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DIANA STOOD IN THE DOORWAY LONG AFTER DETECTIVE Levine’s taillights disappeared down St. Stephen Street. Then she ran downstairs, grabbed her coat, and climbed into the jeep. She didn’t know where she was going, but she figured it didn’t much matter. All that mattered was that she was moving, that she was acting. Even if her motions were pointless.
Although the snow was tapering off and the flakes were melting as soon as they hit the macadam, because it was the first snow of the season the traffic inched along as if in the middle of a raging gale. But for once, Diana didn’t care. She sat patiently, her mind blank and her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, staring at the snow waltzing in the beams of her headlights.
It wasn’t until she found herself headed west on Route 2 that she realized where she was going: to Gail’s house in Lexington. It was just past five, so Gail and her husband Shep were sure to be home, tending to dinner and the twins. Diana turned off the highway and drove past the historic Battle Green and the stately old homes of Lexington Center, then she crossed to the other side of town and wound her way to Gail’s contemporary home, set amid a cluster of similar houses on large wooded lots.
Gail was a lot less surprised to see her than Diana had expected. She ran to the kitchen and held a hurried, whispered conversation with Shep, then came back and led Diana into the family room. She closed the door behind them.
Diana stood in the middle of the room, the bright havoc of the primary-colored toys in such contrast to her mood that she was momentarily disoriented. She tried to smile at Gail, but her facial muscles refused to cooperate, pulling instead into what felt like a grimace.
With a sweeping motion of her arm, Gail dumped a pile of Legos onto the coffee table, clearing two seats on the couch. “Sit,” she ordered.
Diana sat. She sat and stared at the jumble of picture books on the shelves across from her. She sat and stared at the miniature plastic kitchen in the far corner of the room, at its red seats and orange countertop, at its sink full of stuffed animals. She played with the Legos, flattening them all out on the table, then carefully picking them up one by one. Slowly, methodically, she built a series of small towers. “I’m lost,” she finally said, knocking down the towers and leveling the Legos.
Gail reached over and touched Diana’s knee. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie.”
“I’m not myself,” Diana whispered. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve become deceitful, manipulative. A liar. I feel empty. Hollow.” She barked a laugh without humor. “I sound like a symptom checklist for borderline disorder.”
“Sometimes I think the line between ‘us’ and ‘them’ is a lot thinner than we’d like to believe …”
Diana stared at her friend in silence for a moment. Then, not wanting to linger too long on the frightening truth in Gail’s words, she launched into a detailed description of every blunder she had made: of how she had failed everyone, from James to Sandy to Jill to Ethan, and, finally, to Craig and the baby. Then she told Gail how she had duped her into helping her lie to Levine—and how she had falsified Ethan’s records. It was a long and exhausting speech, and when she was finally finished, she looked over at Gail, not knowing whether she wanted absolution or censure.
She received neither. Instead, Gail looked at her thoughtfully and said without judgment, “You forgot a symptom on the checklist.”
Diana could feel the blood drain from her face as she scrambled to imagine what Gail could possibly know. “I did?”
“Obsession.”
“Obsession?” Diana repeated. “That’s probably the only borderline symptom I don’t have.”
Gail gripped one of Diana’s hands tightly between her two. “It’s your obsession with borderlines,” she said gently. “With your patients, your research. With curing them. It’s no good for you,” she added. “Or them.”
Diana played with the Legos, saying nothing. She had heard all of this from Gail before—many, many times. She hadn’t believed it then, and she didn’t believe it now. Diana knew that it was only through this kind of dedication—the kind of dedication Gail labeled obsession—that real breakthroughs were made.
“Hutchins was just another sick puppy,” Gail continued, lecturing her willful pupil. “Probably too sick for you—or anyone else—to do anything for.”
“I could have helped him,” Diana said, raising her chin. “My research is showing—”
“Forget your research,” Gail snapped, dropping Diana’s hand in disgust. “This isn’t about ANOVAs and regression analyses. This is about you and Craig and the baby—about your life. This is about how you have to let go of your patients—of your obsession with curing them. About how you have to let go of your neediness.”
“You mean their neediness,” Diana corrected.
“Listen to me, Diana. This murder thing is going to blow over. It may be ugly and it’s bound to be awful, but you didn’t kill James Hutchins, and somehow that’ll come out. The real mess, though—the mess that’s making you so crazy—won’t be over until you free yourself of your need to be the almighty fixer. Your need for them to love you. Your need for their idolatry.”
“What you perceive to be my need is all part of the process,” Diana said stiffly. “To quote Adrian: ‘Psychotherapy cannot proceed without empathy.’”
“You’ve got to admit your obsession with Hutchins goes a bit beyond empathy—”
“Of course I’m obsessed,” Diana interrupted. “I’m going to be. charged with his murder, for Christ’s sake.”
“—and that it always has,” Gail continued as if Diana hadn’t spoken. “This hasn’t been just a professional relationship since the first day he walked into your office. He’s feeding something in you. Some empty place you’re trying to fill. Maybe you’ve been using James as a way to atone for what happened to your little sister.”
“Don’t give me that psychologist crap,” Diana said. “James was special. He was a remarkable man. Talented, brilliant …”
“All that was remarkable about James Hutchins was his face.” Gail stood abruptly and began pacing the room. “Can’t you see it? The guy looked like a fucking movie star, and he thought you were the most desirable woman in the world!” She whirled around and grabbed Diana’s hands. “Sweetie, anyone would fall for that—I’m not faulting you. The guy had more charisma than Jesus Christ! But you were blinded by it. You let his charm fool you into thinking that he—and you—could be something neither one of you ever could be.” She sat down and added more softly, “He’s dead. And once this murder thing is worked out, you’ve got to let go of him—and of your need to cure everyone—or you’ll never be free.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Diana sputtered, throwing off Gail’s hands. “I don’t think I can cure everyone. I just think I may have found a way to help borderlines. It’s this traumatic stress thing—”
“Don’t you see?” Gail interrupted. “Can’t you hear what you’re saying? Diana, your fascination with them is almost as sick as theirs is with you.” She shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you are checking off a lot of symptoms on that list.”
“Oh, so now I’m a borderline?” Diana demanded. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Galdetto? Or are you just armchair psychologizing?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You want to know what I’m really wishing in this heart of all terrible borderline hearts? Want to hear my truly depraved fantasies, Doctor? I’ll tell you: My fantasy is that James is alive. That he and I are together. Just gorgeous James and me, alone on some deserted island.”
“Diana, please—”
“The beach is long and white and empty,” Diana continued, her voice low, rumbling with barely suppressed anger. “And do you know what I dream? Do you know what I fantasize about my sexy dead man come alive?” she demanded. “I dream that I’m sitting next to him on a large blanket, sitting next to that magnificent hunk who’s stretched out in the sun, all shiny and glistening. I
run my fingers along his perfect cheekbone. I lightly touch the deep cleft in his chin …”
Gail watched Diana silently, her eyes dark with sadness.
“Then I reach into my beach bag and pull out a shotgun,” Diana said softly. “I press it to his temple, and before he even opens his eyes, I blow his brains out all over again!” She chortled at the relief on Gail’s face. “Murder is better than sex, huh?”
“I suppose that’s what I’d prefer for you in this situation.”
“Then don’t be too pleased,” Diana flung back at Gail. “Because I did that too.”
“Did what too?” Gail asked, alarm replacing the relief in her eyes.
“Had sex with James Hutchins,” Diana said. “Right on the floor of my office.”
Diana fled. Ignoring Gail, who stood on the stoop imploring her to come back inside, Diana grabbed her coat and raced to her car. The snow was coming down more heavily and beginning to stick, but the jeep held its own as she screeched out of Gail’s driveway.
The ride home was a blur of swirling white flakes and shifting realities. One moment she was driving along Ale-wife Brook Parkway on a snowy December night, and the next she was back in her office on that sweltering summer day, James’s arms hard and hot around her, her body turned inside out with pure desire.
It had happened just as she had described it in her journal. She had wanted James for years, longed for him; but she had fought it. She had written about it, and talked about it, and tried to work it through; but nothing had made it go away. That hot July afternoon when her tenuous control had finally snapped had been the most glorious and the most horrible moment of her life. James was so gorgeous, so tender, and so full of passion. When she finally touched him, finally allowed herself to press her body against his, she had laughed out loud; the relief alone had been almost orgasmic.
She began trembling so hard that James had to undress them both. When they were naked, they stood motionless for a long moment, staring into each other’s eyes. “Just let me look at you,” James had said. “Just let me look.” But the ache of the wanting was too great for Diana, and she reached out and pulled him to her.
They slid to the floor. James kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her earlobe. Arching her back, Diana pressed her breasts to his chest, her stomach and thighs to his. Desire rose from deep within her and spread outward, a desire so painful it was as if her every nerve were exposed, bared to an excruciating—and wonderful—agony. She wrapped her arms around him even more tightly, wanting only to merge her body with his.
“We fit perfectly,” James whispered as he trailed kisses down her throat. Then he gently pulled away and stared deep into her eyes. “As if we were made only for each other.” Diana raised her hands to pull him to her again, but his fingers gently encircled her wrists. “Slowly,” he said, releasing her hand and running his fingers down the length of her body. “I’ve dreamed of doing this slowly.” Diana moaned as he bent down and kissed her breast. They made love as if they had been lovers for centuries.
But when it was over, as they lay wrapped in each others’ arms, the old air conditioner creaking above them in the window, the reality of what she had done cascaded over Diana, and she began to cry. “Don’t,” James said, stroking her cheek. “This was unstoppable. It was meant to be.” And despite all that had happened since then, Diana knew that James had spoken the truth.
But still, Diana thought as she peered into the oncoming snow trying to find the edge of the road, she was being punished. Punished for the worst transgression a therapist could make against a patient. Diana saw herself reflected on the milky surface, seated behind an endless row of tall iron bars, nursing her baby. Her mind, her whole being, was slipping and sliding along with the jeep. She was losing control—of the jeep, of her life, of herself. She slammed on her brakes and skidded to a stop, her fender brushing up against a rusted metal guardrail.
Somehow she managed to back up and make her way home. But when she pulled into the alley, instead of relief, all she could feel were the eyes. They were everywhere. In the flat faces of the dark windows next door. Flickering on the snow-edged brick of the restaurant’s backside. On the fire escape. In the trash cans. She scurried into the house and bolted the locks. Leaning against the closed door, her heart pounding wildly, Diana felt herself separate from herself once again. And she was grateful.
She watched herself slowly climb the three flights of stairs to her bedroom. She hovered somewhere above the stoop-shouldered, listless woman who, if not for her slightly protruding abdomen, would have appeared from her movements to be quite elderly. She contemplated the situation with a cool detachment.
She was a dead woman. A deceitful, hollow, manipulative dead woman. There was nothing she could do about it. No one to blame. No one to call. She was a dead woman. She was bone weary. She might as well get some sleep.
Diana watched herself lie down in the middle of the bed and turn on her side. She pulled a pillow to her belly and curled herself around it. There were no tears, no screams of rage, no prostrations of grief; there was only overwhelming exhaustion. As her lids dropped shut, Diana saw deep smudges of darkness circling her eye sockets, standing out in stark contrast to her chalky complexion. I’m already dead, she thought as she swooped down to meet her body in sleep. I’m already dead.
Diana dreamed she was walking through a thick forest in a raging gale. The wind tore at her hair, and the rain beat on her face. But the noise was the most potent and terrifying force. It was so loud and all-encompassing that it seemed that sound alone held the power to tear the towering, ancient trees from their roots.
And it did. Trees plummeted all around her, dropping in front of her, halting her in her place, cutting off her path. Frantic, she turned as a falling tree trunk darkened the gloomy sky. She leaped high over already felled branches as more and more trees toppled around her. Then the wind picked her up and whisked her away. All was quiet and still.
Until she realized she was in a murky, brooding castle, a castle whose ceiling was so pointed and tall that she could not see its apex. Until she realized she was on a towering metal rack, its rusted beams soaring so high that they too were lost in the shadowy heights of darkness. Until the noise began again.
This time the sound was mechanical and human-made, but no less frightening than the organic noise of the forest. She tried to run from the racket, but she could not move. She was in something’s grip. Twisting and turning her neck, stretching her muscles until they screamed from the punishment, she was finally able to see that her arms and her wrists were bound to the metal bed with thick leather thongs.
Then the bed began to move. As the noise grew, the bed slowly pulled apart, pulling her apart with it. She was being torn in all directions, severed from the outside in—and from the inside out. The sound of scraping metal and splintering bone screamed in her ears, louder and more horrible than any sound she had ever heard. Pain wracked her body, and agony filled her being. “No!” she cried, finally pulling herself awake.
Diana was disoriented, but relieved, to find herself fully dressed in the familiar bedroom. The city light reflecting on the newly fallen snow threw an eerie, artificial brightness through her undraped window. But before she could calm her ragged breathing, before she could slow her pounding heart, Diana heard the noise once again.
For a moment she thought she was still asleep, that this was just a new setting within the horrible noise dream. Then a powerful bang reverberated throughout the house, and Diana knew that someone had just broken in. Ethan. It had to be Ethan. He had been watching her, and now he was coming to kill her.
Suddenly time became stuck. It took her forever to sit up. And when she finally did, she had to swim through molasses just to raise her arm. She caught Craig’s night table in the corner of her eye and painstakingly pushed her head toward it. The brass handle, which splayed into small bunches of roses on the face of the night table drawer, seemed to grow until all Diana could see was the tarnish
outlining the flower petals. Behind that handle was the gun. She froze, knowing it was a physical impossibility, yet knowing she heard, and felt, the soft tread of footsteps climbing thunderously toward her from three floors below.
She looked at her own night table. The telephone sitting on top of it seemed to swell and expand, as if she were zooming in on it with a telephoto lens. Phone before gun, her numb mind finally processed. Phone the police. On all fours, she crawled across the suddenly enormous bed toward the telephone, her knees buckling under her on the spread, the impossibly loud thump of approaching footsteps reverberating through her body.
Finally she grasped the receiver in one hand; the fingers of her other hand hovered over the keypad. The number. Her brain strained for the number. Emergency. The police. Three digits. A three-digit number. But her brain gave back nothing. There was only a blank empty wall were the number should have been. She couldn’t find it. She couldn’t reach it. All she could see was her own number, glowing up at her from the face of the phone.
The footsteps grew louder, closer. The room became brighter, hotter. Suddenly released from their amnesia, her fingers punched three numbers. Relief flooded through her as she clutched the phone.
“Directory assistance. What city, please?” whined a nasal, bored voice in her ear. Too stunned to speak, Diana gripped the receiver more tightly in her hand. “For what city?” the voice demanded.
Diana slammed the phone down and lunged for Craig’s night table. As she scrambled to reach the drawer, she felt the footsteps leave the second floor landing and begin their slow climb toward the third.
And once again, time became stuck. She froze like a frightened and trapped animal. Although she was unable to move, unable to breathe, her other senses were unbearably alive. She saw every detail of the night table’s wood carving, highlighted by the reflected snow-light. Every honking horn and every squeak of the stair reverberated through her brain like an air raid siren. She heard the soft, measured footsteps pounding inexorably toward her. She smelled her own sweat and fear. She was going to die.
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