Lydia wondered if Savannah had any idea how pedestrian her self-assessment was. She’d worked with scores of patients who held that same belief. Part and parcel of the danger of self-awareness. Look at yourself long enough and you’ll meet the monster inside. “Shall we take a look at that?”
A weary smile crossed Savannah’s perfect face. “You’re going to ask me what evidence exists that I’m the worst person in the world. Then you’ll ask me what evidence disputes my belief. Then you’ll convince me to listen to all the alternatives and see myself in a new, balanced light. Is that your plan, Dr. Corriger?”
“You’ve been through therapy before.” Lydia added narcissist and passive-aggressive to her list of potential diagnoses.
“I’ve been through it all, Doctor. Name a therapy and I’ve tried it.”
“Then what are you looking for, Savannah? What do you want from me?”
Savannah flinched. “I want you to make me feel safe again. What’s missing in me? I do terrible things and I don’t care. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t second-guess. I’m cold. Flat.”
“I disagree.” Lydia knew this might be her only session with Savannah so she pressed hard. “I see sheer terror in your eyes. You don’t like your life and you’re scared to death it’s never going to change. That’s not cold. That’s not flat. You’ve gone to great lengths to research my background. That’s not the work of someone who doesn’t care. You’ve told me you’ve developed a wonderful story to simultaneously show and hide the truth. That’s certainly not the work of someone who doesn’t second-guess themselves or feel guilty.” Lydia leaned forward, arms crossed over her knees, inches from her patient. She inhaled Savannah’s perfume. Roses wrapped in money. “Please tell me what terrible things you do and we’ll see what we can figure out.”
Savannah sat motionless. “Another opportunity to trust each other?” she whispered.
Lydia nodded. “Try me, Savannah.”
Savannah paused before sliding her sleeve to check her Rolex. “I see our time is up. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say?”
“We have time.” Lydia wasn’t ready for the dance to end. What new steps might Savannah offer?
“Perhaps next time, Dr. Corriger.” Savannah stood and reached for her purse. A raven haired goddess regaining her celestial stature after a brief romp with a mortal. She pulled three hundred-dollar bills from her wallet and held them out to Lydia. “It was wonderful seeing you.”
Lydia sensed there was no way to keep Savannah engaged. “My intake rate is $275.00. Let me get your change.”
“There’s no need.” Savannah folded her Burberry over her arm. “Consider it compensation for my eccentricities.”
Lydia crossed to her desk and pulled two tens and a five from a small tin box inside the top drawer. “I’m not your manicurist, Savannah. I don’t accept tips.”
“Oh, dear. Have I offended you?” Savannah brushed a piece of lint off her shoulder. “Do you see what I mean about doing awful things and not caring?”
Lydia ignored the bait. “Would you like another appointment?”
Savannah crossed to the door, opened it, and looked back over her shoulder. “I have some travelling coming up. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” She crossed through the waiting room and hesitated before opening the door to the outside hall. When she turned her voice was soft. “I’ll call, Dr. Corriger. I promise.”
Lydia hoped she would.
Lydia’s afternoon finished on schedule. She pulled paperwork together, stuffed her briefcase, and locked her office door at 4:15. Her drive home took less than twenty minutes. She stayed on surface streets, avoiding the freeway that could have saved her time.
She turned into her driveway and drove the hundred yards to her house. She stepped out of her car and breathed in the salty air of Puget Sound. Lydia entered her front door, dropped her briefcase, and crossed directly through her living room to the deck. The sun was still long from setting, bathing the water of Dana Passage in shimmering silver. Anderson Island lay like a sleeping dragon in the middle distance. Farther out the Olympic Mountains gleamed white and grey against a dazzling sky. From where Lydia stood she could pretend there was no one else in the world. The haunting cry of seagulls welcomed her home.
Lydia headed toward the galvanized tin buckets in the corner. She opened one, pulled out four cobs of corn, kicked off her sandals and crossed her back lawn, reveling in the freedom of toes in soft grass. A tall oak tree, unusual for the Pacific Northwest, stood solitary guard thirty feet away. Lydia cracked the corn cobs, tossed the pieces around the tree’s roots, and retreated several steps. “Come and get it, boys.”
The dense leaves shook above her. She smiled as four squirrels, frisky despite the warmth of the August afternoon, danced down the trunk, threw her a fearless glance, and pounced on the corn.
Lydia crossed back to the deck and carried the second galvanized bucket to bird feeders nestled among bushes and perennials. She scooped seed into tubes and trays, checked the water level in two bird baths, and made sure a suet carrier was full before returning the much-lighter bucket to the deck.
An eagle riding an air current over the passage distracted her. It hovered there, suspended fifty feet above the water’s surface, but just a few yards above her line of sight. No wings flapped. No head turned. Perfectly positioned to surf the invisible force. Impervious to danger. Looking for its next kill.
She went inside and made dinner. Baked potato, broccoli, breast of chicken. A dinner guaranteed not to add an ounce to her five-foot-seven, 130 pound, thirty-six-year old body. Lydia set the dining room table, lit two candles, and ate while the setting sun turned the mountains first pink, then blue. By the time she finished washing her dishes the view disappeared into inky emptiness as the night clouds blocked any starlight.
Nine o’clock. Lydia went to her bedroom and exchanged her jersey skirt and white cotton tank for grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. She laced on her running shoes, pulled her light brown hair into a pony tail, and headed downstairs. Twenty minutes on the treadmill. Twenty minutes with free weights. Twenty minutes with the heavy bag.
A long shower later, Lydia was in bed, trying to relax by focusing her concentration on an image of a white sheet billowing on a clothesline. Drifting. Waving. In her mind’s eye the white sheet began to bleed. A spot of red in one corner. Oozing now. Covering the fabric. Weighing it against the breeze. Finally sodden and heavy.
Lydia snapped her eyes open. She threw off the covers and marched into the kitchen. She pulled two ice cubes from the freezer. One in each fist. Hold them, she told herself. Tight. Feel the pain as the ice freezes the flesh of the palm. Focus. Relief is in the pain.
Chapter Three
Morton Andrew Grant placed the bucket of yellow chrysanthemums in front of his wife’s tombstone. Edie always wanted her mums as early in the season as possible; her signal that the University of Washington Huskies would start another football season. He’d brought her a bunch home exactly one year ago. Mort remembered her eyes lit up when she discovered the two opening game tickets tied to a stem. She kissed him and danced through the kitchen waving them over her head. He’d left her celebration and gone upstairs to change. Less than fifteen minutes. Strip off the sport coat, hang up the trousers. Pull off the tie, put away the gun. Toss the dress shirt into the hamper. Pull on a pair of sweat pants and reach for his Cougar’s shirt just to tease her. Hell, probably more like ten minutes.
He bounced down the stairs humming the Huskies’ fight song and smelling Edie’s spaghetti sauce. They’d make it a good evening, he remembered thinking. They deserved one.
She was on the kitchen floor. Grandmother’s big sauce spoon in one hand, tickets in the other. Mort stood frozen, unable to comprehend. A heartbeat later his cop instincts kicked in. Fingers to her neck, praying for a pulse. Calling her name as he lunged for the phone. Puffing into her mouth. Pumping on her chest. Fooststeps on the porch. Paramedics loading his wife of thirty-five years onto a gurney. The endless ride to the hospital. The physician walking toward him. Sad eyes. Shaking head. Trying to explain what an aneurysm was.
Mort squeezed the bridge of his nose and brought himself back. It had been the longest and worst year of his life. He didn’t want to revisit its inaugural.
“How you doing, Baby Girl?” His eyes scanned the words on the black granite slab.
