So?
Red pony, red teddy bear? Did that make sense?
Her visit to Kerri Blasco came back too, and not being able to quite identify that ear stud of Sasha’s. How close can you be to guessing a teddy bear and not have it be a teddy bear?
She couldn’t figure any of it. Let her mind continue to fret it as she finally got up and got busy, emitting a groan, thinking how much there was to do.
An hour later she was filling and labeling more Bekins boxes, still feeling a tightness in her chest but using minutiae to push it down. Beth called to say the construction people were already at the loft, she let them in, then had to run up to East 76th.
“Wow, fast.”
“They’re in the neighborhood finishing a different job, happy to segue right into yours. They’re fast, by the way, can fix a floor or put up a wall in a day. So girlfriend, how are you doing?”
For a second too long Liddy said nothing, and Beth groaned. “Not another nightmare?”
“’Fraid so. Hell waking up, but it’s dissipating.”
“Oh Lids.”
“Maybe when I get crazy busy, back on track...”
Beth groaned again. “Let’s hope.” At the other end someone called to her. “Speaking of crazy busy, I may have screwed up sending everybody to the loft at once. It sounds like the construction people are getting under each other’s feet.”
“Who do I call? What are their names?”
Beth told her. “Oh, and Henry the lock and alarm guy? He’s waiting for you to call about changing your security system.” She gave that number too.
“I’ll call.”
“Love ya, sweetie. Call if you don’t feel good.”
Liddy hung up; sighed. Wished again she could have told Beth about the blond girl’s apparition on the window, and her visit to the police to show her sketch, and Paul’s pique about that…but she couldn’t. Beth would fret, say you shouldn’t have taken the loft, blame herself for showing it to them in the first place.
Just hang in there, Liddy told herself, and paced, punching numbers on her phone.
Frankie the Sheetrock guy complained that the Con Ed guy shouldn’t be there yet, he was in the way. She handled it, then talked to the painter confused about his paint chips, and the plumber complaining about the electrician updating the kitchen center island - she had a hard time understanding, the plumber seemed to be speaking mostly Ukrainian - but she handled it.
Shortly after one she went for what was probably her last trip to the local supermarket, where she found herself staring at the red tomatoes. She didn’t need tomatoes, but stood there like a dummy staring at them; had to wrench herself away. Then picked up a few more things and found herself staring at a red cereal box. A ridiculous product, all sugar and fake color and really unhealthy – something they’d never touch – so why was she suddenly holding it in her hand gazing at it? She caught herself, put it back, got a few more things and got out.
Was back at the old place busy unpacking when a FedEx package came – café curtains, which she unwrapped and put in a packing box with towels and linens. Then in the bedroom she emptied more drawers and put their contents into boxes, stopping to hold up an old red T-shirt, stare at it…
…and suddenly it was 3:30.
Already? No… Dread time again.
In the bathroom she stopped brushing her hair, took a breath, and peered into the shower stall still misted from their showers. No young girl’s face in residence on the walls; there hadn’t been one earlier when she showered either, thank goodness. This morning’s dream was quite enough, the red teddy bear still swirled in the blue current of her dream. It troubled her bad, wouldn’t go away.
She picked up her brush again. In the mirror, suddenly, like a flash or a dream, she saw Sasha reach to her through the water, and sadly take the teddy bear. Liddy blinked; blinked hard as she saw them both sweep away in the current.
The heart rocketed, the heart, the heart…
She put her brush down; leaned both hands on the sink. Accept it, she told herself, fighting tears. They’ve been there all along: the frightening images, the slow banging of the heart, the constricted feeling in the chest. They ease off a bit when the hands are busy, roar back when they’re not, but they’re always there, waiting. You can hide from anything but your mind.
She went back to the bedroom, got out that red T-shirt again, held it too long with her hands trembling.
Then checked the time, grabbed her purse, and ran out slamming the door. The hallway echoed the slam. The elevator had a little girl in it, who gripped her mother’s hand tighter and stared at Liddy, round-eyed. The child had her obsessing about teddy bears. The mother noticed, and asked kindly, “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, thanks!” Liddy said too loudly.
In the lobby she realized she’d forgotten to lock up. Took the damned elevator back up, re-opened the door, set the slide bolt to snap closed, then keyed home the second lock.
Her hands shook worse.
I’m a total mess, she thought, signaling for a cab.
18
Alex Minton frowned for a second time. “On the glass?” he said. “You saw the face on the glass?”
“Yes, after I sprayed.” Liddy hated the tremor in her voice. “And on the misted shower stall before that, both since my last visit. Then this morning the dream.”
He looked like he’d stepped out of a Maurice Sendak story, built like a soft-bodied bear, with glasses that made his face look like an owl and a short, trimmed beard. Now he took off his glasses and started wiping them, which was a bad sign; it meant he’d just heard something he couldn’t figure.
“You said your nightmares were lessening,” he said, looking up again.
“I said they were getting further apart, but when they do happen they’re more upsetting.” Liddy clamped her lips together, then exhaled in a rush. “The apparitions and my sketch resemble that missing girl Sasha Perry. It’s like I’m seeing a ghost.”
Minton scribbled a note. What? Give her more pills? His note taking was something else Liddy noticed he did when he seemed at a loss for pronouncements. She’d laid it all out for him, emphasizing her friend’s idea that maybe she’d seen Sasha’s picture on the news in her hospital room; remembered it subconsciously because it was another trauma.
“Could that be it, do you think?” Liddy leaned forward.
Minton raised his eyebrows a little. “Very possibly,” he said. “In fact, I think you’ve identified what we shrinks call the ‘diversion cause’ - which, plainly put, is something that is actually easier for the psyche to deal with than the real issue.” He stopped to think for a moment. “Some repressed memories are so terrifying that one is unable to remember, let alone face. The work you must do going forward is, first, identify the real root cause, and second, deal with that.”
“I think the real root cause is the fact that I got run over and my head creamed and only recently remembered where my sock drawer is.” Liddy felt her jaw muscles tighten.
Minton chuckled indulgently, made another note. It occurred to Liddy that until this latest, long pronouncement of his she’d been doing most of the talking. He’d stated a generalization – great – but he didn’t know what to do with her. She’d heard of people going twenty years to a psychiatrist and getting nowhere.
The red teddy bear he thought was “possibly” a hopeful sign: a comfort toy bringing the psyche back to a safe place. But why a red teddy bear? Again, he thought, it might connect with that Steinbeck story – and she really did love it, didn’t she? That’s why she never forgot it, another re-connecting with childhood self-comfort.
“But why would the red teddy bear be wet?” Liddy pressed, getting frustrated. “Soaking wet under water?”
Minton frowned and wrote a note; then took a long time wiping his glasses. “Perhaps we should discuss that on our next visit.”
Liddy stared down at her hands.
He inquired – as he had every last
time - if her husband was still being supportive.
Yes, very.
And was the marriage good?
Yes, she answered, as she had before.
“Most important, has your husband-”
“Paul.”
“Ah yes. Has Paul helped you remember what, exactly, happened on the night of the accident? How it happened? What caused you to run out like that?”
Dammit, he’d asked that each time too – emphasizing the same words. Each time she’d answered as best she could and now suddenly felt annoyed; these sessions were starting to sound like the same script read over and over. Okay, she told herself, he was trying to see if there was any update, anything further that either she or Paul remembered.
Liddy clasped her hands together, hard, wanting to crack her knuckles or something. “Same as what you’ve already got. We’d been drinking, and we fought. Mainly, Paul says, I was upset because he was so obsessed with his work, always getting home late, and I felt neglected.”
“That’s what Paul says?”
“Yes and it was true. Still is although he’s better, he’s been coming home a bit earlier these days – nights, rather - despite being under the gun for a research project deadline.”
“Had you fought about his work obsession before?”
“I had complained, but…well, respected what he’s doing. It will be a big breakthrough if they can pull this off.”
“Ah yes, you mentioned he has a research partner.”
Liddy shrugged yes. Anticipated the next question and beat him to it. “Did I holler he spent more time with his partner than he did with me? Probably. I don’t remember.”
“Because you’d been drinking.”
“That night we’d both been drinking – me even more, Paul says. He barely remembers all the details. Mainly he says I screamed ‘I’ve had it!’ and ran out. I have no memory of going down in the elevator or running through the lobby, and I can’t believe I had any intention of getting run over - or even being in the street. Maybe I’d just thought of storming down the sidewalk or something.”
Liddy stopped for breath, watching Minton write again.
What was he writing? He had it already - they’d both been blotto and fought and neither could remember that night because they’d fried their brains. Minton had it already!
And the fifty minutes were almost up. Minton glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Now, went the script, he would quickly ask the other stuff.
Her painting, was she able to work and concentrate?
“Yes.”
“Is the move causing increased pressure? Perhaps that’s why you’ve been having these…experiences.”
“I don’t mind if you call them hallucinations. But they started, remember, before we saw the loft. The face in the shower stall.”
“That was the day you were to go looking.”
“True, but the nightmares started way before that, which is why I came to you in the first place. As for the move and pressure, there’s some – but after the disruption I can’t wait to get back to painting full time.”
“You’re bursting to push your brush around, mix your beautiful colors?” He was looking down, reading something she’d said word for word. “It’s still therapy?” he read. “The only time you really forget your problems? Each painting or watercolor is like entering another world?”
Liddy stared at him.
To her surprise, Minton looked at her almost sadly. “I envy you,” he said, smiling. “Very few people have that escape valve.”
Nice to say, but that’s it? His comment was kind but something any pal could have said – and they’d just spent fifty whole precious minutes accomplishing nothing. Liddy felt more than annoyed - then realized that annoyed is good; annoyed is wonderful; it banishes anxiety for a few minutes.
She rose, thanked, gave a polite good-bye more stiffly than she had on previous occasions, then stopped for a moment with her hand on the doorknob.
“One insight?” she said. He’d gotten up to see her out. “Someone suggested that the visions in the shower stall and on the loft glass and my dreams all involve water. She asked if I did water sports, and I told her yes, a lot of my life has been swimming and boating.”
Minton looked almost hurt. “Oh gosh, you’ve been seeing another psychiatrist.”
No, a cop who’s better than you, Liddy thought, stifling the urge to snark; reassuring him instead.
She actually walked the ten blocks home, realizing that shrinks were as lost as anyone else, you had to struggle yourself out of your own pits. The leg felt okay, and what surprised Liddy more was the fact that she felt okay - not great…but several notches better, and that was something to celebrate, wasn’t it? The sun was warm, had dropped to its five-thirty softness coloring everything old-fashioned amber. Central Park West looked bathed in amber; ditto the passersby enjoying being out and the traffic moving slowly at its late Friday pace and the dog walkers getting pulled behind their happy, yipping charges. Squint: a nostalgic old postcard. Oh, it did feel good to be out. Nightmares and such were forgotten.
At Eighty-Sixth Street, standing on the corner, Liddy saw a FedEx truck pull up to the light. For a second Sasha Perry’s face appeared on the truck’s sun-glowing windshield, but the traffic light changed, the truck moved, and Sasha was gone.
For an instant but why would the red teddy bear be wet? came back to her, but she pushed it down; wanted to stay feeling good.
Imagination anyway, Liddy thought, walking on. That’s all it is.
Has to be…
19
August was the worst, the absolute worst for trying to find anybody in Manhattan. Too many of them were just someplace else or off to the country or the shore – those who could afford it – and in the case of Ben Allen, he was half out the door and looked annoyed.
“You’re late and I’m late for the ferry. Can we do this another time?”
Kerri apologized, the traffic was terrible. “Would you have preferred I use my siren?” she asked sweetly. “I could have been here in minutes with my siren blaring.”
No, that wouldn’t have looked good, a police officer screeching to the curb of the pretty West Village brownstone where this doctor had his office. She’d gotten him at a good time, too. Peering past him into his first floor doorway, she saw that his reception room and long reception counter were empty. Assistants and nurses had left for their weekends. Good.
A bit more finagling – she’d be quick, just a wee follow up - got him back into his inner office and looking tense behind his desk. He was tall, early forties with darting pale eyes, dark hair, and long fingers suddenly busy in his cell phone. He’d been interviewed before by the police, this doctor who’d made out Sasha Perry’s uppers prescription which she’d written over, changed the dose. That had been uncomfortable for him, especially since other students had done the same. Was it his fault if they altered his prescriptions – or that one of the kids said he was the go-to doc for that? Prove he knew what they did! Harassment to put him on some damned watch list!
The police had been unable to prove anything, of course. And Kerri had never actually seen him since others had done his interview. Ah, but she had seen his picture in the cop logs; it just hadn’t registered. It had taken a surprise six hours of sleep and then waking and re-thinking last night’s researching…
…and it hit.
He was the third man in that Facebook picture with Paul Barron and Carl Finn before Barron’s boat.
Now Kerri sat, simultaneously taking in the room with its diplomas and photos and re-thinking what she wanted to ask him – what suddenly needed updating.
“Sasha Perry,” she said, leaning forward.
He nodded as if he’d expected the question, looked up from his cell phone, looked away. “I saw you on the news,” he told a potted plant in the corner. “Awful business. Poor kid.”
“Recent disclosures suggest that Sasha continued getting Adderall or generic amphetamines from a ne
w source after she left you.” It wasn’t a complete lie: Becca Milstein suspected it, it sounded likely, and Kerri wanted to see this doctor’s reaction. “Would you know anything about that?”
“No.” His hand gestured as if pushing away the question. “And even if I did, patient privilege extends after a patient’s demise – if that’s what happened. I wouldn’t divulge anything even if I knew – how would you imagine otherwise?”
Kerri said nothing, letting him squirm in the silence. She had researched him before coming. He disliked cops but was loved by poor people and students – treated many free of charge or took Medicaid as well as regular payment; also taught at the U and lectured tirelessly about HIV avoidance and the urgency of free college education. His big ego enjoyed his saintly status, his planned photo ops in old shirts and jeans at soup kitchens and free clinics and basketball with poor kids.
“You done?” asked the saint, fiddling with his cell phone, muttering about Friday night ferry schedules to Fire Island.
“Well, I’m afraid your name’s back on our minds,” Kerri lied again. “We’ve had another arrest for falsifying narcotics prescriptions, this time tracing to a source citing you as the referral. What say you to that?”
He looked at her, then tried to laugh but paled a little. “Are you kidding?” He gestured angrily. “I wouldn’t go near something like that. I had nothing to do with Ms. Perry’s falsifying her prescription in the first place – now you’re suggesting I’m involved in some kind of-”
“Network?” Kerri supplied, flicking another look around the room.
He leaned back, feigning disgust at this dumb cop’s questions. “This is a silly conversation,” he said, then got up. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Kerri stayed in her seat. “You live in Chelsea, don’t you? On West 23rd in a penthouse with lovely gardens? And a gardener who comes in, and a basketball court at one end of the garden where you entertain friends and students and even hold an occasional fundraiser? I read about it.”
“So?” His face stiffened.
Fear Dreams Page 7