The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) by Mery Jones Page B

independent of your own. Still, images emerged from poster boards, reminding me that, without question, my father was back in my life. I saw him, felt his presence everywhere I looked. I’d hoped to escape him by delving into familiar routine, but pretending that nothing had changed was like ignoring an earthquake. The upheaval was internal, but the ground under me shifted, and my world shimmied and shook. I told myself not to overreact. I would adjust. My father would be cared for, and life would proceed normally again. Meantime, I had to get a grip. But I couldn’t. Worries juggled in my brain. My father. My job. The baby. Molly. Beatrice. Nick.
    By the end of my first session, my head was swimming, and the muscles in my lower back were twisting like wringing dishtowels. I went to my cubicle of an office, light-headed, needing a break, and saw a pink envelope lying on the blotter. Pink? I stared at it, hesitating to touch it. Did they really write pink slips on pink paper? Slowly, I picked it up and opened it. My hands trembled as I read it. Then I set it down, looked out at the studio, the tables and easels, the creations of patients on the walls. In a haze, I canceled the rest of the day’s sessions and started to leave. But I stopped at the door, came back to call Bertram and make an appointment. Hypnosis might not solve my problems, but it couldn’t hurt.

S IXTEEN
    U NTIL FURTHER NOTICE, MY job had been cut to half-time. Half a job. At half a salary. Treating whom? Half-patients? Stunned, I drifted past colleagues in the hall, seeing them as if they were memories. I wandered past Agnes’s desk without a glance, unwilling to face her smug expression. I left the Institute, but I didn’t know where I was headed. I didn’t want to call a friend, didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t face going home, wasn’t ready to sit alone and mope, thinking about my patients, the impact the program cuts would have on them.
    When the cab pulled up, I got in without knowing what my destination would be. But my voice surprised me, announcing without hesitation where it wanted to go. Great, I thought. Visiting my father would be the perfect way to continue this already miserable day.
    By the time the driver deposited me at Germantown Hospital, the dark clouds had expanded, ready to burst. I stood outside in chilling air, regretting that I’d come, hesitant to go in. Raindrops were starting to fall, but I stayed at the curb, watching the doors slide open and shut, simultaneously swallowing and belching people, fighting something that felt like panic.
    Go inside, I told myself. It’s about to pour. But my feet didn’t budge. My pulse raced, ringing out alarm. Why? I’d never been afraid of hospitals before.
    Are you kidding? I asked myself. Get real. You know why. It has nothing to do with hospitals.
    It didn’t?
    Think. Why are you here?
    Oh. Of course. Obviously. My nervousness and hesitation were about my father.
    Thunder rumbled; wind picked up and the cold raindrops thickened. The storm was here. Go in before you get drenched, I told myself. Get the visit over with. So, drawing a last deep breath of wet, raw air, smelling traffic and tasting soot, I closed my eyes and thrust myself forward through the hospital doors.
    Instantly, the flesh contracted all over my body. The air felt frigid, refrigerated. I was damp from the rain, shivering. Nurses walked by, looking greenish under neon lights. People in aqua scrubs conversed, parading past. I bit my lip, smelled antiseptics. Keep going, I told myself. It’s just a damned visit.
    At the information desk the receptionist fiddled with her computer. I cleared my throat, but she didn’t look up. I wondered about receptionists, why they seemed to ignore me. Did they communicate among themselves about whom they liked or didn’t? Had Agnes phoned ahead?
    “Excuse me,” I interrupted.
    The woman rotated to face me. Her long black lashes were probably false, and they rose gradually,