Self-Defense (9 page)

She studied me.

“Forgive me, Dr. Delaware, but that just
doesn’t ring true. You’re a lovely man and I really appreciate all you’ve tried
to do for me, but there’s something going on here, some kind of resistance.
I’ve got a feel for things like that.” Another joyless laugh. “Maybe it comes
from screwing ten strangers a day. You get good at gauging people quickly.”

She got up and walked across the room.

“Lucy flunks therapy.... Seeing Milo’s
friend was a mistake—how can I expose myself to you and expect you to be
impartial? How can I expect you to take any sort of
voyage
with a
whore?”

“You’re not a whore.”

“No? How can you be sure? Have you had
other patients who were whores?”

“Lucy—”

“For seven years,” she said, between
clenched jaws, “I haven’t
touched
a guy. For seven years I’ve been
double-tithing my income to the poor, not eating meat, doing every good deed I
can find to cleanse myself.
That’s
why I wanted to be on that jury. To
accomplish some greater good. And now I finally find a man I like, and I’m
feeling dirty—judged by you just like I judged Shwandt. I
should
have
gotten out of it. Who am I to judge
anyone
?”

“Shwandt is a monster,” I said. “You got
caught up in something.”

She turned her back on me. “He’s a monster
and I’m sleazy—we’re all defendants in one way or another, aren’t we? Is that
the only reason you don’t want me near Milo, or is he involved with someone
else?”

“It’s not appropriate for me to discuss
his personal life.”

“Why not? Is he your patient, too?”

“We’re here to talk about you, Lucy.”

“But
I
like
him,
so doesn’t
that make it relevant? If he wasn’t your friend, we’d be talking about him.”

“And I wouldn’t know anything about his
personal life.”

She stopped. Licked her lips. Smiled.
“Okay, he’s committed. Though I know he’s not married—I asked him if he was and
he said no.” She turned sharply and faced me. “Did he lie to me?”

“No.”

“So he’s going with someone—maybe living
with someone—is she beautiful? Like
your
wife? Do the four of you
double-date?”

“Lucy,” I said, “stop tormenting
yourself.” Knowing my reticence was feeding her fantasies. Knowing I couldn’t
warn Milo—strangled by confidentiality.

Turning her back on me, she pressed her
hands up against the glass doors, saw the fingerprints she’d made, and tried to
wipe them off with a corner of her sweater.

“Sorry.”

Nearly sobbing the word.

“There’s nothing to be—”

“I can’t believe I just said all those
things. How could I be so—”

“Come on.” I guided her back to her chair.
She started to sit, then walked past it, snatching up her bag and racing for
the door.

I reached her just as she opened it. A
marine breeze ruffled her hair. Her eyes were watering.

“Please come back, Lucy.”

She shook her head violently. “Let me go.
I just can’t take any more humiliation.”

“Let’s talk it ou—”

“I
can’t.
Not right now.
Please—I’ll come back. I promise. Soon.”

“Lucy—”

“Please let me go. I really need to be
alone. I really need that.”

I backed off.

She stepped out onto the footbridge.

Had I screwed up or was it something that
couldn’t have been avoided?

Seeing a friend of his was a mistake.

Who knew trauma counseling would turn into
this?

Damn, what a
mess
!

I tried to call her an hour later. No
answer. One more try, an hour after that, and I decided to give her time to
think.

That evening, Robin and I cooked sand dabs
and home fries and lingered over the meal. I was preoccupied and tried to hide
it by being extra affectionate. She knew something was going on but said
nothing as we watched the sunset.

Then she went to do some carving, Spike
fell asleep, and I got in the Seville and drove aimlessly up the coast, getting
off the highway at Ventura, for no particular reason, and gliding through dark,
empty streets. Lots of boarded-up storefronts and FOR LEASE signs. The
recession had hit the town hard, and seeing it did nothing for my mood.

When I got back, Robin was in bed reading
Command: Shed the Light.

She closed it and dropped it on the
covers. “Why did you check this out?”

“Research.”

“Into what?”

“The dark side.”

“Such garbage. I can’t believe this is the
same guy we had to read in English.”

“The critics couldn’t believe it either.
It killed his career.”

“He used to write totally differently,”
she said. “
Dark Horses.
That long poem about Paris: “The Market.’ I
remember
Dark Horses
especially because we had to analyze it in freshman
English. I hated the assignment but I thought the book was fascinating, the way
he turned the racetrack into a miniature world, all those quirky characters.
This stuff is dreadful. What happened?”

“Maybe he used up his ration of talent.”

“What a woman-hater! Seriously, what kind
of research are you doing?”

“It has to
d
o with a patient,
Rob. Someone he’s influenced.”

“Oh. Sounds creepy.”

I shrugged and got out of my clothes.

“Nice of you to empathize with your
patient to that degree,” she said.

“That’s what they sent me to school for.”
I put the book on my nightstand and slipped under the covers. She rolled toward
me.

“You sound upset.”

“No, just bushed.”

She didn’t say anything. Her huge dark
eyes snared mine and held them captive. Her curls fell over bare shoulders like
a shadow on the moon. I wrapped her in my arms.

“Okay,” she said. “Do you have enough
energy to empathize with me? I’ve got
all
sorts of feelings.”

I was still in my bathrobe when the phone
rang at 7:10 the next morning.

“Dr. Delaware? This is your service. I
have a Dr. Shaper for you.”

The name was unfamiliar. “I’ll take it.”

A man’s voice said, “Who do I have?”

“This is Dr. Delaware.”

“This is Dr. Shapoor over at Woodbridge
Hospital. We’ve got a suicide attempt came in last night. Lucretia... Lowell.
She’s finally awake and claiming she’s your patient.”

My heart rocked and rolled. “How is she?”

“Stabilized. She’ll survive.”

“When did she come in?”

“Sometime last night. She’s been going in
and out of consciousness. Claims she’s never done this before. Has she?”

“Not to my knowledge, but I’ve only seen
her a few times.”

“Well, we’re putting her on a
seventy-two-hour hold
—One second
!” Then: “You know how those
seventy-twos go?”

“Yes.”

“She’ll be seeing one of our staff
psychiatrists. You can probably get some kind of temporary privileges—you’re an
M.D., right?”

“Ph.D.”

“Oh. Then I don’t know. Anyway—”

“What method did she use?”

“Gas. Turned on the stove and stuck her
head in.”

“Who found her?”

“Some guy brought her in. I just came on
shift and saw the message in the chart to call you.”

“Did she take any drugs or alcohol?”

“According to the chart, she denies any
drug use, but we’ll see when the blood work gets back. Does she have a drug
history?”

“Not that I know of, but she
has
been through some rough times recently.”

“Uh-huh—hold on.
What? Tell them just
to wait!...
Anyway, I have to go now.”

“I’d like to come over and see her now.”

“Sure,” he said. “She’s not going
anywhere.”

After I hung up, I realized I had no idea
where Woodbridge Hospital was. Obtaining the number from Information, I connected
with a bored receptionist, who said, “They call it Woodland Hills, but it’s
really Canoga Park. Topanga just north of Victory.”

I got dressed and drove south on PCH,
taking Kanan Dume Road to the 101 Freeway, where I got stuck in a jam.
Squeezing out at the next exit, I drove north till I found Victory and followed
it ten miles to Topanga Boulevard. The hospital was a three-story brown-brick
column that resembled a giant chocolate bar. Small smoked windows, small brass
letters, and an illuminated emergency entrance sign bright enough to pierce the
morning light.

Parking was free, in a giant lot. The
guard at the door barely glanced up as I passed. I gave the clerk my name and
she buzzed me in.

The place was brimming over with misery,
injured and sick people propped up in plastic chairs. Periodic moans soloed
above efficient medical chatter. A colostomy reek hung in the air.

As I passed, someone said, “Doctor?” in a
weak, hopeful voice.

Shapoor was outside a room marked
Observation 2, reading a chart. A tall, elegant Indian around thirty, he had
wavy black hair, humid eyes, and nicotine breath. His badge said he was a
second-year resident. His necktie was hand-painted, and the disks of his
stethoscope were gold-plated. I introduced myself. He kept reading.

“Lucy Lowell,” I said.

“Yes, yes, I know.” Pointing to the door.

“How’s she doing?” I said.

“We patched her up.”

“There were wounds?”

“I was speaking figuratively.” He snapped
the chart shut. “She’s fine. We saved her. For the time being.”

“Has her blood work come back yet?”

“No narcotics that we pick up.”

“What are the side effects of the gas?”

“A very unpleasant headache for the next
few days, some general weakness, maybe disorientation, congestion, shortness of
breath—it all depends on how much she actually took in. We cleaned her out
thoroughly.”

“Was she conscious when she came in?”

“Semi. But she keeps going in and out.
Typical.”

“Is the person who brought her in still
here?”

“Don’t know. The psychiatrist on call can
fill you in. She won’t be in till later today, but she feels an involuntary
hold is definitely called for.”

“What’s her name?”

“Dr. Embrey. You can leave your card with
the front desk or the triage nurse and ask them to give it to her.” Pulling his
stethoscope off, he walked to the next door. I pushed Lucy’s open.

She was in bed, eyes closed, breathing
through her mouth, hands flat on her thighs. Her hair had been top knotted with
a rubber band. A plastic bag of something clear dripped into her veins; oxygen
hissed into her nose from a thin tube that ran from a pressurized tank. A bank
of monitors behind the bed beeped and flashed and gurgled, trying to quantify
the quality of her life.

Her vital signs looked good, the blood
pressure a little low. Her face was sweaty but her lips were dry.

I stared down at her, replaying our
sessions, wondering if there had been warning signs.

Of course there’d been, genius.
All that shame and rage.

Confession gone very sour.

Nothing to indicate she’d go this far, but
what the hell did I know about her?

Out of my hands now. She was in the
system, locked up for three days. More, if the psychiatrist convinced a judge
she remained a danger to herself.

A woman psychiatrist. Maybe it was what
she needed. God knows I wasn’t her savior.

She made a deep snoring sound, and her
eyes moved under swollen lids.

More fragile than I’d thought.

Was her summer as a prostitute the cause
or, more likely, a symptom?

I wondered if everything she’d told me was
true.

For all I knew, her father was really a
truck driver from Bell Gardens, no closer to fame than a subscription to
People.

Who’d brought her to the hospital?

Who’d pulled her head out of the oven?

Her eyes opened partially. She tried
blinking but couldn’t. I moved into her field of vision; at first she didn’t
focus. Then I saw her pupils dilate. One hand moved, the fingers stretching
toward me. Suddenly, they dropped.

I took hold of them. Her mouth shifted,
struggling for an expression, finally settling on weariness.

I smiled down at her. She gave a feeble
nod. The oxygen tube fell out of her nose, the hiss growing louder as precious
gas leaked.