Authors: Nancy Frederick
In college, when she married the cast off husband of her favorite professor, it seemed that she
’
d finally become number one. But did it work out? Not for long enough and she
’
d moved on, again and again. Her husbands had become like world wars
—
less painful to recall by number than by name. None had made her his first choice, and Addie admitted that for her only Trey really mattered, and he had left her for some young slut.
But it wasn
’
t Trey galling her today, it was Quatro, the fiend who
’
d promised to be her partner, her helpmate, to expand her spectacular success and convey her into the pantheon of celebrity. Instead he
’
d looted her bank account and brought her to the place where she was now
—
nearly bankrupt, her splendid home lost forever, and everything she owned in a storage unit
—
except for a wall of cartons in her office. She looked around at the chaos, recognizing it as emblematic of the larger issues in her life. Did this look like the surroundings of a person who had any hope at all of being somebody
’
s number one? No, probably not.
Addie sat at her desk, scribbling on her mostly blank appointment calendar. Her clients had deserted her. She wasn
’
t their number one, either. She focused all her rage on her husband, wishing he could be found, wishing she could be the one to return him to justice. How good it would feel to tell him off, to fling at him all the emotional debris now shrouding her mind and heart. He deserved to hear how he
’
d let her down, how much pain she had suffered because of him. Trust could be a scary thing, no matter what, but when it turned to treachery, it was devastating. If only there were something she could do, some way she could punish him for all he
’
d inflicted upon her.
A few years ago, on an airplane, while on a press tour to promote her latest book, Addie had read a thriller that detailed exactly how to commit suicide and set someone up for murder. It was a seductive idea. She knew what and precisely how much to take, and long ago had procured the necessary items. In troubling moments, she would review the plan and each step to take, but something had always stopped her from acting upon it. Even though her personal life had endured a series of crushing nose dives, everything else had still been too good, her success too spectacular. But under the surface was a sort of resonance, a certainty whose time had not yet come, and there lay Addie
’
s reality. At some point she would need it, at some point, she would do it.
The ringing phone jarred Addie out of her reverie.
“
Dr. Schlumberger,
”
she said, absentmindedly assuming it was a client and thus forgetting to say
‘
Dr. Schlumberger
’
s office,
’
as she usually did, but of course it was a creditor, and she was then unable to shield herself behind the persona of a fictional secretary.
“
Yes,
”
she said calmly,
“
What can I do for you?
”
She listened to the voice, refusing to buy into the stress or to let herself be manipulated by the caller.
“
You
’
re kidding,
”
she replied.
“
That can
’
t be possible.
”
She rose, walked to the couch, folded an afghan knitted for her by her last remaining client, all the while murmuring conciliatorily into the phone. Addie might have kept toying with the caller, but a knock at the door forced her to end the conversation.
“
I just got in from
Europe
, and have recently fired my business manager. So I will look into all of this and see that everything is taken care of. Thanks for letting me know.
”
Before he could press her for payment promises, she hung up the phone and opened the door.
The young man was the image of Mick, as he was in his twenties, golden and glowing. He smiled at her and under her breath she whispered, incomprehensible,
“
Trey.
”
He reached a hand toward her and Addie leaned in, expecting to be enveloped in his arms, awash in a flood of intense, dizzying emotion.
“
Adrianna Schlumberger,
”
he asked, bewildering her. Why would he ask her name? Had she changed that much? Her face alight with love, with expectation, she smiled, thinking he was teasing her, not remembering that she hadn
’
t eaten or slept properly in days, not realizing she wasn
’
t herself. She took the envelope he handed her, still foggy, still confused.
“
You
’
ve been served,
”
he said pleasantly, and departed.
Her heart pounding, Addie sat on the couch, willing her sanity to return. It hadn
’
t been that long since she
’
d seen Mick. It had been what
—
eight years
—
a funeral, a brief conversation. He
’
d seemed still to care. He wasn
’
t twenty. She had loved him all his life. He seemed always to love her. If ever there was a chance of becoming number one with somebody, surely he had been it. But like those who had gone before him and the one who
’
d come after, he too was gone.
She ripped open the packet in her hands. Connor Books was suing her.
“
Good luck with that,
”
she said scornfully, tossing the legal papers into the trash. She no longer had dime one of the advance and she hadn
’
t written the book. So what. In the back of her head was the refrain she had heard for quite a while, long before it became a serious plan, before it became frequent and logical and imminent, soon I will die….
How could she write a suicide note which would adequately explain her feelings, the reason why she was taking this step? How do you say I
’
m killing myself because nobody ever made me their first choice? The irony of the situation was monumental. She was nobody
’
s number one and thus a note of any sort was probably unnecessary. Who would sit pondering her act once she was gone? Probably not a soul, at least not for very long. Why bother documenting her feelings at all?
Addie flipped open the laptop on which she had always made notes about her clients and their progress, and on which she had written one bestseller. She began typing, adding a phrase here, a modifier there, then sat back to read what she had written.
Obituary
Adrianna Schlumberger, PhD., born July 14, 1946, in Backwater, Alabama, has died. The former Adele Penny was a well-known psychologist whose convoluted personal life formed the basis for many of her therapy techniques. Schlumberger
’
s partially decomposed body was discovered in her office by a cleaning crew. Date and cause of death is still to be determined by the coroner
’
s office, but early reports indicate likelihood of foul play.
Schlumberger rose to fame in the 1980
’
s as the creator of The Bullshit Program, a group therapy system in which participants would bravely tell their truths as they saw them and members of the group who recognized the pandering, rationalizations, or inherent delusions within their speeches, would cry out
“
Bullshit!
”
That approach forced the speaker to reevaluate his or her life. The New York Times called it
“
more powerful than EST.
”
The Bullshit Program reached an international level of popularity, was held in huge auditoriums for sold-out audiences, and made its creator enormously wealthy.
Schlumberger is the author of a number of popular self-help books, although none touched a nerve as deep as did The Bullshit Program. Own Your Own Choices, published in 1985, sold over a million copies, and inspired numerous smaller workshops. Divorce Without Shame, a lesser success, was inspired by Schlumberger
’
s own marital woes, and was made into a TV movie.
In later years, Schlumberger concentrated on her private practice, offering counseling to legions of Hollywood celebrities and ordinary citizens of
Los Angeles
who found her take no prisoners therapy techniques ground breaking.
Schlumberger married for the first time in college, to Ted R. Schlumberger, M.D., a prominent child psychiatrist, and the ex-husband of her college mentor. That marriage lasted seven years and produced a daughter, Lissa Bartholomew, a nurse, who survives her.
Her second marriage, to celebrity divorce attorney, Arthur Bittman, lasted four years, and was written about bitterly by Schlumberger in her tell-all self-help book, When His Penis is Too Small. The couple remained in litigation over the work and a subsequent slander suit brought about by Bittman. The marriage produced twin sons, Barker and
Randolph
Bittman, from whom Schlumberger was estranged for many years.
At thirty-seven, Schlumberger shocked the world by wedding the teen-aged son of her childhood best friend. She remained married to Michael Hamilton for six years, writing prolifically about the joys of their partnership. Soulmate at Any Age, Don
’
t Apologize for Love, and Reinventing Your Sex Life, were published during that period. A bitter divorce followed, despite many legal maneuvers designed by Schlumberger to keep her youthful husband. Ultimately, a paternity suit brought about by another woman ended the marriage.
Most recently, Schlumberger was wed to promoter Oliver Hooks, and their partnership led to a brief resurgence in popularity of The Bullshit Program. Eventually she sued him for financial malfeasance, claiming he had plundered her bank account and destroyed her reputation. He is currently under indictment and being sought by local investigators who wish to question him about financial matters as well as Schlumberger
’
s death.
Toward the end of her life, Schlumberger found herself embroiled in many legal altercations, several of which were brought about by publishers who paid hefty advances for books only partially completed. The last one, a memoir, Rags to Rags, was supposed to detail her childhood in a southern shack, emotional and sexual abuse by her father, abandonment by her mother, who ran away with a local delivery man when Schlumberger was nine, followed by her stunning success as a psychologist, and the ultimate bankruptcy which left her in ruins.
It seemed to trail off, didn
’
t it? Perhaps she should add more to it. Addie wondered if the Times had something on file for her nearly as complete and accurate as what she
’
d written, but that was unlikely. Her real name and so many details of her past were known only to herself. Instinctively, she reached for the appointment book, ready to scribble
“
Complete Obit
”
in tomorrow
’
s entry, but she stopped herself. Soon I will die….
She responded tentatively to another knock at the door. Was there anyone left to sue her? Addie opened the door cautiously, ready to pretend she was other than herself, and there he was, this time it was Mick. She hesitated. Had she gone completely round the bend? Was she now Blanche DuBois, always seeing her young ex-husband in the face of any fellow to appear at her door?
“
Addie,
”
he said warmly, stepping into the office and taking her into his arms. For a moment she stopped breathing, and just stood there, no thoughts, just emotion. He stepped back, glanced briefly at the chaos in her office, and said,
“
Are you all right?
”
She looked at him, and knew that nothing had changed
—
nothing for her anyway. He was now at the age she had been when they married; that
’
s how long ago it had been. Grasping his hand tightly, she led him to the couch and they sat side by side, turning only their heads to face one another.
“
How are you, sweetie?
”
He didn
’
t flinch, not even at the endearment.
“
I think Blinnie is cheating on me.
”
He was guarded, but clearly distraught. And he had come to her for help.
“
Belinda Connors, that conniving little bitch.
”
She couldn
’
t help herself. If she could heap all the miseries of the earth on someone, it would be on this one woman. And if she could place Quatro in the room with her, that would make life once again worth living.
“
Did you finally have that DNA test?
”