Panic Attack (13 page)

“Is that what you’re looking for? Attention?”
“Of course not,” he said.
Dana glanced at the outfit laid out on the bed.
“So I want to look good on TV,” he said. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I just don’t understand why you have to go on the show in the first place.”
“What do you mean? They asked me to. It’s helping me emotionally, with my glossophobia. And, besides, it could be some good publicity. Maybe I’ll get a few new patients out of it.”
“You could’ve said no. I don’t know why you want to bring more attention to us, I don’t see how that’s going to help make things any better.”
Adam, frustrated because he knew she was making sense but he didn’t want to hear it, said,“I thought we made up downstairs. Can we just stop this nonsense?”
“That’s a good idea, let’s stop the nonsense,” she said. “I’ve been through a lot today, and I really don’t want to get into this again right now.”
Adam was thinking,
And what was that supposed to mean? I
haven’t
been through a lot
? It was so typical— making him out to be the bad guy— but he didn’t want to argue anymore so he took the high road instead, taking a long deep breath, then saying, “Look, I understand how you feel, okay? You’re afraid, and I’ll admit it, I’m afraid too. I mean, I think it’s highly unlikely anything’s going to happen, but I admit I won’t feel one hundred percent safe until it all blows over. But, honestly, I really don’t think running away to Florida is necessary, and I’m not even sure we could do that with a police investigation going on. Besides, the house is secure now, I’m confident about that.”
“What about the gun?” she asked.
He breathed deeply again, then said, “Okay, I’m willing to compromise. Right now I want it in the house, just in case, but when this blows over, when the police make an arrest and figure out exactly what’s going on, I’ll get rid of it.”
“You really mean that?” she said.
“Promise,” he said, raising his right hand as if he were on a witness stand. “I still think the gun saved our lives last night, but if you really don’t want it in the house, if it makes you this upset, I’ll get rid of it, okay?”
She was teary eyed again.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Aw, come here,” he said, and he hugged her.
Now she was crying. He had no idea why she was so upset. Maybe she was just letting out stress.
“Come on, don’t be sad,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to get through this, I promise.”
She cried even harder, and then he moved his hands lower, around her waist. She seemed like she’d lost weight; felt a lot firmer, too. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex. Jesus, had it been a month? Two months?
He undid her robe with one hand and started to slide his other hand up over one of her breasts.
“Not tonight,” she said quickly, pulling away a little. “I’m just so worn out. I mean, because of the long day and everything.”
“I understand,” he said, moving his hand away, “but let’s definitely do it tomorrow night, okay? It’s been too long, you know?”
He stayed with her for a while longer, holding her, and then went downstairs to let her get some rest.

Adam was tired , too, but there was no way he was missing watching the news later tonight. He set the upstairs TiVo to record the Channel 5 news at ten and the Channel 4 news at eleven, and the downstairs TiVo to record the Channel 11 news at ten and the Channel 2 news at eleven. Meanwhile he planned to watch the Channel 9 and Channel 7 news on the downstairs TV.

“I was just about to call you to see when you were gonna be back,” Adam said. “We have a new code for the alarm, I’ll give it to you in the morning.”
“Cool,” she said, and he could tell she was drunk.
“Went out drinking again tonight, huh?” he asked, trying his hardest not to get angry at her and have a repeat of last night.
“I met Hillary at a happy hour,” she said flatly.
“Seems like a happy five hours.”
“I’m allowed to have a few drinks at a bar with a friend, Dad.”
“I want you to cut down on the drinking, okay?”
She shook her head and went upstairs.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” he said. She didn’t stop, and he added. “No smoking tonight, and I mean it.”
A few seconds later he heard her bedroom door slam. He didn’t care if she got angry at him; he was going to stay on her case, keep giving her tough love until she got the message and straightened out her life.
At ten o’clock he watched the Channel 9 news. He’d thought his story would be the lead, but it was the third story, after a water main break in downtown Manhattan and a three- alarm fire that had killed three people and one firefighter on Staten Island. There was footage of a female reporter in front of the house, probably taken this morning. The reporter explained how during an attempted robbery Carlos Sanchez, who was unarmed, had been shot and killed by the owner of the house, “forty- seven- year- old Adam Bloom.” Then the reporter commented that Adam claimed he had believed Sanchez was armed when he shot him. Adam didn’t like that word—“claimed”—but he felt vindicated when Detective Clements, of all people, said in footage taken in front of a police precinct, “I believe Mr. Bloom acted appropriately in this situation. He has a license for the gun he used, and the man he shot, Carlos Sanchez, was an intruder in his house who had a history of violence.” Adam was hoping they’d show some of his interview from this afternoon when he thought he’d sounded so good, but instead the reporter was talking about how Gabriela Moreno, who’d worked as a maid at the Blooms’ house, had been gunned down early this morning at her apartment in Jackson Heights and police were investigating a possible link between the incident and the robbery in Forest Hills. Then the reporter was shown again in front of Adam’s house, and finally there was footage of Adam from this afternoon. He was disappointed, though, that they didn’t show his speech to the cameras. Instead they went to a sound bite of him saying, “I feel justified, yes,” and then cut back to the anchor desk. Adam was also disappointed with how he looked on TV. His hair looked okay— his bald spot wasn’t visible from the headon angle, and the gray didn’t seem
too
prominent— but he looked older than he did in person, and he especially didn’t like the deep dark circles under his eyes. He’d thought the camera was supposed to add five pounds, not five years.
During the next hour or so he watched the other newscasts, including the ones he’d TiVo’d. They all covered the story similarly, with only minor variations. The Channel 4 news didn’t include any comment from Detective Clements, and unfortunately none of the segments showed any of Adam’s great speech. Channel 5 and Channel 11 didn’t include any statement from Adam. On the Channel 7 and Channel 2 news, both reporters paraphrased his quote about feeling justified, but they seemed to take it out of context. Adam didn’t see why all the reporters seemed to love that quote so much, why they’d all chosen to include it in one way or another, while he could think of several other comments he’d made that had sounded equally good. Also, he was surprised that none of the stations had portrayed him incredibly heroically. He’d thought he would be, given the change in the reporters’ attitudes this afternoon and the new interview requests. Then again, the shooting of Gabriela was relatively fresh news, so he might not get the full hero treatment until the morning papers. Certainly after the interviews with
Good Day New York
and
New York Magazine
ran people would have a more complete picture of what had
really
happened last night.
As he replayed the Channel 9 newscast for the second and third times, Adam wondered if any old friends and girlfriends were watching the news to - night. At least a few people in his past must have seen him, and they’d probably said to themselves or to the person next to them, “Adam Bloom? Wait, I know that guy.” He especially hoped Abby Fine had been watching. He’d dated Abby during his freshman year at Albany until he found out that she was cheating on him with his roommate, Jon. He’d read in an alumni newsletter that Abby lived with her family in Manhattan, so there was at least a chance she’d seen him on TV tonight. Adam felt like he looked good for his age and was probably better- looking now than he’d been in his early twenties when Abby had last seen him. He hoped she was watching tonight with her husband— hopefully he was dull and prematurely aging— and felt like she’d missed out.
As Adam shut down the house for the night, making sure all the doors were locked and checking and double- checking to make sure the alarm system was armed, he imagined what tomorrow would be like. After all the media exposure today and the likely stories in tomorrow’s papers, he would have to be recognized on the streets. Just for the hell of it, he might walk to work from the Fox studios to see what kind of reactions he got.
He had to admit that Dana had been right— he
was
enjoying this attention. He often told his attention- seeking patients that wanting attention was childish. He’d tell them, “Children want attention, adults want respect.” In his own case, although he was aware that he was acting childishly, he also knew that the media interest was fulfilling a deep- seated need in his psyche. While he had a successful practice as a psychotherapist— he made a good living and had helped dozens of people through the worst periods of their lives— one of his big issues was that he felt he hadn’t gotten enough recognition for his work. His doctoral degree from the New School hung on the wall in his office, but he’d never received any other honors or acclaim. He occasionally contributed an article to a journal but, unlike many of his colleagues, hadn’t published any books in his field. Carol, for example, had written several books, and sometimes it was hard not to feel jealous about her achievements. For the most part, Adam had become resigned to the idea that when he died he wouldn’t leave behind any legacy, but he still had a void in him, a strong need for attention that this whole situation was satisfying.
He got into bed and spooned Dana from behind for a while as she slept, then turned in the opposite direction. It was hard to fall asleep. He was so absorbed, replaying bits from the newscasts in his head and imagining what tomorrow would be like, that after about an hour he was still wide awake. He was about to get up to take an Ambien when he thought he heard a noise downstairs.
He sat up in bed and listened again but didn’t hear anything. He knew rationally that no one was there, but he figured he might as well make sure just for peace of mind.
He was on his way to the door when Dana asked, “What is it?”
He looked back and saw her sitting up in bed. The lights were off in the room, but the bedroom door was half open, and there was enough light from the light in the hallway— which Adam had left on— to see her clearly.
“Nothing,” he said quietly. “Everything’s fine, go back to sleep.” He didn’t want to alarm her, so he was trying to talk in an overly calm voice, like an airline pi lot trying to relax his passengers during a period of heavy turbulence.
But Dana knew him too well to be fooled, and on the verge of panic, she asked, “What’s going on?”
Trying to put it as casually as he could he said, “Nothing, I just . . . I think I heard something downstairs.”
“Oh my God.” Her voice was trembling, and she was covering her mouth with her cupped hand.
“Relax,” Adam said. “I’m sure it was nothing, but lemme go check just in case.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” Dana said, and she reached for the phone.
“Wait, don’t call the police,” Adam said. “I’m sure it was nothing.”
“What did it sound like?”
It had sounded like footsteps, but he didn’t want to tell her this, especially when he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t imagined it.
“It was probably just the house settling or something. Just wait a second, okay?”
He went to the door and listened for several seconds but didn’t hear anything. He looked back at Dana and held up an index finger and mouthed, “Wait,” and then he walked as quietly as possible toward the staircase.
Unlike last night, when it had been almost pitch- dark, tonight he could see the staircase clearly because of the light in the hallway and a light he had left on downstairs in the foyer. He had a flashback to nearly twenty- four hours ago— firing off those shots. It was so vivid he could feel the gun in his hand, hear the shots, see Sanchez’s body falling. It felt like it was actually happening all over again. But what if it
did
happen all over again? Without his gun, how was he supposed to defend himself? He felt extremely vulnerable and defenseless. He didn’t care what he’d promised Dana; there was no way he was ever getting rid of the gun. If they were going to get rid of the things that protected them, why not get rid of the locks on the doors and the alarm system? Hell, why not just keep the doors wide open?
He went to the top of the stairs and bent down to get a view of the front door. It was chained, just as he’d left it.
Then he heard, “Dad.”
It was just that one word, but it might as well have been a rifle fired right next to his head. He was so startled he jerked forward, lost his balance, and almost fell down the stairs. He had to grab onto one of the wooden posts on the railing to steady himself.
“You okay, Dad?”
He managed to stand up and turn around. His pulse was pounding.
Looking at his daughter, who was by the door to her room, holding a glass of maybe diet soda, he said, “For God’s sake, Marissa.”
“Is everybody okay?” Dana had come out to the hallway.
“What’re you freaking out for?” Marissa said. “I just went downstairs to get something to eat.”
Adam took a few moments, trying to catch his breath. Then he couldn’t restrain his frustration and snapped, “Just get the hell to bed right now, okay?”
“What did I do?” Marissa asked.
“Just go,” Adam said.
She returned to her room, slamming the door. Adam shook his head in frustration and disgust and marched past Dana and got back into bed.
“Are you okay?” Dana asked as she got in next to him.
“Fine,” Adam said. “Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”
They lay in the dark silently for a few minutes.
Then Dana said, “Thank God you didn’t have your gun. You might’ve shot her.”
Eventually Adam fell asleep.

At five in the morning Adam got out of bed, wide awake. He decided to go the Hollywood route— the black button- down shirt with the black sport jacket and jeans. He checked himself out in the bathroom mirror and thought he looked great, though he wished he’d had time to stop at his barber and get a little trim. Ah, well, his hair still looked nice and thick and healthy. As a last touch, he grabbed his sunglasses— the one he’d bought for eight bucks on the street— and put them in the pocket of his jacket. It was cloudy out, and he wasn’t going to wear them on the air, but he thought they looked cool with just the tip sticking out.

He was waiting in the living room, looking out the parted venetian blinds, waiting for the limo to arrive. The woman from Fox had said it would be here at six, and it was already five after. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a limo, especially a big, fancy one. It would probably have a widescreen TV and a fully stocked bar. He normally took the subway to and from work, and it was going to be fun— well, a nice change of pace, anyway— to ride into the city in style, to feel like a celebrity. Then after he was on TV he’d probably get phone calls nonstop, from old friends— wouldn’t it be a kick if Abby Fine called?— and there’d probably be more interview requests. At noon he had his
New York Magazine
interview. This one hadn’t fully set in yet—
New York Magazine
was interviewing him. Wasn’t
Saturday Night Fever
based on a
New York Magazine
article? Okay, maybe he was getting a little far- fetched now, but so what? It was fun to fantasize. He wondered who they’d get to play him in the movie, Hanks or Crowe? Hanks was too sincere, too hokey, but Crowe had the right combination of vulnerability and toughness. Yeah, he could definitely see it: Russell Crowe as Adam Bloom, a working guy, just going about his life, when somebody breaks into his house one night. It’s Bloom’s moment of truth, his life is on the line, but he does what he has to do to defend his family and in doing so becomes a local hero. The movie would probably make millions at the box office. Who doesn’t love a good courage- under- fire story?

Then Adam, on a roll, wondered, And why not a talk show? He could be the next Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil wasn’t even a real psychologist, or he’d had his license revoked, or something like that. Dr. Adam could take over for Dr. Phil in no time. Even if he couldn’t land a TV show, Adam knew he’d be a natural for radio. He was so well spoken and articulate and could talk on any subject, and he’d be great with guests, get very introspective and personal. His show wouldn’t be just fluff. No, Dr. Adam would tackle serious issues.

Adam was looking forward to riding in the limo, relaxing, sipping coffee and nibbling on a croissant, or maybe having a bloody Mary to loosen up before going on the air. He was so caught up in his fantasies that he barely noticed when the navy sedan pulled up in front of the house.

At first he thought the driver, a stocky black guy, was looking for a parking space, but then he got out of the car.
Adam came out and said, “Can I help you?”
He really thought the guy must have the wrong address.
“You order a car?”
“Yes, but it was supposed to be a limo.”
The guy laughed, like this was a joke. Adam felt the letdown, naturally, but he didn’t let it get to him. Okay, so there wasn’t a limo. Limos were overrated anyway. They were too cheesy, too Donald Trump. He was still looking forward to his big moment, getting the most out of his day in the spotlight.
When he arrived at the Fox studios a producer— a girl who looked Marissa’s age— greeted him and told him how happy they were to have him on the show. Then she took him to a room where a makeup artist powdered his face. Okay, now the star treatment was starting. When the makeup was done Adam looked in a mirror and thought he looked thirty- five, tops. God, he hoped Abby Fine was watching
The producer returned and told Adam that he would be going on in about a half hour and led him to the greenroom. Adam wasn’t nervous at all. There was another guest waiting— a leggy blonde.
“Hi, I’m Annie,” she said, smiling. She explained that she was the star of a new Broadway musical, then asked, “Why are you here?”
“Oh, I’m a local hero, I guess,” Adam said, trying to sound modest, like he was almost embarrassed about it.
“Really?” she asked, impressed, her face brightening. “What did you do?”
“Oh, it was no big deal,” Adam said. “My house was robbed the other night, and I . . . well, I shot one of the robbers.”
She cringed and said, “You mean you
killed
somebody?”
Somehow this wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.
“Yeah, unfortunately,” he said, “but I didn’t have any choice. It was the middle of the night, and he broke in. He was coming up the stairs.”
She still seemed almost horrified and asked, “Oh my God, did he have a gun?”
“No,” Adam said, “but I thought he did. I mean, he was reaching for something.”
He was waiting for her to start getting impressed, but her expression didn’t change. Maybe she didn’t understand the real danger he’d been in.
“My daughter woke us up in the middle of the night,” he said. “Oh, and the guy I killed, he was a hardened criminal. He’d spent like ten, fifteen years in prison.”
The last part had been a pure exaggeration, but at least Annie got a little sympathetic. She said, “Wow, that must’ve been really scary.”
“It was,” Adam said. “
Is
. I’m sure it’ll take months before I get over it completely.”
The producer came in and told Annie that it was her turn to go on and Adam that he would be next.
Adam remained in the greenroom, rehearsing in his head what he was going to say. He couldn’t wait to get out there.
Annie seemed to be on for a long time, segueing from talking about her musical to talking about fund- raising work she was doing for PETA.
During the commercial break, the producer returned to the greenroom, looking upset, and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bloom. We went over today, and I’m afraid we won’t have time to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry?” Adam had heard her, but he hadn’t quite absorbed what she’d said. Did she mean he was going on
later
?
“We can’t have you on,” she said. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. If there’s someplace you have to get to, I can arrange to have a car service take you.”
“Wait,” Adam said. “You mean I’m not going on at all?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said.
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” he said. “I got up at the crack of dawn today, came all the way down here, juggled my schedule—”
“I know, it really sucks,” she said, “but people get bumped all the time. It’s not personal or anything. It just happens.”
“Can I talk to the producer?”
“I am the producer.”
“I mean the head producer.”
“I am the head producer.” She sounded snippy, insulted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bloom, but there’s nothing we can do.”
She left the room. Adam was upset and was about to go after her and continue complaining when he realized that there was nothing for him to complain about. Yeah, he’d been looking forward to going on the show, and it would’ve been fun to be the center of attention for a while longer, but it wasn’t like the show owed him anything.
He left the studio and went right to a newsstand on Lexington Avenue and bought copies of the
Post, News,
and
Times
and read them while standing in the vestibule of a closed shoe store. His story didn’t make the front page of either of the tabloids— the
Post
and the
News
— but both gave it space several pages in.
It wasn’t exactly what he expected.
The
News
headline was trigger happy. The
Post
: gun crazy.
What the hell was going on? Adam skimmed the articles, getting increasingly upset, wondering if he should call his lawyer, threaten a libel suit. Both articles were totally skewed and misleading, making it sound as if Adam had acted impulsively, shooting an unarmed man who posed no danger to him. The
News
article reported that Adam confronted Sanchez on the stairs and fired “without warning,” shooting the unarmed man “multiple times.” The
Post
called Adam “the new Bernie Goetz,” comparing him to the vigilante who’d shot four unarmed teenagers on the subway in the eighties. Neither paper included any quotes from Adam, and while both acknowledged that Sanchez had a criminal background, they made this seem incidental compared to what Adam had done. Both also left out the quote from Detective Clements that had played on the TV news last night, about how Adam had been justified in his actions. The
Post
actually wrote that the police “weren’t able” to press charges against Adam in the shooting, implying that they wanted to charge him but, for legal reasons, couldn’t.
Even the
Times
didn’t get it right. Although the
Times
article wasn’t as sensationalized, it was still written from the angle that Adam had acted impulsively and irrationally, not in self- defense, and it didn’t include the supportive quote from Detective Clements, either.
After Adam read the three articles twice, he remained outside the shoe store, stunned. He couldn’t believe that this was actually happening to him. It was bad enough to have had his house broken into, to have been forced to kill someone, but now he felt like he was being victimized all over again. Had the
Post
actually compared him to Bernie Goetz? That was insanely ridiculous. Adam hadn’t acted like a vigilante, carrying his gun around, trying to clean up the scum of New York. He’d been asleep in his bed, for God’s sake.
He glanced at the articles again, as if to confirm to himself that he’d actually read what he’d read, that it hadn’t all been some nightmarish hallucination, and then, in a daze, he headed downtown toward his office.
Unlike yesterday and earlier this morning, now he didn’t want people to recognize him. He felt embarrassed, ashamed. He couldn’t believe that he’d actually been looking forward to today, that he’d talked himself into believing that he was going to be treated like a hero, wearing his sport jacket with the shades sticking out of the pocket. He felt like the punch line of a bad joke.
He just wanted to disappear, be anonymous again, like he normally was in New York, but was he imagining it or were people staring at him? That guy in the suit walking toward him with the earbuds looked like he was thinking,
Don’t I know you from somewhere?
The mother and daughter waiting to cross the street ahead of him— they were looking at him, too, knowingly and judgmentally. Adam tried to look straight ahead, to avoid the intrusive looks, but it was impossible not to notice them. That young black guy was looking at him; the old lady pushing the shopping cart filled with groceries was looking; the Arabic guy at the pretzel cart was looking. They all seemed to know exactly who he was and what he’d done and why he’d done it. There was no room for negotiation.
When he entered his building on Madison off Fifty- eighth, he expected Benny, the building’s security guard, to give him his usual warm smile and say, “Morning, Dr. Bloom,” or at least make a polite, banal comment about the weather, like “Gettin’ colder out there, huh?” Instead he barely looked at Adam as he walked past, and Adam knew why. There was a copy of the
Post
on Benny’s desk.
On Adam’s floor, when Lauren looked at him, he saw her do a double take. She said, “Hi, Adam, how are you?” but there was no sincerity in her tone, no sympathy for what he’d been through. The coldness surprised Adam. He thought he’d at least get some sympathy and understanding from his colleagues. After all, if the people who know you best won’t stick by your side during a crisis, then who’s left?
“Okay, considering,” he said.
“That’s good,” she said, still avoiding eye contact and seeming tense and distracted. “Alexandra Hoffman called, and I forwarded her to your voice mail. And Lena Perez called; she said she has to reschedule her appointment next week.” When the phone rang she seemed eager to answer it, to have an opportunity to end the conversation.
On his way to his office Adam passed Robert Sloan, one of the other therapists in the suite, but Robert wasn’t exactly Mr. Supportive either. He asked some questions about the shooting, but, like that woman Annie in the greenroom, he didn’t seem to get that what Adam had done had been heroic. He even seemed judgmental, as if he’d already decided that Adam had done something wrong and nothing could change his opinion.
Throughout the morning everyone in the office seemed to be avoiding him. Even Carol, his own therapist and mentor, seemed to be ignoring him. Adam passed by her office several times, hoping to have a chance to talk to her and pro cess everything that had happened, but her door was closed all morning even during times when Adam knew she didn’t have any patients scheduled.
There was no flood of phone messages from patients and old friends, but Adam was relieved about this. He hoped it meant that no one had seen him on the news or read about him in the morning papers. Oh, God, he hoped Abby Fine didn’t buy a newspaper today.
When Lauren came into his office to let him know about some correspondence regarding a patient’s insurance claim, Adam felt he had to set the record straight and said, “Look, what the papers said is total crap. That’s not what happened at all, okay? The guy broke into my house, and the police think there might’ve been somebody else in the house with a gun, and that that person might’ve shot my maid. So I did the right thing, okay?”
“I believe you,” Lauren said, but it was obvious she was just saying this to end the conversation as quickly as possible.
Adam felt like locking himself in his office and spending the rest of the day alone, but he had an eleven o’clock appointment with Martin Harrison. Martin was what Adam and his colleagues called a professional patient. Adam had been seeing him for nearly two years but except for exhibiting mild symptoms of OCD and perhaps some generalized anxiety disorder, there was nothing really wrong with him. He was happily married with two kids and was doing well in his career as an advertising exec, but, for whatever reason— perhaps it was a subconscious emotional de penden cy issue, because his father had left his mother when he was five years old— he continued to pay out of pocket to see Adam two days a week. During most sessions, they rehashed topics they’d already discussed, and sometimes it was a strain to find anything to talk about. But what was Adam supposed to do, suggest that he end his treatment? What with managed health care restricting the annual visits of his insurance- paid patients, cash- paying patients like Martin were what made Adam’s practice sustainable.
Martin’s major personality flaw was that he had a very direct style of communication, almost too direct, bordering on inappropriate. When he entered Adam’s office, he didn’t even say hello but went right to, “So I was reading about you online this morning.”
Oh, Jesus, Adam hadn’t thought about this yet. The story wasn’t just in the papers; it was all over the Internet. Somehow that made it seem more permanent. People would throw out today’s papers, but the story, with all those skewed, misreported facts, would be available online forever.
“What did you read?” Adam asked, trying his best not to sound overly concerned but probably failing miserably.
“Just about how you had to shoot that guy. Yeah, it sounds rough. Sorry you had to go through all that.”
Martin didn’t sound very sympathetic. Adam considered pointing this out to him— maybe it could become an issue for today’s session?— but instead he said, “Just so you know, it didn’t happen like that at all. My life was in danger, and I had to shoot that guy in self- defense, but of course they tried to sensationalize the whole thing.”
“I hear you, I hear you,” Martin said. “I’m just glad to see you pulled through and you’re okay.”
Adam got the sense that Martin really didn’t care whether he was okay or not. No, to him, Adam was the typical guilty guy who would swear he was innocent ad nauseam till the day he died. Still, Adam wanted to keep things as professional as possible— this was a therapy session, after all— so he tried to minimize the whole situation, saying, “Well, I can’t complain that the last couple of days have been uneventful.”
Adam laughed, trying to get Martin to laugh with him, but Martin was unusually serious. Throughout the rest of the session, he seemed very agitated— fidgeting a lot, avoiding eye contact. Adam confronted him about his behavior a few times, but he insisted that everything was fine. Then, as he was leaving, he said that he wouldn’t be able to make it to his appointments next week. Adam asked him if he was going on vacation, and he said, “No,” but didn’t give any other explanation for the cancelations.
Adam wondered if this was just the beginning. Maybe even his oldest, neediest patients would have second thoughts about seeing him and there would be a mass exodus from his practice. He was trying to decide whether he should do some damage control, or
pre
damage control, maybe have Lauren contact some of his regulars and make sure all was well, when he remembered that he had a noon meeting with the reporter from
New York Magazine
.
He rushed over to the Starbucks on Madison and Forty- ninth, looking forward to the chance to set the record straight and to tell the public what had really happened the other night. When he entered, an attractive young black woman came over and said, “Dr. Bloom, right?”