Bone Cold (9 page)

Get some professional help with this problem. And it is a problem, even if you don't see it that way.

Who better to help her than a doctor with a specialty in childhood trauma? Who more knowledgeable than a doctor writing a book on the subject?

Do it, Anna. What do you have left to lose?

“Tell me again,” she murmured. “Why were you so eager to talk to me?”

“Just meet with me. I'll tell you about me, my practice, this project. No strings. If you're uncomfortable or simply not interested, I won't bother you again. I promise.”

She heard the excitement in his voice; felt a corresponding excitement within herself. Still she hesitated. One moment became two became several. What
did
she have to lose? she wondered. She had already lost Jaye, her anonymity and her publishing career. What was left?

“Okay,” she murmured, “I'll meet with you. How about tonight at five, the Café du Monde. First one to arrive gets a table.”

Thursday, January 18
4:45 p.m.

A
nna arrived at the Café du Monde early. Located on Jackson Square in the French Quarter, the Café du Monde had exactly one food item on its menu—beignets. That one item had made this unassuming little café a New Orleans legend. No tourist's visit to the Crescent City was complete without at least one stop for the decadent squares of fried dough. New Orleanians themselves were not immune to the call of the café and actually turned up their noses at beignets from any other source. After all, the best was the best and with perfection so close, why settle for less?

Anna took a seat outside despite the chill, choosing a table along the sidewalk facing St. Peter Street. She loved this time of day, the early-evening rush of businesspeople heading home, the subtle shift from light to dark, day to night, frenzied to unhurried.

Anna ordered a café au lait and sat back to wait, using the minutes to people watch. She scanned the faces that passed, noticing body language and expressions,
catching bits and snatches of conversations, filing the information, the impressions away for a time when they would emerge in a scene or in one of her characters.

People both fascinated and frightened her. They were a constant source of joy, curiosity and bedevilment. Was that the way a psychologist thought of his patients? Anna wondered. Was that the way Dr. Walker thought?

She shivered suddenly, grateful for the arrival of her steaming mug of coffee. She curled her hands around the mug, admitting to herself that she was nervous. She had seen a number of shrinks in the years after her kidnapping. The last time she had been sixteen and an emotional wreck—depressed, wary and distrustful of others, constantly on edge. Her parents, their marriage in tatters, had forced her to go. She needed someone to talk to, they had insisted. Someone to share her deepest, darkest thoughts with. Someone who would understand and help Anna put her feelings into perspective.

But the woman hadn't understood. How could she have? The worst thing that she'd ever lived through, Anna had decided, was a bad hair day. The therapist had been condescending, her probing questions unsympathetic and intrusive.

Anna had been resentful, angry at her parents for forcing her to see the woman. When they had finally agreed to let her call it quits to the therapy, she had vowed she would never again subject herself to that kind of mental assault and battery.

Then what the hell was she doing here? Anna wondered. She glanced at her watch and saw that the doctor was ten minutes late already. Why not bolt? Just stand up and walk away?

Why not?
By being late, he had given her the opportunity. She could leave and not even feel guilty about
it. She grabbed her purse and dug out her wallet to pay for her coffee. She realized with a sense of shock that her hands were shaking.

“Sorry I'm late.” Ben Walker came up from behind her and slipped into the chair across from hers. “I couldn't find my keys. I had them this morning, then they were gone. This morning,” he continued, loosening his tie. “What a nightmare. The alarm never went off and I overslept. Which isn't surprising considering I was on the Internet doing research most of the night.” He laughed. “I swear, it's a good thing I didn't go into teaching. I'd be a Disney cliché, the absentminded profess…”

His words trailed off as he took in her expression, the open wallet in her hands, the two dollars on the table beside her half-full coffee cup. His face fell. “How late am I?”

“Not too,” she answered, feeling somewhat calmed by his self-deprecating manner. How could she be intimidated by such a self-proclaimed bumbler?

She pulled a deep breath in through her nose, feeling a little like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Actually, I was having second thoughts about our meeting. My experiences with shrinks haven't been all that great.”

“You have friends who are shrinks?”

She drew her eyebrows together. “I don't follow. What does that—”

“So, you do?”

“No, but—”

“How about family members? A boyfriend?” She answered in the negative again and he arched his eyebrows. “Oh, you mean you've had a doctor-patient relationship with a shrink?”

“Yes, several.” She tilted her chin up slightly. “When I was much younger.”

“After the kidnapping?”

“That should be pretty obvious.” Her chin inched up another millimeter. “After the kidnapping, yes.”

The waiter arrived. Ben ordered a café au lait and plate of beignets, then turned back to her, never missing a beat. “That's not the kind of relationship I'm proposing. Not at all.”

“No?” She arched an eyebrow. “Exactly what sort of relationship are you proposing?”

“Author and author. Interviewer and inter viewee. Maybe, eventually and if I'm lucky, friend and friend.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and Anna realized with a sense of shock that she liked him. She realized, too, that all thoughts of leaving had disappeared. She closed her wallet and returned it to her purse. “You're good.”

He laughed, thanked her and leaned forward, expression earnest. “But I mean it. Look, Anna, I'm not trying to head-shrink you. I'm hoping you will simply and honestly talk to me about your life, your feelings, the choices you've made and why.”

“I assure you,” she murmured dryly, “that my life story will make anything but fascinating reading.”

“You're wrong about that. To me, it will be. To the people who pick up this book, it will be.” He sobered. “Let me tell you a little about myself and my practice, then maybe you'll see why I'm so interested in interviewing you.”

He began by telling her about himself, his upbringing and schooling. He was an only child, raised by a single mother—whom he adored. He had been the result of a
brief dalliance with a man his mother refused to speak of, and other than one uncle, he'd had no family. He remembered little of his early childhood other than that they had moved around a good bit.

“Without friends and much family, it was a lonely childhood. Then I started school. I loved it. Excelled at it. Learning and books became my constant companions. It didn't even matter if I had to change schools, because I never had to leave behind the opportunity to learn.”

Anna propped her chin on her fist, totally into his story, the sound of his voice melodic and soothing. “Why psychology?” she asked.

“I wanted to help people but I can't stand the sight of blood.” He grinned. “That's only partly true, however. People fascinate me. Why they do what they do. What makes them tick. How events can profoundly affect a person's life.”

She had to admit, as a writer, she was fascinated with the same things. That fascination translated into fully rounded characters imbued with both strengths and weaknesses, characters whose sometimes tragic pasts had far-reaching present-day consequences. “Why childhood trauma?”

“That's where it all begins, isn't it? Our childhoods. Those first, formative years that in essence influence every year that comes after.” He took a swallow of his coffee. “In my first year of practice, I consulted on a fascinating case. The woman suffered from disassociative identity disorder—”

“What?”

“Disassociative identity disorder, or DID. It's the new name for multiple personality disorder.”

Anna thought for a moment, trying to recall what she
knew about the disorder, realizing she knew little. She told him so.

His mouth thinned. “DID is the result of repeated horrific and sadistic abuse in early childhood. In an attempt to protect itself from the unthinkable and unendurable, the psyche splits, forming a whole new personality, one equipped to handle whatever the situation.”

He paused. “In the case I consulted on, the woman had eighteen separate and distinct personalities and each performed a specific function within the system.”

Silence fell between them. Anna searched for a quick comeback but came up empty. She picked up her coffee and drained the last of the beverage, gaze focused on the sprinkling of powdered sugar on the Formica tabletop in front of her.

After a moment, she cleared her throat and looked up.

And found Ben's gaze on her deformed hand, his expression strange. She stiffened and dropped her hands to her lap. “You know who I am, so you know I wasn't born with a four-fingered hand.” He didn't reply and she cleared her throat again. “Ben?”

He shuddered, blinked and met her eyes. “What?”

“My hand. You were staring.”

He looked surprised. Then embarrassed. “Was I? I'm sorry, I didn't realize. I get started talking about my work and sometimes I…get lost in my own thoughts. It's that absentminded-professor thing again. I really am sorry.”

She waved the apology off. “It's all right. I've pretty much learned to live with it.”

“With your deformity? Or with people staring?”

“Truthfully? Living with four fingers is a lot easier than dealing with people's curiosity.”

“You mean their rudeness.”

“Sometimes, yes.”

They both relaxed and Ben talked more, about that DID case and others he'd read about. Anna propped her chin on her fist as she listened, hanging on to every word.

“I can see why you're so interested in the subject,” she murmured after a moment. “It's fascinating.”

“It would make good material for one of your novels.”

“Are you a mind reader?” She shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“I tell you what, you help me with my book, I'll help you with one of yours.”

She opened her mouth to agree—and to ask him for help with her own personal problem—but found herself asking him about his practice instead. As he answered, she only half listened, using the moments to try to figure out why she had hesitated. She liked him. He was funny and smart. Down-to-earth and straightforward in a way she hadn't expected. She believed in what he was doing, that it could help others. She believed that if she asked, he could help her.

So why couldn't she bring herself to agree to be interviewed?

“Something's holding you back?”

“Yes.”

“If this will help you decide, I hope my book will not only educate the public of the far-reaching effects of child abuse but also help heal adult survivors of child abuse. I'm a great believer in the curative power of knowledge. Knowledge brings understanding and acceptance, only then can healing begin.”

“Physician heal thyself?”

“In a way.” He leaned forward, expression earnest. “Actually, there is something to that. We all have the power to heal ourselves, especially in the area of mental illness. We just need help accessing that power.”

“And that's where you, the trained professional, come in?”

“Exactly. And self-help books.”

“Like yours.”

“Exactly.” He fiddled with his napkin. “Tell me what I can say to sway you in my favor.”

She looked away for a moment, then back at him. “I'm not sure there's anything you can say. I don't talk about my past much. I don't like to think about it.”

“But you dream about it, Anna? I know you do. It's right there. At the edge of your consciousness, constantly poking at you. Whispering in your ear, influencing your every move. That's a dangerous place for it to be. It's an unhappy one.”

She stared at him, stunned. Uncomfortable. “I could tell you that wasn't true.”

“But you won't. Because you're an honest person.”

She laughed suddenly, surprising herself. “Know-it-all.”

“What can I say? I'm a smart guy.” A dimple appeared beside his mouth. “Cute, too. In a bookish sort of way.”

He was cute, she decided. Smart and funny. She liked intellectual men. Especially ones with a sense of humor.

Ben Walker was the kind of guy she enjoyed spending time with.

She dropped her hands to her lap. “I'm still a little confused about how you came to find me.”

“My friend at the BBBSA—”

“No, before that. You just tuned into the E! special and…what?”

Ben glanced down at his hands, then back up at her. “I had a copy of
Killing Me Softly
on my desk and things just fell into place.” He laced his fingers together. “I've been interested in your story since I was a kid and it occurred to me while I was watching the show, that the inclusion of your story in my book would be perfect. Your trauma was unique, unlike anything else I presently have.”

“And where else could you find a kidnapped Hollywood princess?”

His expression grew solemn. “Most kidnapped kids never return home, Anna. You're an exception.”

Timmy hadn't made it home.
A lump formed in her throat.
She'd been the lucky one.

“What do you say? It'll be painless, I promise.”

She doubted that. Just thinking about it had her stomach in knots. “I'll think about it. I really will.”

He looked let down. “Often it's the first step that's the hardest. Not to push you, of course.”

She smiled, liking him more with each passing minute. “I know. But I do need a little time. I hope you're not too disappointed.”

“I'm a big boy, I can handle it.”

They stood and exited the café. “I'm going this way,” she said, pointing in the direction of St. Louis Cathedral. “How about you?”

“I'm parked at Jax Brewery.”

“Then this is goodbye.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets and shivered as the cold wind wrapped around her legs.

“It is. For now.” He bent and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I enjoyed talking, Anna. Call me.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked away.