Stacia Kane - Personal Demons

"It's our job to help our patients face their fears."

"You say potato. Actually, it's just that kind of thing I was hoping to discuss with you. Fears, I mean, not potatoes!" He chuckled at his own joke.

Megan smiled with her mouth closed. "What about them?"

"Well." He thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned against the EKG monitor, only to stumble and nearly fall when the monitor on its wheeled cart rolled away. Megan tightened her lips to keep from laughing as he pulled it back into place. He looked back at her, with the guilty expression of a child who expected to be beaten for his clumsiness.

"Stupid wheels," Megan said. "Whose idea were they, anyway?"

He gave a nervous little giggle. "Yes. Right. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Fearbusters."

"The program Kevin was in?"

"The program Kevin is in. He hasn't officially left."

"Most therapy clients don't officially leave, do they, Mr. Bellingham? I mean, there's no graduation ceremony for feeling better. They just stop making appointments."

Bellingham shrugged, but the lines of his face tensed. "Fearbusters is ... different. Special. We do have a ceremony of sorts, and our clients sign up for a set period of time. If they feel better before that time is up, they help mentor those who aren't as strong yet. It's a wonderful program."

It may be wonderful, but it also sounded unethical. "And they pay for the sessions where they're acting as mentors?"

He nodded. "We reduce the fee, but our theory—and our clients agree—is that they're still learning new coping mechanisms while helping others to cope. Often they decide to stay, even after they've had their Leaving Ceremony."

"I see."

He narrowed his eyes. "If they really want to leave, they can. They just have to tell us. But in the two years we've been running the program, only one person has."

"Impressive."

"Thank you. Let me cut to the chase, Dr. Chase." He smiled. Megan smiled back, just as if she hadn't heard that joke a million times. "I'd love to have you on board. I heard you on the radio last night, dealing with the woman who heard voices. You were great. Most of our clients have issues like hers, hence our name. I think you'd be a great asset to our team."

Was there a person in the city who hadn't been listening? In her worst nightmares she'd never imagined Richard's stupid publicity campaign being this effective.

"I'm flattered," she began. "But with my own practice and the show, I'm working six days a week. I just don't see how I can fit it in."

"Maybe you could come down one evening and sit in on a session? We meet here at seven every weeknight, Conference Room B in the Outpatient Center. We'd love to have you."

"I'll try."

Bellingham brightened. "Great. Here's my card." The card was much flimsier than the one her mysterious visitor had presented her last night. "Please call me anytime if you have the chance to come in."

"I will." Megan hopped off the bed and landed with a thud on her feet. The bed was a little higher than she'd thought. She grabbed her purse. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bellingham."

"Call me Art." He gave her another limp handshake. It was like holding hands with an uncooked chicken cutlet. Megan suppressed a shudder. "Megan," she said.

"Megan, then. I hope you'll call."

She waited until he was gone to wipe her hand on her skirt.

Café Neus was part of the "new millennium" rebuilding project the city counselors had gone into paroxysms of glee over a few years back. Megan hated it. All the old buildings that used to give downtown character were gone, replaced by gleaming storefronts and chi-chi restaurants that looked like a strong wind would blow them over.

But she had to admit, it certainly had made the area more popular. Megan hunted for fifteen minutes before finding a place to park her little Focus, seven blocks from her destination. By the time she entered the cool, leafy interior of the restaurant she was grumpy, her feet hurt, and she wished she could go back in time and slap herself for agreeing to do the stupid radio show at all.

Don Tremblay wasn't so bad, was he? So what if he loathed Megan as much as she disliked him, especially after she'd lost her temper a year before at a conference they'd both attended and told him she'd recommend Hannibal Lecter as a therapist before she'd recommend him? So what if he'd told at least one client to grow up and stop whining so much, then charged the client double for the session saying it was because he hated her? Could she herself honestly say she'd never been tempted to do the same? It was hypocritical of her to judge poor Don, who'd been a therapist for years, poor Don whose wife had left him three years ago, poor Don, who was ... heading right for her.

"Megan." He smiled his artificial smile and grabbed her hand in both of his. She focused all her energy into her shields as he trapped her between the fake bamboo hostess stand and his pudgy body and forced his wet lips to her cheek. "It's nice to see you. I heard your show. What a sweet little effort."

"Sweet little effort?"

"Of course." He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and grinned at her. The effect was not what she thought he intended. He looked like a mad scientist about to cut up some dead bodies and make amusing shapes with their cold innards. "When Richard Randall told me you'd agreed to do it, I thought you were both a little crazy, but after listening..." He picked up her hand again and kissed it. " Magnifique . A word of warning, though. There are some in our illustrious profession who may not take kindly to your sudden fame."

Like you, she thought, but did not say. Tremblay's eyes were cold and watchful, and he was not afraid to make a scene. She didn't want to make things worse, especially when there was a reporter somewhere in the room ready to write about her. Fame-Hungry Counselor Stabbed Backs for Radio Show was not a headline she cared to read. At least, not on a story about herself.

"Thanks for the warning. I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm always happy to help a young lady unschooled in making the right impressions." Good old Don, always ready to patronize. "In fact, seeing as how you're dining alone again, perhaps you'd care to join me and my friends?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. I'm meeting someone."

"Blind date? It's hard for a girl like you to meet people these days, isn't it?"

Some people made her want to gouge out their eyes with a grapefruit spoon. Don was one of them. With effort, she refrained. "Yes, my enormous sexual appetite tends to scare men away. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find my dinner date."

She left him standing next to the gaping hostess.

"Here's how it works." Brian Stone, reporter for Hot Spot, rummaged around in his large backpack and set a mini-recorder on the table between them. His eyes sparkled. Megan envied his enjoyment of his job. "I ask questions, you answer. It's simple, but the tricky part is not sounding self-conscious. I want this to be a good article. I'm not planning a hatchet job, don't worry. If we do it right, it turns into a conversation and we both forget the recorder. We're going to be together all week, so it's best if we get the uncomfortable part out of the way fast, okay, Dr. Chase?"

He had an easy, quick way of talking as he gave this little speech. His light brown hair was short and tidy, his smile wide and welcoming. Everything about him was designed to be reassuring and encourage confidences. Megan refused to be won over.

"I'll certainly give it a try."

"But you don't want to."

"What?"

"You don't want to be interviewed, I can tell. It's okay. I mean ... it's not okay, because it makes my job harder ... but I understand you feeling that way. A lot of people do."