What Looks Like Crazy (4 page)

“She'll be the envy of her block,” Aunt Trixie said. “All your neighbors will want a sculpture like this.” She tested the concrete with the toe of her shoe. “They'll have to get their own, though, 'cause this sucker isn't going anywhere.”

The next morning,
I opened my front door and found Bitsy Stout studying my new sculpture, a perplexed frown on her face. Her gray hair was tightly wrapped around pink foam curlers.

“What is
that
?” She pointed.

“It is garden art,” I said.

I gave her my best smile. I prefer staying on Bitsy's good side, not only because her sermons have been known to scare large men but also because she makes the best sour cream crumb cake this side of heaven. It's an old family recipe, so secretive that it's written in a code not even the CIA can crack. The only way I can hope to get a taste is to suck up to Bitsy.

“It's a naked man and woman,” Bitsy announced.

I locked my door behind me. “You're right, Bitsy. It's Adam and Eve. You know, from the Bible?”

“You don't have to remind me about scripture, young lady. I read my Bible from cover to cover every year.” She leaned closer to the male figure. “And what is that thing sticking out right there?”

“A leaf?” I suggested innocently.

“That's no leaf!”

“Are you sure? It looks like a leaf to me.”

She rose to her full height, which was no more than five foot one or two inches. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Kate Holly, for displaying nudity in your front yard. Think of the children!”

I wanted to tell Bitsy that children avoided our street because of her, but I was not willing to risk the consequences of making the woman angry. “It's religious art, Bitsy. Think Michelangelo's
David
.”

“Religious art, my foot!” she said. “This is just another form of the pornography that is corrupting our world. It has to go.”

“It can't go. It's set in concrete.” I made a production of checking my wristwatch. “Oh, boy, I'm running late! Can we discuss this later over sour cream crumb cake and coffee?” I hurried to my car, climbed in, and made a quick getaway.

I arrived at work and found Mona in the small kitchenette in my suite of offices. Her silk dress was the color of cocoa, with tiny polka dots. I tried to guess the name of the designer. My outfit was a Jaclyn Smith, right off the Kmart rack. Jaclyn Smith's fashions are touted as “trendy and affordable.”

“Coffee is almost done,” she said. “You want a cup?”

I nodded and sat at the table. While Mona poured, I told her of Jay's intent to attend the Junk Sisters' grand opening. “No way am I going,” I said, shaking my head.

Mona carried the cups to the table. “You
have
to go,” she said. “If you don't, he'll know it's because of him.”

“Why would I put myself through that?” I asked.

“I'll give you several good reasons. Jay broke your heart. It's payback time. Time to give him one last look at what he's giving up,” she added. “We'll rub his nose in it, bring him to his knees, and watch him weep. By the time we're done, he'll rue the day he ever laid eyes on you!”

I looked at her. “Wouldn't it be easier to just tie him to the rear bumper of my car and drag his body through the streets?”

“Not good enough,” Mona said. She eyed me critically. “Boy, have we got our work cut out for us. You'll need a complete makeover. You'll need a new dress. You'll need a manicure.”

I heard the door open in the reception room down the hall. I glanced at the clock on the wall.

“That's probably Screwy Lewey,” Mona said. “He's got a nine o'clock appointment.”

I was too distracted to remind Mona that it was rude to talk about patients that way. I swallowed the rest of my coffee and hurried down the hall, where I found Mr. Lewey pacing.

He was in his late fifties, owned an auto parts supply store, and suffered from claustrophobia. My therapeutic intervention had included talk therapy, relaxation, and desensitization. My goal was to get him on an elevator, but just thinking about it often sent him into a panic attack.

“Good morning, Mr. Lewey,” I said, leading him into my office. I motioned toward the sofa, and he perched on the edge, poised to bolt.

“I'm a little anxious,” he said.

I took the chair next to him. I noted his shallow breathing. “What's going on?”

“I wanted to take the elevator. I stood there for twenty minutes trying to work up the courage to get on, but I couldn't. I ran up the stairwell as fast as I could. By the time I got to the fourth floor, I could barely breathe, and I was dizzy, and my heart was pounding.”

“Running up four flights of stairs would leave most people breathless and light-headed,” I said.

He met my gaze. “Oh. So maybe I wasn't really on the verge of a panic attack?”

“Maybe it was just your body warning you to slow down.” I saw him relax. “Have you been listening to the relaxation tape we made?”

“I missed a couple of days because we had company. My wife's brother visited. I don't want him to know about my, um—” He paused. “My problem.”

I nodded sympathetically. People who suffered from panic attacks and phobias felt a lot of shame. They went to extremes to hide their fear. I knew from experience, because after my dad died, I'd had my share of them. It had taken three years of therapy to get them under control by learning to focus on something else until they passed. In my case, it was multiplication tables.

“What might your brother-in-law think?” I asked.

“He'd think I was nuts. Bad enough my wife has to know.”

“You're close to your brother-in-law, aren't you?”

Mr. Lewey nodded. “I've known Ben for some thirty years now.”

“What if the tables were turned? What if Ben had your problem? Would you think he was nuts?”

“Oh, no. I'd want to help if I could.”

“But you're depriving him of the right to be helpful and understanding to you.”

Silence.

“Suppose you had taken the elevator,” I said. “And suppose it was full of people, and you had a panic attack. What's the worst that could happen?”

“I could die.”

“Okay, what's the second-worst thing that could happen?” I asked, wondering if I'd ever be able to convince him he wouldn't die.

“If I had a panic attack, I would humiliate myself.”

“How could you reduce your stress to lessen the odds of having one?” I asked.

He just looked at me.

“We've discussed this many times, Mr. Lewey.”

“You mean where I get on the elevator and
tell
everybody what a nutcase I am? I'd rather jump from the top of this building.”

I thought
I'd
go into a panic attack just hearing those words. “I have a new rule that forbids patients from jumping off the roof,” I said, “so you'll have to find a different way to handle your stress. What if you got on the elevator and stood at the front, where you could simply push a button and stop it on the next floor?”

“I might get dizzy and not be able to see the buttons.”

“Perhaps you could ask the person next to you to push the button.”

“They'd want an explanation.”

“Not necessarily.”

He sat there quietly, and I could almost see the gears turning in his mind. I could also see that he was becoming anxious just thinking about it. “What is your level of anxiety?” I asked him.

He swallowed. “About a seven,” he managed.

“Okay, close your eyes and visualize a place you find calming.” We worked for several minutes as Mr. Lewey focused on sitting on a deserted beach, watching a sunrise and smelling the briny air.

In his mind, through hypnosis and guided imagery, Mr. Lewey had ridden the elevator many times. We spent the remainder of his session practicing. He was noticeably relaxed by the time we finished.

“I really want to be able to get on that elevator,” he said.

“You will,” I promised.

 

I barely had
time for another cup of coffee before Martha and Jack Hix arrived for couples therapy. As a therapist, I'm not supposed to take sides, but if I'd been Jack Hix, I would have hit the road a long time ago. Martha was a nag of the worst kind.

Spouses who live with nagging often learn to tune it out, which is what Jack Hix had been doing. That only made Martha's badgering louder and sometimes, as in the Hixes' case, verbally abusive.

Jack Hix had become adept at ignoring his wife. The guy had perfected visual imagery. When Martha walked into the room, Jack surrounded himself with a force field that would have blocked Darth Vader. It also blocked the sound of Martha's voice.

There are times in a person's life when he has to hear what the other person is saying, even if that person is a bona fide nag. Like in the event that your wife is stung by a bee and has an allergic reaction. Which is precisely what happened to Martha one day while she was pruning her rosebushes.

Jack's so-called force field had prevented him from noticing that Martha had swollen to twice her normal size and couldn't breathe. He'd been channel surfing in front of a blaring TV when the EMS crew showed up.

In a fit of rage, Martha had thrown a candy dish at him, and Jack had ended up with six stitches in his forehead.

Therapists refer to these people as high-risk couples because, if one of them loses it in a session, somebody can get hurt. You have to set ground rules with these couples from the start so that they'll respond when you call a time-out.

“How'd it go this week?” I asked.

“I did exactly what I was supposed to,” Jack said. “When Martha spoke to me, I listened, and I repeated her words verbatim so that she would know I'd heard her.”

I looked at Martha. “Did you feel validated?”

“Yes. I did what you said to do. I told Jack what I needed from him without nagging or belittling. We had to take a couple of time-outs when one conversation became heated. I went into my sewing room until I calmed down.”

“Excellent!” I said. There'd been a time when I did not think the Hixes capable of saving their marriage, but I had seen a number of couples change their behaviors so that they could live in harmony. I liked to think I played an important part.

But, then, what the hell did I know? My own marriage had hit the skids after only a few short years.

 

Over lunch, Mona
told me about her date with the twenty-four-year-old medical student, Liam. He was very mature for his age, she claimed.

“I've decided not to sleep with him,” Mona said.

I felt my eyebrows arch high on my forehead. “Ever?”

“He has to prove his intentions so I don't have to worry that he's just out for my money.”

“You've only had one date with him, for Pete's sake. Isn't it a little early for him to start slaying dragons?”

“Have you ever met a man, and you instantly
knew
he was
the one
?” she asked dreamily. “I'm talking once-in-a-lifetime, love-of-your-life kind of stuff.”

I felt a giant fist squeeze my gut. I knew exactly the kind of love she was talking about. I'd fallen hard and fast for Jay Rush. It was the only reason I could think of that had made me ignore the warning bells when I agreed to go out with him.

I had finished graduate school and was working at a county mental health center when I walked into an alehouse one night with several coworkers and spotted Jay Rush. I had not seen him since my father's funeral, where I overheard one woman tell another how good-looking fifteen-year-old Jay Rush was turning out. He had bedroom eyes, she said. With those eyes, all he'd have to do was look at a girl to get her pregnant, the woman had added.

I'd been ten years old at the time. I made a point not to even look in Jay's direction.

I found it hard not to stare at him that night at Paddy's Alehouse. He was surrounded by firemen who were toasting his new promotion to captain. As though feeling my eyes on him, he turned, and our gazes connected. He put down his drink, rounded the bar, and gave a low whistle.

“Little Katie Holly,” he said.

I shrugged. “I'm all grown-up now.”

He'd studied me closely. “So, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

Now, even after six months of being alone, I had no desire to meet anyone. Deep down, I knew they'd all fall short. But I could not love a man as much as I loved Jay and live with the constant fear of losing him. I've learned that everyone has a fear of something. Mine was loss. Better to get a cat. Cats are almost indestructible, and they never notice when you get bloated once a month.