I keep talking myself out of the fact that they’re both in Palm Beach tonight and that someone other than Hollis sent Jana flowers and on the card was my pet name.
But it’s a common nickname, right?
Ughhh. Making a fist, I beat the hard lump out of the pillow and press my face into it, praying I’ll just suffocate in my sleep.
Orlane growls low.
“Stop!” I mutter as he sits up in bed and barks.
Looking out the bedroom window, I notice the glow on the terrace coming from Reid’s apartment. I hear his sliding glass door open and then close. From toilets flushing to the Late Show blaring, in the quiet of the night like now, you can pretty much hear everything in these co-ops.
With a toss of the sheet over the mattress, I get out of bed, slip into my fuzzy slippers, wrap myself in a robe, and head outside.
“Reid,” I say quietly. “You up?”
“Like a vampire. Come, sit with me.”
I head through the little walkway between our two backyards. Orlane follows.
“It’s nearly two in the morning. Why aren’t you in bed?” I ask, taking a seat on the wooden Adirondack chair next to his.
“Can’t sleep.” He’s been crying. I can tell because his eyes are nearly glowing in the dark. He wipes his nose on his forearm.
“Oh Reid. Everything is going to be okay with your job. Incredible Irene is an American icon. She’s on kids’ lunchboxes, in films, on T-shirts. Hell, even McDonald’s put her action figure in their Happy Meals.” At one time, Incredible Irene got to be so big that a movie starring Blake Lively was in the works. Reid had sublet his apartment, packed his things, and jetted off to Hollywood, but the actress hated the script and backed out as they were getting started. They lost their producers and it just sat in limbo for a while, not going anywhere.
“I lied to you ladies earlier. That’s not the real reason why I’ve been so upset. I mean, my distributor did go bust and my illustrating career is in turmoil, but it’ll be fine. Like you said, Incredible Irene is an institution of cartoon Americana. That’s not why I’m upset.”
Reaching for his hand, I give it a tight squeeze. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“I need to tell someone. I’ve been keeping it in for so long that I’m about ready to burst.”
I turn my body toward his. “Whatever it is, I promise it’ll stay just between the two of us.”
“Don’t get all psychotherapist with me. You know I don’t believe in that crap,” he snarls.
“Okay.” I laugh. From what I remember, Reid’s childhood, while filled with lavish things and lots of money, wasn’t full of much love. Especially after he came out to his parents.
“You know that guy I’ve been dating for the last few months?”
“Mike?”
“Matthew.”
“Right, Matthew. What about him?”
“He tested positive for… HIV.”
“I see.” I nod, taking in the news. Since my practice is mostly heterosexual women, I’ve only counseled a few infected patients. However, recent studies show that one in four people infected are heterosexual, with women accounting for one in five of those who are infected.
“Do you want me to help you find someone for him to talk to?”
He shakes his head. “He dumped me.”
“What? Why?”
“Said he didn’t want to be in a relationship right now. Not with all that’s going on with his health. He wants time to be alone and think.”
“That’s understandable.” I pat his knee. “Everything will be fine. HIV, much like diabetes, is a manageable disease. Matthew can still have a long and productive life. Give him some time and space. He’ll come around.
“Yeah, right.”
“Reid. Come on, you’re an amazing catch. He’d be a fool not to see that.”
“No, I’m not.” Tears streak his face.
Orlane walks over to Reid and sits down on the tops of his feet. He knows Reid is in pain. I love this about my dog; he’s like a big furball of love.
Reid leans down and kisses him on the forehead.
“Would you like Orlane to sleep with you tonight?”
“Can he?” His face lights up.
“Of course. He may be a little gassy from the pork chops we had earlier though.”
Reid laughs and so do I.
I lean over and hug him. Just as I think he’s stopped crying and is about to smile, he starts sniveling again.
“I think I’m infected too,” he whispers in my ear.
I put Reid to bed. Orlane sat at his feet and hopefully will help him sleep tonight. Thinking about him possibly having HIV makes my issues seem so small. I have a great husband, a thriving business, and a handful of friends. My life is good. I’m healthy. But am I truly happy?
Not this week.
As much as I try to count my blessings, my mind, especially now that I’m alone in the apartment, goes back to the note that I didn’t write. Earlier in the day, I’d dropped a writing sample off for Keely to give to her colleague. She said it would take a while to hear back.
Unable to sleep, I go into our study. It’s a small room, unusable really for a third bedroom because of the french doors, which open into the living area. The walls are lined with new and old books, mostly fiction, some textbooks from college, and a few nonfiction things that my friends have published over the years.
I scan the shelf. Danielle Steel? Too dramatic. Stephen King? Too scary. My eyes rest on a book I’d studied my second year at social work school. The title is Remember When. I pull it from the shelf and turn to the first page. It’s on hypnotherapy. Everything I learned comes flooding back to me.
Maybe if I’m put under, I’ll remember who drugged me that night.
I go to my purse, digging for Dr. Tiesto’s card. Sure enough, on the backside it lists hypnotherapy as one of his services. I call his office and leave a message, telling him I’d like to come in ASAP for a session.
I feel like I’ve done everything I possibly can do. The fingerprints and writing are being checked; now it’s time for me to go into my subconscious and see if I can remember something… anything.
Feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion, I turn out the lights in the den and go back to my bed.
***
I wake to the sound of the garbage trucks coming down 72nd Street. They’re always so loud, the piercing noise of compacting trash. For breakfast I toast two slices of rye bread and then smother them in apple jelly.
Mom cans preserves. She’s been doing it for years, says it takes her mind off her demons. I take a bite, feeling the sugar rush of the jam go straight to my head and smile. Reaching for my iPhone, I text her. Morning, Mom. Just thinking about you. Enjoying the yummy fruit spread you made. Thanks again. XO.
Scrolling up, I notice another text came in about an hour ago, probably while I was in the shower. From a local number, it says, Piper, this is Dr. Tiesto. I got your message from my service. Had a cancelation. I’m available to meet with you at 10:00 a.m. today. LMK.
I don’t have patients until after lunch. I text back that I’ll see him in a few.
Suddenly the thought of seeing Dr. Tiesto makes me a bit nervous. I mean, he does believe I tried to kill myself. And as much as I live and breathe talk therapy, the whole idea of being the subject, a patient, makes me itch. I guess I’m a hypocrite.
My eyes narrow on the bottle of Irish whiskey sitting on the counter. It’s either that or a Xanax. And if I know Bo, he probably scoured the entire apartment and threw out every single pill I own after last week’s visit to the hospital.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, add a dollop of cream, and then top it off with Jameson’s finest. A little buzz won’t hurt, right?
Dr. Tiesto’s office is very different from mine. I’m in a mid-rise building, one that’s used by a dozen or so mental health professionals. His office is the first floor of a townhouse. There’s a lovely wooden black
sign hanging in front of the outside stairs that reads ‘Tiesto, MD Psychiatrist.’ He probably charges way more than I do. Most MD’s and PhD’s do. Sometimes I regret getting my master’s in social work. I should’ve continued my education.
It is what it is. I’ve done the best with what I’ve been given.
My lips are a little tingly. Numb, actually, from the whiskey.
Stepping up the door, I ring the buzzer. Dressed in gray slacks and a blue button-down shirt with an orange tie—probably Hermes—he answers the door with a grin stretching ear to ear.
“Glad you could finally make it,” he teases.
“Sorry about that. I’ve been busy.” I take off my coat and hang it on the wall near the magazines. “Actually, that’s not true. Up until yesterday, I didn’t think I needed to see you, that this whole song and dance wasn’t necessary. Because I didn’t try to kill myself.”
He motions for me to take a seat in the great room, in front of a white fireplace. My butt bounces on the springs of the sofa. I reach out, raking the soft velour under my nails. “Your office is beautiful, Dr. Tiesto. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“And what were you expecting?” He sits in a nearby chair and crosses his right leg over his left.
“White straightjackets. Padded walls. You know, the usual,” I joke, hoping it’ll put me at ease.
The truth, and the way I see it, is that psychologists focus on the past and analyze their patients to death. It’s always the mother’s fault that their child is screwed up. Psychiatrists prescribe pills and diagnose mental diseases. Me? Well, as a psychotherapist, we coach people into overcoming their obstacles and living a better life. That’s how I’ve always seen our profession. So, these doctors, they make me uncomfortable.
He laughs, causing his face to wrinkle as he smiles genuinely at me. A softer side looks good on him.
“If you don’t believe you need therapy, then why are you here?” He reaches for a notebook and a pen from a nearby table.
My eyes meet his for a second before I glance down at his hands. They aren’t moving. He’s waiting for me to speak, so I say, “I want you to hypnotize me. Put me under. Ask me about that night. See if I say anything that might help me figure out who tried to kill me.”
“Kill you?” His eyebrows come together as one.
I share the news about the video recording, the letter’s third set of fingerprints, and my belief that my husband could be having an affair.
“That’s a lot to take in, Mrs. Adler.”
“Please, call me Piper.”
“I don’t see any harm in putting you under today. If you don’t mind, I’d like to record the session. That way you’ll be able to hear your responses to my questions after you’re awake.”
“Perfect.” I slip off my shoes, getting comfortable.
“You’ve done this before, I take it?”
“It’s been ages. I used to have this boyfriend, back before I got married, who was into hypnotizing me before we’d have sex.”
“Yes, unfortunately that’s becoming a popular fetish here in the city.”
“Have you tried it before?” I ask out of sheer curiosity.
He dips his chin in my direction and shoots me a glare as if I know better than to ask that question.
“Sorry.” I rest my head against the back of the sofa.
“Why don’t you go ahead and lie all the way down, lift your feet up, relax. Let me write out some questions, and then we can get started.” He jots down a few items on the notepad as I make myself comfortable.
“Thanks again for doing this.”
“Ready?”
I nod.
“Throughout this process, I may touch you on your shoulder, leg, arm or forehead. Is that okay?”
“Ah-huh.”
“Close your eyes. Take a deep breath in and out. All I want you to do is relax. Follow the sound of my voice. Let go. Let your unconscious mind learn something deep inside you. In just a moment, I’m going to ask you to focus all of your attention on the little spot just behind your eyelids. Focus the energy on your heartbeat. On the energy between your toes. No matter how far we go, you’ll be able to hear my voice. I’m going to count back from three, and you’ll be completely relaxed. Three. Two. One. Now, last week you had a few friends over for dinner. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember?”
“Reid told us a joke about how he’d come out to his parents. They’d walked in on him with another man. Jana is having postpartum and wishes she could spend less time at home and model more. It’s an escape for her. She feels like her youth is slipping fast. Maxine closed on a commercial property downtown. Big commission. She’s happy. Very happy.”
“Tell me more about after you finished the dinner. Who left? Who stayed?”
“Everyone left. I cleaned up the dishes. I was a bit drunk. I had too much to drink during dinner. I tend to do that when I’m eating oysters. Helps them go down easier, I guess.”
“I smelled liquor on your breath when you came in today. Did you drink this morning?”
“Yup.”
“Would you say that your drinking is a problem?”
“No.”
“Are you drunk right now?”
“Not really.”
“The night that you had your dinner party and you got sick, do you remember taking any pills?”
“After everyone left, I took Excedrin.”
“How many did you take?”
“One. I only had one in the bottle.”
“What did you wash the pill down with?”
“There was a fresh glass of red wine on the counter. I drank it.”
“Do you remember pouring yourself that glass?”
“Nope. I didn’t pour it. It was just there. I don’t like to toss out wine and figured I was already buzzed, so I drank it.”
“Was it good?”
“No. The wine was bitter. More so than usual. Maybe it had gone bad.”
“What did you do next?”
“I was feeling tired, so I laid down and fell asleep.”
“And then what?”
“Then I woke up in the hospital.”
“Do you remember anything else about that glass of wine? Was anyone in the room with you?”
“I remember hearing my front door open. The security feature makes it chime. I remember a smell of florals and greens.”
“Where was the smelling coming from?”
“Someone’s perfume.”
“Your perfume?”
“No. I don’t usually wear fragrance because it gives my patients headaches.”
He laughs and tells me to count back from three; then, when he puts his hands on my shoulder, I’ll be awake.
“Do you remember anything that we talked about?”
My body tenses. “Someone was in the apartment with me, gave me that glass of wine, and drugged me.”
“I think it’s time we call the police, don’t you?” He reaches for his phone.
Dr. Tiesto calls the NYPD, who let us know they’ll send a detective out to my apartment get a statement from me in a few hours. I cancel my remaining appointments for the day and head home to wait for the police.
Since it’s not an urgent matter, they could take a while.
I greet Carmine as I enter the main lobby. Making my way back to the apartment, I unlock my front door and immediately notice the sliding door to the backyard terrace is wide open. Odd.
Stepping outside, searching to see if anything is out of place, I notice the gate that goes out to the back alley is off the latch. Panicking, I call Carmine’s line in the lobby. “Was anyone in my apartment today?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Pest control?” Suddenly I feel uncomfortable in my own place.
“No More Bugs will be here tomorrow.”
“You sure?” Worry swells inside me.
“Is something the matter?”
“My back door was open. Ga
te is open too.” My mind races with images of some stranger rummaging through my things.
“This morning, you seemed like you were in a rush. Maybe you forgot and left them open, Mrs. Adler.”
“Maybe. Have you seen Reid?”
“He left to go to the gym a little while ago.”
“Was Orlane with him?”
“No, ma’am.”
He must still be over at Reid’s. “Okay. Thanks, Carmine.” Just as I’m about to hang up, I ask, “Have you seen Jana? Is she back yet?”
“She got in a few minutes ago. Said Palm Beach was hotter than hell, ma’am.”
“Great. Thanks again.” I hang up and pour myself a class of water, wondering if I should go confront her. Bo won’t be home until tomorrow. Maybe they stage their comings and goings from Florida so Hollis and I won’t notice they’re having an affair.
I take two sips, mulling over what to do. Without giving it any more thought, I make my way out of my apartment and climb the stairs two at a time to her place. Three flights up.
With a soft knock on the door, I hear the baby crying and Jana shushing her.
Slowly, the door opens. Soft Caribbean music plays from a nearby speaker.
“Piper….”
“Mind if I come in?”
“Not at all.” She steps to the side. “Hollis went grocery shopping. You know that new organic place over on York. Anyways, I was just about to give the baby a bath. Everything okay? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I took the day off.” I step into the foyer, admiring their apartment. Natural hardwood floors, high ceilings, crown molding going from room to room, and an eclectic array of furniture ranging from Victorian to contemporary. With the bright blues and deep greens, it all comes together beautifully. Like something out of Architectural Digest, their unit is nearly twice the size of mine. They can afford it. Jana makes millions.
She motions for me to follow her into the kitchen. The sink is full of bubbles, pink towels laid out for the bath along the counter.
“How was Palm Beach?” I ask, concealing my suspicions.