“Yeesh,” James complained. “It’s like an oven in here.”
Despite the stuffiness, Kate was in love with the condo. It was the first place she’d ever owned, and she felt so lucky to have it. The living room was a grand open space with a marble fireplace and an arched doorway leading into an airy dining room. She adored the master bedroom with its muted color scheme and cozy touches. The kitchen and bathroom were lovely in their period simplicity, especially the deep claw-footed tub, where she planned on soaking for hours after a long day at the hospital. The huge kitchen windows were perfect for an herb garden.
“I’m sweating like a pig.” James took off his coat and gloves and scarf and dropped everything on the sofa.
“Pigs don’t sweat.”
“Seriously. Am I the only one who’s melting around here?” He struggled with his pullover, peeling it off with a crackle of static, and then eyed the culprit—a hissing radiator in the corner of the living room. He strode over and wrestled with the stuck knob.
“Careful, you’ll…”
“Ouch!”
“…burn yourself.”
James sucked on his finger and gave her a contrite look, while steam hissed into the room and the copper pipes clanged in the walls.
“Poor baby.” Kate walked over to him. “So overheated and everything.” She reached for his belt buckle, looped her finger through it and pulled him close. She rubbed her pelvis against his and kissed him passionately.
He scooped her up in his arms, swung her around, and she laughed from deep in her throat as he carried her into their bedroom, nearly scuffing the walls with her winter boots. “Watch it!” she giggled. He dropped her on the bed and removed her boots one at a time. He pinched off her thick socks and unzipped her jeans.
“God, you’re gorgeous.” He unbuttoned her blouse and bent to kiss the tiny, nearly invisible scars that peppered her skin. Kate had been a cutter once. Razor blades, paperclips, thumbtacks, scissors. What had begun as an extreme response to her sister’s death had devolved into a crippling anxiety disorder. She had left little dimple-like scars on her stomach, thighs, and arms, and wore long sleeves to hide them from the world, mostly so her father wouldn’t catch on. Cutting herself felt like payback for his neglect. It also relieved some of the pressure she felt as a high school honors student trying to get into a prestigious college. It had lasted for several years, until she got into therapy and learned how to cope. Her mentor, Ira Lippencott, had saved her life. He’d stopped the self-destructive behavior in its tracks and put her on the path to wellness.
The phone rang again.
“Oh God,” she groaned. “We need to set some guidelines for your mother. Like no calling before noon or after eight o’clock.”
“Just ignore her,” James said, sliding his hands under her blouse, an urgency to his breathing. “I always do.”
“Oh please.” She stopped him. “The last thing I want to hear is Vanessa’s voice in the background while we’re making love.” She could picture his mother tapping her long polished nails on her marble kitchen island, gazing at the clock, and wondering why they weren’t picking up. At least she was a good hour’s drive away on the other side of the city.
He collapsed on top of her.
“Answer it, James,” she pleaded.
The machine picked up. They both turned their heads to listen.
“Kate?” Ira Lippencott’s voice came floating through the doorway. “I’ve got bad news. Nikki McCormack is dead. Call me as soon as you get this.”
3
NIKKI MCCORMACK WAS FOUND hanging from the center beam of her parents’ living room. A chair had been kicked out from under her. She’d hanged herself with an old clothesline from the garage, although how she’d gotten it up there, nobody knew. Her parents had discovered the body after attending a charity reception at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Her stepfather grabbed her around the middle, while her mother called 911. Together they lifted the body onto the floor. Ten minutes later, the paramedics pronounced her dead. Nikki was clad in full Goth regalia. Her skin had swelled around her neck and face, and her eyes were black and shiny as olives.
Dealing with the family—their sorrow, their vulnerability— as well as her own shock and grief all night long and into the following morning had given Kate a raging headache no amount of Tylenol could alleviate. The police were polite but thorough. The interview was mercifully short. The rest of the hospital staff was saddened but too busy to talk about it for very long. Nikki had been admitted into Acute Care eight months ago, and some of them remembered her and spoke well of her, and that was about it. Suicides weren’t terribly uncommon, but it had never happened to Kate before.
She moved from meeting to meeting all morning until around 10:30 AM, when Ira Lippencott cornered her in the break room. By then Kate was shaking so badly she couldn’t keep the coffee pot steady.
“Sheesh. You look like a ghost,” he said. “Where’s James?”
“Dealing with his own crisis. Agatha’s in full meltdown-mode.”
He nodded. The reputation of James’s most troubled patient was well known in the hospital. “Come with me.” He ushered her into his office and made her sit down, while he poured her a cup of coffee from his Breville espresso machine.
Ira’s office was full of modular furniture, decorated in a neutral palette. The plants had long outgrown their pots, and now they jammed their leaves against the glass as if they were clamoring to escape.
Ira had been her senior attending and knew all about the tragedies that had shaped her life. As an undergraduate, she’d undergone psychoanalysis with him as her therapist. It was a prerequisite. “You need to know what it’s like to sit in the other chair, before you can sit in my chair,” he’d explained. This man knew everything about her.
“Here,” he said, handing her an espresso. “Now talk.”
Kate’s shaky hands threatened to spill her coffee all over her lap, so she took a sip and set it aside. “What’s there to talk about,” she said flatly. “I failed her.”
“You did your very best, Kate. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I’m her psychiatrist, and I didn’t see it coming. And so… I failed her.”
“Now’s not the time to feel sorry for yourself.”
“Sorry for…?” she repeated.
“Self-pity doesn’t suit you.” Her mentor didn’t suffer fools gladly. “Listen to me, Kate. You aren’t alone in this. I wake up every day with a few more gray hairs.”
“I know, but…”
“But nothing.”
That did the trick. All morning long she’d managed to hold it together, but now she was flattened by Nikki’s suicide. She plucked a tissue out of the floral-patterned box, pressed it to her eyes, and let herself cry.
“I know, I know,” Ira said soothingly. “Look, it happens. We’ve all had patients commit suicide. It’s devastating. But believe it or not, you’ll learn to live with it.”
She nodded. She pulled herself together.
“So. Let’s review what you could’ve done differently,” he said. “Tell me, how was Nikki’s therapy going?”
“We were making good progress. She was responding well to the new meds.”
“And what about the family sessions?”
“Her parents were opening up to the possibility they may have contributed to some of Nikki’s issues.”
“And her addictive behaviors?”
“She’d stopped drinking and taking drugs, as far as I know. She was slowly pulling her life together.”
“Excellent. So? What more could you have done? Canceled your vacation? These things happen, Kate. It comes with the territory.”
“Well, I’m canceling my vacation now.” Last night, her dreams had crackled with tension—monsters chasing little girls who snapped in half like twigs. “Elizabeth McCormack wants me to come to the funeral.”
“Good. It’s advisable to stay in close contact with the family, at least through the funeral, certainly until the autopsy results are available.”
Autopsy. That cold word brought it home to her.