concerned. I spoke to Mr. Kennedy, who is my personal lawyer. He recommended you.
A bit strange, I said.
Sounds pretty standard to me, said Brendan.
Not the story, I said. The story’s as common as bad cheddar cheese. What’s strange is why she felt she had to write it down. There isn’t anything in there she couldn’t have told me in ten minutes. And if she had, I could have asked the obvious questions. How much she was willing to pay, for example. And the writing. Stilted as hell. Not a contraction in the whole thing. ‘I could not afford to do so.’ Sounds like it was written by the star student in a class of Chinese taking English as a second language. Not that any of that has anything to do with the case. If it is a case.
Okay, Brendan laughed. But you got to figure. We just started The Outfit, and already we have some business. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t amount to much.
No, it didn’t matter. And it didn’t amount to much. But something about it made me uncomfortable.
Maybe it was the past tense.
The whole thing was written in the past tense.
12.
I COULDN’T GET PAST THE IMAGE OF M ELISSA ON THE SOFA . Louise Chandler in her space.
There was only one thing to do.
I called Sheila.
One of her crackhead clients had canceled. She could see me right away.
There are advantages to a shrink who specializes in addicts.
I rang the buzzer outside. I smiled at the security camera. I passed inspection. The door buzzed. I took the ancient elevator to the penthouse. I wondered about the etymology of the word. Penthouse. Nothing obvious came to mind. I made a note to look it up.
Sheila shared the penthouse with a couple of other shrinks. There were patients waiting. This was unfortunate. Not because I was uncomfortable. Because they were. My natural inclination was to smile, nod, say hello. You can’t do that in a shrink’s waiting room. For some reason everyone’s embarrassed. Staring intently at the month-old copy of
Time
magazine. I guess they want everyone to think they’re normal, well-adjusted folk.
Hey, I always want to say to them, don’t worry about it. There’s no such thing.
Sheila’s door opened. She ushered me in. I sat on my couch. I considered it mine. For the first time I thought of other people sitting there. Sharing their lives and anguish with her.
I didn’t like it at all.
I got down to business. Melissa business.
To me, I told Sheila, she’s still on that couch. On her back. Mouth open. A line of saliva drooling from the corner of her mouth, forming a pool on the sofa cushion.
I didn’t say it in those words. But Sheila understood: I was stuck in the memory.
She nodded sympathetically.
I’d left the living room just like it was, I explained. Her space. Her final resting place. Penultimate resting place. Oh, hell, where she died. Choking on her own vomit. Call me weird, shit, call me neurotic if you want, but I couldn’t touch that living room. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone else to, or let anyone else, touch it. So there it was. Everything in its designer place. Her cigarettes still on the coffee table, even. The way she made it. The way she lived in it. The way she died in it.
Kind of like a museum.
A natural history museum. Not so natural. A diorama.
Sounds like you won’t let yourself grieve, Sheila said.
Yeah, yeah, I said. The eighteen stages of grief. Or twenty. Whatever it is. I know. Well, I don’t know, actually. But I don’t really want to know. Why does everyone have to deal with shit in the same way? Why can’t I have my own way?
Is your own way making you happy?
Oh, please. Does anything make me happy?
Kelley?
Of course. But that’s different.
Of course it’s different. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t have to be the only thing that makes you happy.
Of course it does. I’m a miserable depressive. I guess I’m as happy as a miserable depressive can be. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.
A bit strange, I said.
Sounds pretty standard to me, said Brendan.
Not the story, I said. The story’s as common as bad cheddar cheese. What’s strange is why she felt she had to write it down. There isn’t anything in there she couldn’t have told me in ten minutes. And if she had, I could have asked the obvious questions. How much she was willing to pay, for example. And the writing. Stilted as hell. Not a contraction in the whole thing. ‘I could not afford to do so.’ Sounds like it was written by the star student in a class of Chinese taking English as a second language. Not that any of that has anything to do with the case. If it is a case.
Okay, Brendan laughed. But you got to figure. We just started The Outfit, and already we have some business. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t amount to much.
No, it didn’t matter. And it didn’t amount to much. But something about it made me uncomfortable.
Maybe it was the past tense.
The whole thing was written in the past tense.
12.
I COULDN’T GET PAST THE IMAGE OF M ELISSA ON THE SOFA . Louise Chandler in her space.
There was only one thing to do.
I called Sheila.
One of her crackhead clients had canceled. She could see me right away.
There are advantages to a shrink who specializes in addicts.
I rang the buzzer outside. I smiled at the security camera. I passed inspection. The door buzzed. I took the ancient elevator to the penthouse. I wondered about the etymology of the word. Penthouse. Nothing obvious came to mind. I made a note to look it up.
Sheila shared the penthouse with a couple of other shrinks. There were patients waiting. This was unfortunate. Not because I was uncomfortable. Because they were. My natural inclination was to smile, nod, say hello. You can’t do that in a shrink’s waiting room. For some reason everyone’s embarrassed. Staring intently at the month-old copy of
Time
magazine. I guess they want everyone to think they’re normal, well-adjusted folk.
Hey, I always want to say to them, don’t worry about it. There’s no such thing.
Sheila’s door opened. She ushered me in. I sat on my couch. I considered it mine. For the first time I thought of other people sitting there. Sharing their lives and anguish with her.
I didn’t like it at all.
I got down to business. Melissa business.
To me, I told Sheila, she’s still on that couch. On her back. Mouth open. A line of saliva drooling from the corner of her mouth, forming a pool on the sofa cushion.
I didn’t say it in those words. But Sheila understood: I was stuck in the memory.
She nodded sympathetically.
I’d left the living room just like it was, I explained. Her space. Her final resting place. Penultimate resting place. Oh, hell, where she died. Choking on her own vomit. Call me weird, shit, call me neurotic if you want, but I couldn’t touch that living room. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask anyone else to, or let anyone else, touch it. So there it was. Everything in its designer place. Her cigarettes still on the coffee table, even. The way she made it. The way she lived in it. The way she died in it.
Kind of like a museum.
A natural history museum. Not so natural. A diorama.
Sounds like you won’t let yourself grieve, Sheila said.
Yeah, yeah, I said. The eighteen stages of grief. Or twenty. Whatever it is. I know. Well, I don’t know, actually. But I don’t really want to know. Why does everyone have to deal with shit in the same way? Why can’t I have my own way?
Is your own way making you happy?
Oh, please. Does anything make me happy?
Kelley?
Of course. But that’s different.
Of course it’s different. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t have to be the only thing that makes you happy.
Of course it does. I’m a miserable depressive. I guess I’m as happy as a miserable depressive can be. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.
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