by Sandra Block
But so far she hasn’t spoken a word, just sits there fidgeting, her eyes darting around like a caged animal. Aubrey bites off a hangnail, and a spot of blood pops up.
“Aubrey, what’s going on?” I ask, trying to project a calm demeanor. I’m trying to center myself with green tea, which isn’t working very well.
She rubs her lime-green friendship bracelet back and forth on her wrist, where her skin is already blistered. “I need to talk about it.”
I nod. “About that night?” I ask, in a soothing voice.
“No,” she says, her voice tired. “Not that. About something else.” She sucks on the remnant of her hangnail, then, her eyes still shifting around the room. “It’s about what I did. Something terrible that I did.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, like a child, and I hand her a tissue box from my drawer. “It’s about my mom.”
“Okay.”
“Remember when I told you about her?”
“Yes, I do. You said she died of cancer.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” She sighs. “But I didn’t tell you everything.” Now she stares at the floor, a tremor in her upper lip, as I wait her out. “I also told you that I used to get pain pills from her.”
“Right.” I do vaguely remember this.
“She had plenty of them when she was so sick. Ovarian cancer, it was.” She pulls her knees to her chest then, just fitting in the chair and looking like a scared little girl. “She didn’t even notice at first. She had so many. I just took one here or there. But then I met Todd.” Her face sours. “And we starting doing more. And so I took a few more. And more. And then he wanted me to sell them.”
I nod along in support.
“But then the cancer got bad. Real bad. End stage they called it. It was in her bones and all that.”
“Oh, Aubrey. I’m sorry.”
“No.” She shakes her head, vehemently. “Don’t feel sorry for me. You shouldn’t feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for her.” She glances up at me, her face in agony. “I’m the monster here. I’m the one who took her pills. Don’t you get it? I took the one thing she needed right then to feel better.” She starts crying, a high-pitched whine like a hurt animal. “She was in pain. My dad said he watched her suffer through it and held her hand. And the doctors wouldn’t give her more. They thought she was just trying to kill herself. And my dad tried to explain but they said they couldn’t, and she was in pain. Bad pain. And I had taken all her pills.”
She doesn’t say any more then, just keeps crying. And I put my hand on her arm. “Addiction is—” I try to say.
But she interrupts me with a fierce head shake, her eyes full of tears. “It was me, not addiction. Me. I’m the only one to blame.”
“I understand how you feel. But Aubrey,” I say, my hand still on her arm, “do you honestly think your mom would want this? That she would want you to keep hurting yourself in her name?”
She sniffles, then her eyes drift up toward me.
“It doesn’t help anyone now,” I say, “to do that. You may want to punish yourself, but you’re not honoring her memory by doing that. She wouldn’t want you to. She would want you to be happy, successful. She would want you to celebrate her memory, not feel guilty about it.”
She sits, staring at me in a daze. “I never thought of it that way.”
“You should. You should think of it. I know she would have forgiven you, Aubrey. She loved you. It wasn’t your fault that she died.”
“It’s not, is it?”
“No,” I say. “It’s not.” I let go of her arm, and after a few more minutes, she wipes her eyes and sits normally in the chair again with a loud inhalation.
“Wow. I guess that’s what they mean by sharing, huh?”
I smile. “That’s what I’m here for.” She touches her bracelet but then lets it be. “I’m glad you called for me, Aubrey, instead of hurting yourself. It’s a step. A really positive step.”
She looks at me with renewed hope. “You think?”
“Yes. You’re facing your problems, not just trying to push them down. And that’s a good thing, a really good thing.”
“Dr. Goldman.” She takes another breath and seems to relax into the chair. “Thank you.”
* * *
A text jumps on my phone. It’s Zena, confirming the time for our coffee this afternoon. I text her back a yes.
“How’s Andre doing?” I ask, as Jason sits at the computer.
“Seeing him in a bit,” he says airily, to avoid the awkward fact that he is seeing him now because of my probation.
I stare at the boring, blank wall, at a loss with my unfilled day. I’ve done all my notes and all my orders, and reviewed all my labs. My schedule looks like a slab of Swiss cheese with too many holes. “I could grab some of your patients,” I offer.
“That’s probably not a good idea for right now,” Jason says diplomatically. He squeezes my shoulder as he gets up, which makes me feel pathetic instead of comforted, then goes into his clinic room to await his next patient. I’m literally twiddling my thumbs when Maloney comes by. Tyler Evans swaggers as best he can in his chains. “It says he’s here for some study?”
“Yes,” I say with cheer, actually happy to see a white supremacist, something I never thought I’d be in my entire life. “Have a seat.” Maloney doesn’t take his eyes off him as he sits down, then goes to stand right by the door, just as Harry did.
“So,” I say, pulling a notebook out of my desk, “this is our last session.”
“Yup. And I think I learned a lot.”
“Yes, I’m glad to hear that. Now we just have to repeat that one scale again. The Hare scale.”
“Oh yeah. I told some of my friends about that scale. I had one of the highest scores.”
“Uh-huh.” Thus proving himself quite the accomplished sociopath. “Let’s start with one again…” I retest him, and he scores even higher this time. As if he’s studied to be a better narcissist. So far our pilot is failing miserably.
“Did I do good?” he asks, bouncing in his seat with anticipation.
“You did just fine,” I say. “You’ll just have to sign this form, and then we’ll be all done.”
Tyler takes the pen but looks at me without signing anything. “Do you use lotion or anything?”
“Lotion?” I touch my face. “No, not really.”
“Any kind of makeup?”
“Why?” I ask, uncomfortable with this personal line of questioning.
“I was thinking about your freckles,” he says, “wondering how they would look on a lampshade.”
* * *
Sitting in the hall, I’m trying to figure out how to break it to Dr. Novaire that our CBT project is a bust when Janaya Jones walks by. “How are you?” I ask, more out of politeness than as a psychiatrist.
“At peace,” she says. She does have a beatific smile upon saying this.
“Happy to hear that. Any reason for this turnaround?” I ask, as Harry leans against the wall, waiting for us to end our little exchange.
“I spoke with one of my sisters about my situation at length. And she reminded me. This is God’s will. Everything is God’s will.”
“So you don’t think people are after you anymore?” I’m wondering if she is back on her meds.
“God’s will,” she says with that unearthly smile. “That’s what Sofia said.”
I swallow. “Sofia told you that?”
“Yes, she did. She’s a very centered soul.” She glances up at Harry. “I’m ready.”
“Library time?” he asks her.
“Library time,” she answers, and they walk off, like an odd couple about to waltz. And I walk off because I’d like to know why Sofia is suddenly, coincidentally, talking to Janaya. When I go to her cell, though, she isn’t there.
“She’s in the kennels,” Maloney says, seeing me checking the logbook.
“It says rec area.”
“No, rec is closed. Fight broke out.”
; So I take the elevators up to the kennels. If the rec area is downtrodden and depressing, the kennels are worse. The rec yard is cruise-ship luxury compared to the kennels, which are essentially oversize cages atop the building’s roof. For a full hour, prisoners can tromp on the beaten-down snow in a cage, owning their two square feet of the world. Though it’s actually a decent view of the Buffalo skyline.
Sofia’s breath comes out in puffs. She jogs in place in her oversize green rubber boots and matching coat. I lean against the cage, shivering in my coat as well.
“Is it even worth coming out here?” I ask.
“You try hanging out in a cell twenty-four hours a day,” she grouses. “It’s not exactly enlivening.”
“I guess not.” The wind blows through the cage, dusting off some snow.
“So what brings you here today?” Sofia asks. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Janaya Jones,” I answer.
Sofia squints, as if trying to remember the name. “Am I supposed to know her?”
“Ol’ White Lady.”
“Oh yes. What do you want to know about her?”
“She told me that she thinks people are after her.”
“And that surprises you?” Her head bobs with her jogging. “I mean, I’m not a psychiatrist, Dr. Goldman. But the woman is a little…” She makes the universal sign for cuckoo.
“Yeah, I know all about that. I just wondered if there was any truth to her fears. Because, oddly enough, she’s not so worried about them anymore. And the reason is you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. She said you gave her advice. Something about God’s will.”
She shrugs. “I talked to her. It’s not illegal. I tried to make her feel better.”
“So you’re saying you’re not behind the threats at all?”
She stops jogging. “Listen, Tanya. I’ve done some evil shit in my life. I’m well aware of that. But I already told you. I’m being straight with you. I’m done with all that now.” She starts jogging again, her breathing loud. “I know you’ve pegged me as some mastermind behind all the problems in your life. But did you ever think maybe that’s just the easy way out?”
“I’m not trying to blame you for everything,” I grumble.
“Oh yeah? Then why is my cell being searched ten times a day?” Her boot hits the cage with a bang, scattering snow. “Not that I mind. It does give me some street cred with these bitches.”
“Okay, Sofia.” I lean on the cage, making it squeak. “You want to be straight with me? Then be straight with me. Let’s have an honest heart-to-heart here.”
“All right,” she says, her voice bouncing with her jogging.
“I have just one question for you.”
“Go ahead.”
I can hear that I’m breathing to the rhythmic thud of her feet. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” she asks.
But I know she knows. “It. The big it. That night. Why? Why did you do it?” I repeat.
Sofia lets out a slow breath, like smoke.
“Kill our mom. Try to kill me. You’ve never, ever said why you did it.” My heart patters in my chest. “You want my forgiveness? Fine. But I can’t give it to you when I don’t even understand why you did it. And don’t tell me it was PCP or some shit, because I won’t believe you for a second.”
Her jogging slows, then stops, bringing a sudden quiet to the rooftop.
“I’ve never told you why,” she says, softly, “because I don’t know why. I was full of hatred and anger. I still am, but I’m trying not to be. And that’s the best I can tell you, Tanya. That’s the honest truth.” A rush of wind swoops down, snaking into my collar. She stares off into the distance then, and I do, too, both of us looking at the skyline. “I know it was asking a lot, for you to forgive me. But I’m not giving up on you yet.”
“Okay, Sofia. Fine,” I say, exhausted and resigned. I still have no idea why she did it. And maybe neither does she. I don’t know if she’s lying or not. But perhaps Jack is right, you don’t ask the devil how to get to heaven.
So I leave her to her cage and go back to the clinic, where no patients await me. But I do have one task to complete before five o’clock rolls around and my coffee with Zena. I click the door shut, dial the number, and wait out the rings.
“Hello, this is Dr. Marchand’s office. Can I help you?”
And this time I don’t hang up, as I have the three times before.
“Hi,” I say. “This is Zoe Goldman. I needed to make an appointment with the doctor. We had discussed some, um, different options regarding my pregnancy.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I feel a bit like a traitor at Starbucks instead of the Coffee Spot, but I needed to stay away from the prying eyes of a certain brother. So I sip my decaf tea and enjoy the branded but earnest music and have to admit the whole atmosphere is really quite pleasant.
A tallish (though not as tall as me, of course) woman with a cream-colored sweater, dark jeans, and black boots strides in, peeling off stylish sunglasses. She is a big woman, not obese, just the sort who takes up a lot of space. She peers around expectantly, and we meet each other’s gaze.
“Zena?” I ask. She gives me a polite smile and comes over to shake hands. “Do you wanna grab something?” I ask. “I’ll wait.”
“You know, I think I will,” she says, and I wait for her to get through the line. She comes back with a large something that smells like hazelnut, with “Xena” scribbled on the cup in black marker.
“Every time I tell them. Zena with a Z.” She shakes her head. “It’s not that difficult.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I can also see how she channels the warrior princess.
“So about Andre,” she begins, which I appreciate, because I’m really not up for small talk. “How is he doing?”
I make the so-so motion with my hand. “He fluctuates. One day he’s pretty good, then the next minute he’s not so good. It’s tough.”
Her expression is hidden by her coffee cup as she drinks, though her eyes look sad. “That family has been through so much,” she says. We both nod to this, drinking our drinks while an acoustic guitar song with a woman singing mournfully comes on.
“So how can I help you, then?” Zena turns to me. “You said you had some questions?”
“Yes. More about his father. Abraham Green.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice measured. “What about him?”
“I was talking to your sister Marion, and she seems to think that—”
“Abe killed her.”
I sit back in my chair. “Yes.” I hadn’t expected her answer.
Zena waves me off with a knowing smile. “Here’s the thing with Marion. She means well, she really does. But she’s got a thing when it comes to Abe. She hates that man. And I mean hates him. Always has.”
I stir the sugar crystals in my tea. “Why is that?”
“You know what?” she says in a tetchy tone. “I have no idea. I suppose to get to the bottom of all that, you’d have to ask her.”
“Do you guys still talk?”
“Oh, sure. We talk. Just not about Abe.” She crosses her legs. “I get where she’s coming from. She thinks no one was ever good enough for our sister; she may be right. But honestly now, the man didn’t go and give her a heart attack, rest her soul.” She shakes her head, slowly and sadly. “None of us can choose when we’re gonna go.”
“That’s true.” I flick my finger against the paper cup, figuring out how to phrase the next question. “What would you say,” I ask, “if I told you his first wife died under mysterious circumstances?”
She leans back in her chair. “And who told you that, Marion?”
“She started the line of inquiry,” I admit. “But Mr. Green said his first wife died of a heart attack as well.”
“Right, I heard that.”
“It turns out…that’s not true. She fell down the stairs, and Abe was the one who found her.” Zena doesn’t say anything
but is hearing me out, warily. “And,” I add, “he then collected a million dollars off her life insurance.”
She looks down at the table. “That does seem kind of funny.” She takes another drink of her coffee. “This all through Marion?”
“Various sources.” In other words, my hacker-barista brother.
She shrugs again, in a cool way. “Truth is, I expect if there were really something to all this, it would have been found out back when it happened.”
“You would think,” I say. Again we sit through silence, though it is a bit more uncomfortable this time. I can tell she doesn’t fully trust me or know what to make of me. And I don’t blame her. “Did you know he’s got a new girlfriend?”
“No,” she says, cradling her cup in her hands. “I didn’t know that.” She frowns. “Of course, the man is entitled. It’s been over a year now.” She gazes out the window at the snow-covered row of shrubs. “We haven’t talked much lately. So it wouldn’t be totally out there.” She puts her drink down then with some finality. “I don’t mean to be rude here, Dr. Goldman.”
“Zoe.”
“Zoe. But what does any of this have to do with you? Or Andre, for that matter?”
I pause, as I can’t tell her about the texts or the burner phone, which I’m convinced is in his briefcase. “I’m not sure if it does. I just want to do right by Andre. And I’m trying to put all the pieces together to help him.”
She nods but appears unconvinced. Then she finishes off her coffee and reaches down for her purse. “Anyway, I appreciate you helping Andre. And believe me, I’ll be out there to visit him when he’s well. And I really should be giving Abe a call, too,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll tell you, Dr. Goldman, I loved my sister. I still do. I think about her every day. But I don’t think Abraham had anything to do with her death. He was always good to her.” Zena pulls a black purse onto her lap. “And besides, he wouldn’t have benefited from her will anyway.”
“No?” I ask, trying not to be overeager, but desperate to grab this bit of information.
“No. She changed it.” She stares out the window again. “Come to think, it was a couple months before she died. She had a big policy, too, she said. But for whatever reason, she wanted to change it. Abe wasn’t the primary beneficiary anymore.” She loops her purse over her shoulder. “She decided to leave everything to Andre.”