of what was going on around her.
'Hi. I'm sorry to get you up so early,' he told her. 'I have patients all day. This is the only chance I had to talk to you until this evening.'
'You didn't wake me up,' Heather said softly.
'How are you doing?'
'The doctor told me I'll live.' She swallowed hard.
'Do you remember what happened?'
'I was thinking about it when you came in. I remember the doorbell ringing. I went to open it. That's all. My mother came last night. She told me the police think I killed the baby. She's very angry.'
'She and your father have been here all night. I spoke to them a minute ago. They're not angry at you.'
'Are you a policeman?'
'No, I'm a doctor. A psychiatrist.'
She looked up at the ceiling. 'I'm crazy,' she said softly. 'I must be crazy.' The fingers of one hand moved toward the scars on her arm.
'Some kinds of crazy aren't so bad,' Jason said smoothly. 'The baby is missing. You want to tell me about that?'
'Everybody in the whole world thinks I killed my own baby.' She turned her devastated face to him. 'My mother told me.'
'No one knows where he is, that's all. We have to find him and clear it up,' Jason said.
'He's not my baby.'
'I know.'
'I lied to her and said it was. Now she's mad because she has no grandson. To her it's the same as killing him.'
'Where is he?'
Heather ignored the question. 'She was so mad at me when I married Anton. How could I tell her the baby wasn't mine?' Her eyes teared.
'Where is he?' Jason asked again.
Heather's head and magnificent hair moved on the pillow, but she didn't answer.
'Did you give him to his mother?'
'Didn't anyone tell you?'
'I don't think your husband knows where he is. Did he beat you up?'
'We couldn't keep him. It's my fault.' The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
Jason handed her the tissue box. 'What's your fault?'
'I know I'm going to hell, but I'm already in hell.'
'Why are you in hell?' Jason asked.
'Don't you know it's a sin to lie?'
'What's the lie?'
'That he was ours.' Heather sobbed, wiping her face with tissues too small for the job.
Jason waited for a moment, then dug a little deeper. 'Your husband mentioned that you've had some health problems.'
She was quiet a long time. 'Health problems?' 'Yes, he told me you couldn't have a baby and that upset you.'
Her eyes filled again. 'He said that?'
'Yes.'
'He told everybody I couldn't have a baby?'
'No, only me. But isn't that true?'
'How could he say that?'
'Isn't it true?'
'No.'
'When you were taken to the hospital your husband told the police the baby was yours. The doctors examined you and knew right away that you hadn't given birth.'
She grimaced. 'They examined me? He must have been upset.' Again, she sought out the scars with her fingertips.
'Did he have a baby with another woman?' Jason asked.
Heather made an angry noise in her throat. 'No.'
'You know when something like this happens, the police check everything in people's lives.'
'I don't have a life. I lost my life a long time ago.' Heather's eyes returned to the ceiling.
'You want to tell me about it?'
'I'm dead now, just dead meat.'
'Your husband doesn't have a girlfriend, and I don't think you have a doctor.'
She blew her nose. 'What difference does it make?'
'People with health problems go to the doctor, but my guess is you didn't. The doctors here have been wondering about the bruises and scars on your body—'
'What does he say about that?'
'I'm asking you. Do you hurt yourself, Heather, or does he hurt you?'
Jason's clock was ticking. He had a only a few precious minutes. He was in a hurry and asked the question too soon. Heather broke down on the subject of her injuries. This time she wept uncontrollably and he couldn't calm her down soon enough.
'Just tell me where the baby is, and we'll work on everything else.'
'He's with his mother.' That's all she would say.
The nurse came in with Heather's meds. Jason had to leave. He called April from the hospital, but she'd already gone out. All morning he screened his calls waiting to hear from her, but she didn't phone.
At noon he left the double doors to his office slightly ajar and waited for his eleven-fifteen appointment, a thirty-seven-year-old advertising copywriter named Alison, to leave. He heard her sigh deeply and knew she was stalling because of his lack of respect for one of her periodic threats to jump off a bridge that afternoon instead of returning to work. Alison had been abused by her parents as a child; her goal now was to elicit sympathy from Jason and avoid the hard work of getting better. She had stopped dead in the middle of the waiting room to consider her options. She might return to knock on his door with a question, a demand that he do something, tears. And then again she might not. She was a big tester; she needed to reassure herself that Jason was paying close attention to her. Because he knew she wasn't really suicidal, he had to set limits for her.
His next patient, a physician named Albert, was dying of AIDS that he'd contracted from someone he'd met in a bar when his lover of a decade left him a year and a half ago. It was a heavy morning for human misery. While Jason waited for Alison to decide whether to go on with her day or torment him a little more, he compared the time on his three newest antique skeleton clocks. He couldn't help tinkering with them between patients, adjusting things here and there, cleaning the parts to see if he could get them in sync with one another. His clocks, and the fact that time marched on regardless of the pain and suffering he witnessed, soothed him.
The tallest one ticked away on his desk, a magnificent steep brass triangle filled with complicated mechanics, a fine example of nineteenth-century man's desire to simultaneously harness, pay tribute to, and display the passing of time. Jason had last reset the clock when he'd come in this morning. Now it was five minutes slower than the others. Another skeleton clock stood on a side table, the third in the center of the bookcase in a position of dominance over a small collection of quite nice carriage clocks. By late afternoon the discrepancy would be increased by another minute or so. He wondered where April Woo was, and why she hadn't called.
A long ninety seconds passed before the door slammed and Jason stopped fussing over the clock. Then the phone rang, but it was Albert calling to say he'd been to the doctor and his T-cell count was way down. He didn't feel up to coming in. He sounded depressed. This meant Jason had a free hour now but would lose it later when he visited the dying patient in his home across town.
Instantly, the phone rang again. 'Are you free?' It was Emma calling to ask if he wanted lunch.
'Yes, please.' His early-morning visit with Heather had disturbed him deeply. Now he was thrilled at the prospect of an unexpected hour of peace with his wife.
