The next day Gabrielle sat across from me. She wore a new tight black catsuit that covered every inch of her pale limbs. Her mouth, in deep red lipstick, opened a little, then closed. She did this so many times she reminded me of a goldfish in duress.
I said, “I sense you want to say something to me. But are holding it in.”
She nodded and pursed her red lips. “I went to Hannah’s store this morning. Got this new Vampire in the Sun outfit.”
I dreaded what was about to come next. “It looks amazing on you.”
“Thanks. Um. She mentioned your husband just died. Is that true? Are you okay?”
And my worlds collided again. And the equation of who knew what about my life started to add up. Hannah knew about Duncan, about her dad, of course, and about Jason. Now Gabrielle knew about Jason. My family knew about Duncan and Richard. And Jason. But I never told them about Evelyn W. And some of my colleagues like Dr. Don and, of course, Alisha knew about Evelyn W. dying, and about Jason, but I never told them about Duncan or Richard. Ameena knew about Richard because of her visit to Miami, and she knew about Jason because she was one of my closest friends and I invited her to his funeral. But she did not know about Duncan and Evelyn W. As I shuddered at this math, a new nightmare struck me. Not only might I be hauled off for murdering Jason, but my arrest and, even worse, possible conviction could unearth all my elephants and make them public. Parade them through the streets like the evil circuses I boycotted used to do. My family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, patients, the guy who makes my latte just right at the place down the street, all would know about all four bodies. This thought was so chilling, it briefly pushed out my achy fury that Jason and our life together was gone.
I could see Gabrielle searching my face. Worried that her question had launched me deep into terrible thoughts. Which it had, but not in the way she could imagine.
I answered her. “Yes. My husband died.”
The usual next questions were, “How did he die?” And then, “How old was he?” And then, “Do you have kids?” As though having children would make the tragedy even worse because maybe my own loss wasn’t quite enough. Before she could ask more questions, to spare both of us the back and forth, I told her about Jason being a type 1 diabetic. That he was way too young to die, and it’s horribly sad, but that I’m hanging in there. I was able to remain composed, unlike when I told her Kangaroo had died. I think this was because she was not also sobbing this time. She felt for me, but didn’t have her own emotional connection to Jason. She then said, “I feel weird talking about my problems. Stupid things. When you’re dealing with all this.”
I nodded. “Well, that’s a normal feeling. It means you’re a conscientious, sympathetic, good person. And that feeling is why I’ve kept my husband’s death from my clients. I wish Hannah hadn’t shared it with you, but now that she has, we can talk about it more if you want to. Or we can move on. But please never think of your own problems as stupid. They’re just as valid as anyone else’s. Especially mine.”
I enjoyed being Gabrielle’s therapist and felt if we had met on different terms we could have been friends. She was intelligent, had a sense of humor and a healthy appreciation for irony, was willing to look within, and she was a captivating storyteller. After hours and hours of listening to duller people talk about themselves, it was a relief to know Gabrielle would soon be sitting on the love seat, describing her life and her feelings in a way that made what could be tedious facts riveting. I made a point to read all of the articles she wrote and told her so. I was proud of the strides she had made in her career and, more importantly, in her self-growth. As she dug deeper into her emotions, her writing got richer. An unintended upside to our sessions. Therapists, like parents, do have their favorites. They pretend they don’t, but it’s impossible not to. We are human, after all. And Gabrielle was by far my favorite. I often hoped Alisha, sitting on the other side of things, felt the same way about me.
Because of all this, I decided to open up to Gabrielle. While of course also trying to maintain professional boundaries. I thought she could handle it, just as Alisha believed I could handle the truth about her moving to Miami because of my influence. So I told Gabrielle that I could now personally relate to her anguish. That I too had been replaying my decisions over and over again, and trying not to blame myself for Jason’s death. I laid out all my feelings in hopes of bringing the conversation back to her, and focus on her belief that Derrick’s death was her fault, and convince her that it wasn’t and that she’s not alone in this journey. That we were now linked, both struggling with irrational guilt.
Gabrielle had made some strides in therapy, but she still hadn’t gone on a date since that lethal night. For an attractive girl in her early twenties who once enjoyed sex and boyfriends, this was an unhealthy choice of avoidance. But when I asked her about it, she gave me her usual answer.
“What’s the point? What guy could ever live up to a man I barely knew who literally died for me? Who sacrificed his life while saving mine? ‘Oh, thanks for the box of chocolates, Bob, but will you jump in front of a bullet for me? ’Cause Derrick did.’?”
Because she barely knew Derrick, it was easy for her to create in her mind a perfect hero without flaws. Similar to how as a child Jason had turned the absent Gertrude into the perfect mother. Derrick became a myth in Gabrielle’s memory. And the myth stunted her from connecting to anyone else romantically.
I said, “I think the work we need to do next is for you to stop comparing other men to Derrick. To reframe and try and judge each man on his own merits.” But the moment the words came out of my mouth, I felt the weight of that unrealistic task. Gabrielle, smart and quick as always, noticed that I felt it. She responded, “Right. So, you’ll just fall in love again and not compare whomever to Jason?”
And this was another problem with patients knowing too much about my life. They could throw things back in my face. I answered, measured, “In time, I will try.” And it occurred to me when Roman asked me about my marriage to Jason, I was flooded with memories both good and bad. I loved Jason, but he wasn’t perfect. No one is perfect. And an idea formed. A way to help Gabrielle.
I said, “You’re stuck because all you really know about Derrick is that he saved your life. Right now in your mind, he has no flaws. But what if you got to know him better, postmortem. Maybe reach out to his parents, or siblings. Did he have siblings?”
She said, “I have no idea. We didn’t even get to the ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ part of the date.”
That reminded me of Jason and his alien-like lack of normal first-date questions. I had to hold in my smile. Some memories of him made me so happy. And then I would crash to the present and be miserable because he was now gone. And there would be no new memories made. I focused back on Gabrielle, with a plan of action. I told her to look into Derrick’s life. “Contact his family, some of his friends, or coworkers, or even an ex-girlfriend or two. Get to know him through them. I bet you’ll discover that while he might have been wonderful in many ways, and he was brave and selfless and he did save your life, he was a three-dimensional person. He must have had some negatives.”
This made sense to Gabrielle, and her writer brain immediately saw an article in the making. She would write about her journey to connect with people from Derrick’s life, as a catharsis, to try and fall out of love with a man she barely knew.
After she left my office, I felt a little less fury. Alisha was right: I was moving through my stages of grief. And working, seeing my patients, helping others, gave me a sense of purpose and peace during that horribly sad and lonely time. I was an inch closer to acceptance. But Homicide Detective Keith Jackson was not.
CHAPTER 37
EVIDENCE