The Night, The Day (3 page)

They went into his room and fell into each other’s arms before the door closed. Their mouths connected in a deep, long kiss, their hands grasping at each other’s clothing. Martin felt himself rise. He had forgotten such a wanting; it had been much too long.

Nancy pressed up against him, pulling him closer, unbuttoning his shirt. Her blouse was a pullover, necessitating a momentary, painful break in contact as he peeled it off. It wasn’t until she started at his belt buckle that he suddenly retreated.

“What, Marty, what is it?” she asked, reaching for him as he stepped back.

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I just can’t do this.” He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeated tenderly, trying to pull himself together.

His sadness somehow infected her. “It’s okay,” she said, squeezing his hands.

He reached down, picked up her blouse, and handed it to her. Looking at her, he took a deep breath and said, “I think you’d better go.”

With that, her sympathy transformed into anger. “Yes, I suppose I should.” She threw her blouse on, picked up her bag and walked past him to the door. “I hope you figure your life out, Marty,” she said. “I can see that you’re confused and in pain.” Her eyes were watering. “I hope you fix that one day.”

And she was gone.

Now he felt he was unraveling, wondering if she would actually attend his lecture, knowing her presence would only distract him. He sat down and tried concentrating on his notes, then got up and walked to the window. From here, he could see across the river and much of Michigan Avenue. Once again, he was reminded of Katherine, of the endless strolls they used to take along Michigan Avenue, their times at the beach, their evenings on Rush Street. He wasn’t sure if it was Nancy Hartledge or the view; either way, this town was getting to him.

He realized that any normal man would have relished a night with Nancy, would have extended his stay just to have more time with her. But he wasn’t normal, hadn’t been for the past two years, and wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

He thought of calling his daughter, Elizabeth, but decided to wait till after the lecture when his mind would be clearer. He felt guilty for leaving her alone with the nanny; it was the first time he had done that since her mother had died. But she was in good hands, he assured himself.

He still had time, so he picked up the phone, dialed his office, and grabbed a pen and pad to write down messages. The first three messages were from patients, two current, one prospective. Nothing urgent. He scribbled the names and numbers on the pad, he would return those calls on Monday morning. Then came the fourth message: “Hi Marty, it’s Ashok Reddy. I know you’re still away, but I’m sure you will call in for messages. Anyway, I have a case that has your name written all over it. A real mystery of sorts; nobody here can make heads or tails of it. And wait till you hear who the patient is. Give me a ring.”

It was typical of Reddy to whet his appetite like that, he thought, looking at his watch. As enticed as he was to call Reddy on the spot, he had run out of time. His audience awaited him.

Martin scanned the crowd as the chairperson approached the podium. It was five minutes after the hour, and these things usually began on time. He didn’t see Nancy Hartledge and, strangely enough, that bothered him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chairperson, Dr. Leonard Johnson, began. “As president of the American Psychological Association’s Clinical Psychology division, I am honored to introduce our speaker this morning. When the division leadership discussed whom we would invite to address us at this 102nd APA convention, prominent among them was Dr. Martin Rosen.”

The room was quiet and attentive, but Martin barely heard Johnson’s flattery. His eyes were on the door at the rear, watching the latecomers wander in.

“Today’s lecture is on
Confidentiality in the Modern Age
, and there are few as qualified to speak about this crucial subject as Dr. Rosen. He is a clinical psychologist in private practice in Great Neck, New York, and an associate professor in the department of psychiatry at North Shore University Hospital. Having authored several articles and, most recently, the critically acclaimed book,
Are Patients Protected?
he has made the TV and radio talk show circuits and even the
New York Times
best sellers list.”

Admiration and envy flowed from the audience. It was the dream of most psychologists to come as far as Martin had. Though Martin’s only dream, at the moment, was to get this done with and flee.

“So, without further ado,” Johnson continued, “I would like to present to you Dr. Martin Rosen.”

Martin stepped to the podium while the audience applauded. He placed his notes on the lectern and waited for the crowd to settle. There seemed to be nearly 300 attendees, an impressive assembly considering that there were about fifteen other convention events being held simultaneously. He glanced around the room; still no sign of Nancy.

“Good morning,” he began. “I am here to talk about a very ticklish subject that touches all of our professional and personal lives, and also significantly influences public policy.

“Years ago, confidentiality between doctor and patient, especially between therapist and patient, seemed a given. But today, things are different. In fact, I dare say,
quite
different. With the advent of HMOs and stricter guidelines instituted by all insurance companies; new laws about potential suicide or homicide, abuse of children, spouses and the elderly; and, above all, the burgeoning information age in which we live, the confidentiality between psychologist and patient has been dealt some serious blows. And what’s really frightening is that most patients, and even some practitioners, are completely unaware that their conversations with one another are not necessarily protected…”

His presentation lasted just short of thirty minutes, followed by the usual applause, a few questions and answers, and then formal compliments from some APA bigwigs. It had come off much better than he had anticipated.

A few colleagues gathered around him to offer congratulations. Handshakes, smiles, jokes. He labored through the motions as long as he could stand it, and eventually managed to slip away back to his hotel room.

He glanced at his watch as he entered his room. It was shortly after noon, and he wondered if Elizabeth would be home. The nanny, her Guyanese accent more noticeable on the telephone than in person, answered.

“Hello, Jamilla,” he said.

“Ah, Dr. Rosen, hello. How are things in Chicago?”

“Good. How are things over there?”

“Very good. Elizabeth misses you, but she’s having fun at camp and I’m taking her to TGI Fridays for dinner tonight.”

Martin felt a lump in his throat. Fridays’ cheeseburgers were Elizabeth’s favorite, and a steady date for Martin and his daughter every Saturday night, their special time together. “That’s great, Jamilla. I really appreciate it,” he said. “Is she there?”

“Of course. She’s been waiting for your call. Hold on.”

Elizabeth came on the line. “Hi Daddy.”

“Hi princess, how are you?”

“I’m good, Daddy. When are you coming home?”

“Late tonight, princess. You’ll probably be sleeping.”

“Why not early? You can come out to dinner with us.”

“Because I couldn’t get an earlier flight. But I promise we’ll do something special tomorrow, maybe go to the park, out for dinner.”

Through the phone, he heard her tell Jamilla, “Daddy’s taking me to the park and out to dinner tomorrow.”

“Princess?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“See you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay daddy. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He reviewed his arrival plans with the nanny, hung up, stared out the window and thought about how much he missed Elizabeth. He kicked himself for having come back to Chicago. When he’d first planned to attend the convention, he imagined that some time in this town, the place where his relationship with Katherine had begun, might do him good, perhaps give him the chance to figure a few things out. Now he was even more confused. He just couldn’t see himself getting involved with another woman, especially one he met
here.

He picked up the phone and dialed Ashok Reddy’s home number. He could have waited until Monday to return the call, but he was intrigued by Reddy’s message.

Martin recognized his old friend’s Indian accent. “Hello, Ashok. It’s Marty.”

“Marty! How the hell are you?”

“Okay. I’m still in Chicago.”

“Yes, I remember. You are coming back tonight.”

Martin smiled. Reddy had an impeccable memory for details. “So, what’s the story with this case?”

“Things that dull in Chicago?”

“
Dull
would be good.” Martin hesitated for a moment, surprised by his own candor. “I was just curious.”

“Well, are you sitting down?”

“Yes,” Martin lied. He was still standing, watching the street below.

“Jacques Benoît.”

Stunned, Martin turned from the window and found the chair. “The Hotel King?” he asked.

“Bingo.”

“What happened?”

“That’s the problem, nobody really knows. He was brought into the ER at the beginning of the week. Apparently OD’d on Xanax. Swallowed a bottle of the stuff with some bourbon, thirty tablets.”

“Where’d he get it?”

“His internist. Seems he complained of sleep problems a few weeks prior to the OD, even though he didn’t take any of the pills till that day.”

“What’s to figure out, the guy tried to off himself,” Martin said. “What does
he
say?”

“He admits he was trying to commit suicide. He claims it was impulsive, that he was under a lot of stress from all the expansion and changes in his corporation. His company’s stock has been doing very well. New management and renovations of three of his hotels in the Middle East, and two more resorts he is opening in the Caribbean. Success isn’t always a good thing, so he says.”

“So he tries to kill himself?”

“With pills he had gotten a few weeks ago and hadn’t used.”

“Sounds a bit strange.”

“If you ask me,” Reddy reflected, “I think his whole story is bullshit, that’s why I called you.”

“Why me?”

“He needs therapy, and you know I only do pharmacology these days. He also needs someone who isn’t intimidated by him, someone who knows how to look for things.”

Martin was flattered but also wary. It was nice hearing such accolades from his close friend, who also happened to be chief of psychiatry at New York’s esteemed North Shore University Hospital, but Martin was convinced that Reddy had an exaggerated sense of his abilities. “If he’s bullshitting, who says he’ll comply?” he asked.

“His wife.”

“You mean one of the richest men in the world is pushed around by his wife?”

“Not exactly. She is an exceptionally intelligent woman, and quite distraught, much more so than the patient, I might add. He appears to really care for her, seems remorseful and eager to put the whole thing behind them. She also suspects there is more to this than meets the eye, says if he goes for therapy, it will make her feel better. He says he will do it. When I told him who I would send him to, he even seemed pleased.”