The Halo Effect

18

My last patient left at three-forty-five. On any other day, I would have gone home early, but I was hoping Gil Howard would call. I did some paperwork for a while and tried to ignore the headache that lay right behind my eyes.

When the phone rang at four-thirty, I picked up the receiver quickly.

“Dr. Snow?” This man didn’t sound like Gil, even though I’d only spoken to him once.

“Yes.”

“I… I…” He hesitated.

“Can I help you? Who is this?”

“I’m sorry. My name is Elias Beecher.” He paused.

I didn’t recognize the name any more than the voice. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know…” He paused once more.

I was used to people hesitating when they first called. Making the decision to see a therapist can be a difficult one. As much as someone might know that he or she wants help, actually asking for it is something else.

“Can I help you?” I asked again.

“I’m not sure. This is awkward. Especially over the phone.”

He had a cultured voice, deep and resonant. A handsome voice. And at the same time, vulnerable. I liked him right off. Even his hesitancy. Most people I knew hid behind too many words, spoke too quickly.

“Well, we don’t need to talk about anything over the phone. We can make an appointment. We can talk when you come in.”

With the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I walked over to the bookshelves and poured myself a glass of water from the silver carafe. It was cold, and before I took a sip I held it up to my forehead. The headache I’d had for the past hour was getting worse, and I hoped the cool glass would offer some relief. I should just give in and take two aspirin. But even though the pills were benign, I had a difficult time taking them.

All these years later and I still would rather suffer pain than succumb to taking pills.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Elias Beecher asked.

“No. Should I?”

“No, I guess not. I’m sorry. It was rude of me to assume that you would.” His consideration surprised me, reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think of whom. “For some reason I thought you’d know my name,” he said, but still didn’t explain.

I took the bottle of aspirin out of my top desk drawer and put it down in front of the phone. The white bottle. The blue label. It was harmless. It would make my head ache less. Yet, still I hesitated.

“I’m sorry, should I?” I asked.

“Yes. Well, she told me that she had come to you for help. And that you were helping. And I was so grateful. I should say that first. How very grateful I was that you were going to help her and that she was feeling that she might get her-our problems resolved. God, I love her. And that’s all I want.”

Was this the husband or the father of one of my patients? There was so much sadness in his voice. Nothing pulled at me like someone’s melancholy. I wanted to help him. Now. As soon as possible. And I was impressed that he was willing-and able-to talk openly to me even though we’d never met. It reinforced the vulnerability I’d heard in his voice. There are so many people closed off to their own emotions, but someone like Elias Beecher is a therapist’s dream. It is much easier to help someone when they aren’t fighting you. When they want to let you in.

“Mr. Beecher, I know that you are very upset. But I can’t even begin to figure out if I can help you or not unless I understand who and what you are talking about. Do you think you could start at the beginning? Who was talking to me? And why was she talking to me about you?”

He took a deep breath. “Dr. Snow, the woman I am engaged to is one of your patients. And she has been missing for almost a week. I’ve gone to the police. I’m a lawyer, I know how it works. She’s a missing person until she shows up dead, and only then will she be a priority. There were no threats on her life, no sign of foul play, no break-in at her apartment. If she was kidnapped, no one has made any contact with me for ransom. I just don’t have anything to give the police to entice them to take this more seriously. And to complicate it further, I know they think I might be responsible for her disappearance. The boyfriend or husband is always a suspect, isn’t he?”

Elias Beecher had been talking so quickly and with such urgency I hadn’t had a chance to interrupt, but he’d finally stopped long enough to take a breath.

My hands were as cold as the water in my glass, and I clasped them together in my lap.

“Who is your fiancée, Mr. Beecher?” I had to hear him say it.

“Cleo Thane.”