought of fried chicken. But was it worth the high cost of dealing with two women who thought they looked good wearing turquoise eye shadow and two-inch fake lashes? You could sweep an entire house with those lashes. As if acting on cue, my stomach grumbled and growled.

I opened the door.

“We heard you had a bad day,” my mother said as she and Aunt Trixie stepped inside, plucking their sunglasses from their eyes and looking me over carefully, as though checking for injuries.

“Mona called you?” I asked.

“Now, don't get mad,” Aunt Trixie said. “She was concerned about you and felt bad that she'd already made plans for the evening.”

Mona's plans included a twenty-four-year-old medical student. They'd met at a party. They'd been standing across the room from each other when their gazes met and locked. It was love at first sight, Mona claimed.

“I only have one piece of advice,” my mother said.

I knew my mother had more advice than I would ever need. “What is it?”

“You can't save the world.”

“She's right, honey,” Aunt Trixie said.

I nodded and followed them to the kitchen. My mother was already looking through the cabinets. “Where are your dishes?”

“I haven't gotten around to buying any. I mostly use paper plates.” I pointed to another cabinet.

“Trixie and I could have gotten you a good deal on dishes if we'd known,” she said.

Aunt Trixie nodded. “We could have picked them up for next to nothing at an estate sale yesterday.”

I shrugged. “I don't do much cooking.”

“That's why you're so thin,” my mother said. “I hope you're not getting one of those eating disorders.” She shook her head sadly. “Mona said you'd let yourself go.”

“Mona said that?” I asked, feeling a bit hurt.

“She didn't mean it in a bad way,” Trixie said quickly. “She's worried that you're under too much stress. She says you almost never get manicures anymore.”

“You don't have any flatware either?” my mother asked, opening and closing drawers until she came to one that contained plastic knives and forks and hundreds of tiny salt and pepper packets. “I'll bet you don't even have pots and pans. Trixie, make a list.”

My aunt pulled a pad of paper from her purse and started writing. “It's no big deal, Mom,” I said.

Aunt Trixie waved off my remark. “Let us take care of it,” she said. “We're professionals.”

I'd learned long ago not to argue with my mother and aunt, because they would do exactly what they wanted. Before long I'd have more cookware than most restaurants. I grabbed three diet sodas from the refrigerator and carried them to the table. “Thanks for getting the chicken,” I said once we'd sat down and filled our plates.

Aunt Trixie patted my hand and winked. Unlike my mother, who worried and nagged me about every little thing, Aunt Trixie was the peacemaker, the one who wanted to make everything okay.

“I wish you'd been a teacher like your grandfather,” my mother said. “It can't be good for you, working around all those crazy people.”

I looked at her. This, coming from a woman who'd once delivered my forgotten sack lunch to school wearing oversized Bugs Bunny bedroom slippers and pink foam hair curlers. She had almost caused me to drop out in second grade. “They're not crazy, Mom,” I said. “They have problems, just like anybody else.”

“Well, I don't think it's healthy, listening to people's troubles all day. I would get depressed. In fact, you do look a little depressed. What do you think, Trixie?”

My aunt put her hand to my forehead as though checking to see whether I had a fever.

“Would you two cut it out?” I said. “I'm not depressed, okay?” I decided it was time to change the subject. “How is the move coming along?”

My mother smiled proudly. “Great. You should see the new showroom. The wood floors are beautiful. Tell her, Trixie.”

“They're beautiful.”

“I can't wait to see it,” I said. My mother and aunt had become celebrity junk dealers after a reporter from the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
interviewed them. That had led to an article in
Southern Living
and a segment on Home & Garden Television. Suddenly people were coming from all over to buy their junk.

They'd learned to weld, and that had resulted in a bunch of whatchamacallits and thingamajigs finding homes in wall art and sculptures. High-priced decorators began calling for accent pieces, and the Junk Sisters, as my mother and aunt were referred to, designed tags and renamed the items “Junque.”

They were forced to hire employees in order to meet demand, but they quickly ran out of garage space. Finally they purchased a building in an area known as Little Five Points, a bohemian-style neighborhood likened to New York's Greenwich Village and New Orleans' French Quarter, and they'd been hauling Junque over there for weeks in preparation for their grand opening.

“Have many people responded to the invitations?” I asked. Mona and I had spent a full day helping them write out hundreds of invitations to the event.

“We're going to have quite a crowd, even for a Sunday night,” my mother said.