Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“Nice to be appreciated,” I said.

He stopped fussing. His expression said, Don’t get carried away.

His stubby little legs and attenuated palate could handle a half mile up the Glen and back. Not bad for a ten-year-old pooch- in bulldog years, he was well past retirement. When we returned, he was famished and parched, and I filled his bowls.

While he ate, I called the most current number I had for Ned Biondi. Ned had retired as a senior writer for the Times years ago, talked about moving to Oregon, so when I got a no-longer-in-service message, I wasn’t surprised. I tried Oregon information, but he wasn’t listed.

I’d treated Ned’s daughter years ago, a brilliant girl with too-high standards who’d starved herself and nearly died. I supposed the fact that Ned hadn’t bothered to leave his forwarding was encouraging. The family didn’t need me anymore. How old would Anne Marie be, now- nearly thirty. Over the years, Ned had phoned to fill me in and I knew she’d gotten married, had a child, was still waffling about a career.

The information always came from Ned. I’d never achieved much rapport with his wife, who’d barely spoken to me during therapy. Once treatment was over, Anne Marie didn’t speak to me either, not even to return follow-up calls. I mentioned it once to Ned, and he grew apologetic and embarassed, so I dropped it. A year after discharge, Anne Marie wrote me an elegant letter of thanks on pink, perfume-scented stationery. The tone was gracious, the message clear: I’m okay. Back off.

No way could I call her to locate Ned. Someone at the paper would know where he was.

As I started to punch in the Times ’s main number, call waiting clicked in.

Allison said, “Hi, baby.”

“Hey.”

“How’s your day been?”

“Not bad,” I said. “Yours?”

“The usual… do you have a minute?”

“Something wrong?”

“No, no. I was just- yesterday, when I came by- Alex, you know I like Robin, we’ve always gotten along. But when I drove up… seeing you two…”

“I know what it looked like, but she was just thanking me for taking Spike.”

“I know.” Her laugh was flimsy. “I called to tell you I know. Because maybe I let out a little jealous vibe. I was a little bugged. Seeing her kissing you.”

“Chastely,” I said. “On the cheek.”

She laughed again, then grew silent.

“Ally?”

“I couldn’t ascertain the site,” she said. “All I saw was two people who… you looked like a couple - you looked comfortable with each other. That’s when it hit me. All the history you have with her. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just started contrasting it with- it just seems as if we’re a ways off from that…”

“Allison-”

“I know, I know, I’m being neurotic and insecure,” she said. “I’m allowed to do that, once in a while, right?”

“Sure you are, honey, but in this case it’s not warranted. The only reason she was there was to hand off Spike. Period.”

“Just a peck on the cheek.”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t want you to think I’ve turned into some possessive, paranoid chick- oh, listen to me.”

“Hey,” I said, “if the situation were reversed, I’d react the same way. Robin has no interest in me, she’s happy with Tim. And I’m thrilled to be with you .”

“I’m your main squeeze.”

“You are.”

“Okay, I got my self-esteem injection,” she said. “Sorry for bugging you in the middle of the day.”

“You’re my girl, Dr. Gwynn. I find you smooching some dude, it won’t be a pretty sight.”

“Right. You, Mr. Civilized.”

“Don’t test me.”

She laughed, this time with heart. “I can’t believe I made this call. The last thing I want is to be possessive.” Her voice caught.

“Sometimes,” I said, “it’s nice to be possessed.”

“It is… okay, no more Ms. Mawkish. I’ve got three more patients coming and each needs to perceive me as all-knowing. Then, it’s over to the hospice.”

“Any free time at all?”

“I wish. The hospice is having a potluck dinner for all the volunteers, so I’m eating there. The only breathing time I have is right now, last-minute cancellation. What I should be doing is charting and returning calls, not whining to you.”

“I’ll be over in twenty.”

“What?” she said.

“I’m coming over. I want to see you.”

“Alex, my next patient’s due in forty. The drive, alone, will eat up-”

“I want to kiss you,” I said. “That won’t take long.”

“Alex, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m okay; you don’t have to indulge my-”

“This is for me. I’m going to be in the neighborhood, anyway. Talking to a doctor at St. John’s.” Though I hadn’t made the appointment.

“Baby,” she said, “I can assure you that whatever it was that tweaked my anxiety has passed.”

“I want to see you,” I said.

Dead air.

“Ally?”

“I want to see you, too.”

While driving to Santa Monica, I got Dr. Leonard Singh’s number from Information, found out he was on rounds, would be back in an hour. I told his secretary I’d be stopping by and hung up before she could ask why.

When I reached Allison’s office building, she was waiting out on the sidewalk, dressed in a sky-blue cashmere cowl neck sweater and a long, wine-colored skirt, drinking something from a cardboard cup and kicking the heel of one boot. Her black hair was tied back with a clip, and she looked young and nervous.

I swung into the no parking zone in front and she got in the passenger seat. The cup gave off coffee and vanilla fumes.

I leaned over, cupped her chin in my hand, kissed it.

She said, “I want lips,” and drew me close.

We connected for a long time. When we broke, she said, “I have staked my claim. Want a sip?”

“I don’t do girlie coffee.”

“Ha.” She has a soft, sweet voice, and her attempt at a growl made me smile. “That, my darling, is the primeval sound of the alpha female!”

I eyed the cardboard cup. “Alpha females drink that?”

She glanced down at the beige fluid. “In the postfeminist age one can be simultaneously girlie and strong.”

“Okay,” I said. “What’s next? You drag me into your cave?”

“I wish.” She removed the clip, shook her hair loose, pushed thick, black strands behind one ear. Her skin was milk white, and I touched the faint, blue veins that collected at her jawline.

She said, “Alpha female, who’m I kidding? I mewl, and you hurry over. My professional advice is don’t encourage that kind of dependent behavior, Alex.”

“What’s your nonprofessional advice?”

She took my hand. The minutes ticked away, too hurried.

She said, “Does ‘not a bad day’ mean you’ve made some progress on Mary Lou?”

I told her about Patty and Franco Gull.

“Is Gull really a suspect?”

“Milo’s looking at him pretty closely.”

“Murderous shrink. There’s another PR coup for our profession.”

“You told me Gull came across slick. Do you recall anything else about him?”

She thought about it. “He just impressed me as really into image. The way he carried himself, the clothes, the hair. I’m certainly not surprised he’s promiscuous. He had that swagger- physical confidence, like someone who developed charisma early.”

“I was thinking high school jock.”

“That would fit,” she said. “If it turned out he slept with his patients, I wouldn’t be shocked either.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just a feeling.”