Why had she lied to him? Why had she let Sorenson lie to him?
Because Sorenson had forced her to lie.
I’m in real trouble.
DeShawn chewed on his beans, sipped at his Coke. ‘Therapy must not be sailing smoothly if she’s bringing in a backup shrink.’
Miles was now frantic to get back to Allison. He stuck his unfinished lunch back in the bag.
‘What’s your rush?’ DeShawn asked.
‘I’m not in a rush… You don’t have to worry about my therapy, I’ll be ready to testify, DeShawn.’
‘Man. The first go-round in court wasn’t your finest moment, but you’re going to be aces for Big Man Barrada’s trial. I have faith in you.’
‘Don’t say that to me if you don’t,’ Miles said suddenly. He had broken down twice on the stand when cross-examined about the shooting, about the deal made with him to testify. The defendant – a junior Barrada member the feds had chosen to put on trial first in hopes of cutting a cooperative deal, which the guy refused – got a reduced sentence because Miles hadn’t appeared, to the jury, to be an entirely reliable witness. ‘I need people to have faith in me.’
I need your help… I’m in real trouble.
‘Miles, m’man. Total faith from Big D. You not seeing folks who aren’t there, not hearing voices again, right?’
‘Right,’ Miles lied. ‘Only in my dreams, and everyone should have a crazy dream now and then, right? I’ll get this doctor’s correct name for you.’
‘All right. But I want to know details of this program, Miles, before you agree to anything.’
‘Sure,’ said Miles. ‘I don’t work this afternoon. Would you mind dropping me off at my apartment?’
Miles hurried into his building with a quick wave to DeShawn. He ran upstairs, retrieved a tool he figured he might need. He ran down the stairs, thinking, You take this step, you can’t go back. He headed toward Allison’s office.
FIVE
‘I’m not going on Oprah.’ Celeste Brent put the small razor back under the computer mouse pad, where she kept it. She didn’t need to feel the blade against her skin right now. ‘I can’t handle… being on television again.’
Victor Gamby’s voice boomed from the speakerphone. ‘I understand your hesitation. But think of the people we could help, sharing our stories with millions.’
‘You sound like a commercial.’
‘I’m selling an idea, Celeste. Being back on television might get you past your fears.’
‘I’m not leaving my house. And I’m not having a media zoo here.’
‘Do me a favor. Open your door, stand in the doorway. You don’t have to step outside. Just try it.’
‘No.’
‘I could ask them to do a satellite link with your house when I’m on the show. That way we could both appear together. Celeste, we could get America’s moms talking about post-traumatic stress disorder, make it a real health-care issue, encourage people to think about it the way they do depression or cancer. Please.’
‘Victor, you go. You’re an actual hero.’
‘Oh, please.’
‘I’m just someone who had a really bad fifteen minutes.’ She leaned close to the plus-sized computer screen, read the words that a young girl half a country away had posted to Victor’s online discussion group this morning: Most days I’m so sad sadder than anybody should be and I just want to curl up amp; cry forever and the bite of the blade into my skin is the only way I can feel does anyone understand?
‘Celeste. Reconsider. Millions of people watched you on Castaway. They know you, they rooted for you,’ Victor said. ‘It’s Oprah, for God’s sakes. You cannot say no.’
‘No.’ Celeste reread the girl’s words on the computer screen and thought: I understand, sweetie, I truly do. She clicked to the next message in the forum. Jared T, having soul-emptying dreams about the Battle of Fallujah. She wished she could give Jared T a hug. She swiveled the chair away from the computer screen. ‘Did I tell you I got an offer for another reality show?’
‘Celeste, that’s wonderful.’
‘Brace yourself, and imagine the possibilities: Group Therapy.’
‘Please be kidding.’
‘I couldn’t make this up. They want me, and Denise Daniels, the child star from Too Cool Kimmy – she had a nervous breakdown last year – and that college basketball star who’s supposedly bipolar, and a couple of other celebrities who have had mental illnesses, all living together in a house with Doctor Frank, the talk-show host, and, yes, it gets better, once a week a player gets booted out of the house.’
‘ Castaway for crazy people,’ Victor said.
‘Oh, no one says that,’ Celeste said. ‘They just think it.’
‘But that’s what we’re fighting every day. This perception that people with traumas aren’t really sick, that they just need to buck up and get over it. They wouldn’t do a show like that for people who had cancer, would they?’
‘No.’
‘So stop acting like a person with PTSD and act like a famous person with PTSD. Let good come from your fame. Help me, Celeste.’
The sensor that alerted Celeste whenever anyone entered her front yard chimed and opened a video window on her computer’s monitor. It showed Allison Vance, hurrying up the stone walkway. Odd. She didn’t have an appointment scheduled with Allison.
‘Victor. I have to go. I can’t do the TV appearance with you, but I know you’ll do a wonderful job.’
‘Celeste-’
‘I’ll call you soon, Victor, take care,’ Celeste said, and hung up. TV again. Leave the house? Or have strangers gawking at her? Or wanting to hurt her again? No, never. The doorbell buzzed. She pulled hard at the rubber band looping her wrist and let it snap against the tender skin. Once, twice, the pain brief and sharp but settling her nerves.
She went to answer the door. She unlocked it, released the dead bolts, said, close to the wood, ‘It’s open,’ and took five steps back, just so Allison couldn’t pull her out of the house and into the open air. Not that she would, but Celeste didn’t take chances. Allison came inside, clutching a briefcase bag close to her hips.
‘Hi. Did I forget an appointment?’ Celeste asked.
‘Not at all, Celeste, but I have a favor to ask of you, if it’s not an intrusion. How are you today?’
‘Extraordinarily stupid. I just declined a chance to meet Oprah,’ she said with a tone of defiance.
‘I’m sure it would have been exciting. But also a tremendous spotlight to be under.’
‘You don’t think I’m making it up?’
‘You’re famous.’
Celeste shrugged. ‘Used to be.’
‘We could up your antidepressants. It might make leaving the house easier.’
‘Other than not wanting to leave the house, I feel okay. I don’t want more pills.’ Celeste toyed with the rubber band, popped it against her skin.
Allison pointed at Celeste’s wrist. ‘And how’s the rubber band working out?’
‘Saccharine when you want sugar.’
‘But you haven’t hurt yourself today.’
‘No. Not today.’
‘Great. And yesterday?’
‘Once. Just once.’ She fingered the thin slash on her arm.
‘Have you eaten today?’
