The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (8 page)

As usual, Agnes, the receptionist seated opposite the double doors, ignored me. She stared through her reading glasses at the newspaper splayed out on her desk.

“Good morning, Agnes,” I chirped, purposely antagonizing her with cheeriness. There was, as always, no reply. Agnes and I were not friends. Due to her thirty-plus years at the Institute, she regarded me and other relatively junior staff members as interloping newcomers, and she pulled rank whenever possible. She didn’t greet me, but I felt her spectacled, critical eyes follow as I passed her desk. I felt her stare as I crossed over the marble floor, under the elegant brass-and-crystal chandelier, along the intricate mosaic murals that covered the walls. As I finally entered the long hallway that led to the art studio, I almost skipped, glad to have escaped Agnes’s line of vision.

“Oh, Ms. Hayes,” she sang out, her voice echoing through the domed atrium. “There’s a note for you.”

I turned and looked back; Agnes held out a folded white paper. Agnes had a color-coded system for messages, and she was always revising it, posting memos about what each color signified. Blue, pink, green, lilac, yellow—each meant something different: outside or internal calls, high or low urgency, call back or don’t. She waved the piece of white paper, waiting for me to walk back across the foyer to get it. I would have ignored her, but I couldn’t remember what white meant—was it urgent? Could it be about a patient?

Agnes had deliberately waited until I was almost out of sight to call me to come back. The woman never sacrificed an opportunity to assert her piddling amount of authority. Annoyed, I started back across the foyer. But just then, Bertram Haggerty sailed through the front door. Seeing Agnes waving the paper at me, he snatched it from her with a smile and a “Good morning, Agnes. I see that you’re a ray of sunshine as usual. Is this for Ms. Hayes? Here—I’ll give this to her.”

“It’s confidential,” Agnes croaked. “I’m supposed to deliver it personally.” She bolted out of her chair and grabbed Bertram’s wrist with mottled, arthritic fingers. Was she going to fight him for the paper? Their eyes met in a silent duel. The chandelier rattled with tension. And then, amazingly, Agnes backed down. She released his arm and sat, huffing.

“Thank you, Agnes.” Bertram was already heading my way.

“Just a minute, Dr. Haggerty. There’s one for you, too.” She held it out as he went back for it, but she didn’t grace him with eye contact.

Bertram Haggerty was even newer to the Institute than I was, but he was a brilliant renowned psychiatrist, so Agnes treated him with minor deference. In his late thirties, despite his professional stature, Bertram was a man who, outside of work, I’d never have noticed. No one would. He had the kind of face that blends invisibly, undistinguished, into a crowd. Short, balding, wiry, splayfooted and pale, he had small, shiny hands and glasses with clear plastic frames. Within the Institute, however, Bertram was a man of impressive stature. Known for his quick mind and cutting-edge research, he was the youngest department head on staff, in charge of Dissociative Disorder Research. I’d met him only recently, but I found him more approachable, less arrogant than most of the Institute psychiatrists. He walked my way, bouncing briskly, the toes of his brown cowboy boots pointing outward, his charcoal pants, like all his slacks, expensive but cut slightly too short and too tight. As he handed me my note, he eyed my bruises, wincing. “Zoe, what happened to you? Get hit by a truck?”

“In a way.”

I took the paper, preparing to explain. But Bertram didn’t want an explanation; his mind had already moved on, scanning his memo.

“What’s this?” His already pasty skin turned ashen. His free hand rose to his chin, rubbing nervously. “Shit. Holy effing shit.”

“What?” I unfolded the paper. The letterhead announced the Board of Directors. Bertram had stopped walking. He stood still, massaging his chin, blinking rapidly.

“They can’t do this—I just opened the new wing. They promised me five years—they gave their word—” He ranted, cursing, turning in circles, running a hand through the few hairs remaining on his head. “They approved my five-year plan—this can’t be happening. It’s got to be a mistake.”

I skimmed the letter, took in key phrases. Board meeting. Trustees. Budget deficits. Funding crisis. Uh-oh. This was serious. I slowed down, reading more carefully: Government funding had dried up; private contributions and special grants were down…Managed care covered limited costs …I skipped ahead to the bottom of the letter, to the part that said, “Therefore, to maintain the superior quality of care and service to patients of the Institute …” blah blah blah…Bottom line: Over the next few days, reallocations would be announced. Reorganization would be under way. Unessential programs would be eliminated. Resources streamlined. In other words: Programs were going to be cut and people were going to get fired. Damn.

Of course the memo didn’t give details. It simply announced that communications had been issued about individual positions. And it confirmed that the rumors that had been flying through Institute corridors for months were true. The Institute was in deep financial trouble. Staff was to be reduced. But which people, what positions? What did they mean by “unessential programs”? Was art therapy “unessential”? They’d probably think so. But hell if it was. What about all the patients I’d worked with, the progress they’d made? What would happen to them if the Institute dropped the program? And not only that—what about me? I’d worked hard here, built the program up myself, accomplished amazing results. And I had a child—no—two children—to support. We needed my income. I needed my job. This was unbelievable. Was I going to be fired? What was I going to do? Suddenly I was dizzy. Light-headed. Unable to walk. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I swayed, holding my middle, closing my eyes, wondering why I felt dizzy.

“Zoe? Are you okay?” Dr. Haggerty had stopped arguing with his letter. He was watching me, a little alarmed.

I nodded, but couldn’t answer. I stroked my belly, trying to breathe until the tightness passed.

“This happen often?” He eyed my swelling middle and held on to my wrist, taking my pulse.

“No, it’s nothing.” It had happened only a few times before, though not as decisively. “I’m just tired.” I assured myself more than him.

He watched me, eyed my middle, waiting for me to say more.

“So,” I changed the subject, walking on, “what about this?” I rattled the letter.

His eyes widened. “Hell. I don’t know. Are we supposed to just give up and walk off into the sunset? Fade away?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. If they try to cut my program, believe me, they’ll hear from my lawyers. It’ll cost them.” He sighed, hopeless, aware that his words were bluster.

“How bad do you think it’ll be?”

“Bad,” he answered. “If the Institute goes the way of other mental health facilities, it might shut down altogether. And even if it doesn’t, it’s going to provide bare-bones care to far fewer patients.”

“So I guess I’m a goner, then.”

“In reality? I’d guess we both are, unless we can raise our own funding.”

“How?”

“You know—private sources. Grants. Endowments and such.”

Endowments? For my arts and crafts program? Not likely. We walked on silently toward the elevator, neither having much to say. My head felt light, and I was still dizzy. Near the elevator I missed a step and wobbled against Bertram’s arm.

Bertram eyed me cautiously as he pushed an elevator button. “Zoe, you know, for women your age, pregnancy can be complicated.”

Did he think I was brain-dead? In the past four months, I’d read about a million books and articles on middle age and pregnancy.

He held up his memo. “Stress like this can’t help.”

I agreed. No, it couldn’t.

“Well, you don’t have to be passive, you know. There are things to do about it.”

Like what? Was he going to suggest unionizing? Going on strike? I pictured the Institute staff, a bunch of therapists and shrinks marching down Market Street carrying placards, chanting slogans. “Don’t shrink our staff.” Or “We’re crazy about our patients.”

He looked at his watch. “Tell me. When’s your first session?”

I had about half an hour.

“Perfect. Let’s stop at my office and talk.” Bertram held on to my arm and led me into the elevator, insisting. I assumed that he wanted to discuss the memo, what steps we could take to protect our jobs. Before I knew it, I was in his office, seated in a plush leather chair, realizing that I’d been absolutely, completely wrong.

“H
YPNOSIS?”
I
WAS SKEPTICAL.

“Basically, it’s controlled, extreme relaxation. It’s not magic. But it can help reduce stress and possibly decrease your episodes of dizziness.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, Bertram. I don’t think so.”

“May I ask why?”

I smiled. “Frankly, I doubt I can be hypnotized.”

Bertram nodded knowingly. His massive ego had undoubtedly convinced him that he could hypnotize anyone. “Well, it’s up to you, of course. But think about it. If it doesn’t work, what have you lost?”

Nothing. He was probably right. Still, I was reluctant. I looked around his office, noted the expensive furnishings. Bertram sat on a modern designer leather desk chair designed to protect the spine, beside an elaborate antique escritoire which seemed to match a towering mahogany grandfather clock. The walls between bookshelves were papered with original art—including a Calder and an Eakins—and dozens of certificates, awards, framed degrees. Bertram’s office, like his wardrobe, was eclectic, uncoordinated. But everything in it, individually, was high-end. Expensive. Papers, books, files and journals were stacked neatly on a table beside a sleek computer screen, yet Post-it notes were stuck almost everywhere, dotting surfaces like blemishes, inconsistent with the expensive furnishings.

“So? It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

I shifted on the upholstered leather cushion. “What’s involved, exactly? Do I watch a swinging pendulum?”

“No, no. It’s pretty informal. First, I’d have you relax. If we were to try it, I might have you breathe evenly, from your diaphragm. Here. Like this.” He pointed to his midsection, demonstrating.

I began to breathe deeply, following his lead.

“Then I’d ask you to think of a place where you feel perfectly safe. A place where you feel completely at peace.”

My mind traveled. I pictured a lake in New Hampshire, surrounded by green mountains. Cold, calm water beneath a blue sky. A lone cloud drifting overhead. I was floating, lying back on an inflated raft.

“Then, while you envision yourself in that place, still breathing deeply, I’d suggest that you relax your body, limb by limb, muscle by muscle, beginning with your toes, working your way along your feet, your heels, your ankles, your calves. Relaxing each muscle, one at a time, slowly, up to your knees, your thighs, your hips and your pelvis.”

Bertram’s voice was soothing, guiding me through steps, but the idea was ridiculous. I was wary of his suggestions and techniques, of everything he said. Despite Bertram’s good intentions, there was no way he could hypnotize me. It was time to go. I had to get to work.

“Thanks anyway, Bertram. I’m not sure this hypnosis stuff is for me; I doubt it would work on me.”

He smiled again in his smug, superbly confident way “And why is that?”

“I guess I’m too conscious. Or too stubborn. Don’t get me wrong—It’s not about you or your abilities. I just don’t think I can be hypnotized.”

“I see.” He watched me patiently. “Okay, then. It’s just an idea. Let me know if you change your mind.”

I nodded. I would.

He swiveled his chair around to face the files on his desk. “Oh, by the way,” he added, “you can put your arm down now.”

My arm?

I looked at my arms. The left one was suspended weightlessly in the air, straight up over my head. As I watched, on its own, it dropped down to my side. What was going on? I looked at Bertram, confused.

He was smiling, amused. “Apparently, you’ re wrong about your ability to be hypnotized. In fact, you’re a very compliant subject. I merely suggested that your arm was lighter than air, and up it floated. It’s been there the whole time you were under hypnosis.”

Wait—what? I’d been under hypnosis? Not possible. “But I haven’t been under. I remember everything—”

Again, that knowing smile. “Do you? Or do you remember everything you want to remember?”

What was he talking about?

“Zoe, listen. You are highly suggestible. I’m convinced that hypnosis might be quite helpful in reducing your stress, even in easing your pregnancy. Think about it and let me know. I’m here, and I’d be happy to work with you. But now, you better hurry. Your session begins in about a minute.”

A minute? I looked at the antique grandfather clock. Thirty minutes had passed since we’d sat down. I blinked, confused.

Bertram handed me some tissues. “Here.” He dabbed my cheeks. “You’d better freshen up before you go.”

What was he talking about? I glanced at the tissue; it was soaking, blotched with mascara stains. And my face was wet. Tear-stained.

“What—I was crying?”

Bertram blinked rapidly, his expression kind. “Yes. A bit.”

“Why? What was I crying about?”

He watched me. “Zoe, while you were under, I told you to remember what you wanted and to forget what you wanted.”

“But half an hour went by—why don’t I remember it? What did I say?” I was alarmed, stunned. “What was I so upset about?”

Bertram leaned forward and gently took my hands. His were small and hairless, and his nails were shiny. I noticed his Rolex watch. “Like I said. If you don’t remember what we talked about, it’s for your own reasons. Ethically, I can’t tell you what you said. If and when you’re ready for them, the memories will come to you on their own.”

He released my hands. I felt naked, as if he could see parts of me that I hadn’t intended to expose. That I might not even know about myself. I was angry, felt invaded.