What Looks Like Crazy (5 page)

“Take your time with this guy, okay?” I told Mona after a moment. “It has only been a year since Mr. Moneybags died. I mean, Henry.” I checked my wristwatch. I still had an hour to kill before my next patient. I could catch up on my paperwork. I could look through the professional journals piling up on my desk. I could take a nap.

“Oh, before I forget,” Mona said. “Don't make plans for Saturday. Francois is going to meet us at the salon at ten a.m. for your makeover.”

Francois was Mona's hairdresser and all-around beauty consultant. “I can't afford Francois!”

“It's not going to cost you anything. He owes me. Who do you think helped him get his start when his name was just plain old Frank and he didn't know a word of French?”

I went into my office, sat at my desk, and counted the pens in my coffee mug. Ten of them. That calmed me somewhat. It lasted until I reminded myself that I would see Jay in three days. I started doing multiplication tables in my head.

Our initial court appearance had been brief, and I had avoided looking at him. I'd felt, after four months and no word, that it was time to file for a no-fault divorce and get on with my life. Even then, he hadn't called. I'd known he was stubborn and proud—he spent half his life living in a dormitory setting with other macho firefighters—but I had expected more from him. I had expected him to offer some sort of compromise—
anything
. But it didn't happen. In my opinion, being a cop or a firefighter is sort of like being in the Mafia. Once people join up, they seldom leave.

So I moved into Mad Ethel.

There had been no property to settle; Jay had contributed solely to our savings, and he'd bought the upscale loft before we'd married. I'd used what little money I had to pay off student loans and start my practice. I'd asked for nothing, and I'd insisted on having my name removed from Jay's assets. My attorney had promised to appear on my behalf at the final hearing, because I had no desire to listen to a judge formally pronounce Jay and me divorced.

I did not want to see Jay. I did not want to look into those intense blue eyes and be reminded of all the good times. I did not want to think about the great sex, about falling asleep in his arms and waking up to the sound of him setting a fresh cup of coffee on my night table. I had no desire to rub his nose in what he'd lost, because I'd lost out as well. Maybe it
was
my fault for letting those old fears creep into my life once more. I probably needed more therapy. So far I'd done a lousy job trying to analyze myself.

My private line rang, and I picked up. Thad was on the other end. “George Moss called me,” he said. “He told me what a terrible therapist you are.” Thad sounded amused.

“Yeah, well, George is a terrible patient,” I said, “so I guess that makes us even.” I told him how George had acted.

“You don't owe me an explanation, Kate. Let him find somebody else to abuse. Not that it's going to be easy for him. He's worn out his welcome with about half the therapists in this town.”

“I'll see how he acts the next time he comes in,” I said. I gave a sigh.

“You sound down. Bad day?”

“Mona thinks I need to go on Prozac.”

“Are you exercising?”

“Not exactly.”

“Isn't that what you'd recommend if a patient told you he or she was depressed?”

“Yeah.”

“I could put in a pool. We could swim together.”

I knew what Thad was capable of under water. “That's a little drastic,” I told him. “I'll force myself to start walking on a regular basis,” I promised.

“You need to let go of the past, Kate, and look to the future. I could play an important role in your future, you know.”

“We already tried that,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but I was immature and self-centered at the time. I'm a whole new man. I'm what you'd call sensitive.”

I almost laughed at the thought of Thad trying to pass himself off as Mr. Touchy Feely. “It's too soon for me,” I said.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. The only thing I ask is that you call first. You know, just in case I'm tied up? In case one of those religious people is at my front door. It's hard to get rid of them.”

“I understand completely,” I said.

 

I arrived home
to find my sculpture draped in a bed-sheet. I glanced across the street and saw Bitsy Stout peering at me through her window. I pulled the sheet off, went inside my house, and tossed Bitsy's sheet into the trash can.

I ate a piece of leftover chicken and took a walk. It was a start. Although it was still light outside, I could see families inside their houses, gathered at dining room tables. I passed a man in one yard, pitching a ball to his son.

I felt the familiar lump in my throat, and I was okay with it because it beat the hell out of sitting alone inside my house, which I had spent too many months doing. Granted, people had a right to grieve, but I was tired of grieving. I'd seen too many patients get comfortable in their grief; they wore it like an old sweater. Friends and family made excuses for them. Less was expected. I did not want to live like that.

Thad was right: I had to move on.

By the time I headed home, I'd made a decision. I was tired of feeling crummy about my ruined marriage and my life in general. I was ready to start living again. There was possibility and adventure and real joy out there, and I was ready to find it. It was not likely to knock on my front door, turn off my television, and drag me from the sofa.

I got so excited at the prospect of the new and adventuresome life that lay ahead that I started jogging. I hadn't jogged since college. I made it two blocks before I got a stitch in my side and became dizzy, but I ignored it. By the time I reached my front door, I was nauseous. Maybe I was overdoing it. Maybe I should ease slowly into my new life instead of jumping in with both feet and swimming toward it madly.

I unlocked my door, crossed the living room, and fell in a heap on my sofa. I reached for the remote control and turned to The Movie Channel because I could usually count on films to have happy endings.

 

On Friday, I
saw one of my patients out and returned to my desk to work on my progress chart. I had made a list of short-and long-term goals. I was going to start taking better care of myself. I was going to stop eating frozen dinners and takeout, and I was going to start preparing healthy meals so that I didn't clog my arteries with gunk. Next to my list of goals was my grocery list, all fresh vegetables. I would need to buy a vegetable steamer. I added it to my list. Maybe I'd become a vegetarian or a vegan. I'd go to dinner with friends and they would applaud my disciplined lifestyle when I turned up my nose at red meat.

I tried to imagine a life without steaks or burgers. What would I eat fries with?

I asked myself whether I was using my lists and charts as avoidance behavior so that I didn't have to think about seeing Jay. I began making a list of what signs to look for in avoidance behavior.

“Kate?”

I looked up and found Mona standing in the doorway. I hoped I wasn't going to have to hear about Liam, because I'd already learned more about him than I wanted to know. “I'm sort of busy,” I said.

Mona stepped inside and closed the door. “Alice Smithers is outside,” she said quietly. “She asked if you could possibly work her in this afternoon. She doesn't look so good, and her outfit is all wrong.”

I gave an inward sigh. I knew I had no choice but to see Alice. My next patient wasn't due in for half an hour.

That's the problem with being a psychologist. People are always expecting you to help them solve their problems, even when your own life has fallen into the toilet.

“Okay, send her in,” I said. I gathered up my lists and charts and stuffed them into my center drawer. I stood and greeted Alice. Behind her, Mona was making faces and pointing to Alice's clunky shoes. Indeed, they wouldn't have been my first choice. “Please sit down, Alice,” I said as Mona closed the door.

Alice sat on the sofa. “I'm so sorry to just barge in on you like this, Dr. Holly, but my situation is desperate.”

I took the chair beside her. “What has happened since I last saw you?”

“I've made a grave error. I was so worried about finding another job and trying to pay my bills on time that I decided to get a roommate.”

“That was quick,” I said.

“Her name is Liz Jones. She's a cocktail waitress. Last night was her first night, and she invited her boyfriend over. His name is Roy. I could tell he was a big loser the minute I laid eyes on him. They drank and played music all night. I don't think I got more than ten minutes' sleep. Not only that, they trashed my kitchen and raided my refrigerator.”

“Did you say anything to her?”

“Oh, no, I couldn't possibly.”

“I see.” Stupid me. I'd forgotten Alice preferred vats of boiling oil to confrontation.

“Besides, they were still in bed when I left.”

“Did you ask Liz for references before you agreed to let her move in?”

Alice looked down at her feet. Her face was red, and I could tell she was embarrassed, but I didn't know whether it was due to her circumstances or whether she'd just realized what bad taste she had in footwear.

“No,” she said. “I know it was a bad decision, Dr. Holly, but—”

“Kate,” I said.

Alice nodded and yanked several tissues from the box. “My life is such a mess.”

I nodded. If I had a dollar for each time I'd heard those words, I could afford to live next door to Mona. “How are things at work?”

Alice shrugged. “We've sort of called a truce while I look for another job. I sent out several resumes, but I haven't heard anything. It's too soon.” She removed her glasses and mopped fresh tears. “Boy, I really screwed up.”

“Sounds to me as though Liz, not to mention her boyfriend, is only adding more stress to your life, and that's the last thing you need,” I said. “You may have to ask her to leave. And tell her to take Roy with her,” I added.

Alice began wringing her hands. “I don't know. I was really counting on that money. She promised to have five hundred dollars for me on payday. That's half my mortgage payment.”

“You didn't ask for money up front?” I asked, trying to keep the amazement out of my voice.

She gave an enormous sigh. “No.”

I didn't know what to say. It was just unfathomable that Alice Smithers would take in a complete stranger without references or at least some kind of deposit.

“I know I did a stupid thing,” she said. “I know I'm going to have to push for the money and set ground rules, even if it kills me.”

“Most definitely,” I said, hoping we had made some progress.

 

On Saturday morning
Francois ushered us through the back door of his salon and led me to a chair. It was all very chic, with soothing spa colors. Francois wore black skintight denim with a loose-fitting white linen shirt. He picked through my hair and gave a dainty sniff. “Dees hair does not vork. Eeet is all vrong.”

I looked at Mona. “What did he say?”

Mona shrugged. “I have no idea. Cut out the gay Frenchman act, Frank. Speak English.”

“The hair sucks, babe,” he said, sounding more like a bartender in a cowboy bar.

“Can you do anything with it?” Mona asked.

“It can be salvaged, but she'll need a good cut, and I strongly recommend a new color.”

I looked from Mona to Frank. “You're going to dye my hair? I don't want you to dye my hair.” Frank gave me a hard look, threw up his hands, and stalked away.

Mona frowned. “Great! You just hurt his feelings.”

“I don't want him to dye my hair!” I repeated, knowing I sounded like a broken record. “I thought I was here to get a trim.”

“The man is a professional,” Mona said. “He knows his stuff.”

“He might know hair,” I whispered, “but he doesn't know squat about French. That's the worst French accent I've ever heard.”

We both looked toward Frank. He was sitting at the far end of the salon, arms crossed, chin hitched high. “What's he doing?” I asked.

“Pouting.” Mona hurried toward him. “Frank, Kate is so sorry she hurt your feelings. She is very confused and depressed right now, which is why she let herself go to begin with. Please forgive her.”

He sighed. Finally he stood and walked toward me. “Here's the deal,” he said. “Your hair is too long. It makes your face droop, and that adds age. I can cut it, add highlights, and take ten years off your face. It's your call.”