Pulse

55

New York, the present

D r. Grace Moore’s office was on West Forty-fourth Street, in a building attached to The Lumineux, a swank hotel with European decor. The idea was that some of the tasteful mood and environment might rub off.

Her office was furnished much in the manner of the hotel, with minimalist style and obviously expensive furniture. Matching taupe carpet and drapes set off-but barely-mauve furniture and throw rugs over a hardwood floor. Deep blue was, here and there, an accent color. The tan leather sofa where her patients sat was incredibly comfortable. She thought that in sum the office gave her patients confidence in her, and engendered a heightened tendency to share secrets.

Linda Brooks, a twenty-nine-year-old woman Dr. Moore had been treating for two years, had seemed exceptionally upset when she’d arrived for her appointment today, but now, sitting back on the sofa with her head resting against the cushions, her eyes half closed, she’d obviously calmed down.

Linda was an attractive dark-haired girl with well-defined features and a cleft chin that helped to lend her a habitual sincere and determined expression. Her teeth seemed always clenched, her jaw muscles almost constantly flexing. Linda had been diagnosed five years ago as mildly schizophrenic with episodes of paranoia. Lately, the paranoia had been increasing in frequency and seriousness.

“Have you been taking your meds as required?” Grace asked, seated in a soft swivel chair with her legs crossed. As usual, she was composed and calm.

“Of course I have,” Linda said. “That’s what they’re for, aren’t they?

“Do I sense hostility?”

“Toward you, no,” Linda said.

“Toward yourself?”

“God, let’s not get into that.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“I knew you were going to ask that.”

“Of course you did; it’s the obvious question.”

“So is my reply. No offense, Dr. Moore, but you don’t know the right questions.”

“So what are they?”

“The questions I’d ask.”

“Such as?”

“Will I ever again look forward to getting out of bed when I wake up? Am I ever going to be able to develop a loving relationship with a man? Will I ever have to live on the streets because my parents’ money and my insurance have run out? Will any of these shitty medicinal cocktails you dream up actually cure me? Is it possible I’m imagining being stalked by the same man?”

“What was that last one again?”

Linda smiled, pleased to have piqued Dr. Moore’s interest.

“He’s average height, built like a young Frank Sinatra, wears a baseball cap sometimes, like he thinks it’s some kinda disguise. But I see him. I know him. I recognize him. You think he’s a hallucination, but he’s not.”

“Frank Sinatra… I would have thought you’d say Mick Jagger, or somebody more to the musical tastes of people your age.”

“Okay, Mick Jagger. Even though he’s older than both of us.”

“This man who’s following-”

“Stalking.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Where he appears, how he moves, how he looks at me. Have you ever gone to the zoo and tried to outstare one of the big cats?”

“Believe it or not, yes,” Dr. Moore said. “A long time ago. A panther. I found it impossible.”

“Because if the bars hadn’t been there, the panther would have consumed you. Both of you knew that. And now one is stalking me. There are no bars.”

Dr. Moore felt a chill of fear, and pity, for what Linda must be going through. “Where do you see this man, Linda?”

“The street, subway, park, my apartment…”

“ Inside your apartment?”

“Once, for just an instant, when he was leaving out through the kitchen window. There’s a fire escape out there.” Linda opened her eyes all the way to match stares with Grace. Like the panther, Grace thought. “He wasn’t a hallucination.”

“Was the kitchen window closed and locked?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. How could he get in?”

“Key. I leave my spare key under my doormat out in the hall.”

“That’s the first place anyone would look, Linda.”

“Right. And when I get home I always look to make sure the key’s still there. If it is, that means nobody’s used it to get inside. Then I’m not afraid to go in.”

Grace wasn’t going to cross swords over that one. “Was the key under the mat the day you saw the man in your apartment?”

“Of course not. So I used my key and went in. I was going to see him, talk to him, make sure he was real. But he was already halfway out the window.”

Something with countless legs crawled up Grace Moore’s spine. “Did he say anything before he left?”

“No. He was more interested in getting out of there. He left the key, though. I found it on the corner of the kitchen table. I put it back under the mat.” Linda laced her fingers behind her head and regarded the doctor. “Now you’re wondering, was there really a man? Might he even have followed Linda here? Or is this simply more of Linda’s usual paranoiac bullshit?”

Grace smiled. “Of course you’re right.”

“I get so tired of not being believed.”

“I didn’t say I disbelieved you.”

“Word games. I bet you’re good at Scrabble.”

“I’m unbeatable,” Grace said.

“Well, you’ve never played anyone crazy.”

“But I have. Maybe someday you and I can-”

“No. You probably know too many seven-letter words.”

“You know you do sometimes hallucinate. And you don’t always take your meds as prescribed. It’s easy to forget. And you do hear voices. So what makes you think-”

“If he hadn’t been real, don’t you think I would have given him a voice?”

Grace was a bit startled by that observation, because it was a reasonable question. “Let’s make him this real,” she said. “I think you should find a better place for your spare key.”

“Then I wouldn’t know if it was dangerous to go inside the apartment. I’d no longer have my key-nary in the mine shaft, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. And it’s good you still have your sense of humor.”

“If I didn’t have that I’d go cra-hey, wait a minute!”

Grace had to laugh. Linda was, in her own way, often the brightest person in the room.

“The son of a bitch is real,” Linda said. “Believe it.”

Dr. Moore knew better.