Constance Hodges glanced up as Heather Granahan tiptoed into her office and set a clear glass mug on the desk. The first time Heather had made one of these unsolicited coffee deliveries, Hodges had assured her the task was not part of her job description, but the young administrative assistant had continued—apparently perceptive and ambitious enough to know that Hodges appreciated small acts of subservience—and this morning Hodges was more grateful than usual. She watched her assistant make a discreet exit, and then she took a sip. The taste was disappointing. She closed her eyes and wished for a little more of the steadying Courvoisier.
She stared at Thomas Merchant’s cell number on her laptop screen. She did not look forward to calling him. Tolling the bell for Park Manor’s fallen was not a vocation she had ever envisioned for herself, and she felt a sudden and unexpected longing for the Central Park West office where she had once counseled fifteen or more patients a week. Several large ad firms and financial companies sent her their executives who needed to do “penance” for sexual harassment, anger issues, or alcohol problems. They’d show up for eight or ten sessions to get “rehabilitated.” And there were the self-involved artists and academics, the anxiety-ridden graduate students from Columbia University, and of course the clients questioning their sexual identities. These confused souls always stayed with her the longest. But it had been exhausting and mind-numbing to absorb everyone else’s problems day in and day out. The practice of psychotherapy had never satisfied her as much as the study of human psychology. Her patients’ predictable issues had never truly held her interest. Although she had been a skillful psychotherapist, she was not a woman who enjoyed the passive role of engaged and insightful listener. And even affluent clients had not paid her nearly as well as Park Manor did.
Hodges lifted the phone and dialed. Thomas Merchant picked up on the fourth ring. His “hello” sounded as groggy as hers had an hour ago, and she imagined him in his Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment lying in one of those luxurious handmade Savoir Beds. Was there a woman next to him listening to their call? She seriously doubted that Thomas had spent many solitary nights since his wife had moved into Park Manor—not that any of his overnight guests would last. She knew Thomas better than he knew himself, she thought. She knew exactly how to read people. Even in the superficial interviews she held with family members of prospective residents, she could distinguish between those who came to Park Manor because they wanted the best for a loved one and those who chose the venerable institution as a glorified Manhattan Mini Storage in which to stash an unwanted burden, freeing them from years of caregiving or freeing up a Park Avenue townhouse. A year and a half ago, when Thomas Merchant had entered her office wearing his bespoke suit and subtle, expensive cologne, she had known exactly what he wanted from her.
She cleared her throat and spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “Thomas, it’s Constance. I’m sorry for the early call, but I’m afraid Lucy passed away early this morning.” She had delivered end of life news to spouses and children of residents so many times that she knew getting directly to the point was the best way. Drawn-out condolences coming from her would only sound scripted and insincere, so she limited herself to “I’m sorry to have to give you this news over the phone.”
“How? What happened, Constance?”
“She died in her sleep. Dr. Fisher is here now. I’ll be able to tell you more when he’s done examining her, but I wanted to call you right away.”
In the silence, Merchant expelled a spontaneous sigh of what sounded to Hodges like unadulterated relief.
“Will you be coming over this morning?” she asked, carefully withholding expectation or judgment from her voice.
“I’m in DC. I have to meet with a Senate subcommittee in about an hour. I’ll fly back after that. I should be able to get there by four PM.”
“And Julia?”
“I’ll call her right now.”
“Okay,” said Hodges. “We’ll be ready for you.” She ended the call, sat back, and took another sip of the unsatisfying coffee.