the unpredictable life and death of relationships — was exactly the thing she was replaying. But that seemed like a reach. Maybe Nels was wrong; maybe Trevor was exaggerating a phone call from Kathy into a rendezvous with her. I wasn't in any condition to see her, but I needed to hear the story firsthand. I opened my packet, spread a pinch over my gums and snorted a line off my key. Then I shot up to the fourth floor and over the Of-Gyn Department.
Kathy's office was one of six in a row behind a semicircular reception desk. The secretary, Kris Jerold, a young gay activist with a bleach-blond crew cut, motioned for me to wait until she was off the phone. "She isn't here yet," she said, hanging up. She fingered the three gold hoops through her ear. "She called earlier to let me know she'd be in at nine o'clock."
"I'll wait in her office."
She nodded tentatively.
My fuse was short. "Is there a problem with me waiting in there?" I asked.
"Not that I can think of."
"Well, is there one that you can't think of ?"
"I love psychiatrists," she smiled, then paused. "There's no problem at all with you being in the office. I was just going to ask how Dr. Singleton is doing after losing her friend."
"I'm trying to get a feeling for that myself. How does she seem to you?"
"I haven't seen much of her. She left early yesterday. Now she's missed half of her morning clinic." She shook her head. "They were almost like sisters..."
"Yes." I thought again of the fire that took Kathy's sister. "I think that's right."
"I'll hold her calls when she comes in."
"Thank you."
I walked into Kathy's office and collapsed into her desk chair. I could smell her perfume. I smiled at a photograph of me she kept inside a sterling, beaded-edge frame I had given her for Christmas. I was looking smug outside a Lynn hole-in-the-wall called the Irish Mist, straddling the black Harley Fat Boy I'd bought just a few weeks after we'd met. I chuckled, remembering that I'd paid for the bike with money set aside to get back into analysis. "You ought to figure out where you intend to go before you get all excited about how to get there," my psychiatrist, Ted Pearson, had offered when I canceled the appointments we had scheduled.
"I think I'll be alright," I told him.
"Then you're even worse off than I suspected," he said. "Call me when you need me."
There had been at least a few times during the last year when I'd been tempted to seek out Pearson and admit how lost I felt, but he'd gone on to run the state's Impaired Physician's Program, dedicated to identifying and treating alcoholism, drug abuse and mental illness in doctors, and I wasn't about to throw my hat anywhere near that ring.
The standard hospital-issue furnishings in Kathy's office were institutional modular units, but she had overcome them. Her frilly Laura Ashley love seat filled the space in front of her desk. Porcelain-faced dolls sat in a row atop a few yards of ivory lace on the credenza. Instead of the usual collection of degrees and awards, original oils of children at play hung on the walls. A piece of antique stained glass blocked the view of the tenement houses out her window and cast orange and yellow and red light across the gray carpet.
I noticed one of Kathy's blond hairs coiled on the edge of the blotter, picked it up and pulled it straight between my fingers. The muscles in my neck and shoulders relaxed. I tilted the chair back and closed my eyes. If a single hair of hers moved me, I wondered, why not take the final step to marry her? What was I afraid of?
I fell asleep for several minutes, then woke to Kathy's hand gently massaging my shoulder. Her scent enveloped me. I kept my eyes closed and didn't move. If she was part of a lingering dream, I didn’t want to scare her off.
"Frank," she whispered.
I took a deep breath but said nothing.
Sharply: "Frank. You fell asleep." She raked her knuckles
Kathy's office was one of six in a row behind a semicircular reception desk. The secretary, Kris Jerold, a young gay activist with a bleach-blond crew cut, motioned for me to wait until she was off the phone. "She isn't here yet," she said, hanging up. She fingered the three gold hoops through her ear. "She called earlier to let me know she'd be in at nine o'clock."
"I'll wait in her office."
She nodded tentatively.
My fuse was short. "Is there a problem with me waiting in there?" I asked.
"Not that I can think of."
"Well, is there one that you can't think of ?"
"I love psychiatrists," she smiled, then paused. "There's no problem at all with you being in the office. I was just going to ask how Dr. Singleton is doing after losing her friend."
"I'm trying to get a feeling for that myself. How does she seem to you?"
"I haven't seen much of her. She left early yesterday. Now she's missed half of her morning clinic." She shook her head. "They were almost like sisters..."
"Yes." I thought again of the fire that took Kathy's sister. "I think that's right."
"I'll hold her calls when she comes in."
"Thank you."
I walked into Kathy's office and collapsed into her desk chair. I could smell her perfume. I smiled at a photograph of me she kept inside a sterling, beaded-edge frame I had given her for Christmas. I was looking smug outside a Lynn hole-in-the-wall called the Irish Mist, straddling the black Harley Fat Boy I'd bought just a few weeks after we'd met. I chuckled, remembering that I'd paid for the bike with money set aside to get back into analysis. "You ought to figure out where you intend to go before you get all excited about how to get there," my psychiatrist, Ted Pearson, had offered when I canceled the appointments we had scheduled.
"I think I'll be alright," I told him.
"Then you're even worse off than I suspected," he said. "Call me when you need me."
There had been at least a few times during the last year when I'd been tempted to seek out Pearson and admit how lost I felt, but he'd gone on to run the state's Impaired Physician's Program, dedicated to identifying and treating alcoholism, drug abuse and mental illness in doctors, and I wasn't about to throw my hat anywhere near that ring.
The standard hospital-issue furnishings in Kathy's office were institutional modular units, but she had overcome them. Her frilly Laura Ashley love seat filled the space in front of her desk. Porcelain-faced dolls sat in a row atop a few yards of ivory lace on the credenza. Instead of the usual collection of degrees and awards, original oils of children at play hung on the walls. A piece of antique stained glass blocked the view of the tenement houses out her window and cast orange and yellow and red light across the gray carpet.
I noticed one of Kathy's blond hairs coiled on the edge of the blotter, picked it up and pulled it straight between my fingers. The muscles in my neck and shoulders relaxed. I tilted the chair back and closed my eyes. If a single hair of hers moved me, I wondered, why not take the final step to marry her? What was I afraid of?
I fell asleep for several minutes, then woke to Kathy's hand gently massaging my shoulder. Her scent enveloped me. I kept my eyes closed and didn't move. If she was part of a lingering dream, I didn’t want to scare her off.
"Frank," she whispered.
I took a deep breath but said nothing.
Sharply: "Frank. You fell asleep." She raked her knuckles
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