BEFORE I HAD TIME TO DIGEST THE CONVERSATION, THE ORderly arrived with Celia Dukell. I tried to shift my thoughts away from Beverly Gardener and Nick Stiles, to focus on work, but Beverly’s throaty voice kept taunting me, whispering phrases in my mind. “Nick and I are going to be inseparable . . . He’s sensitive ...under the surface . . . It’s not like I intended to get between you . . .”
“So? What do you think?” Celia’s voice brought me back. “My sleeves. I rolled them up today.”
She had, indeed, exposing a patchwork of assorted scabs and scars. A jagged cut here and a razor slice there. Normally, Celia hid her wounds under clothing; today, she displayed her self-inflicted carnage openly, almost proudly. Seeing the damaged skin, I forced an encouraging smile.
“Wow, Celia,” I congratulated her. “That’s a big step. How does it feel, baring your arms?”
“Embarrassing,” she shrugged. “Naked.”
I tried to concentrate on her eyes, not her ravaged flesh, but when I closed my eyes, my mind recalled other grisly wounds. A lopped-off finger. A gory bag of sliced skin and brittle bone. A brunette profiler and a rugged cop. Stop it, I scolded myself. This is Celia’s time. Focus on Celia.
I gave her some soft modeling clay, hoping it would give her a physical focus. Some patients found it soothing to make pinch pots or animal figures. Working and molding the clay, Celia talked freely about herself. “You know, for the longest time, nobody knew I was cutting,” she bragged. “The only reason they found out is that I got carried away and went a little too deep into my thigh.”
In fact, she’d almost bled to death, having dug a razor into her femoral artery. Celia’s stream of consciousness continued for the entire session, revealing how sly she’d thought she’d been, how carefully she’d hidden her secret, how long she’d been doing it. She talked calmly and matter-of-factly about slashing herself as her fingers worked and squeezed. When the orderly came to get her, she released her clay onto the table in a twisted, strangled wad.
The day sped on, a staff meeting and private sessions in close succession. My final patient was the silent schizophrenic, Evie Kraus. Evie’s chart indicated some dramatic changes had been made. Her medications had been reduced, and she’d become more alert and responsive. And although she hadn’t actually spoken, she’d begun expressing herself vocally. Evie had begun to sing. In fact, she’d been singing all week. Even as I greeted her, she was crooning a tune.
“Somebody’s knockin’. Somebody’s knockin’.” I recognized the song. An oldie, recorded by Terri Gibbs. It was about the devil. About choices, giving in or resisting sin. I made a note on her chart, even wrote down the words as she sang them.
“Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him? I’ve heard about him . . . But I never dreamed . . . he’d have blue eyes and blue jeans.”
Evie’s voice was clear and, in contrast to her imposing size and tattooed limbs, surprisingly sweet. I was thrilled to hear it and told her so. She looked my way but didn’t respond. She just kept singing. “He must have tapped my telephone line. He must have known I’m spendin’ my time alone.”
Working with pastel oil sticks, she drew a pink door, just the door, no house or building attached. The door was locked, padlocked in vivid purple. She sang and hummed as she worked, the same song. Over and over. “Somebody’s knockin’. Should I let him in? Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him?” On and on. Over and over. When her session ended, she was still singing. After she was gone, for the rest of the day and well into the night, her song remained in my head, an endless loop of melody and words.
Finally, it was time to go home. I grabbed a taxi, puzzling over Beverly Gardener’s morning visit. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Who’d given Beverly Gardener the right to claim Nick as her personal property? And what made her think she could order me off? Thinking about her made my head throb. Evie’s devil song didn’t help, beating over and over in my mind. The cab headed across town through a drizzling, ominous dusk, and I rubbed my temples, eager to get home, lock the door, and settle in for the night.
But—oh damn—it was Thursday. Gymnastics night—the mothers’ meeting. Susan was bringing whistles; we were going to organize and plan ways to protect our nannies and our neighborhoods. Like starting a town watch, a buddy system. Arming the nannies with cell phones and maybe Mace. Discussing Angela’s kickboxing classes, the possibility that her instructor could start a nanny program. Maybe I’d alert the others to the details of Beverly Gardener’s profile. Damn, there she was again, Beverly Gardener, brazenly intruding into my thoughts. Claiming her turf, clinging to Nick’s arm. I closed my eyes, erasing the image, and kept humming Evie’s song.
By the time the cab pulled up to the house, the sky was dark and the drizzle had turned to glassy sleet. Even so, I sprinted up to the door without slipping. Thanks to Jake’s guys, my steps had been freshly salted.