The Halo Effect

17

The following Monday morning at eight-fifteen, Dulcie and I were in a taxi, heading downtown to her drama school.

“I wish I could go to this school all year long,” she said longingly.

As the cab worked its way through the traffic, she kept up a steady stream of chatter about how she liked the academy so much more than regular school and how her new friend, Gretchen, and she thought that the earlier you got started with your career, the better chance you had of making it as an actress.

I had not minded that Dulcie was going to spend the summer at the academy, instead of going to a sleep-away camp, although I would have preferred she spend the summer months outdoors, swimming and playing softball and tennis. Of all the things for her to be fascinated by, the theater was the last one I would have chosen for her. And not just because I’d seen what my mother’s early success as an actress, and then later failure, had done to her. How it had destroyed her. I just wanted Dulcie to enjoy her childhood and not face the pressure and rejections of an acting career before she had the coping mechanisms of an adult. It could be a cruel business no matter how old you were-and she was only twelve.

Except acting was in my daughter’s blood.

The cab pulled up to the school on Madison and Thirtyninth Street, and Dulcie jumped out while I paid the fare. We stood outside the school and she kissed me goodbye, her high-voltage blue eyes shining.

“Have a wonderful day,” I said to her.

“Oh, I will,” she said, and ran into the building. Her happiness was contagious and I found myself smiling.

But my smile didn’t last long.

I got to the office in time for my nine o’clock patient, who left at nine-forty-five, which gave me a fifteen-minute break until Cleo was supposed to show up.

Ten o’clock came and went without her appearing. I waited at my desk until ten-fifteen and then went outside onto my balcony. Ostensibly I was watering the many plants that lived out there, but I was really watching the street.

For the second time in five days, Cleo Thane had not shown up for her appointment. And she hadn’t called to cancel. Maybe I was overreacting, but I was worried.

The sun was shining and a warm breeze was blowing. The geraniums in the terra-cotta pots in front of the institute were in full bloom, and the white and pink blossoms bent in the wind. From above, they looked as if they were praying.

I scanned the street, watching and waiting to see Cleo turn the corner and walk down the block.

At ten-thirty-five I went back into my office, called her and got her answering machine. I left a brief message, then sat at my desk wondering what else I could do. How worried should I be?

I opened her folder and found the form she’d been required to fill out when she first came to see me. I scanned past her insurance-company data, home address, phone number and place of work. In the space where we required the patient to list whom to contact in case of emergencies, she had written the name Gil Howard. And then a New York City phone number.

I assumed this was the man she referred to as Caesar, but calling him raised an ethical dilemma.

Cleo had told me that he was aware that she was in therapy, but that still didn’t give me the right to contact him if, by doing so, I wound up giving him information about her that she didn’t want him to have.

What if, for instance, she had taken an out-of-town job and not told him? If I called and said she’d missed appointments, I might be giving him knowledge she didn’t want him to have.

And what if she’d just walked away from therapy and decided not to come back? Patients occasionally did that. A therapist could dig too deep and get too far too fast and a patient could bolt. And what if she hadn’t told him that she’d quit?

I put off making the call.

My eleven o’clock patient was on time.

As soon as she left, I picked up the phone and called Cleo’s number once more. When the machine answered, I hung up. I’d already left two messages-one last Wednesday, one earlier today.

A bolt of fear ripped through my stomach. Until then, that particular feeling had been reserved for Dulcie and, when I was young, for my mother.

The sixth sense that mothers and daughters have-or that at least I had had with my mother and my daughter-was kicking in for the first time with a client.

At noon I left my office. A walk in the park would help me clear my head and allow me to figure out why I was reacting so powerfully to Cleo’s disappearance.

With every step I took under the thick canopy of leaves, I became more and more certain that Cleo was in trouble. If she simply had gone away or taken a job, she would have let me know. And if she had forgotten, I’d left messages. She would have picked them up. She was a successful businesswoman; no matter where she was, she would monitor her calls. She took in more than two million dollars a year. She was involved with dozens of important, wealthy and wellplaced men. This was not a teenager acting out and running away from home. Cleo was a responsible woman.

Something was wrong.

On the way back to the office, I stopped to get a double espresso at the café but didn’t bother with any food. Now that I had decided what to do, I was in a hurry to get upstairs.

Opening her file, I found Gil Howard’s number and dialed.

“Diablo Cigar Bar,” said a sweet-sounding woman.

“Gil Howard, please.”

“Who can I say is calling?”

I didn’t know what to do. Give my name or not?

“This is Morgan Snow.”

The man who came on the line had a New York accent and sounded concerned. “Hello?”

“I’m calling from the doctor’s office. Cleo Thane had an appointment with me earlier today, but she didn’t keep it. Since she gave your number as emergency contact, I just wanted to find out if she was ill.”

“No… I…” He clearly didn’t know what to say.

“Do you have a number where I could reach her?”

“No.”

I had no idea who he was, but still I could tell that the man I was talking to was distraught.

“Are you all right?” It slipped out. A professional knee-jerk reaction. A person’s voice goes into a certain cadence and rhythm of distress and I ask if he or she’s all right.

“Cleo’s not here.”

It wasn’t an answer to my question. “Can I leave my number? If you hear from her, will you let her know she missed her appointment?”

“When was it?” he asked.

“This morning at ten.”

There was a long silence. Then he said, “Right. That’s right. I know that. She told me. Mondays and Wednesdays at ten. Was she there last Wednesday at ten?”

But he sounded as if he already knew the answer to his question.

“No.”

“You are her therapist, aren’t you?”

“Yes. This is Dr. Snow. I’m sorry to be cryptic, but I had to be careful-”

He cut me off. “I’m going crazy here and I’m worried as hell. No one has heard from her since last Tuesday night. That’s six days. Six fucking days. Cleo has never done anything like this. And I’m scared out of my mind. I’m still making phone calls. Looking for her. Can I call you back later? Will you be there?”

“Yes, I have patients all afternoon. The best time to call is ten minutes before the hour.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Been there, done that. There’s my other phone. I’ll talk to you later.”

And without waiting for me to answer, he hung up. The sudden dead quiet was alarming.

But there wasn’t time to think about the call because my two o’clock patient had arrived.