Did they buy it?
I’m nervous, that’s what. No shame in that. It’s been a weird morning. Unexpected. I’m on the horns of a dilemma — or I can see them approaching. If I can confirm Michael Rand is who I think he is, what can I even tell my daughter? Nothing specific, obviously. Just the basics. But I’m not relishing the prospect of that, either. All I’d be able to give is some vague reason for why I think Michael is wrong for her. For why I’m insistent he is. Not a chance in hell it would work.
I pull the message from Mena and listen.
“Hi, Mrs. Lindman.”
She’s always called me that. After eleven years she’s called me that. That’s not what bothers me — it’s the tone of her voice. And while she’s talking, there’s more beeps — I’ve got multiple voicemails.
Mena says, “I have some bad news. I thought you’d want to know right away. I tried your landline at the lake house, but no one answered. So okay . . . here goes: Maggie Lewis is dead. She completed a suicide last night. Her landlord found her this morning.”
My hand floats to my lips and covers my mouth. Oh no . . .
“Everybody knows you’re away on vacation,” Mena says. “It was a policeman who called the office — Sergeant Rhames — and he said your name was in her phone, he knew you were her therapist, and just wanted to follow up with you. He said that you can call him anytime, and he left his personal cell number.”
After she relays the number and says again how sorry she is, I write it down.
Poor Maggie Lewis. It’s always terrible when a patient succumbs to diseases of despair. We do our utmost to get them the help they need, to make a plan for their health, to work with their physicians and psychiatrists — but we can’t control everything. Maggie was very sick.
I just didn’t see this coming.
After sitting there a minute to process the news, I remember the other missed calls. One that precedes Mena’s message is also a Westchester area code. It looks like Bronxville Police. Either Rhames called from the office or it was a duty officer seeking contact. I know Sergeant Rhames — we’ve had a few occasions to speak. But before I give him a call, I analyze a third number.
This one’s an unknown caller. It’s last in the sequence, but since my phone was out of service, it didn’t log the time.
The message appears to last fourteen seconds. Just long enough for someone to leave their name and a brief reason for calling. But when I click on it and put the phone to my ear, I register only silence. I plug my free ear and strain to hear. Nothing, just white noise.
Maybe . . . maybe the faintest whisper of a voice in the background.
But I can’t make it out.
The message ends.
The Range Rover windows are rolled up, but the air is on. I dial down the vents and kill the engine.
Now it’s perfectly quiet. The road I’m on is isolated. After waiting for one lone pickup truck to pass, I replay the message. Finger in ear, hunching forward, straining.
Silence, a kind of background hiss.
And then the voice. As if coming from a distance. Or muffled.
Through a door, perhaps:
“I want my mommy back . . .”
CHAPTER TEN
“Dr. Lindman,” says Sergeant Rhames. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“Of course.”
“I understand you’re away.”
“Yes. We’re upstate. My husband and I — we take this trip annually.”
“That’s fine. Listen, this will only take a moment. Just a few questions.”
“This is such a tragedy,” I say. “I’m so sorry to hear about it.”
“It’s a terrible thing. She was a beautiful young woman. Lots ahead of her. Now, you were her therapist, is that correct?”
“Her clinical psychologist.”
“You’re not her, ah, psychiatrist?”
“No. I have a doctorate, but I’m not a medical doctor. I don’t prescribe her any medication. What I do is called ‘the talking cure.’” It’s more explanation than he needs, but I’m feeling anxious.
“Right. Okay. But she had one of those, isn’t that right? A psychiatrist?”
“Yes. Well . . . it’s complicated.” I take him through a quick, highly discreet version of the story — Maggie Lewis didn’t like being medicated and frequently switched psychiatrists.
What I don’t say is that the last one prescribed her the same SSRI — or antidepressant drug — as the previous one, precipitating some of her more recent frustrations, which she had expressed to me. Since I wasn’t involved with the drug part of it, Maggie had felt more allied with me. Not that I have anything against medication nor ever tried to steer her away from it. My job had been to help Maggie get what she needs to be as healthy as she could be. That’s always my job.
“I understand,” Sergeant Rhames says, a little bit of that cop-tone creeping into his voice. As if things like switching psychiatrists are beyond his blue collar, do-the-crime-do-the-time paygrade. “Well, Dr. Lindman, as far as we’re concerned, this looks like suicide.”
“Can I ask . . . how did she . . . ?”
“The victim hung herself. Medical examiner has already indicated that her injuries are consistent with that. It wasn’t staged. But we’re following up, just to get the fullest picture we can. You said you were her therapist for how long?”
“A little under two years.” It’s getting hot in the car, so I turn the engine back on and crank the air.
Rhames is silent, and I get the sense he’s hearing the background noises on my end.
I want my mommy back . . .
Did that voice sound like Tom Bishop? Like a recording of something he said during a police interview? Am I going crazy?
A patient has died. Stop this nonsense.
My own internal admonition bears striking similarity to the cadence of my father’s voice.
“Not quite two years,” Rhames repeats about my time with Maggie. “And during that time . . . ?”
“Ms. Lewis presented no suicidal ideation. That I can tell you. We discussed it, but only in an objective way. The concept of it.”
“When was this?”
“I’d have to look at my notes. Maybe two months ago.”
“What was the nature of that conversation? I mean, how did it come up?”
“Sergeant Rhames . . . I can’t divulge any specific conversations I had with Maggie Lewis. Not even in the event of her death. What I can tell you is that she had no plan, to my knowledge, to do this. I assessed her as not at risk to harming herself or others.”
Rhames gives a thoughtful grunt. “Yeah, these things are . . . Well, listen, Dr. Lindman, I understand the confidentiality. But the victim didn’t leave a note. She didn’t tell anyone she was going to do this. I, ah . . .”
I suddenly put the car in drive, keeping my foot on the brake. “Sergeant, I’ll tell you what — I’m going to come down there and speak to you in person. I’ll have something for you, something that protects Maggie’s privacy, but can maybe give you — and her loved ones — some of the insight they’re looking for.”