JASON STARR - Panic Attack

“Yeah,” she said, “but it was no big deal.”

“How many times have I told you to get rid of that thing?”

“You’ve never told me to get rid of it.”

“I told you I don’t want you smoking in the house.”

“I think I’ve smoked in the house twice since graduation, but if it bothers you so much I’ll stop.”

“And I don’t want you drinking in the house anymore either.”

“When do I drink in the house?”

“The other night- when you had Hillary and that guy over.”

“That guy was Hillary’s friend Jared, who’s in med school, and we were drinking wine. I think we had one glass each.”

“Well, I don’t want any drinking in the house anymore. Is that understood?”

“This is ridiculous,” Marissa said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just taking everything out on me.”

“Excuse me?” he said, raising his voice slightly.

“Like this has anything to do with my bong or drinking wine. This has to do with you and your gun.”

Her father looked at her the way he had so many times lately, like he hated her.

“Just go to bed,” he said.

“See?” she said. “I didn’t do anything wrong and you treat me like I’m ten years old.”

“When you act out like you’re ten I’ll treat you like you’re ten. Just go to bed.”

Realizing there was no point in arguing with her father when he got like this, she left the room. There were still a lot of cops near the front of the house, though it looked like they’d finally removed the body. Avoiding the commotion and, worse, another confrontation with that asshole Clements, she took the back staircase up to her room.

Lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, she suddenly remembered she’d given Detective Clements Darren’s contact info. She called Darren, leaving a frantic message, telling him that the cops had found pot in her room and he had to get all the drugs out of his apartment ASAP.

Back in bed, she put in her iPod earbuds and listened to tracks by Tone Def, this new alternative/punk/postgrunge band she was into. She was still angry at her father for laying into her, and she just prayed that somehow all of this would blow over quickly. Living at home had been difficult enough lately; she couldn’t handle it if things got any worse.

When Adam woke up he felt much better. He’d gotten several hours of solid sleep, and it was a bright, sunny day; bars of sunlight were coming through the venetian blinds, spreading into the room. He glanced at the clock - 9:27. He’d decided to cancel his patient appointments for today, but he felt well enough to work and planned to have a few phone sessions.

He didn’t think about the shooting at all until he went downstairs, passing the spot on the staircase where the body had fallen. He didn’t look very closely, but it seemed like the police technicians or ambulance workers or whoever had done an excellent job cleaning up all the blood and even repairing some of the wall damage. It was almost like it hadn’t even happened.

Dana wasn’t in the kitchen, but there was evidence that she’d been there: a coffee mug in the sink; some crumbs- probably from a bagel- on the countertop; the Times, folded open to the crossword puzzle, on the kitchen table. There was no sign that Marissa had been downstairs yet, not that he expected there to be. On most days she slept until at least eleven o’clock, sometimes past noon. Today she’d probably sleep till one or two.

He poured his own cup of coffee, then opened the newspaper. Although he’d spoken to a Times reporter at some point last night, as well as to reporters from the News and the Post, he knew the story about the robbery and shooting couldn’t have made it into today’s papers. But it would be in all of the major papers tomorrow for sure.

He skimmed the front page, reading about the latest bombings in Israel and Iraq, then went right to the sports section. The Jets were playing the Patriots on Sunday and he read about the game. After finishing his coffee and skimming an article in the Times on a promising new drug to treat schizophrenia, he went online with his BlackBerry and e-mailed a patient, Jane Heller, asking her if she wanted to have a phone session this afternoon at four. He also e-mailed Carol, his colleague, to see if she had time for a session sometime this week.

He didn’t hear any fuss outside and wondered if there were still neighbors in front of the house. He went into the living room and parted the shades. A Fox News truck was parked across the street, but that was it.

As he headed upstairs to shower and get dressed, once again he had to pass the spot where the body had been. What had Clements said his name was, Sanchez? Yeah, Sanchez, Carlos Sanchez. Adam stared at the spot for a while, feeling remorseful until he reminded himself that it was Sanchez who’d made the decision that had led to his death, not Adam. If he’d killed someone for no reason, murdered someone, or even if he’d killed someone accidentally, by a mistake he’d made, he’d have something to feel guilty about. For example, if he’d killed someone in a traffic accident, he would’ve had to accept responsibility. But this situation had been completely different. This hadn’t been an accident; this had been self- defense.

Adam went into the shower, and under the hot spray he was able to relax. He remembered the dream he’d had, about the black rat. He wondered why the dream had begun in his office. Was it really work related, or did his office symbolize a familiar place where he felt comfortable? And what was the significance of the black rat beginning as Jodi Roth or Kathy Stappini? The rat was threatening, but Jodi and Kathy were hardly threatening. He thought it might have to do with the therapist- patient relationship in general. As a therapist he was in a position of control, but then he lost control when he was attacked by the rat. So perhaps the dream was about losing control or, more specifically, being attacked. When had he ever felt attacked? He thought of his overbearing mother, his distant father, the bullies who’d tormented him throughout elementary school and ju nior high, and how in his marriage he sometimes felt attacked by Dana. Maybe the rat was actually Dana, symbolically attacking him, smothering him.

He made a mental note to bring all this up in his session with Carol. When he came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, Dana was in the bedroom, fully dressed in jeans and a long- sleeved black scoop- neck top. She was looking for something in the top drawer of the dresser.

“Good morning,” he said. She waited a couple of beats, then said, “Good morning,” and he could tell she was still angry about the gun. He always knew when she was angry and exactly what she was angry about, though she rarely expressed her anger in an appropriate, productive way.

But he didn’t feel like getting into a big discussion with her about her anger so he said, “Looks like they’re pretty much gone, huh?”

“I talked to a couple of reporters this morning,” Dana said. Her voice was a monotone; she was definitely repressing rage.

“Yeah?” Adam asked. “From where?”

“I don’t know.” She was still searching in the drawer. “TV, newspapers, wherever.”

Adam tossed the towel into the hamper and was naked. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and, as usual, sucked in his gut a little. He wasn’t in such bad shape for his age- only about ten, okay, fifteen pounds overweight- but he was self- conscious about the flab in his midsection. He really had to start running again, get a regular tennis game going at the country club. He played golf frequently, but riding around in a golf cart wasn’t doing much for his waistline. He had to do more crunches, get serious about it. In three years he’d turn fifty, and he wanted to be thin in his fifties.