Goodnight Beautiful(72)

“No, it’s not,” I say, offended. “She chopped off Paul Sheldon’s ankles. I just pretended to hurt yours.” I close my eyes again, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Dr. Statler says. I feel the knife blade press against my cheek. “That’s good to know.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I certainly could, couldn’t I?” He trails the blade along my jaw, to my Adam’s apple. “All I’d have to do is apply some pressure right here . . .” I’m too terrified to move. “It wouldn’t take more than a minute or so for you to choke on your blood. Nobody would blame me, not after everything you’ve done to me. Locking me inside this room. Shoveling those pills into my body. But no.” He removes the knife from my throat. “I’m not going to kill you. At least not yet.”

I open my eyes. “You’re not?”

“No. And do you know why?” he asks. “Because you’re not evil, Albert. You’re wounded. You don’t deserve to die. You deserve a chance to get help.” He settles back into his chair. “There’s one thing we didn’t go over yesterday. The prognosis.”

“The prognosis?”

“Yes,” he says. “In other words, what are the patient’s chances of achieving what he wants: a happy life with stable relationships?”

“The prognosis is good,” I whisper. “While no treatment is completely foolproof, with a regimen of therapy and medication many anxious-preoccupied adults can maintain healthy connections and live happy lives.”

“That’s right, Albert,” Dr. Statler says. He takes a deep breath. “Now stand up and go get your phone.”

“My phone?” I say.

“You do have a phone, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Go get it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to call nine-one-one and ask them to send two ambulances. One for me, and one for you.”

“No, Dr. Statler—”

“You’ll be taken to the psychiatric emergency department at St. Luke’s,” he continues. “Where you’ll see Dr. Paola Genovese, the head of the inpatient unit.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”

“Paola will admit you and perform an evaluation. She’ll be able to help you. She’s one of the best.”

“But I—”

“What’s the other option?” Dr. Staler interrupts, his voice firm. “You know you can’t keep me forever.”

“Not forever,” I say. “Until you’re better.”

“Well, guess what? I am.”

“You’re not—”

“No, I am, Albert. Thanks to you.” He pauses. “You’ve shown me that nothing is more important than being with Annie and making amends for the ways I’ve screwed up with her.” He sits forward and places his hand on my arm. “And now it’s your turn to get better.”

A strange tingling sensation floods through me. I can get help.

“Come on, Albert,” Dr. Statler says. “Go get your phone. Let’s go together, to the hospital.”

I hesitate. “Will you stay with me?”

“Hell, no, I won’t stay with you,” he says. “I’m going home to my wife, if she’ll still have me. But I’ll work with your doctors and make sure you get the best help. Now go on, Albert. Go get your phone.” He releases his hold on my arm. His other hand still grips the knife. “Trust me.”

It’s almost as if I can see myself from above as I take the stairs up to my bedroom and remove the black cordless phone from its cradle. Back on the ground floor, I slide open the library doors, inhaling the smell of leather and paper, my mother’s scent. I pick up one of her photographs, wiping the dust from her eyes with my thumb. The air is still.

You can do this. It’s her voice.

I squeeze my eyes shut. No, I can’t.

Yes, you can.

My thoughts are racing. They’ll admit you and do some tests. I’ll get you the best help.

I hope your life is full and rich, my beautiful boy.

I set the photograph back in its place and walk through the sitting room, into the living room, resolute, the phone gripped in my hand. I can do this.

I pass the kitchen and am halfway down the hall when I hear Sam’s office door slam shut downstairs. My heart stops.

Someone’s here.

I wipe my eyes and turn around. I should probably see who it is.





Chapter 52




Annie steps into the waiting room, the faint scent of Pine-Sol in the air. She keeps the lights off and listens. Albert is home, upstairs. His car is in the driveway, and a light was on when she arrived.

He was listening to Sam’s sessions. The man with the too-good-to-be-true offer to create Sam’s dream office, the same one who has been visiting Sam’s mother twice a week, was listening to her husband’s therapy sessions. He even went so far as to email a reporter with a description of the patient Sam likely ran off with, a description Harriet Eager shared with Annie.

Twenty-four years old. Sculpture student. Oh, and she’s French.