Tord’s piano is sweet and tuneful, but Dr. Harris is not placated. “You don’t have the training to handle an adolescent as disturbed as Danny,” she says. “He needs a specialist.” She turns her face toward the control room to allow me to absorb her words. Her profile is classical, perfect and distant.
Without exchanging a single word with Gabriel Ireland, I can understand why he is crazy in love with this woman. Luckily for me, I have never been drawn to ice queens.
“Danny didn’t call a specialist,” I say. “He called me. Dr. Harris, we have a database with referral numbers for professionals in every area where we’re heard. When we have a caller whose problems demand the kind of help I can’t give them, I talk to them after the show and I refer them to a professional. I’m just Step One.”
“You’re the wrong step,” she says crisply. “As long as you operate within your area of expertise, you’re amusing. But you’re out of your depth with someone as seriously disturbed as Danny. For him, this could be a matter of life and death.”
Dr. Harris’s condescension raises my hackles.
“That’s precisely the reason why I cut you off,” I say. “As Louise noted so colorfully, you have degrees up the wazoo, but what you did with Danny was just plain stupid. That boy is being eaten alive by guilt because he wanted his brother dead and he got his wish. But instead of letting Danny say the words he needs to say if he’s ever going to recover, you launch into a lecture about Cain and freaking Abel.”
“Pointing out to Danny that his feelings are archetypal is accepted clinical protocol.”
“He’s sixteen years old, and he’s disintegrating. He doesn’t need to hear about archetypes. He just needs someone to listen. By the way, Dr. Harris, we’re back on the air in ten, and get ready, because I’m going to give you a chance to strut your stuff.”
“And we’re back,” I say. “Judging by the number of calls coming in on this, the Day of the Dead, a lot of you are haunted by ghoulies, ghosties, long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night. Luckily we have a pro to help us battle the ghoulies and ghosties. Tonight, I’m joined by Dr. Robin Harris, a thanatologist, a specialist in death. Dr. Harris, how did you get into your line of work?”
“For me, thanatology has always been a journey in search of answers,” she says in her thrilling voice. “When I was seven, my grandmother died. My parents had pretty much abandoned me, but my grandmother had always been there. I was alone with her when she had her fatal heart attack.”
“That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” Robin agrees. “But my grandmother always told me that whatever didn’t kill me would make me stronger. I realize now she was just repeating a truism, but I clung to those words. I was determined not to let my grandmother’s death kill me, and so I began to think seriously about what death meant. Even as a child, I knew that death was a natural phenomenon. I’d seen dead birds. I’d had pets that died. The principal of my school fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. Death was all around, so I made a decision to understand what it meant.”
“That was pretty gutsy,” I say.
Glowing with the sheen of self-love, Robin continues her autobiography.
“It was necessary,” she says. “I was a logical child, so I set out to find answers. After my grandmother died, I went to live with my mother’s brother and his wife. As fate would have it, my uncle owned a funeral home, and I spent hours with him, listening to his stories about how people reacted to death.”
“And you were seven years old,” I say.
“I wasn’t afraid,” she says. “My uncle recognized a kindred spirit in me. He told me that I’d been given a great gift. I was able to observe grief without being affected.”
“That’s quite a trick.”
“There’s no trick to it. Knowledge is power.”
“So your knowledge of death gives you power over it?”
“Yes.”
“And the fact that you’re not afraid of death gives you power over people who are.”
“That’s a little simplistic, but yes.”
I shake my head.
“Whoa! Lady Death, you are a trip. Time to talk to a caller. Here’s one that should interest you. It’s from a friend of your daughter.”
Robin laughs.
“My daughter is six years old. Her friends are all in bed by now.”
Gabriel Ireland’s pleasant tenor voice is ironic and resigned. I recognize the tone. This is a man who has nothing more to lose.
“Not all your daughter’s friends are six years old, Robin. Kali tells me I’m her best friend, and as you well know, my dark star, today is my fortieth birthday. Since you’ve sucked the light out of every moment of my last year, it seems only fitting that I spend these last dark minutes with you.”
Robin shakes her head in disgust, but I jump in.
“Gabe, our show is pretty loose, but we have two rules: no straying from the topic and no hitting below the belt. So far you’re two for two.”
“I apologize,” Gabriel Ireland says, and he sounds genuinely contrite. “I’m a hollow man.”
“You’re a bore,” Robin Harris says sharply. “Gabe, hang up and let someone with real problems call in. I’m not here to deal with your adolescent angst.”
“I’m aware of that, my dark star. I’ve been listening. As always, you established the boundaries brilliantly. You said your job is to help people deal with the day in their lives when they are most vulnerable—the day when they’re about to die or when someone they love is about to die. I qualify on both counts.”