Blood Sugar(68)

Most of my clients stopped seeing me. And the few who kept coming didn’t want to talk about their own issues. Instead they just wanted to ask me questions about all the allegations. “Did you do it?” “Any of it?” “What was it like being in jail?” “Come on. You sort of enjoy all the attention, right?”

I kept calling Gabrielle, but she was still avoiding me. Even though I made it clear in my messages that I understood why she no longer wanted to see me as a therapist and I was not trying to convince her otherwise. I pleaded with her. “I need to tell you something. I’d rather not leave it on your voicemail. Please, just give me five minutes to talk.” But she still didn’t call me back.

Within one week of my arrest, I had to give up on trying to maintain any normalcy in my life, and I closed down my therapy practice. The other tenants in my office building complained about the constant news crews camped outside hoping to catch a glimpse or a sound bite from the Purple Widow. They also complained about working alongside a serial killer. I saw the building manager skulking about in her wedge heels, near the elevators, trying to gather up her courage. She finally lightly tapped on my office door and apologetically asked me to give up my lease.

“I will issue you a refund, of course. And pay for any inconvenience this might cause. Reimburse you for your business cards that have this address on them. Anything like that. Anything you want.”

She seemed so frightened of me, like I might murder her too, right then and there. It was heartbreaking. I told her I completely understood her position and I gave up my office without a fight. I didn’t want my drama and deeds to bring down any more of the innocent bystanders in my life.

I took my diplomas off the walls. I left the merlot-colored trash can I had bought. It matched the love seat so nicely I felt it would be a pity to break up the pair. The next tenant would be in need of a trash can anyway. I debated about the orchid. I had been putting a fresh one in the office every few months. I found they were a perfect focal point if a patient was starting to have a panic attack. I would ask them to stare at the flower. “Describe the color.” “Describe the shape of the petals.” “What does the stem look like?” And after a few minutes of being in the moment with the flower, the person’s amorphous generalized panic would always fade away.

I sat in the love seat and looked at the orchid. The color was grape purple. The kind of shade that is striking on a flower but not quite right for clothes or upholstery. The five petals fanned out, like two elephant ears on top of a plane propeller. The stem was bright green and thin and elegant.

I burst into tears. My body curdled with violent sobs. And the snot came out. Finally. It felt like all the tar from all the grief from my entire life, and maybe even past lives if they existed, was shaken free. And it flowed. I allowed it to flow. I curled up in the fetal position and wailed. I felt the tears drip down my face and saw them darken the merlot-colored fabric of the love seat. I then sank down to the floor, like the closer I could get to the earth, the more comforted I would feel. I pictured falling through all the other office floors until I landed in a heap of wet rubble. With bay water lapping at my broken body and spirit.

Was I being punished? Did Jason die because I was evil and did not deserve to be happy? I asked the orchid these questions. It stared back at me, open and purple and silent. And in the silence I found my answer. Jason died because he had a terrible disease. He died because his pancreas didn’t work. There was nothing more to it and nothing less. Just like Gabrielle was not responsible for Derrick’s death, I was not responsible for Jason’s. I couldn’t let the public’s perception of me erode my belief in myself. I stood up. And walked out for the final time. I left the orchid where it sat.





CHAPTER 46


    OMISSION



I knew the moment I walked in that something was wrong. More wrong than the obvious facts that my husband was dead, my career was destroyed, my city loathed me, and I was awaiting my murder trial that was months away. Out on bail, I had nothing to do but wait. Roman was doing his job, preparing to prove my innocence. My only job was to carry on as best I could. I sat down, unsure what was going to happen next.

Alisha said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about you. Reviewing our years together. And I need to know, when we discussed your salt nightmares, why is it you never mentioned being in the ocean as a child with a young boy who drowned?”

Alisha lived in the same city as me, so of course she had seen the newspapers and the television coverage. Of course she had heard the gossip. Of course, as my longtime therapist, she was contacted by Detective Jackson. And of course she told him that she could not reveal any information about me. Not that she had any to reveal that would have helped his case anyway. And of course she had learned about the other three dead bodies in my wake. I knew she was smart enough to know that I was too smart to not have made the possible salt connection in my own mind. Salty ocean water, boy dying, nightmares about salt. So I couldn’t feign surprise and say, “Oh! I never thought about it that way!” Especially since she was well aware that I loved thinking about everything in many different ways. She knew delving into the human psyche to uncover all sorts of hidden subconscious hints into what makes a person tick was both my profession and my favorite hobby.

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” was my response.