Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) by Nancy Tesler Page B

migraine,” she announced to Carl.
    “That right?” he replied. “I got a spinal injury; I’m in constant agony,” winning the “can you top this” contest hands down.
    “Come on in, Phyllis,” I cut in quickly before she could start enumerating her gastrointestinal symptoms. Phyllis spends half her time in her internist’s office and half in mine attempting to treat her headaches and her nervous stomach, which have their origin in the fact that her husband isn't and never will be Donald Trump. I’ve talked with Greg Lutz. He’s a decent guy who makes an adequate living, but if Phyllis can't have the jet-set lifestyle, she'll opt for the attention illness brings her.
    “This isn’t working,” she declared the minute she had settled herself in the recliner.
    “It isn’t for everyone,” I agreed. “But you’ve only had five sessions and nothing else has helped, so why not stick with it for a while longer?”
    She picked a piece of lint off her cashmere skirt. “The whole concept makes no sense. Warming my hands. Ridiculous.“
    “Have you been practicing?”
    “I feel silly.”
    “No one has to know what you’re doing. Let’s try it.” I flipped on my tape recorder and began attaching the sensors to her head and fingers. I felt her body stiffen under my touch. “What’s the matter?”
    “You always do that?”
    “What?”
    “Record the sessions? I never noticed.”
    “It’s so I can review what I’ve done, what works and what doesn’t with a particular patient. Does it bother you?”
    “Yes. Turn it off. I don’t want any record of something I might say when I’m under.”
    “Under what?”
    “Hypnosis.”
    “Phyllis, I don’t hypnotize you. I relax you. It’s more self-hypnosis than anything.”
    “I don’t care. Just turn it off.”
    I complied. “Okay, we’ll just have the music then.”
    It was a frustrating session for us both. Sun on the beach didn’t work, hot oil didn’t work, even boiling lava and volcanic ash failed to de-ice those frigid extremities. The more images I came up with, the lower her peripheral temperature dropped. At the end of the session, my hands were sweating and her temperature read a chilly seventy-nine degrees. She left clutching her temples, heading for Dr. Heller’s office. Feeling like a failure, I took two aspirin.
    I was actually happy to see Vickie, who was only ten minutes late—-a record for her. She appeared more relaxed when she walked through my door than I’d expected after Allie’s melodramatic description of their phone conversation. As always, she looked gamine adorable. The doe-shape of her big brown eyes and that heart-shaped face allow her to get away with one of those boyish haircuts you never have to set, and if she were to decide to wear a horse blanket, her long lean dancer’s figure would make it look like a Donna Karan. Today she wore brown stretch pants, a tie-dyed tunic top, and a carefree smile.
    I’m always struck by Vickie’s abrupt mood changes. Ever since I’ve known her, the on-again, off-again nature of the relationship with her lover has kept her seesawing between rapture and despair. Happily, whatever combination of medication and counseling Dr. Golden had come up with today seemed to have had a settling effect.
    “I’m sorry about canceling your appointment yesterday,” I apologized as I attached the sensors to her fingers and muscles. “I had an emergency and had to leave the office.”
    “That’s okay. Dr. Golden saw me this morning.”
    “I know. But I felt bad about it because my daughter said you sounded really upset when you called on Saturday.”
    “I was, but it’s over. I guess I’m learning to deal with it.”
    “With what?”
    “That my dad hates me.”
    “Oh, Vickie, he doesn’t hate you. He just wants to control you.” My eyes flashed to the computer, and I noted that her EDR, which was registering internal tension, went from seven to thirty-nine as she talked about her father.