Unbearable …
The word took Nikki back.
It was only a year ago, but it felt like a lifetime.
Doug was smiling at her across the table at Luigi’s, wolfing down his spaghetti vongole as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, talking at a million miles an hour, the way he always did when the two of them were together.
‘“It’s unbearable.” What do people even mean when they say that?’ Doug asked Nikki. ‘My patients say it to me all the time: “It’s unbearable, Doc. I can’t bear it.” As if they have any alternative.’
Nikki and Doug Roberts had been married for seven years and together for almost three times that long. But the thrill of each other’s company, of talking and sharing ideas and feelings and experiences, never faded. No lunch date with Doug was ever dull.
‘I guess they’re speaking metaphorically,’ Nikki observed, toying with her own crab salad. Luigi’s food was delicious, but even the salads were rich. Doug might be incapable of gaining weight, but since she turned thirty-eight Nikki found increasingly that she had to watch her figure. There was nothing worse than thinking you might be pregnant at long last, only to realize that your rounded belly was actually ugly, middle-aged fat.
‘They mean that they don’t want to bear it. It hurts. Don’t forget, these are desperate addicts we’re talking about.’
‘You’re right.’ Doug nodded, slurping down the last of his pasta before reaching for the bread basket. ‘I guess I just get frustrated sometimes. Because, at the end of the day, it really is that black and white. Do you want to get better or not? Do you want to die or not? That’s it. That’s the choice.’
To an outsider, Doug Roberts might sound compassionless toward his junkie patients, but Nikki knew that he was anything but. He’d raced to meet her for lunch today directly from the latest meth and opioid clinic he was busy setting up in Venice with his good friend from med school, Haddon Defoe. Helping LA’s most hardened, most helpless addicts had become Doug Roberts’ passion, his life’s work.
‘Anyway, enough about me.’ He looked at Nikki lovingly. ‘How’s your morning been, sweetheart? Did you do another test?’
‘Not yet.’ Nikki looked down shyly at her half-eaten food. ‘Maybe tonight.’
‘Why not now?’ asked Doug.
‘Because. If it’s negative and I feel shitty, it might distract me from my afternoon clients,’ said Nikki.
Doug reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘It could be positive, honey. No reason why it shouldn’t be.’
‘Yup,’ Nikki forced a smile. ‘No reason.’
Except that the last six times we tried, it was negative. And with every month that passes my eggs are getting older and more worn out. And some cruel god out there, some malicious force beyond our control, seems to have decided that we’ll never become parents.
She and Doug had everything else, after all. A wonderful, loving marriage. Wealth. Status. Meaningful, rewarding careers. Great friends. Great family. In what alternate universe did they deserve children, as well as all that?
‘I love you, Nik,’ Doug said softly.
‘I love you, too.’
‘It’ll happen. We still have time. So much time.’
That’s right, thought Nikki. We still have time.
‘Dr Roberts?’ Carter Berkeley sounded irritated. ‘Were you even listening to me?’
‘Of course.’ Nikki dutifully repeated everything her client had just said. She’d long ago learned the knack of ‘surface listening’, using one’s brain to multitask, in this case memorizing Carter’s words whilst actively focusing on something else entirely. It was a trick Doug had taught her.
Why did everything seem to come back to Doug?
‘Now, as we’re almost out of time, I suggest we finish up with a mindfulness exercise,’ Nikki told Carter, deftly regaining control of the session. ‘If you don’t mind putting your feet flat on the floor …’
Once Carter Berkeley had left, Nikki wandered out into the lobby.
Trey Raymond, her PA, office manager and general right-hand man, was busy updating patient files. Not that there was much to update any more. Since Doug’s death, patients had been deserting Nikki’s practice like flies. Perhaps they thought her grief was contagious. Or that her loss might make her less focused, less effective as a therapist. Perhaps they were right about that. Whatever the reason, Nikki now only had four regular clients, down from almost twenty a year ago.
Inevitably, her final four were the most desperate, the ones who simply couldn’t let go.
Carter Berkeley, the paranoid banker, who came once a week.
Lisa Flannagan, the deluded mistress, who typically came twice a week.
Anne Bateman, the insecure violinist, who was Nikki’s most frequent flier, coming to therapy almost daily. Therapeutically, this was overkill, but like many people Nikki found she had a tough time saying no to the young and beautiful Anne. In fact it worried Nikki quite how often she thought about Anne, and how important her patient was becoming to her.
And finally there was Lana Grey, the actress, who regularly failed to pay Nikki’s bills on time, or even at all. Poor lost Lana. Once a mid-level TV star, she was washed up now and borderline bankrupt.
‘Lana ain’t your client,’ Trey would tell Nikki, repeatedly. ‘Clients pay. She’s your charity case. Your lost cause.’
‘Oh really? My lost cause.’ Nikki would smile. ‘And what does that make you, I wonder?’
‘Me?’ Trey would grin. ‘Oh, I’m the patron saint of lost causes. But you can’t get rid of me, Doc. I jus’ keep on coming back, like a bad penny.’
To which Nikki would reply that she didn’t want to get rid of him. That she didn’t know how she would manage without him. Both of which were true, but not because she needed an office manager. The reality was that Trey Raymond was a last link to her husband. Doug had helped Trey, picked him up off the streets and turned his life around. He’d done the same for countless others over the years. But for some reason Trey was different. Doug had loved him like a son.
The son I was never able to give him …
Trey shot Nikki a sidelong glance now, as he finished his filing. ‘You headin’ home, Doc?’
‘I was going to.’ Nikki hesitated, casting around for reasons to stay. ‘Do you need me for anything?’
‘Nope.’ The young man beamed, strong white teeth lighting up his ebony complexion. ‘I got this covered.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m positive,’ said Trey. ‘I’ll call you if anything comes up.’
Outside on the street, Nikki squinted. The sun was blinding, blasting out of the clear blue California sky with a vengeance after yesterday’s unexpected rain.
Nikki used to love the rain but now she hated it. It reminded her of Doug, of the anguish and misery and rage – God, the rage! – that could never be washed away. She imagined the wheels of his Tesla, slick and slipping across the freeway. His panic as he hurtled towards the lights of the oncoming traffic. Nikki imagined Doug’s foot stamping frantically on a useless brake pedal. Did he scream? I hope he screamed.
Up until that day, as far as Nikki knew, she and Doug had been happy in their marriage. Blissfully happy.
Clearly she was mistaken. That was the day it had all unraveled. All the smoke and mirrors had fallen away, and she was left staring at the raw truth. The ugly truth.
And now Doug was dead and she was alone, her life a never-ending nightmare of unanswered questions and ‘what ifs’. Until the accident, Nikki wouldn’t have believed it possible to love someone so much, miss them so much and hate them so much, all at the same time. But here she was, drowning in all three emotions, fighting simply to make it through the day.
She’d found solace in her work, to a degree. But sometimes, like Doug with his addicts, Nikki found herself so frustrated with her patients she wanted to pick them up by the scruff of the neck and shake them, like a terrier with a rat.
Get ove
r it, for God’s sake.
STOP WHINING!
She never used to be that way. Intolerant. Superior. Judgmental.
Grief had changed her.
Lisa Flannagan was a case in point. Nikki didn’t approve of Lisa. Of her life, her choices. On the plus side, unlike Carter Berkeley, Lisa did at least sincerely want to change. Although, again unlike Carter, she was so stupid, so profoundly intellectually giftless, that getting her to see even the most simple correlation between her behaviors, thoughts and emotions was like trying to teach a swamp rat calculus. Was it frustration that had made Nikki so depressed after last night’s session with Lisa? Or something else? Maybe it was envy. Envy at Lisa’s positive outlook. Her happiness, her hope for the future. Hope was something that Nikki Roberts no longer possessed, in any area of her life. After last night’s session she’d driven out into the rainy alley, so upset she’d had to stop the car to compose herself. Then she’d gone home, finished an entire bottle of wine alone (a nightly occurrence these days) and collapsed into bed, too drained even to cry. To her amazement, she slept deeply and well, not waking until almost nine this morning, feeling nauseous but more rested than she had in months.
The sleep had done wonders for her mood, carrying her through the morning on a mini wave of euphoria, right up until her trying session with Carter Berkeley. That had brought her down again. But now it was over, she made an effort to recapture her earlier good spirits.
Arriving home, she kicked off her shoes and turned on the TV news before running upstairs to change. Pathetic as it was, Nikki found that background noise from the television or radio made her feel less lonely, especially in the evenings. Up in the master bedroom it was off with the professional psychologist’s clothes – skirt, pumps, silk jacket – and on with the shorts and sneakers. This evening, Nikki decided, she would run on the beach. She hadn’t done that in forever, not since long before Doug’s accident. Back then, in another life, running beside the ocean used to make her feel happy. Free. Blessed. She didn’t expect any of those feelings today. That would be too much to ask. But getting out and moving had to be better than moping around the house. After all, if Lobotomized-Lisa Flannagan could take a step forward in her pampered, self-centered life, so could she.
The newscaster’s voice droned on in the background as Nikki came back downstairs. She half tuned in.
‘A young woman’s body was found this afternoon, partially hidden in undergrowth close to the 10 freeway,’ the anchor was saying. ‘Initial reports suggest that the victim, a white woman in her late twenties, was stabbed multiple times, possibly even tortured.’
Was it Nikki’s imagination, or did the newscaster seem to be lingering over the gruesome details?
‘According to police, the injuries to the victim’s face are so severe that no formal identification has yet been made.’
Nikki winced and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. Christ. There are some psychos out there.
‘Sports news now, and in a major setback for the LA Rams …’
Nikki tuned out. Opening the door, she ran out into the still bright evening light.
She’d almost reached Sunset Boulevard when her phone rang. She stopped and answered, panting.
‘Hello?’
It was Trey. He was crying, sobbing so violently it was hard to make out his words. Nikki slipped into doctor mode.
‘Try to breathe, honey. Slow it down.’
Two long, rasping breaths shuddered down the line.
‘Good,’ said Nikki. ‘Now can you tell me what’s happened?’
‘Lisa!’ Trey blurted. ‘Lisa Flannagan.’
Trey had always had a soft spot for Lisa. Nikki could tell. The way he stared at her when she walked down the hall to the restroom, the shy smile he gave every time she came to his desk to pay for a session.
‘What about Lisa?’ Nikki asked kindly. ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure it can’t be that bad, Trey.’
‘She’s dead!’ Trey sobbed.
A low ringing had started in Nikki’s ears. She watched the traffic crawl past her as if in a dream.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean she’s dead. Murdered!’ Trey started to weep uncontrollably. ‘I heard it on the news.’
Nikki’s knees buckled beneath her. She’d seen Lisa yesterday, alive and well and full of plans for her future. This couldn’t be right. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m positive. Oh God, Doc, it’s awful. Some sicko cut her to pieces! Dumped her by the side of the freeway.’
Nikki gasped. The news report she’d heard earlier! About the young woman dumped off the 10. That was Lisa?
‘Dr Roberts? Dr Roberts, are you still there?’
Trey’s voice whined out of her earpiece but Nikki didn’t answer.
Guilt crept over her like a spider. While she’d been envying Lisa’s hope and youth, while she’d been judging her, Lisa had been … Oh God.
She tried not to think about it, but the horrifying images crowding into Nikki’s brain wouldn’t stop.
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Trey,’ she rasped, and hung up.
A new nightmare had begun.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘We’re looking for Dr Roberts. Dr Nicola Roberts. Now it’s a simple question, son. Is she here or isn’t she?’
The two cops hovered menacingly in front of Trey Raymond’s desk. At least, it felt menacing to Trey. Then again, they were cops, and Trey was black and a former meth-dealer from Westmont, South LA’s ‘Death Alley’, so the three men weren’t ever going to be friends.
‘She’s with a patient right now.’
One of the cops, the shorter, fatter, older one with big, wet, larva-like white lips, regarded Trey with unadulterated contempt.
‘In there?’ he asked, nodding towards Nikki’s office door.
He wasn’t wearing uniform and he hadn’t showed Trey his badge. Neither of them had, for that matter. But he spoke with the innate, entitled authority of a police officer. It didn’t occur to Trey to question him.
‘Yes, in there,’ Trey confirmed. ‘But like I said, Dr Roberts is with a patient. She can’t be disturbed while she’s in session.’
‘Is that a fact?’ The fat cop smiled unpleasantly, moving towards the door.
‘Leave it, Mick.’ His taller, younger, more attractive partner put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘We can wait.’
‘Wait?’ Larva Lips looked furious, but his partner ignored him, smiling at Trey and taking a seat on the Italian leather couch in the waiting room. Picking up a copy of Psychology Today, he asked casually: ‘It’s fifty minutes, right? A therapy session? I remember from when my wife left me.’
‘Which one?’ Larva Lips snarled, obviously not best pleased to have been ‘reined in’ in front of Trey.
‘All of them,’ his partner grinned. ‘I was a wreck every time.’
Larva Lips didn’t smile back but sat down, lowering his ample backside into an armchair where he simmered belligerently. Trey had encountered scores of LAPD like him growing up: knee-jerk racists, Blue Lives Matter assholes who shot first and thought later. Or not. Dude might as well have had a swastika tattooed on his forehead, so obvious were his prejudices. For all Trey knew, his partner might be every bit as rotten inside, but he was better educated and he hid it better. Maybe he thought he’d get more out of Dr Roberts if he played nice with her office staff?
Trey Raymond figured he’d learned a lot, working in a psychologist’s office.
‘How much longer?’ Larva Lips demanded, glaring at the clock on the wall as if it were to blame for his impatience.
‘The session ends in fifteen minutes,’ said Trey. He assumed the police were here to ask about Lisa, which only made him feel worse. The thought of these bozos, picking through Lisa’s private life like vultures pecking at a carcass, made him feel sick.
Trey had seen a lot of death growing up. A lot of murder too, but that was different. That was shootings, gang violence, and where Trey
grew up that was a fact of life. Sad, for sure. But not shocking.
Not like this. Lisa wasn’t part of that world. She was white and rich and beautiful, part of a white, rich, beautiful world where shit like this didn’t happen. Dr Roberts came from the same world. Trey didn’t, but he’d been invited in by Dr Roberts’ husband, Doug, before he died. More than invited. Welcomed. Like a son.
These son-of-a-bitch cops had no business here, bringing their dark world into this bright one.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Trey offered the politer officer.
‘I’m fine thanks.’
‘You can get me a Coke,’ the fat one replied, without looking up from his phone. An unspoken ‘boy’ hung in the air.
Beneath the desk, Trey’s fists clenched. He longed to refuse, to tell the man they were all out, sorry. But a deep-rooted survival instinct kicked in. Don’t mess with cops. Not to their face, anyway.
Inside Nikki’s office, Anne Bateman recrossed her slender legs beneath her long linen skirt. All her movements were so graceful, so thoughtful and composed. Like a ballet dancer, thought Nikki admiringly. Only last night Nikki had dreamed about Anne again, dreams that were not overtly erotic but that certainly had something obsessional about them, something voyeuristic. Perhaps being a virtuoso violinist isn’t so dissimilar to being a ballerina? Nikki thought. Whatever the reason, Anne appeared to dance through life to the tune of some inner music, some rhapsody of her own creation.
‘She was your patient, wasn’t she? Like me,’ Anne asked.
‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ Nikki said gently.
Like everybody else, Anne had seen the grisly reports of Lisa Flannagan’s murder on the TV news. She’d been distressed by them, and understandably wanted to talk.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she said quietly, staring down at her lap. ‘I know. I’ve passed her in the corridor a hundred times. Poor woman.’
‘Yes,’ said Nikki. She felt bad herself. Lisa had been so full of hope in their final session together, so focused on her future. A future that, as it turned out, didn’t exist.
Sidney Sheldon's the Silent Widow Page 3