You've Been Warned

“Oh, shit,” he interrupts, sounding rushed. “Penley’s heading back this way. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”

There’s no time to respond.

He’s gone.

I hang up as if in slow-motion. It’s hard to put the feeling into words. Empty? Numb?

Still alone?

Usually, just the thought of being with Michael makes everything better. No longer. At least not today. Because tomorrow isn’t soon enough for me.

Right away, I pick up the phone again.

There’s somebody else I need to call.

Actually, this should have been my first call.

Chapter 34

“THANK YOU FOR SEEING me on such short notice, Dr. Corey.”

I watch as my ex-therapist slowly—and I mean slowly—fills his pipe with tobacco from a plastic bag. I swear, glaciers move faster.

But it’s okay. I’m going to get some help.

“To be honest, Kristin,” he says, his eyes fixed on his pipe, “I’m not particularly happy about this appointment. However, given the way you sounded on the phone, the sheer desperation in your voice, I felt a professional obligation to see you. So here we are. What can I do for you?”

Gee, Doc, that really makes me feel welcome.

Still, it’s okay. I’m lucky he was able to make time for me.

A few Manhattan psychiatrists keep weekend hours, and Dr. Michael Roy Corey is one of them—at least during the spring, summer, and fall. That’s when he works Saturdays so he can take Mondays off to play golf at some public course near his house in Briarcliff Manor.

“No crowds on the course and my pick of tee times,” he once explained to me. That was about a year and a half ago, when he first became my therapist. Six months later, I stopped seeing him. I thought I’d worked out my issues.

Not that I could see these new ones coming.

I lean back into his familiar gray leather couch and describe some of the events of the past few days, culminating with spotting my dead father this morning. Dr. Corey listens while puffing away, not saying a word.

When I finish, I stare at him with expectant, hopeful eyes. Let the healing begin!

“Are you absolutely sure that’s your father in the photographs?” he asks, tugging at a fold in a salt-and-pepper sweater vest that almost perfectly matches his hair.

“As sure as I can be,” I reply.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Kristin?”

There’s a slight edge in his voice. Impatience, perhaps? Skepticism?

“It means I’m almost positive it was him.”

“Almost positive, as in, it could’ve been someone who looked a lot like him.”

“I considered that. But he spoke to me. And then why did he run?”

“Any number of reasons,” he answers. “Maybe the man you saw didn’t want to be photographed. I don’t know; maybe he’s wanted by the police. Maybe he’s impaired.”

I shake my head. “No, he even had on the same coat Dad used to wear. I’m sure it was him. I told you—he talked to me. He knew my name.”

“So what you’re saying is that your father, who’s been dead for twelve years, simply shows up one day on a Manhattan sidewalk and starts up a conversation?”

“Yes, I know, it sounds nuts. God, do I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh, I see, that’s why you’re here,” he says, that slight edge in his voice getting sharper, louder. “You want me to help you.”

What’s going on here? This isn’t what I need now.

“Yes, of course I want you to help me. I’m feeling pretty desperate, actually.” My voice starts to crack on that last part, and I command myself to hold it together, if only for the sake of my dignity.

Dr. Corey removes his pipe and glares at me. “Listen to me, Kristin. For the last time, you need to get this through your head. Your father committed suicide and nothing you do or say is going to bring him back.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” he asks, folding his arms. “Perhaps if you had continued with your therapy, this wouldn’t be happening.”

“But it’s not just my father. What about the recurring dream?”

“We all have recurring dreams.”

“This one came true.”

“That’s what you tell me. Of course, that doesn’t make it so, does it? Listen to yourself. Are you listening to yourself, Kristin?”

I stare at Dr. Corey in, well, disbelief. This isn’t the same guy who cheerily used to offer up those self-help mantras. He’s Dr. Downer now. Or maybe it’s only me he’s down on. Is he pissed that I stopped seeing him?

“Don’t you understand what I’m saying, Dr. Corey? All these strange and bizarre things are happening to me. They’re really happening. I’m starting to think that I’m going insane.”

“Maybe you are. Who am I to say?” he replies matter-of-factly. “All I know is that I’m not about to invest my valuable time again in someone who treats therapy like a fad.”

I knew it!

“I told you, I thought I was better,” I explain.

He sniffs. “Yeah, you’re obviously a lot better.”

I’m in shock. He’s so mocking, so disdainful. How can he act this way toward me? I was his patient.

“I don’t have to sit here for this,” I say.