by Noel Hynd
“…in a non-air-conditioned seven-year-old orange Volvo with a leaky radiator in August of 2000,” Melissa said, expanding. “No wonder I stayed. Who would drive back after that?” Rebecca smiled. She was starting to like Melissa.
“I don’t care if I do or do not look like I’m from here,” Melissa continued. “I take it as a compliment either way.” She paused. “I’m from Milwaukee. Jeffrey Dahmer’s home town. Hack-and-Sack on Lake Michigan.” Again, Rebecca grinned.
“What does your roommate do?” she asked.
“June? She goes the model-and-actress routine,” Melissa said with a trace of boredom. “She gets her share of work. Mostly porn. She’s got big natural hooters so she does well. She sleeps around a bit to get movie work, blows a lot of Maryjane and gets in fights with people. She’s actually a miserable human being, which is what I like about her.”
“Sounds like you don’t get along.”
“Actually we do. But we each know exactly what’s wrong with the other. Aside from the fact that she’s a horrible human being, she’s actually very nice.”
Rebecca nodded knowingly. It almost sounded like a marriage. “June used to be one of my Am Civ students,” Melissa said. Her eyes traveled the kitchen. “You know,” she said, changing the subject, “this house has a wonderful aura to it. I’ve never been in here before.”
“Think so?”
“I sure do. Don’t you? You bought it?”
“I just… Heck, I’ve just been transplanted. Everything takes some getting used to,” Rebecca answered.
“Sure,” Melissa said with another sisterly smile. “Of course it does.” She finished her tea and a few more minutes passed in friendly conversation.
“Look,” Melissa finally said, “I’m going to run along. If you ever want to talk, I’m usually around.”
“I’d call first.”
“It’s F0RD,” she said. “Same as June’s Mustang. Count me as a friend now.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said.
“Look, I’ll tell you what. Let’s make it more precise. Tell me what’s a good time for you, and I’ll give you an informal tour of the area. An ‘insider’s tour,’ since I’ve been here for a while.”
“I’d like that,” Rebecca said.
“So would I. How about tomorrow morning? Eleven a.m.,” Melissa suggested.
“Know what? I’ll meet you here where I met you today. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful, Melissa. And my friends call me ‘Becca.’”
Melissa reached over and offered a handshake. Rebecca reciprocated. Melissa’s right hand was cool. It also bore four rings, previously unnoticed. And her wrist was seriously a-bangle with a set of pastel bracelets.
“Be good, honey,” Melissa Ford said. “Eleven A.M. tomorrow.”
Rebecca stood and walked her friend to the door. As she left, Melissa gave her a tiny wave and a thousand kilowatt smile.
Rebecca watched her go then went back to unloading the paint from its bags. Even the turret room didn’t seem so annoying anymore. Rebecca had a great feeling at having so easily made a new friend.
Chapter 8
Dr. Henry Einhorn’s place of business was in an office in a medical building across the street from an apartment complex in Century City. It was in a high-rise white building overlooking the former back lot Twentieth Century Fox. And like every other doctor’s office that Rebecca had ever visited, Dr. Einhorn’s office was on the ground floor. Rebecca visited Einhom that same afternoon.
Rebecca rang the doorbell. She was met by a young man who introduced himself as Delbert Morninglori, the doctor’s assistant.
“You can call me Del,” the young man said. “As in Del Shannon. Ever heard of Del Shannon?”
“Only courtesy of oldies radio stations,” Rebecca said to him.
“Well, that’s good enough.” Del, as he called himself, whistled a few bars of “Runaway” and invited her into the office.
Del was politely mannered, soft-spoken and had a gold earring the size of a quarter. He wore a black T-shirt, a beige buckskin vest, and harem pants. Nonetheless, Del was charming and efficient. He led Rebecca into a large apartment, which didn’t seem much like an office. And with reason.
“Up until just recently this was Dr. Einhorn’s home exclusively,” Del Morninglori continued. “Then the doctor out grew his office across the hall. The neighboring apartment became available, so Dr. Einhorn obtained it, and we broke through the wall.”
Morninglori indicated an area where the junction had been made. They were now in an area that seemed to be half a study, half a waiting room.
“Did he?” Rebecca asked. She took a seat in a comfortable armchair.
“Yes, he did,” Delbert said, taking the question literally. “So now, for better or worse, work and home can be the same.”
“Convenient,” Rebecca said. She began to wonder if Delbert was live-in help.
Delbert grinned. “I know what you’re thinking,” Delbert said. “And shame on you.”
“What am I thinking?” Rebecca asked.
“You’re wondering if I live here, too. I don’t,” he said. “I have my own place around the corner. Right down the street from Beverly Hills High School.”
“Convenient,” said Rebecca.
“And do you know what else is convenient?” Delbert asked.
“What?”
Delbert indicated a red hanging lamp near a pair of sliding doors that led to a porch. The lamp was on a ceiling mount and suspended from three feet of chain.
“At the first hint of an aftershock or a new quake,” Delbert said, “that lamp starts swinging wildly. Gives us all warning. It’s sort of a pendulum, quake monitor, and lighting system all in one.” He paused. “If I were naughty, I’d hang on it.”
“Convenient,” Rebecca said again.
“But I’m not naughty,” Delbert professed.
“Uh huh.”
“Oh, it’s much better than having a cat,” Delbert said. “If you look carefully, you’ll see that the lamp hangs crooked. It wasn’t like that before the big quake of January Ninety-four. Know what that means? That means that the foundation of the building is still a little bent from the quake.”
Rebecca looked at the lamp. The suspended cord was crooked. But, if gravity applied to this place, the cord couldn’t have been crooked, which meant that Delbert was right. She sighed. La Land struck sometimes when she least suspected it would.
Delbert disappeared for a moment then reappeared with a clipboard. There was a printed form on it. The usual medical insurance crap. Rebecca filled out the form while the further ramifications of visiting a quake-crooked building started to weave their way into her mind. Then Delbert disappeared with the completed paperwork and quickly appeared again with voices — one male, one female — in the background.
“Here’s the doctor now,” Delbert said merrily.
Rebecca looked up. Through a door, she could see into the doctor’s office. The office had an exit directly to the outer hallway. The doctor was dismissing his previous patient, also a female. Moments later, Henry Einhorn, M.D., emerged from his office. He was a package of surprises. A small package.
Einhorn was a tiny man with a dark complexion and intensely handsome features, the chiseled cheekbones and the brooding face of an early screen star. It occurred to her that Dr. Einhorn might have come by these attributes through the skilled hands of a surgeon rather than through a favorable gene pool. Then it occurred to her almost as quickly that Henry Einhorn might have had a wonderful career on screen were it not for his other most salient attribute. The doc was no more than five feet two inches tall.
Rebecca had had a girlfriend in high school that insisted that men under five three were actually tall dwarfs. The comment came back to her many times over the course of several years, including right now. Rebecca had to suppress a grin as Dr. Einhorn came to her to offer a hand.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Dr. Henry Einhorn. And I’m
pleased to meet you.”
“Rebecca Moore,” she said.
She took his hand and stood, feeling as if she were riding an elevator as she did so. She was shorter than he one second, and four inches taller the next. Life in Southern California, she thought to herself. Up and down in the matter of seconds. Everyone’s in show biz, everyone’s a star. And some days everyone was nuts. Even herself, she speculated. Or was she the only one who was sane? He led Rebecca into his inner chamber and closed the door.
The elfin psychiatrist was dressed simply, but immaculately. Dark slacks and a two hundred dollar shirt with an open neck. West Coast upscale casual. He sat down in a chair across from her. He talked to her sympathetically and intelligently. Fears of quackery disappeared. Henry Einhorn and Rebecca exchanged small talk for several seconds, and then Einhorn drifted toward the business end of his conversation.
“I’ll make things more comfortable by doing much of the early talking,” he said to her. “I’m a clinical psychiatrist. I know you were seeing Dr. Miller in Connecticut, but he has more of a family practice. My specialty is PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is why you were referred to me. I’ve been written up in all the journals. If you want to see any of the articles, ask Del on the way out.”
Rebecca nodded. She remembered the explanation Dr. Miller had given her.
“Post Trauma Stress Disorder,” he repeated. “I know you’re college educated and you know what PTSD is all about. But let’s run through it in a sentence or two.”
The doctor’s hand drifted to his desk. There were some M&M’s in a dish. He treated himself to a couple, carefully picking out only the green ones.
“In lay terms,” he explained, “PTSD is a catchall term for the psychological bruises which afflict crime victims. I don’t have to convince you, because you know: victims of violent assault suffer in many different ways. First there’s the assault, itself. There’s maybe the financial or physical harm. But then, second, there are also the mental damages, and don’t ever let anyone suggest that the psychological part isn’t the worst. The head problems. The insecurities. The self-doubt. The feeling that you’re continually in jeopardy. The constant feeling of being on edge: jumping out of your skin if a family member appears quietly in the same room with you.” His gaze was upon her. “Am I connecting, Rebecca? Am I describing the way you feel?” She nodded again. “Good. That’s why you were seeing Dr. Miller in Connecticut, and that’s why we are here today talking,” he said. “If I’m on the mark, you can take some comfort. It means your reactions are those of an intelligent woman who is reacting to a horrible deed in a normal way. Okay?” He winked.
“Okay,” she concurred. Dr. Einhom may have been unorthodox. But he was sounding less kooky and more sympathetic by the minute.
“Rebecca, I’m not in business to treat people for years, assure them there’s nothing wrong with them, and then insist that they should keep coming. I want to make myself obsolete. I want to lead you to an understanding of yourself, then throw you out of here and fix someone else while you get on with a happy life. How’s that sound?”
“Perfect,” she said.
“I’d also like you to be aware of what I call The Dachau Principle,” he continued. “It affects you, I would think.” It sounded somber. She held her breath and waited.
“Go ahead,” she finally said.
“It’s simple. In the years since World War Two, many former concentration camp victims have been treated for severe psychological disorders. Call it Post Trauma Stress Disorder in its most extreme example. Many psychotherapists treated these people while holding to the theory that the patients themselves were mentally ill. My theory is their extreme reactions were the reactions of sane people who had been subjected to unspeakable inhumanity. Do you see my point?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll make it directly, anyway,” Dr. Einhorn said. “Psychological disturbance following extreme trauma, particularly life threatening trauma, is to me a nod and logical reaction by a mentally healthy individual. My approach is not to treat you as someone who is ill, but rather to guide your thought processes. I want to lead you into an understanding of them. That way you can understand and control your own mind. It really is that simple.” He paused. “Sometimes,” he concluded.
“Look,” Rebecca said, “I don’t have a problem with any of that. It’s just that I’m not at all sure that I even need to be here.”
“Bravo! Excellent,” he said. “Congratulations.” Dr. Einhom smiled easily and made an expansive gesture with his hands. “Then we’re halfway home,” he said. She looked at him.
“Halfway where?” she asked.
“Halfway to where we want to be,” he answered. “You suspect you might not need to be here. As soon as I feel the same way, you won’t need to be.” She blinked. Einhorn had a way of putting her at ease.
“You make it sound easy,” Rebecca said.
“As I said, sometimes it is, Rebecca. Human beings are resilient. The mind responds to its stimuli. Threat is answered by fear. Knowledge begs rational comprehension as its response. I have no reason to think you won’t respond that way, too.” He poached another few M&M’s. She watched his hand. This time, yellow only.
She gathered herself emotionally.
“Thank you,” she said.
“‘What you’re also telling me,” he said, “is that someone near you prompted you to come to me. A husband. A lover. A family member.”
“My husband,” she answered.
“Nothing wrong with that. He’s obviously concerned about you.” She surprised herself with her response.
“That, or he thinks I’m more disturbed than I am.”
“Cynicism can be counterproductive, Rebecca. You should be aware of that.” Again, she nodded.
Was she imagining it, or, by remote control, or by an unseen cue, had the lights lowered in his office. Yes, indeed, she concluded. They had.
“I’d like you to talk to me a little bit,” he said. “You took the trouble to come by. That suggests something right there.” She nodded.
“My doctor back east in addition to my husband,” she said. “They both thought it might be a good idea if I ‘talked’ to someone here in California.”
“But do you think that’s a good idea?” Einhorn asked. She thought about it. Then she nodded.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I get scared. Thinking back.” She looked at the doctor’s folder and for a moment wondered how much he knew about her background. “I think back on the incident in Connecticut,” she said. “You know what I’m talking about?”
“Of course I do. Dr. Miller forwarded everything,” Einhorn said. “I’ve read the complete transcript.” She nodded.
“Someone tried to kill me,” she said. “I don’t know why. I don’t know who. I don’t know where that man is today. Sometimes I think that…” she paused. “I think that I’ll open a door, and he’ll be standing there.” She had another sentence but didn’t complete it.
“Why would he be there again, Rebecca? That horrible incident was on the other side of the United States.” She shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“But you think there might be a reason?”
“I don’t know why he attacked me in the first place,” she said.
“No one was ever arrested?” he asked.
“No. No arrests. Whoever did it is still out there.”
“And you think it was you he wanted to attack? You specifically? You don’t think it was random?”
“No.” She explained why. Einhom nodded.
“Do you think you might have done something in the past?” the doctor asked. “Something to provoke this?” She threw up her hands.
“Who knows? What would I have done?” she asked. “And to whom?”
“But you don’t dismiss that possibility?”
“Should I?” He admonished her with a laugh.
“Rebecca, you’re a bright lady,”
he said. “And I see that you’ve worked as a reporter. But if you don’t mind, in my office, I ask the questions. Okay?”
She smiled. Even when she was on the receiving end of a mild rebuke, she found talking to him was much easier than she had anticipated.
“Okay,” she agreed.
Then he asked her the question she herself had posed.
“Should you?” he asked. “Should you dismiss the possibility that you might have done something to bring this upon yourself? Take some time, Rebecca. Really examine that question. Look at your past. See where it takes you.”
She let her mind go with it. Her thoughts seemed to float. Distantly in the other room, she heard Del Morninglori arguing loudly on the phone with someone about a bill for bottled water.
“No,” she said after several seconds, answering the doctor. “We shouldn’t dismiss that. I can’t imagine what it could have been, but we shouldn’t dismiss it.”
“Then why don’t we talk about it in the future?” he suggested. “All right?”
Rebecca nodded.
“As I said, this can be easy,” he continued. “As easy as sharing our thoughts and seeing what we can discover.” He paused. “I should tell you, I have a purpose for prowling around in your past. And I’ll tell you what it is.”
“Go ahead,” she said.
“Sometimes when there’s something too awful in our memories, we don’t want to accept it,” Dr. Einhorn said. “So we block it. It’s a little memory trick that we play on ourselves. But the key to what’s going on in our heads right now is knowing what’s locked up in there from the past. Am I connecting?”
“You are connecting.”
“But we can’t know if we continue to block. Right?”
“Right.”
“That’s our ‘thought for the day,’” the doctor said. His gaze was intent upon her. Then he smiled. She reciprocated.
“Keep close track of your own short term memory, also, Rebecca. Little things. Misplacing objects. Forgetting errands. Short term remembrance problems betray a lack of concentration on events as they transpire.”
“I forget stuff all the time. Isn’t that normal? Don’t most people?”