Hannah nodded, and then quickly jerked forward to respond. “Yes, that’s right, Sidney. My eldest son actually coined the phrase. Back then, I had just started my home practice, conducting client sessions with my then-eighteen-month-old not five feet away from me in her playpen. She was an excellent baby, really. Most of my patients said that they didn’t mind. For those who did, I had a sitter on call who would watch her there in the house.”
Kip commented, somewhat accusatory, “Fascinating. So in between feedings and diaper changes, you repaired troubled marriages. How did you handle feedings? Did you just whip out a boob when the little munchkin got hungry?”
Hannah was cool and took the hit. “No. Actually, I just stuck to helping to repair shattered hearts, broken homes—inflated egos among many other things.”
Kip paused, clearly waylaid by the implication.
“That is right,” Sidney segued, “Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy is a board certified psychotherapist who offers assistance to anyone in matters of family or personal crisis. She’s here today to tell us about her work at Cuyahoga Falls Community Center as well as about the other youth crisis centers, in particular right here in Cleveland. We’ll be right back to take your calls. So do stay with us. You are listening to The Kip & Sidney Morning Show on WCLK-AM.”
The “ON THE AIR” light extinguished and Kip kicked his stool. Without so much as a word or nod, he headed for the john. Sidney busied herself with her notes, tossing Hannah a placating smile. “You’re doing great, hon. We’ll take a few phone calls, chat a little more, and then I’ll thank you for stopping by, etc. You can leave once we toss to the news.”
The producer hurried by the console, depositing several sheets of copy.
“Use the thirty-second spot on Dawson’s Automotive instead of the spaghetti sauce thing, okay? Oh, and Mrs. Murphy, let’s try to keep the calls down to one minute each. We’re already running a little over. Here we go, folks. This will be ten minutes to the break and then we’re out. Keep it lively!”
Kip was not back in the studio when Sidney signed back on. Hannah watched in amazement as the WCLK crew did their jobs. In a symphony of signals and controlled chaos, Sidney was calm and collected.
“Good morning! It’s six thirty-five in the city, and this is The Kip & Sidney Morning Show on Cleveland’s A.M. Talk Leader—WCLK. We’re visiting with Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy of Cuyahoga Falls, a very unique and unconventional psychotherapist, to say the least whom the locals refer to as, ‘Dr. Mom’ due to her unorthodox method of treating mental health with TLC. Dr. Courtland Murphy delivers real, honest-to-goodness personalized care to her patients, while toting her young toddler along to sessions. This ‘Dr. Mom’ has been known to take in wayward teens from time to time, and has even organized a cookie bake-off in her own kitchen, to help families promote the healing process. What exactly is that all about, Doctor?”
“It’s simple, really. I present an interesting and somewhat challenging activity for the family unit to partake in together, with the aim that they will bond by creating teamwork through the shared activity. Each individual is given separate parts of a cookie recipe, to encourage them to complete the project of, together, baking a perfect batch of cookies. It’s great fun and very interesting to watch. The finished products aren’t so bad, either. Most families are truly able to work through the task beautifully. They get ‘fooled’ into needing one another to achieve the goal. It’s often a breakthrough point for all of them. Lots of sugar and tears.”
“Wow,” Sidney said. “That sounds like a great title for your first book—Sugar and Tears.”
Hannah smiled, which conveyed as a non-response to the radio listeners.
Sidney laughed at her own little joke and threw it to Kip.
Kip had since returned and was prepared to bite into the topic. “One thinks of a psychologist as an old man with a beard perched behind a large mahogany desk. Not so, I guess, in these modern times.”
Hannah relaxed a little, settling into the rhythm of the conversation. But she was not out of the woods yet. She kept imagining an enormous audience of listeners mocking her like Kip had done, or worse yet, waiting for him to make a fool of her again.
“Therapy is not a dirty word,” Hannah began. “And it’s certainly far more attainable than ever before. Everyone needs some good solid advice from time to time, and a way to sort out what innately, they already know.”
“What do you mean by ‘already know’?” Kip asked.
“Most of the solutions to our problems are already given to us by way of moral compass, intuition, if you will—we only really need to dig deep to find it. Or, rely on someone to help us see what is in front of us,” Hannah said.
“Wow—that is deep stuff, Doc,” Kip said, rubbing the stubble on his chin and adjusting his ball cap. “Why don’t we see this in action? Care to field a few calls from our listeners? They’re dying to talk to you. The phones are buzzing like crazy!”
“I’d love to,” Hannah said.
The show concluded after going long, cutting a few minutes into the news, but the producer did not mind. The calls kept streaming in, long after Kip and Sidney signed off for the day, with accolades for the segment. They wanted more—much more—of “Dr. Mom’s special brand of healing.”
Calls and emails poured in over the next several weeks, asking where they could contact “Dr. Hannah,” and when she would be returning to take more calls. In a word, Hannah was a hit. A newfound glory born from less than thirty minutes at a hot mic on a station ranked second among adult listeners ages 25-54. Eastern Ohio was listening.
The station’s general manager, Buford Jones, was just getting up for an early-morning pee when he caught the beginning of Hannah’s segment on the bathroom radio, which he was in the habit of switching on, first thing, each and every morning. He had the sound system wired so that he was able to access and monitor the station from just about any room of the house. He turned the volume up on a speaker mounted on the bathroom wall and sat butt naked on the edge of the commode—and listened.
“Hi, Dr. Hannah—my name is Sue Ann from Medina. I have a grown kid who won’t leave the nest. My son is nearly thirty. He loses every job he gets; he’s always broke, and is always borrowing money from us. What can my husband and I do?”
“You can stop making it easy for him!” Hannah’s reply was clear. “You and your husband are not an ATM!”
“I suppose you’re right . . .” the caller hedged.
“Sue Ann! Wake up—he is a grown man, and by providing an option for him, you are never going to help him feel the need to do better. Time’s up! Push that bird out of the nest. I assure you, he will fly on his own. Next caller, please.”
“Hi, I’m Jason from Cleveland . . . I’m on my second marriage, and I’m having an issue with my ex-wife, who also happens to be my business partner.”
“Your business partner? What kind of business are you still in with your ex-wife?” Hannah said.
“We own a bar together.”
“Yeah, well, Jason, my advice to you would be to extract yourself from that potential minefield. That is, if you want your second marriage to have any chance of surviving. Running a business with a partner is hard enough, without the added drama and history of being former spouses. I urge you to deem last call and get all the way out of that arrangement. Do you and your ex have any children?”
“No, Dr. Hannah.”
“Good. Get a lawyer and move on to your next business venture, perhaps with your current life-partner!”
Hannah was a natural. Buford liked the way she engaged with each caller, building a rapport within the first few seconds, and then diving into the problem at hand. One right after the other—issues with break-ups, finances, health problems, and mid-life crises. Everything from parenting dilemmas to gambling addictions to overeating and compulsive disorders—they just kept coming.
She had polish, was professional and credible. And she had just enough chutzpah to command attention—even if one did not like or agree with the advice she was dispensing. Jones had the sense that she could single-handedly bring a lumberjack to tears. She had to be quick when doling advice, which added to her persona of being a bit hard-nosed. This, he saw as another plus. She was no pushover, that was for sure—and all that would be good for ratings. Radio shrinks with attitude were the next big ticket. He followed the trends, and she was the best he had heard to date.
Jones fastened a towel around his enormous gut and reached for his cell phone. He had to call the show manager, Gregg Linden, right away and ask his opinion on the segment. And more importantly, to find out if Hannah was available for hire.
Dorleen, Jones’s wife of ten years, observed his frantic dance with amusement—bath towel slipping and all—as he ran around the bedroom, riffling through the bureau, tossing socks and underwear in all directions.
“Where are my favorite drawers, baby? The silk ones?”
“What’s the big hurry, sugar? I don’t see any fire.”
“Gotta find that Dr. Hannah woman and sign her on before someone else beats me to it—that’s what!”
Dorleen yawned. “Baby, it’s six thirty in the morning. You don’t have to be down at the office until nine. Come on back to bed.”
She pushed back the covers and stretched languorously, patting his pillow temptingly. Few things mattered as much in life to Buford Jones as making money, but one of them was Dorleen. He hedged.
“Aw, c’mon now, baby. Don’t lie there looking so luscious and all. I got a job to do, woman.”
His young wife smiled wryly, stretching ever so seductively, letting the lace from her camisole show him just what he was missing.
“Go on, then. I ain’t stoppin’ you,” she teased half-convincingly. Her pouty frown positively did him in.
Buford considered the desk clock, his business suit in hand, and the purring vixen beckoning from his bed. Damn. After all, he was not crazy!
Tossing the suit aside with a flourish, he let the towel drop to the floor in a heap, and joined her. “Hell, I guess that the mom-shrink can wait just a little bit longer!”
Chapter 11
Akron, Ohio
1972
Hannah’s middle school years had been mostly filled with books and the occasional stray dog or cat brought home for Robert and Charlotte to help her care for. There was rarely ever an empty birdcage or hamster wheel in the house that wasn’t spinning with some form of rodent living the life of Riley. Hannah most definitely had a soft spot for strays and excelled when giving nurturing love and care to anyone, or anything, who needed her.
In her freshman year, Hannah enrolled at Our Lady of the Elms, an all-girls prep school founded by the Sisters of St. Dominic. By Hannah’s sophomore year, she had taken a part-time job at an animal shelter and, in addition to her studies, volunteered at the local Boys and Girls’ Club as a youth aide tutoring fifth-graders after school. This is where the counseling bug bit her, as she watched with fascination how the seasoned youth advisers worked so effectively with the young people and families who were in various levels of need in the community. One such volunteer was Scarlett, a tall, spirited co-ed who worked in the sports and recreation program. She was an athlete—a star volleyball player with a desire to bring a love of health and fitness to middle school and high school girls too shy to interact in team sports. She ran jazzercise classes to funky Motown tunes that got the girls dancing and jumping, while lifting their spirits. Scarlett wore shiny leotards, colorful headbands, and legwarmers. She counted out each step like a pro. She had a long blonde braid that cascaded down her back, and she looked like a life-sized Barbie doll. Hannah marveled at the way she could connect with a room of sullen, shy girls, quickly transforming them into a fit of giggles and grins once they started moving.
Feeling blessed and somewhat privileged caused Hannah to want to do more to help others herself. It simply was how she was wired. Everyone had his or her own special style. She was determined to find her own.
While the world around her was watching the demonstrations in Washington DC, against the Vietnam War, lamenting the breakup of The Beatles and following the Apollo 13 Mission to nowhere, Hannah was working hard at her studies and hoping to maintain a solid grade point average that would get her into Vanderbilt.
High school brought new challenges and with them, opportunities for Hannah to shine both in her studies, as well as her extra-curricular endeavors. She joined every club she could her junior and senior year, including the yearbook committee, so that she could interview fellow students and have a say as to how their precious high school memories would be forever documented in the yearbook annuals for years to come. One of her favorite tasks was interviewing campus celebrities for the articles. That’s how she met her best friend, Keira Clark, who was the star vocalist in all of the school plays and all-around most popular girl in the graduating class. Half of the layouts in the yearbook’s arts section featured Keira commanding the stage with her stellar voice cast in musicals and headlining talent showcase nights. What Keira lacked in academics, she had in spades in the looks and personality department. A beautiful All-American teen with long brown hair, thoroughbred legs, and a pageant smile, Keira had a penchant for attention—and drama. She had abysmal grades, but sang like an angel, starring in every school production from Grease to Godspell.
Keira kept her then-new best friend, Hannah, busy policing her every move and rescuing her from disastrous dates, looming deadlines, and bad decisions, more often than not. Hannah didn’t mind. She was happy to hang out with her spirited friend and more or less live vicariously through her exploits. The two balanced each other out, as they were so opposite in every way. Hannah was practical and pretty, and Keira was Hannah’s ticket into the world of the “popular crowd,” even if only by association. The two friends and were thick as thieves all the way through senior year. So, it was no surprise that they decided that they would double date to the prom.
Hannah agreed to go with the first boy who had asked her to accompany him from St. Vincent’s, which was the all-boys brother school to Our Land of the Elms. Marty Paige was a quiet type, whom she had known from church and choir from the middle school years, who had emerged from puberty with a deeper voice and a decent car. She had figured that he was a safe bet as a platonic escort that with little incident, would get her home in one piece with fairly pleasant prom-night memories for her journal. Keira, on the other hand, went big with the formidable choice of asking an older boy—and former graduate of the local public school—to accompany her. They would be arriving at the event on the back of his Honda motorcycle.
“We’ll meet up there, okay, Hannah?” Keira said at the bus stop, pulling a Winston from her suede-fringed purse, jingling a wristful of Janice Joplin bracelets. She was always so chic and colorful.
“Really?” Hannah said. “I thought the idea was that we were going to go together—as two couples.”
“Relax—it will be fine. That way, you will be able to leave when you’re ready. I am planning on partying till dawn, and I know that’s not you’re style.”
If it had been up to Hannah, she would not even go to the prom. A bag of popcorn and a good movie would have been more her idea of a pleasant Friday night. She had heard that, What’s Up, Doc? was playing at the Main Street Movie Theater. What was better than Streisand?
“It’s gonna be a blast, Hannah. I promise. I’ll call you tonight, and we’ll go over what we are going to wear, and all that, okay? I gotta catch this bus.”
Hannah sighed and smiled. The war might have been ending in Vietnam, but the likes of Miss Keira Clark—and the class of 1972—would soon be unleashed on the world.
Hannah never made it to the prom. She spent most of the evening holding Keira’s gorgeous hair back as she hurled i
nto the toilet in the girls’ restroom. A Quaalude cocktail compliments of her stoner date rendered Keira nearly comatose not one hour into the festivities. Such a waste of energy, Hannah thought as she sat with her friend on the cold tile floor, keeping her opinions to herself. What would it matter? Hadn’t Keira suffered enough already? The prom would commence without them, floating on the edge of teen angst mixing with the rhythms of Led Zeppelin’s haunting, anthem, “Stairway to Heaven” drifting up into the rafters of the gymnasium. Hannah steadied herself for what was going to be a long night.
Chapter 12
Cuyahoga Falls
2003
Nighttime was the hardest. Like a dream, one day flowed into the next, but then she worried. What about the children? Wouldn’t they be missing her and wondering where she’d gone? And what about her own mother? Then, as soon as one nagging thought would arise, another floated in to take its place.
The water boiling on the stove—had she remembered to turn off the flame?
What about the man in the flannel shirt? When would he back? She liked him so. He smelled like cedar chips and musk.
She noticed a shadow on the wall. It flickered like an angel dancing in the moonlight. Now that would do.
And with the humming of its wings, she was lost to sleep.
Chapter 13
2003
Hannah was knee-deep in alligators when she got the call. The house was in chaos. With the washing machine being on the fritz, piles of dirty clothes were strewn in a path leading to a larger heap in the center of the laundry room. She stepped over a stray sneaker and bemoaned, “Seriously? Broderick—hurry up, or you’ll be late for class!”
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