Terminal Therapy

by Daniel Reinharth

  My father was standing at my mother's side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. My mother sat stiffly in her wheelchair, her back unfortunately not molded to the chair's contours. I recognized her act. She was showing my father how comfortable she felt.

  Doctors fear hospitals because unforgettably sad things happen in them. Patients fear hospitals because they're mysterious netherworlds, where venomous diseases with unspeakable names lurk, leaping out and attacking them when they're most vulnerable.

  I couldn't rescue my mother from reality, but I could assuage her stranger-in-a-strange-hospital sensation. I approached and spoke. “Good morning, Mom. Hi, Dad.”

  “David!” my father exclaimed. He gave me an unexpected hug.

  My mother beamed. “Thank you for coming, cheri.” Her voice was just above a whisper.

  I asked for an update on her status, but there was nothing new. Our ensuing silence underlined our disinterest in small talk.

  “You should go,” my mother said.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I can stay.” Although I really couldn’t.

  “Paula needs you.”

  “But not like you,” I said.

  “I appreciate it, cheri. But there’s really nothing you can do.”

  I looked away for a moment. The truth of her statement was a dagger in my heart.

  I tried to rationalize my departure. For all of our sakes. “Paula and I are still working on the Singer investigation.” Which was truly at a critical juncture. I almost mentioned the shot someone had taken at us, but didn’t want to inflict any more worries. “But I promise to return later. And I'll drop everything if you need me.”

  My father patted my back. “Don't worry, David. We're all right. And we know we can count on you.”

  We exchanged kisses and I left. While driving back to the hotel I tried to erase the image of my parents' crestfallen faces, which I'd glimpsed an instant before my back was turned.

  #

  I arrived back at the breakfast room at 8:15 AM. Paula was sitting at a table with several other people, chatting and eating. When I walked in she waved her hand, finished chewing her nut-packed yogurt, excused herself, and came to meet me. “Hi, David. Why don't you grab some breakfast? Then we'll go sit out there around the pool. Just the two of us.”

  I took orange juice and a chocolate chip muffin. We walked out of the room, to an empty table at the far end of the pool. I ate my breakfast while she sipped coffee.

  “Any word about your mother?” she asked.

  “I was over at the hospital this morning”--her eyebrows went up--“but there's no news. She was waiting to do her CT scan. I'll go back later.”

  “I'll go with you.”

  “OK,” I said. “Are you ready to give your talk?”

  “I hope so. I didn't sleep well.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I kept thinking about your mother. And when I wasn’t doing that I obsessed about my career. Whatever that is. Will I ever finish my Ph.D.? Will I pass my licensing exam? What will I do after that?”

  I recognized Paula's self-sabotaging pattern. Her questions were legitimate, but had resurfaced at that precise moment for a reason. They were a barrier, an excuse to not focus on the task at hand. “I hope it wasn't Rafy's stupid remarks that started all this thinking,” I said.

  “Well, maybe. But I've had these thoughts before-”

  “And I've told you before to stop thinking in such global, grandiose ways. Don't worry about your whole career. Just worry about your next talk, your next test, your next paper. It's not like everyone else, or even anyone else, has a whole career plan mapped out.”

  “You certainly seem to.”

  “Seem is the right word,” I said. “In retrospect, my path has been easy in the sense of one step following logically after the other. I admit that. Hard work, but no big unknowns.”

  “Which is exactly my problem. I'm smart and talented, I think. I'm a hard worker, too-”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Can you help to direct me, just as you direct your own career?” she asked.

  “No, I can't.” Paula's expression tightened. I hastened to add: “I mean, probably not. What do I know about the path to becoming a psychologist? But even if I could direct you, it wouldn't be the right thing to do. You have to follow your own path, your own heart.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Another pause. She looked away from me. I didn't like that look. “We're so different,” she sighed.

  “I don't know about that. We're different in this way. But we're alike, very alike, in other ways. Our values-”

  “The thing is, I resent this part of you. It's so easy for you.”

  “You're wrong. It's never easy.”

  “Well, you certainly don't suffer as much as I do.”

  “And you resent me because I don't suffer enough?”

  “How can you possibly understand me when we're so different?”

  “I think I can.”

  “Well, I don't. And I need that.”

  My constricting feeling was back. Mingled tastes of muffin and orange juice turned acidic and rose into my throat. I wanted to shake her, no, place my hand over her mouth to stop her from talking. Instead, like a lemming, I asked: “What are you saying?”

  “I'm saying that I think we should break up.” She turned to me, and I turned away, my jaw set. “We keep going back and forth,” she continued. “But it always comes back to this. My struggles are my own, but I don’t always feel as though you’re there to help.”

  I turned back to face her, furious. “You want to throw away everything we have together because of one issue? It makes no sense. We have so much in common. We're so good together in so many ways.”

  “Shush, David.” She motioned down with her palm. “You're shouting.”

  She was right about that. But only that. As I simmered down I remembered one of the lessons I'd learned from our previous break-ups. I couldn't argue myself out of such situations.

  “There’s your passivity thing, too,” Paula added.

  “But what do you feel?” I asked, ignoring her last point. And trying to argue my way back in.

  “I don't know,” she said.

  “You don't know? You don't know if you love me? I damn well know how I feel.” I felt my anger and my voice volume re-crescendoing. “Sorry.”

  “Of course I care about you. But that's not the point.”

  “How can you say that?”

  She stood up. “I can't go on with this now. I have my talk to give in an hour. We'll talk again later.”

  As she left a bit of irony struck me. My wishes for Paula to be more decisive, and for the two of us to finally discuss our issues, had been granted.

  I was glad to be alone. It was time for intellectualizing, my preferred coping strategy. Analyzing and planning usually calm me down, give me hope...even if they’re just denial in disguise. And speaking of denial, I seized the straw that the timing of the break-up fit Paula’s self-sabotaging pattern.

  But I knew in my heart that this situation required a different approach. Intellectualizing wouldn't solve our problems. I had to really deal with what Paula had told me. But I couldn’t. At least not yet. I stared at the far wall, my mind a blank.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  I roused myself from my stupor and walked into the conference room. The first talk was in progress. I slipped into a back row seat, neither knowing nor caring how much I'd missed. I barely noticed when the first speaker finished, and Paula was introduced and began to talk. I'd planned to savor her every word, but I was too numb. I didn't notice that her talk was over until she appeared at my side and tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Come, David. It's break time.”

  I didn't respond, and she disappeared. I think she was carried off on the shoulders of her admirers.

  I was a bit more awake by the end of the break, when the attendees returned to their seats. Paula sat next to me. “Hi, David.”
r />   “Hi, Paula. Nice talk.”

  “Thanks.” She covered my hand with hers. “I’m sorry I hurt you earlier,” she said. “There was no easy way to do it.” I turned away and nodded. She squeezed my hand, then withdrew hers.

  I thought I was listening to the last two talks of the day. But when they were over I couldn't have told anyone what they were about or who delivered them. Paula was still sitting in the next seat. As the attendees filed out many congratulated her for a great talk. She smiled and thanked them as if she'd been a politician all her life. Somewhere deep inside I exulted for her, and was proud of her. She deserved it. But then again, I had feelings, too.

  “Lunch, David?” She was smiling, glowing from her success. Which annoyed me further.

  “I'm not hungry.”

  “Come on. You have to eat.”

  “Really?”

  She turned to face me, her expression sympathetic. “David. I do understand that you’re upset. But don’t worry. Things will work out for the best. I still love you, you know.”

  As she spoke I wondered: why wasn’t she as upset as I was about our break-up? Hope flickered. In spite of her rejection of me, deep inside she didn’t believe it either.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, “there’s work to do. If you’re not up to doing anything right now please just say so. I'll get my own lunch, and do my own investigating.”

  I took a deep breath. “You’re right. I'm not in a good mood, and I’m not hungry. I’m sorry. But I do want to get back to my mother, and we do have a lot of investigating to do. So lunch is next. But let’s make it as fast as possible.”

  “That's fine.”

  “How about if we take out lunch from the hotel restaurant, and eat it on the way to the hospital?”

  “OK again. Give me a minute to go back to my room, to dump my papers. I'll meet you at the restaurant.”

  When we re-met inside the restaurant, I ordered a small tuna hero and Paula chose a cod sandwich. Both were handed to us, neatly packaged in plastic wrap. We ate in the car while I drove. I had to admit that I felt better with some nourishment in me. When I was done I crumpled the plastic wrap and shoved it into my pocket for later disposal. Unlike smokers who toss cigarette butts out car windows, I don't consider the world my ashtray.

  I had a sudden urge to touch Paula--and I don't mean her hand. As I drove I sneaked side-looks at her, her dark shapely eyelashes, her mouth as she finished her last chew, tongue cleaning her lips, her soft curves and perfectly-contoured legs. I knew what her body felt like against mine, and I wanted to...the kinesthetic sensation was overwhelming. So near, and yet...

  “Have you thought about suspects?” I asked. Anything to change my train of thought.

  “Not really.” She seemed oblivious to my frame of mind, but from past experience that seemed unlikely. I wondered if she derived any pleasure from seizing control of our relationship. Break-ups, like murders, suicides, and rapes, are often acts of power. And/or anger.

  “I just noticed,” I said. “You don't seem to be in pain anymore.”

  She twisted in her seat. “Ow. It still hurts. It's just that...” Her mind had been distracted by her successful talk and gratifying aftermath. She’d been thoughtful enough not to flaunt it in my face.

  “Anyway,” I said. “I have thought about it.”

  “What?”

  “The suspects.”

  “Oh,” Paula said. “So?”

  “So if you remember, we agreed that it was probably an inside job. Something planned ahead by someone who knew people and schedules.”

  “Right.”

  “So if you think about it, there are really only three relevant insiders. Tracey, Judith, and Mitchell.”

  “How about Stephanie?” Paula asked.

  “Hmm. Good point. I guess I still don't take her seriously as a suspect. And I should. So she's our fourth.” Interesting, I thought. Three women and only one man. Surely men commit the vast majority of murders. Must say something about whom Jonathan Singer spent most of his time with. “Now, if you want to exclude Mitchell...you do, don't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I still have an open mind about him. Although he couldn’t have been the one who shot at us. But if we exclude him, it leaves only Judith and Tracey. And Stephanie. It's really a small list of leading suspects.”

  “Unless someone else did it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  That sure was helpful. It reminded me of what Paula sometimes does when we pick a movie or restaurant together. We narrow down the list of possibilities--and then at the last minute she re-opens the list.

  “I know,” I said. “We do have to keep that possibility alive, just in case. But for now, let's assume that our reasoning is correct. Judith, Tracey, or Stephanie?”

  “I don't know. What do you think?”

  Now I was getting annoyed. Was she going to participate at all? But then I noticed that her eyes were misty. I’d wallowed so much in my despair that I'd forgotten hers.

  She continued. “They all fit our criteria. Insiders, on the boat at the right time, strong enough to throw Dr. Singer overboard. But which one did it I don't know. It's hard for me to think right now.”

  “I understand,” I said. “We’re both doing our best…” Paula bit her lip and nodded.

  “Let me tell you the thoughts I had before you threw Stephanie back into the picture,” I said. “I came up with three factors which distinguish Judith from Tracey. Judith wasn't at the gym when you broke your rib. Judith seems to have lied about the e-mails between the Singers. And Tracey wasn't at the hospital when someone took a shot at us.”

  “How do you know that Tracey wasn't at the hospital?”

  “We didn't see her,” I said. “Of course, we didn't see Judith there, either, but-”

  “But at least she was on the scene shortly before we arrived-”

  “According to Stephanie.” Paula opened her mouth, but I anticipated her. “I know,” I said. “Stephanie could have lied. But why would she do that?”

  I wasn't sure that Paula and I were making any progress, but our constructive conversation was improving my mood.

  “Great work, Paula,” I said. “One thing we are sure about. Judith wasn't at the gym. That's a fact. Unless, of course, she was disguised as Rafy.”

  “Da-vid.” She almost smiled. I never know when my silly humor will work.

  “So Judith wasn't at the gym. But Tracey could've been at the hospital without our knowledge. It's not a great analysis, but at least it's something to think about.” I waited for Paula to opine, but she just stared ahead.

  “I'm not sure how,” I continued, “but we can try to figure out who's telling the truth about the e-mails later. Best of all would be if Jonathan Singer named his killer on his dicta-pen. If we find it, of course.”

  “Do we know anything about his will?” Paula asked.

  “Good question! That might supply a motive. We can ask Lieutenant Hansen when we see him.”

  When Paula didn't speak I added: “Another thing that's worrying me is that we're running out of time to investigate. The conference ends tomorrow.”

  “I know that, too. But there's no point dwelling on it. We'll deal with it when the time comes.” Scarlett O'Hara to the rescue.

  #

  When I drove into the hospital parking lot I made sure to find a spot in front of the entrance. I doubted that the murderer would attack us again in daylight. Still, the company of other parked cars and the proximity to hospital security was reassuring.

  Paula and I arrived at my mother's room shortly after 1 PM. She was standing at her bedside, dressed in civilian clothes, shoving something into a satchel. My father was standing at the window, a similar bag slung over his shoulder, watching my mother. His face displayed one contorted expression after another, concern to sadness to impatience. I thought I caught my mother whistling. They looked up and saw us.

  “Going home?” I asked. The great detective.


  “Yes. Isn't it wonderful?” my mother answered. She went to Paula and hugged her. “It's so good to see you.”

  My father and I exchanged a brief hug as well. When we all separated I asked my mother: “What did the CT scan show?”

  “Oh, that.” She looked at my father. Paula and I looked at him, too.

  He shook his head. “Not good.” I felt the hope I'd been clinging to ebb away.

  “Don't put it that way,” my mother said. “The CT scan confirmed that there is a mass, probably cancer of the ovary.”

  “But still not definite,” my father said.

  My mother had no problem being blunt about the truth. Her every word was a nail.

  “So why are you going home?” Paula asked.

  “I'm feeling much better. No reason any more for me to stay.”

  I knew what the other reason was. “You're going to Sloan Kettering next?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  “Yes.” My mother’s answer was straight, with no attempt at forced cheerfulness. My father squeezed her arm.

  When I looked at Paula she seemed so pale I feared she might faint. I knew that my mother’s cancer scare and hospital choice were reviving memories of her own childhood.

  My mother’s action preempted mine. She approached Paula and grasped her hands. “As you well know,” she said, “going to Sloan doesn’t have to mean the worst.”

  Paula looked and nodded, then looked away. I didn’t know which of the two women to support first, so I tried pragmatism--what a shock. “It looks like we all agree that going to Sloan is the best next step,” I said. “Have you made arrangements?”

  The two women separated. Paula’s color was returning. They seemed to appreciate, for a change, my steering us away from emotionality.

  “Yes,” my mother said. “After yesterday's sonogram the CT result was no surprise. Your father and I discussed what to do ahead of time.”

  She looked at him and he nodded. Even I could read his “please, you do all the talking” expression.