of muffin. “My marriage has fallen apart, my finances are a wreck, and I’m living in a friend’s cottage that he had built for his ailing, aging mother. I’m at an age where I thought I’d either have, or be starting a family, but instead I’m facing reentry into the dating game.” She smiles sympathetically. “And to be honest, the whole idea of dating terrifies me. I can feel all my insecurities and the pressure of time bearing down on me. I jiggle in places that I never used to have, gravity is getting the better of several of my body parts, and in just a few more years I can expect my hormones to start taking extended vacations, which means my chances of ever having children grow smaller every day.” I pause and flash a wan smile. “So I think I understand what you’re going through, Carla. Growing old alone seems like a very real, very scary possibility to me these days.”
“So what’s the answer?” she asks. “How do we deal with all this stuff?”
“Hell if I know. I’m long on questions and short on answers these days.” I hesitate for the merest beat of a second before taking the plunge. “I’ve given some thought to getting therapy,” I lie. “But I’m a little wary. I’ve never done anything like that before and it seems kind of, I don’t know, scary.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. The whole idea of it scared me, too. But I figured it was worth a try and these days there isn’t as much of a stigma associated with that sort of thing the way there used to be. Hell, half of Hollywood boasts about their problems and their shrinks. It’s given psychotherapy a whole new cachet.”
The coffee has finished brewing and she gets up and makes herself busy pouring two mugs full. I finish decapitating my muffin and peel the paper away from the body of it as she sets the coffee cups on the table—one at a time since she apparently doesn’t trust her right arm to hold one of them—along with a little pitcher full of cream and a sugar bowl.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say, topping my coffee off with a dollop of cream. She leaves hers black and takes a sip of it. Her muffin is still sitting in front of her, naked but otherwise untouched. I pinch off a section of the body on mine, but hesitate before popping it into my mouth, not wanting to lose my momentum. “But even though therapy is more acceptable these days, it’s hard for me to shake off this belief I have that it’s all a bunch of hocus- pocus. Has it helped you any? Has Dr. Nelson given you any tips or tricks or wonder drugs to try?”
Carla frowns. “Maybe,” she says hesitantly. “I’ve only seen him a few times so far, so it’s a little early yet to tell if it’s really helping.”
“What does he do? What kind of therapy does he offer?”
She looks away from me, her expression thoughtful. “It’s a bit . . . unusual,” she says, staring at the wall.
I sense there is more to come so I scarf down the bite of muffin I’m holding and wait. It doesn’t take long.
“He uses some kind of hypnosis or something. Most of the time when I leave his office it’s as if I was there, but I wasn’t. It’s hard to explain. I can remember talking with him and feeling very relaxed, but something about it always seems surreal, like I was dreaming it, or watching it in a movie.”
“I’ve heard that hypnosis can be very therapeutic. How does he do it? Does he dangle a watch or something, like you see on TV?”
“No. Though he does have a wall clock that ticks rather loudly” she adds, managing a quick smile. She prods her muffin but still doesn’t eat any of it. “He has me sit back on this big comfy couch he has and gives me a cup of warm herbal tea to help me relax. Then he just lets me talk.”
“About what?”
“My life, I guess. He asks me what I like about it, what I don’t, what I feel about people, things, myself. And then at some point he takes over the talking.”
“What does he say?”
“He calls it ego building. You know, telling me I’m a bright, intelligent, attractive woman and that I have the power to be whatever I want. That kind of crap.”
“Crap?”
She shrugs. “In some ways it does make me feel better about myself when I leave there. But when I play it all back in my head it just seems so . . . I don’t know . . . fake. Like a cheap come-on or something, you know?”
I do, and I can’t help but think that Carla’s discomfort with Nelson somewhat mirrors my own, though apparently it hasn’t been enough to make her stop seeing him.
My cell phone rings, and after glancing at the caller ID and seeing that it’s Izzy, I apologize to Carla and explain that I need to take the call. She nods, and politely excuses herself from the room.
“Hey, Izzy, what’s up?”
“Can you get back here to the office?” he asks. “I just called Hurley and told him about Arnie’s find. He’s on his way here and plans to call the various family members in to give them the news. I thought you might want to be in on it.”
“Heck, yeah,” I say, relishing the thought. “I wouldn’t miss that for all the money in the world.”
I hang up and Carla’s timely reappearance makes me suspect she was eavesdropping despite her apparent attempt to give me some privacy.
“Do you have to go?” she asks.
“I do. But maybe we can get together again sometime and chat some more.”
“I’d like that,” she says, giving me a feeble smile.
I grab the last of my muffin and proffer it toward her. “These are phenomenal,” I tell her.
“Thanks. Why don’t you take a couple with you? I have more than enough,” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I still bake as if I have a whole family living here.”
There is something painfully sad in the way she says this, and I almost walk over and hug her. But my gut tells me it would be the wrong thing to do, so I hold back and take the muffins instead. Carla shows me to the door and I thank her for letting me stop by. As I turn to step off the porch she calls me back.
“Mattie?”
“Yes?”
“What’s the real reason you’re so interested in Dr. Nelson?”
“It’s part of a routine investigation,” I say vaguely, but Carla isn’t about to let me off that easily.
“What kind of investigation?”
“He used to date Shannon Tolliver. That makes him a person of interest in her case.” It’s the truth, though not the whole truth. Still, I’m hoping it will suffice.
Carla weighs what I’ve told her for a few seconds, scrutinizing my face. I try to keep my expression placid but Carla is savvier than I gave her credit for.
“There’s more to it than that,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Maybe.”
She leans against the door frame and looks up at the sky. “There’s something about him that bothers me.”
“What?”
“I don’t know exactly. I can’t put my finger on one specific thing. On the surface he seems professional, affable, and kind. But . . .” I want to grab her and shake her to make her spit it out. But I manage to restrain myself. “Something just feels wrong,” she says finally. “Every time I leave there I feel . . .” She hesitates and then shrugs. “I feel wrong. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
She doesn’t need to. “I think I understand what you’re trying to tell me, Carla. To be honest, there’s something about him that rings wrong with me, too.”
“I have another appointment with him tomorrow. Will you let me know if you turn up anything?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Mattie.”
“Thank you,” I say in return. “You’ve been a big help to me.”
With that, Carla turns and goes back inside. As I climb into the hearse and start it up, I have a strong feeling that she’s watching me leave. And oddly, I also have the feeling that neither of our lives will ever be the same again.
