Destiny Lingers (18 page)

For the first time in my life, I know I can
kill.

“What are you doing here?” Garrett’s voice cracks. He is trembling. His once strong, erect dick looks shriveled, pink, and puny now. Eve is peeking out from underneath the covers on the other side of the bed, her eyes as wide as saucers.

“It’s not what it looks like,” the bitch has the nerve to say.

“You must be kidding me,” I respond as I look at her like the whore she is. “Oh, honey, it is
everything
it looks like.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eve whispers, barely able to speak through her cloud of shame. She hides her eyes underneath her long red bangs that have fallen down over her sorry red face.

“Why?” I spin around to face Garrett. “Why
her
? Of all people, Garrett!”

Garrett blinks, looking profoundly ignorant.

“
Answer me!”
I scream. “
Don’t I at least deserve
that?”

Garrett folds his hands in front of his limp dick and looks like a pale, sick little boy. His high-yellow skin looks pasty and sweaty now. He looks weak. I hate him. I cannot believe I was once so in love with this man. He has the pathetic look of a coward.

“I once loved you, Garrett—the best way I knew how—and you disgrace our marriage, me, and everything we promised each other for a piece of shit like
Eve
!”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Eve tries to stand up in protest, but the sheets are wrapped around her so tightly that she tumbles back to the floor.

“Girl, don’t even get me started,” I say in a slow, steady, threatening voice, my eyes locked into a death stare with hers. “’Cause right now—I swear I mean it—I will beat the shit outta you.”

“Look …” Garrett tries to act calm, but his voice and hands are still shaking. He clears his throat, covering his mouth with his fist, exposing his droopy balls. He looks like he’s about to make a big speech in his birthday suit. “I never meant to have an affair, but you weren’t home a lot. You were always working. Eve was just … just persistent, and it just …
happened
. It doesn’t mean anything—I swear.” Garrett puts on the puppy-dog eyes.

“Say
what
?” Eve makes it to her feet this time, her bouncy tits exposed. “What you mean—I was
persistent
and
it didn’t mean anything
? You said you
loved
me, Garrett!
Lots
of times!”

“Well … I do—I mean—I … I … huh … huh.”

“I heard you say it myself, you ass!” I scream at Garrett. “I heard you confess your undying love to this ho while you had her leg flung up in the air, and you were hitting it from the side!”

“
Damn,”
Eve exclaims. “So it’s like
that
, Garrett? You don’t
love
me anymore? What the fuck does that mean? You ain’t gon’ take care of this
baby
, motherfucker?”

The whole world suddenly stops. I feel as if I have gone deaf, and my whole head is filling up with thick cotton. I slow down as a part of me dies.

“
A baby
, Garrett?” I can barely speak.

Garrett doesn’t take his eyes off mine as he makes a punk dive for his pants, lying in a crumpled pile on the floor. He has this sorry look stuck on his face as he hastily struggles to pull up and fasten his trousers. He has not one ounce of power left. No “Big Daddy” antics to rely upon now. In fact, he looks damn pitiful.

“You and Eve are having
a baby
, Garrett?” I feel my nose sting as my eyes fill up with hot tears. I want to explode, but I have no strength left.

“Yes,
a baby
!” Eve snaps. “And Garrett and I are happy about it. He was going to tell you anyway. Tell her, Garrett!”

“How could you do this to me, Eve?” I look at her, wanting a true answer.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” she hisses, rolling her eyes. “You did it to yourself, always talkin’ ’bout how unhappy you are. Shi-it, I thought I was doin’ you a favor!”

I look at her and am even more disgusted over the fact that she is rattling on like some kind of ghetto ho with no regard or one bit of remorse that she has helped destroy my heart, our friendship, and my marriage. Hell, what friendship?

“It was easy.” Eve lobs another verbal grenade my way. “You were always out chasing the ‘next big breaking news story.’”

“That is my
job
, Eve!”

“Well, that
was
your man,” she retorts, “who just happens to be
my man
now.”

I can’t help it, but Satan takes over, and I jump across the bed, grab Eve by the throat, and slam her head against the wall. She is screaming and gagging and spitting and spewing pleas for me to let her go. Her long thin arms are flailing in a fierce fight to survive, but I only tighten my grip around the base of her neck and continue to squeeze, pounding her red head against the white wall again and again. I squeeze and squeeze, wanting to squeeze the life out of her the same way she squeezed the life out of my marriage.

For the first time in my life, I know I can
kill.

“Hey, stop that!” Garrett shrieks as he tries to grab my arms, but I beat him back with the same elbows that he once sucked, one of them crashing him hard across the nose.

“Yeee-oow!” he yells as he grabs his face. Blood is spurting everywhere, bright red splattering the stark-white Egyptian sheets. Eve is screaming while Garrett wails in excruciating pain.

There is a loud pounding at the door. I come to my senses and let go of Eve’s throat. I jump across the bed and make a mad dash for the door, purposely stomping on Garrett’s bare foot as I dart past him.

“I’ll deal with your ass back in New York,” I warn him, “
with
my lawyer!”

I swing open the door and am happy and relieved to find Kat and Hope standing there, ready to roll. They grab me by my arms as we tear down the long hallway, around the corner, and down the emergency steps to the eleventh floor, where we race over to the elevator banks and punch the button to the lobby. Hope is smoothing down my hair and shaking her head. I must look like a hot mess. Kat points to the ripped underarm seam of my blouse and the wad of bright red hair still clenched tightly in my hand.

“Are you okay?” Kat asks with deep concern. For the first time in all of this drama, she looks worried.

“Yeah,” I answer as I shake off Eve’s red hair from between my fingers into the ashtray bin between the elevators. I don’t even remember ripping it out of her head. “I’ll be all right.”

“You look like you’ve been in a fight.” Kat looks concerned. Hope frowns.

“I have,” I respond as I slip off my wedding band and throw it in the ashtray atop Eve’s patch of red hair. “I have been in one helluva fight, but I think I won that round.”

“Well, then, that’s all that matters,” says Hope as she gives me a big hug. “You made it out A-okay.”

“Yeah, ‘absolutely zero killed,’” Kat emphasizes as she wraps her arms around the two of us. “And now that everything’s outta the closet, so to speak, let’s take our happy asses home.”

None of us says a word on the long trip back to New York City. None of us even mentions that I removed my wedding ring and left it in the ashtray back at the Ritz.

There is nothing left to do, nothing left to say.

We saw and heard and left it all in Boston.

Chapter
Twenty-One

K
at, Hope, and I are meeting this morning in a noisy little coffee shop just around the corner from Dr. Roberta Katzenberg’s office. She is the counselor my best friends are insisting I see after witnessing weeks of my wallowing in extreme depression after we busted Garrett and Eve in Boston. Only adding to my deep despair is the sudden death of my aunt Joy. Just as I feared, she was not at all well when I last saw her on Topsail. Her heart—as big and full of love as it was—finally gave out from an undetected heart condition. I wish there had been something I could have done to save her life.

Chase came to Aunt Joy’s funeral in North Carolina, which I truly appreciated. He did his best to console me, telling me how much Aunt Joy meant to him and so many others on Topsail Island. But no amount of consolation could soothe my soul that day. I was mentally off somewhere else, trapped inside a deep and unrelenting pain.

Mother, Daddy, and I sprinkled Aunt Joy’s ashes along the shore, just as she had requested in her will. She also asked that I take good care of Tranquility, in hope that I would always find a peaceful home there. In a small purple-velvet pouch, she left me the key to the beach house.

Garrett called to give his condolences. But I refused to speak to him. I couldn’t bear the pain of that too.

It is an early July morning on Manhattan’s West Side and the sticky feeling hanging in the air tells me that it’s going to be another hot and humid day, as spring quickly gives way to summer. The cool breeze from the coffee shop’s old air conditioner feels good, despite its deep, constant, baritone humming above the crowd. I figure that with the change of season might also come a change in my depressed mental state, feeling paralyzed and stuck in this depression, overwhelmed by so many sudden and horrific losses. Distraught for weeks now, I have not been eating, or sleeping, or motivated to do anything. Even Grossman is ordering me to take more time off the news beat to get my head together.

The girls believe that Dr. Katzenberg might help me push through my transition of disposition, so here we sit, readying me to see a shrink for the first time. They know that I really don’t want to be here, but they are determined not to let me back out of today’s appointment with the doctor.

“Call us as soon as you’re done,” Hope says as she squeezes my hand. I take one last gulp of coffee and check the clock above the register again.

“Yeah, we want every sordid detail,” Kat teases.

“Okay.” I struggle to hold a smile as I grab my bag and scoot out of the tight booth.

“Do good!” I hear Hope calling out behind me. “We’ll be waiting right here when you’re done.”

I head out of the coffee shop door. Its tinkling bell announces my departure.

Out on the street, I again face harsh reality as I stand out here alone on this filthy sidewalk, bustling with stone-faced Manhattanites. Scores of pedestrians flow around me like a school of fish. They move in a solid stream of unconsciousness. Not one of them seems to notice that I am here.

Have I disappeared from the world that
much?

My friends promise me that these next steps I take toward my counselor will be steps toward a better life for myself. So I walk. Step, by step, by step, and in between steps, I hear my heart pounding. I become anxious, feeling a cool sweat burst out on my brow. My throat is suddenly dry. I take deep breaths, trying to relax, my head swimming, and I keep hearing Hope and Kat promising that this is going to be good for me, so I keep on stepping. I keep on moving down the long block of busy, bustling people, remembering Kat’s excitement weeks ago …

“There’s a lady I want you to call today. Her name is Dr. Roberta Katzenberg. She’s a women’s counselor on the Upper Westside.” Kat was at the end of her patience with my depression. “She’s a bit quirky, but she’s really cool. I think she can help you. Insurance should cover it. I just read about her in
Cosmo
, so I went downtown to her seminar where she was talking about the effects of divorce on women.

“Oh, yeah?” My interest is perked a bit.

“Yeah. From the article, she sounds like just the kind of shoulder you need to lean on right now. She
get
s
it.”

“What’d the article say?”

“Divorce sucks.”

*******

Dr. Katzenberg’s building is in the middle of Seventy-Third Street, a nice escape just off Amsterdam Avenue. It’s a quiet, tree-lined street, where the prewar buildings are covered with ivy, and doormen smile at babies from their doorway perches.

“Good morning,” the doorman greets me as I walk under the awning.

“Good morning,” I reply. “I’m here to see Dr. Katzenberg.”

“Yes, of course.” He smiles as he swings open the glass door by its polished brass handle. Then he says, “Hey—wait a minute.” I can feel his excitement behind me. “Hey, aren’t you that news lady.” He squints. “Yeah, yeah, that’s you. Destiny … Destiny Newell—the one from Channel 4. Yeah, that’s you! You negotiated that hostage situation up der in Harlem. Yeah. That’s you. That’s you. Good job on that der.”

“Thank you.” I smile and take a deep breath, wondering if he’s wondering about me. I’ve told him I’m here to see Dr. Katzenberg. He probably thinks that I cracked under the hostage pressure, or maybe he knows that I’m really just another crazy woman going through another crazy divorce who has lost her ever-lovin’ mind.

“Right this way.” The man makes a dramatic motion toward the door. “It’s the last door on the right.” He winks with a smart little cock of his head.

I nod my appreciation and slowly walk across the large marble lobby, up three short steps, and follow the melodious sounds of classical music echoing from the end of the dark hallway. The burgundy-and-gold runner, tattered in some places along the edges, looks as if it came from the castle floors of old Europe. Scenes of peasants pushing wheelbarrows of grain capture my attention, as they are beautifully hand woven inside the plush carpet canvas.

I hear a woman’s vibrato voice humming along with the flute in what I believe is one of Mozart’s concertos. She sounds more like a chef preparing for dinner than a shrink preparing for a session. Who is this person my friends have so adamantly recommended?

I hate to interrupt her classical musing, but I know that time is money and that this is business, so I push the doorbell. It blares a long, loud buzz, like a metallic bumblebee. I hear some shuffling inside, and then the slide and click-click-click of her unlocking her door.

“Ah, yes,” says the woman peering around the door. “You must be my ten o’clock. Please, come in.”

Dr. Roberta Katzenberg is not at all what I expected. Then again, I’m not really sure what I expected since I’ve never been to a shrink before. She is a short and mousy woman in her early forties, with blonde hair piled in a neat bun on top of her head and gold-rimmed glasses perched just above the tip of her nose. She is stylishly dressed in a mustard-colored pant suit, with a scarf of soft green and gold carefully tied around her neck. Supple and well worn, her brown leather flats look as if they were finely handcrafted in Italy.

Her apartment/office harbors shelves of important looking books, large-framed diplomas from Dartmouth and Yale, and richly upholstered furniture. The beauty of the room is enhanced by the quality pieces she has carefully placed—a vase of floppy white French tulips on her desk, a Lladro statue of a little boy holding a bird on the windowsill, and what looks like a pink Baccarat swirling crystal ashtray on a side table. Everything about Dr. Katzenberg and her professional space speaks of elegance.

“Tea?”

“What?” I am startled.

“Would you like some tea? I always like to sip on a little tea and enjoy classical music in the morning. ‘Music soothes the soul of the savage beast,’ they say.” And with that, she disappears into the kitchen. “Did you say you wanted tea, dear?”

“Yes, please,” I reply, hoping she’s not thinking I’m a savage beast.

“Your friends told me just a bit of what you’re going through. I am so very sorry.”

“Thank you,” I reply, feeling odd. I’m not completely sold on the idea of sharing my life and depression with a complete stranger, even though I know I need help.

“One of them—Kat, I believe—attended my seminar.” Dr. Katzenberg reenters the room carrying a wooden tray with a china teapot and two cups on saucers. My eyes zero in on a small plate of delicate cookies. “She is quite a go-getter, that one, no?”

“Oh, yes, yes, she is,” I respond, a little embarrassed, knowing how pushy and persistent Kat can be. I’m also not sure what my big-mouthed girlfriend might have told this little doctor.

“She is the one who insisted on your being here, isn’t she?” Dr. Katzenberg hands me a teacup by the saucer.

“Who? Kat? Well, yes, both Kat and Hope did,” I say and carefully take the teacup and then a small sip. “They both think it’s important that I see someone.”

Dr. Katzenberg peers at me over her fancy gold bifocals. “What do you think?” she asks.

“Me?” I blink, staring at this strange woman as I feel a blank, lost look blossom over my face.

She leans in closer, nodding. “I want you to check in with yourself right now and make sure you are here because you truly want to be here. In these sessions, we’re going to stop doing everybody else favors, my dear.” She settles back in her chair, closes her eyes, and inhales her lavender tea. The lenses of her bifocals fog up in the hot steam.

I’m starting to like this Dr. Katzenberg.

“Sit there, or you can stretch out on the couch and talk to me, if you like, but I must tell you”—her big blue eyes pop open—“things get very emotional that way.” She wrinkles her nose, pushes back her glasses, puts down her tea, and then reaches for her pen and pad.

I reach for a cookie.

“You know, I always wondered why you see people in the movies lying on the couch in the shrink’s office,” I say, nervously trying to make conversation.

She remains undisturbed, staring down at her Persian rug with a thoughtful frown.

I nibble a bit off my cookie.

“First of all, I am not a ‘shrink,’ my dear. I would never dare shrink you in any way.” She chuckles at the thought. “But it has been proven that lying down on the couch more deeply unlocks the emotional cavities of your mind.”

“I see.” I blink.

“No shrinking of the mind here, dear. We only hope to expand your thinking, so your mind can cope with your life.”

I accidentally slurp my tea.

“Okay, let’s get started, shall we?” She gets up and clicks off the stereo. Then she returns to her perch on her burgundy leather wing-back chair. “Now … why are you here?”

“I’m here because I guess I need help.”

“You guess you do? Do you think you need help?

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“What kind of help do you think you need?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been extremely depressed ever since I found out about my husband’s affair with my best friend,” I feel involuntary tears welling up behind my eyes. “Then I lost my great-aunt who was so, so special to me. I either sleep too much or not at all. I can’t remember when I eat. Sometimes I can’t move. My job is suffering. My health is suffering. Everybody is worried sick about me. And I … I have been having thoughts … really bad thoughts …”

“Thoughts of hurting yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe even thoughts of suicide?”

“Yes,” I say, ashamed. I look down into my teacup and want to drown.

“Don’t worry. You have done nothing surprising or new, considering your extremely depressed condition right now. In some cases, it is almost expected and quite normal for one with a drastic hormonal imbalance, or a sudden death, divorce, or other traumatic change in her life to consider suicide when sometimes just waking up feels like enough of a burden.”

I can certainly relate to that.

“But suicide and maiming ourselves is certainly not the answer,” Dr. Katzenberg continues with a shake of her head. “No, it is not even an option. We have to find other ways to cope with life’s tough realities.”

“You’re right.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Now, one reality is that women these days are getting divorced all the time, but they survive. They move on. Why do you think you are having such a difficult time accepting this breakup with your husband?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because it hurts so much, that’s why. Maybe because I feel like I’ve failed, like I didn’t even see it coming, wasn’t paying enough attention. I knew there were basic problems in our marriage, but I thought they’d go away with time. I never dreamed things would turn out as bad as this.”

“You say you knew there were basic problems in the marriage. What kinds of problems?”

“I don’t know.” I look down, wanting to dive into my teacup again. “We just never spent enough time together—you know—valuable time. We were always so busy, each of us with our own careers and everything.”

“Yes, but your
husband
obviously had time to develop a relationship outside your marriage.”

Ouch. Now that hurt. I think long and hard, desperately searching for an escape, but I can’t find one. “I guess, I … I guess I didn’t spend enough time at home.”