Gail Bowen - Love You To Death

“Maybe I can get her to do a promo,” I say. “So, doc, where do we go from here?”

“You go on the air and say everything you said in your email-pull out all the stops.”

“Most of our listeners are hanging on by their toenails. If I say I’m desperate enough to pull the plug on ‘The World According to Charlie D,’ all hell will break loose.”

“That’s a chance you’re going to have to take.”

Nova surprises me by siding with the good doctor. So as Jann Arden sings the final lament of the doomed lover, I turn on my mike.

“This is for Rani. You’re right. I’m suffocating, and I’m running out of time. I don’t want to say goodbye to ‘The World of Charlie D,’ but I may not have a choice. I need to breathe. You’ve offered help. I’m asking for it now. Come down to CVOX, and Rani, hurry.”

We go to music again. Three in a row. A record. But this is a record-breaking night. Our incoming call-board is twinkling like a Christmas tree, and the email inbox is jammed.

Nova calls me. “You’ve got to ratchet it up. The building is filled with cops, but they don’t want to spook Rani, so they’re staying out of sight. They’re ready to take her, but they have no idea what she looks like, so they can’t do anything until you get her inside the building. That’s problem number one. Problem number two is our listeners. They’re panicking, terrified that you’re going to leave. And you know what happens when our listeners get scared. Charlie, you have to find a way to reassure them and still keep the heat on Rani.” Nova’s voice breaks. “Drat,” she says. “Hormones. This is making me crazy. You’re dancing on the edge of a razor blade, and there’s nothing I can do.”

“Sure there is,” I say. “Be grateful I’m not wearing high heels.”

Nova rewards me with a small laugh.

“I’ll go back on the air and tell our listeners to hang with me,” I say. “That should at least give us a little time.”

“Do that. And Charlie, our old friend Marion the librarian is on line three. Take her call. Nobody can turn down the emotional temperature like Marion. Get her to unload some of her research-that’ll chill everybody out.”

“True enough,” I say. “Marion’s better than Xanax. Wish me luck.” I flip on my mike and dig deep for my sane and hopeful voice. It’s there.

“We’re back,” I say. “And I’m doing better-not tip-top, but I’m still here. A glance out my nonexistent window tells me there’s a full moon-always a lunar spookfest-so let’s send back positive energy. Stay tuned and stay loose-we’ve got a lot of living to do.”

I start to cue the music, and I realize that tonight being cool is not enough. Our audience deserves more. When I start to speak again, the emotion in my voice is something I didn’t put there. “Thanks for hanging in,” I say. “Knowing you were there made all the difference.” My voice cracks. It’s the real thing. I’m losing control, and it scares me.

I’ve fallen overboard, but lucky for me, I have a life preserver. I can hang on to Marion the Librarian until I’m paddling in safe waters again. I lean into my mike.

“You are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D’ and our topic tonight is Erotomania. To help me navigate the tangled web of passionate longings and secret messages, we have an old friend: Marion the Librarian.

“Marion, my Marion, where have you been? I’ve missed the sound of your voice. I’ve become unmoored without your reassuring presence and your amazing breadth of knowledge.”

“I’ve been listening, Charlie. And I’ve been calling, but your producer has been blocking my calls.” Marion’s voice is flat and angry. I don’t blame her. We used her for a while. But when the network decided we had to go for a younger demographic, they drew up a list of callers who were no longer welcome. Marion’s name was at the very top.

“You’re on the air now,” I say. “And I’m going to put that Wikipedia brain of yours to work by asking a hypothetical question: If one of our listeners was the object of an erotomaniac’s fixation, what should he or she do?”

Marion leaps at the chance to share her expert knowledge. The chill melts. “Call the police,” she says earnestly. “Do not-and I cannot emphasize this enough-do not attempt to handle the situation on your own. Only five percent of erotomaniacs kill . Most often they kill the ‘triangulator’-that’s the person whom they believe stands between them and the object of their love. But no one can predict what an erotomaniac might do. They are very, very dangerous. I repeat: Do not attempt to handle this situation on your own.”

“Marion’s advice is as solid as she is,” I say. “Pay attention to her words. If a lover you don’t know is closing in on you, call the police. If you’re obsessed with thoughts you can’t control, call me. We can talk-off the air, if that’s your comfort zone. I can put you in touch with somebody who can help. Whatever the problem-you’re not alone.” My eyes wander to my computer screen. No word from Rani. I look questioningly at Nova. She shakes her head to indicate that Rani is still a no-show.

Through the glass that separates us, I see that Nova is chewing her fingernails. She’d given that up, saying she didn’t want to set a bad example for the baby. When I suggested that it would probably be a while before the baby cared about manicures, Nova rolled her eyes and told me there was a lot I didn’t understand.

She was right. There is a lot I don’t understand. But, ready or not, this seems to be my night for a crash course. Nova lays her head down on the desk. She looks so alone, and so vulnerable. Suddenly I know this isn’t about me anymore. I lean into my mike. “ Rani, if you’re listening, come down to the studio. So much depends on us seeing one another face-to-face.”

Marion cuts me off. “ I’m still here, Charlie,” she says.

Her voice is stiff with fury. I blew it again. I’m off my game. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say. “Marion, my Marion, I need some help answering the big question about people who love this way. Why? Why do they do it? We all know that, sooner or later, even the greatest love will bring us grief. Why do erotomaniacs choose a love that brings them nothing but grief?”

“That is the big question,” Marion agrees. “And it’s a tough one. I’ve read up on this subject, and I think the writer C.S. Lewis has an answer for us. Someone once asked him why we love when losing hurts so much. He said we love so that we know we’re not alone. Lewis’s point is clear. For someone who has no intimacy in their life, even pathological love brings feelings of great joy.”

“Even unrequited love is better than no love at all?” I say.

“That’s it exactly,” Marion replies. She sounds proud. I’m not the dunce in the class after all. “Love gives people a reason to get up in the morning,” she continues. “The act of loving gives our life purpose.”

I lost the woman I loved three years ago. Sometimes, out of nowhere, I remember the care with which she folded her nightgown and placed it under her pillow. Or her insane joy when she beat me at Scrabble. And I can barely breathe. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to get up in the morning. “It’s good to hear from you, Marion,” I say, and my voice is choked. I clear my throat and move along. “You always have something worthwhile to say. People like C.S. Lewis give us perspective.”