by C.G. Banks
Chapter 14: Talking It Out
Late that same afternoon Patsy flipped through the Yellow Pages until she got to the psychologists’ listings. She was surprised at how many there were and had absolutely no idea how to go about finding the right one. All she knew was that it must be a woman. Luckily, that decision seriously cut away at the list. She also wanted one not too far away but not too close either. She didn’t know anybody in her new neck of the woods and didn’t want to go on the board as an out-and-out loony right from the start. She had an area map in the glove compartment outside and grabbed her keys off the hook hanging by the side door and went to get it. She went around to the passenger side door and opened it, sliding into the seat as she popped the drawer, and started rummaging around in the junked compartment for the map. She found it after a moment (bent and creased like an old, yellowed newspaper) and was just getting ready to get out after shoving the rest of the stuff back in when something on the floorboard on the driver’s side caught her eye.
The butt of the Taurus .38 poked out enough that she could see the black pistol-grip handle. She kept it in a leather holster and she could see part of that too. She looked at it for a moment as if weighing some larger problem. Well, if she could see it anybody peering into her car could, and she didn’t want to court trouble. She felt she was doing enough of that already. She’d not touched it since placing it beneath the seat before beginning the move and didn’t want to now. But it was against the law to carry an unlicensed gun in an automobile and even though she’d known that from the start, not seeing it had kind of been like it not being there. However, there it sat in plain view. She placed the map in her lap and reached across to pick it up. It was heavier than she remembered, fully loaded with hollow-points, whatever those were. John had told her a lifetime ago that with a low caliber handgun you couldn’t always count on stopping power (whatever that was) so you had to stack the deck in your favor by juicing the power of the bullet. Supposedly, the hollow-points did just that though Patsy had no idea how or why. She’d shot the gun no more than five times less than a year ago at the back end of a baseball park right before dark and had hit nothing she’d aimed at. John had assured her her shooting “wasn’t that bad” and all it would take “was a little practice.” But that had been the end of it until this very day.
Now she picked it up and turned it over in her hand. It felt powerful, but in a bad way, disconcerting. Like knowing a terrible secret about a person you didn’t care that much for, knowing you could destroy them with a word. She placed it on the map and folded up the edges so no one would be the wiser. Then she got out of the car and went back inside. The telephone book was still open where she’d left it, her notebook eagerly awaiting names on its blank page. She set the map down on the table and the gun clunked against the wood. Now, that wouldn’t do. Here she was looking up shrinks’ numbers in a phone book with a pistol lying within easy reach. It didn’t feel right, and right now she was looking for solace. In whatever guise it might appear. She didn’t want to touch the gun again so she folded the map tighter and carried it over to the kitchen island and opened one of the drawers that was still largely empty. She slid it off into the drawer and brought the map back to the table. For the next forty-five minutes she poured over both documents, occasionally jotting information down in the notebook. Finally, she had eight names and addresses, none of them closer than five miles and none farther than ten. She felt it a good start, that she was actually doing something positive for herself now rather than uselessly (and dangerously, the quiet voice in her head warned) spinning her wheels. All she had to do was pick up the phone.
She looked up from her chair to the phone hanging dumb by the carport door. Three or four steps, then seven little numbers, and this whole project would be jump-started into action. That’s all it would take. She stared at the numbers on the notebook page. Eight numbers, eight names. All she had to do was…
“I know, I know, dammit, I know,” she hissed. She closed her eyes and lifted her right hand. She held out her forefinger and drove it down on the page, pressing hard, the nail biting into the tablet. Then she opened her eyes and looked down. Her forefinger was not on any name but she’d resolved to take the closest one and that one was clear enough: Deborah Skate. Her lottery winner was chosen. She smiled wryly down at the page, wondering how many patients Skate received in this manner. Regardless, it felt right because life itself had become much too much like a crapshoot, everything hinging on mere cheap coincidence. So be it, she thought. Fight fire with fire.
Strangely confident, she rose from the table and carried the notebook over to the phone. She briskly tapped in the numbers (afraid if she didn’t hurry she’d lose her nerve) and before another five minutes were up had set the initial appointment. In reality, she was surprised how easy it had gone, but after all, psychologists were not doctors so there was no need for referrals from family GPs. Still, it made her nervous, having stepped into this new course of action. Until this moment she’d almost believed she could explain or disavow the encounters she’d been having since moving into the new house. This new wrinkle nullified all that. Now she was actually acknowledging (and not only to herself) that things could be about to spin out of control. The phone call confirmed it.
She looked down at the information she’d written beside the woman’s name. Just a simple little date and time: next Thursday, 10 a.m.. Six days to go; six days in which to go crazy or sane enough to cancel the damn thing.
She figured to play it by ear and see what happened.