Josephine pauses, giving Annie the look that says I read the newspaper article about your deadbeat husband disappearing and I’m not sure what to say. “How are you holding up?” she asks.
“Other than drinking warm beer at ten in the morning, pretty good,” Annie says, setting the bottle on the table. “I’m leaving tomorrow, for some time away. I’ve come to tell Margaret.” Annie stacks the laundry on the bed. “I feel a little sick about it, to be honest. She’ll have nobody to visit her now.”
“She’ll be fine, Annie,” Josephine says, reaching for the basket. “Everyone here loves her, and that volunteer comes twice a week to take her to bingo. We all call him her boyfriend.” She gives Annie’s arm a quick squeeze on her way out of the room. “We’ll take good care of her, promise.”
Five minutes later she’s busying herself with straightening the contents of Margaret’s bathroom, replaying Josephine’s words. Something is nagging at her. She closes the medicine cabinet and leaves the room. The hallway is quiet, and a young woman Annie doesn’t recognize is at the front desk. “Can I help you?” she asks cheerfully.
“Yes,” Annie says. “Josephine said a volunteer has been visiting my mother-in-law, Margaret Statler. I wasn’t aware of that, and I’m curious who it is.”
“Sure thing.” The girl looks down and taps at the keyboard. “Oh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You mean Albert Bitterman.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Between you and me, that guy’s a pain in the ass.”
Chapter 48
Sam cuts into the last piece of tough, tasteless meat, listening to Albert roaming the house. He chews slowly, his bruised jaw throbbing, imagining how it’s going to feel to sleep in his own bed again. He can feel it, his first shower, the strong stream of hot water from the Kohler Real Rain showerhead he splurged on, like a man with $2 million on the way. Annie is next to him, lathering Pantene shampoo into her scalp—the same shampoo her mother used, and a scent so distinctively his wife. “Took you long enough to figure out,” she says, biffing the suds into his face. “It was obvious the whole time. He didn’t want to kill you. He wanted your help.”
“Right again, my brainy wife,” Sam whispers. He licks the last of the meat from the steak knife and holds it up to the light. “And don’t you worry, Albert, because help is on the way.”
*
Albert’s knock comes at nearly midnight, and Sam is ready. He sits up, sets the alarm for forty-five minutes.
Game on.
Albert’s hair is slicked back with gel, a notebook tucked under his arm.
“Did you finish?” Sam asks.
“Yes,” Albert says. “I’m sorry to bother you late at night, but you said it was urgent.”
“It is.” Sam waves him in. “Have a seat. I’m eager to hear what you found.” Albert drops the key into the front pocket of his pressed khaki pants and takes a seat on the bed, keeping his gaze on his shoes, a shiny pair of black loafers. Sam stays silent, noting Albert’s posture. His hands are gripped in his lap, his jaw is clenched. “Go ahead,” Sam says.
“Bottom line,” Albert says, “I wholeheartedly agree with the diagnosis you came to regarding this patient. What we’re looking at here is a textbook case of an adult with an attachment disorder. In fact, I would be a bit more specific and say that he has many of the qualities of an anxious-preoccupied adult.”
“Really?” Sam sighs, feigning great relief. “Good. Walk me through it. From the beginning.”
“Well.” Albert opens his notebook. “As you know, because of an infant’s inability to survive on its own, every child is born with a primitive drive to get their needs met by their primary caregivers, usually their parents. This is called attachment theory. Infants who feel safe develop secure attachments. Those who do not, like our patient, develop insecure attachments. As adults they tend to be highly anxious, have a negative self-image, act impulsively, and live with a fear of rejection so severe it can sometimes be debilitating. This can go on to have a significant impact on the relationships they develop as adults.”
“In what ways?” Sam asks.
“I made a list.” Albert pulls a sheet of paper from his notebook. “Should I read it?”
“Please.”
“One: anxious-preoccupied adults behave in ways that seem desperate and insecure, at times controlling,” he reads. “Two: because they lacked security as an infant, they demand constant reassurance that they are special to their partner, in an attempt to allay their anxiety. Three: they believe their partner will ‘rescue’ or ‘complete’ them, a wish that is impossible for another person to fulfill.” He places the paper in his lap. “As you can see, even as they seek closeness and a sense of safety by clinging to their partner, their desperate actions actually push their partner away.” Albert frowns. “It’s quite sad, the reasons he’s like this.”
Sam clears his throat. “Are you talking about his childhood?”