The Survivors by Robert Palmer Page B

up, but she put her hand on my arm to stop me. “I’ve got to ask. You made me curious the way you answered. Do you really like beaches?”
    Almost as soon as she said it, her face colored. She’d gone a step too far into the personal. I had to believe that this was just awkwardness, not manipulation.
    I let her off with a quick laugh and a mind reader’s finger to my temple. “How about you? Lonely beach? Just you and a guy walking slowly. Maybe a little jasmine scent in the air. Am I close?”
    She seemed startled, then gave me one of her full-on smiles. “You’ve got some imagination.”

NINE
    W hen I got to my office, Tori was putting the patient files for the day on my desk. She was wearing a new skirt. I was only a little embarrassed to realize I knew all the skirts she owned. “That looks nice,” I said. “It must be a bear at the water fountain.”
    â€œIt’s all technique.” She stroked her thigh. “And good muscle tone.”
    â€œI should have known.”
    She handed me a message slip. “He called about five minutes ago.”
    It was from Felix: Refer Glass to Dr. Boyer. He’s got a good touch with OCD.
    Sean Boyer was the only other psychologist in my building. The day I moved in, he stopped by to introduce himself and give me a copy of his book, The Therapy Bible . His office was directly above mine, and I sometimes heard him yelling during his sessions: No, no! How many times do we have to go over this! Some patients responded well to that sort of hammering. Scottie, I didn’t think so. I tossed the message in the trash.
    â€œYou mind explaining?” Tori said.
    â€œYes . . . I mind.”
    She gave me the arched-eyebrow treatment.
    â€œScott Glass from yesterday—Edward Gaines—he was a friend of mine when we were kids. He’s got a lot of problems. Felix doesn’t think I should treat him because of the personal connection.”
    â€œCan he pay?” she asked.
    â€œI suppose so. He’s got a job.”
    She turned on her heel. “Then don’t listen to Felix.”
    I spent the next forty-five minutes reading the patient files and making notes for the day’s sessions. At nine thirty, I heard the outer door open. That would be Beverly Johnson, one of my all-time favorite patients. Beverly had a loud voice. “Hey, Tori.” Tori’s answer was muffled by my office door. Beverly laughed.
    Beverly was a sergeant with the US Capitol Police. She picked me as a therapist because my office was close to her job. When I first met her she was one-hundred-fifty pounds overweight, clinically depressed, and furious at the world. Since then, she’d started college part-time at the University of Maryland, received a promotion at work, and connected with a steady boyfriend. I spent our entire first session trying to get her to smile, just a little. During our second session, I gave her an assignment: make friends with somebody. I never expected her to pick Tori.
    Beverly’s voice boomed through the door again. “C’mon—Doc isn’t all bad. He lets you wear a doily for a skirt, doesn’t he?” Tori gave a bleat of laughter.
    Beverly rapped on the door and came straight in. “Doctor H, how’s tricks?” She was still a big woman and had to inch behind the coffee table before she could plop down on the sofa.
    â€œGuess what? I declared my major at UM. Psychology. What do you think?”
    â€œBeats going to med school.” I waved at the walls. “You can have all this and never have to cut up a cadaver.” Actually, I was pleased. It was the same way I decided to go into psychology—watching as other people helped me.
    We had a great session, darkened only by the fact that I knew she soon wouldn’t need me anymore. I think Beverly was feeling the same thing, because she told me she was going to send her sister to see me. Danielle