Five
A few days later
San Francisco
When the morning sun didn’t sweep away Amanda’s nightmare, she decided that Jack was right. She needed to see Susan, her therapist, sooner rather than later; if not to satisfy DA protocol then for her own mental health. For Jen. For their relationship, if there was going to be one.
During her outpatient rehab visits, Susan had been very good to Amanda, pointing out barriers in Amanda’s thinking—and emotions—while refraining from judgment. Susan’s willingness to listen to Amanda’s raw ambitions and self-centered inclinations without raising an eyebrow was possibly the most refreshing aspect of their professional relationship.
Amanda uncoiled from the fetal position and rolled herself out of her massive, unmade bed. She sat up straight and called the Cohen Clinic.
“Cohen Clinic, this is Ginny. How may I help you?”
Ah, Ginny, the red-haired receptionist with sapphire blue lipstick. At least, that’s the way Amanda remembered Ginny from her last visit. She couldn’t assume Ginny’s hair or lipstick color remained constant because, like the waters of the Bay, they frequently took on different shades. Amanda wouldn’t be surprised if the colors were entirely reversed by now. “Hi, Ginny. This is Amanda Hawthorne. I’d like to make an appointment with Susan.”
“How are you Ms. Hawthorne? Are you enjoying your vacation with Dr. Dawson?”
Of course she knows Jen is on vacation. They work at the same clinic, and receptionists know everything. How to answer without sounding pathetic or revealing too much.
Amanda’s mind catalogued the possibilities. “Um…well… Actually, Jen and Kristin had to go without me. I had some things in the city that couldn’t be left unattended.” Like me. I cannot be left unattended.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny said in a rush. “Can I put you on hold for a second?”
Before Amanda could protest, she heard the tell-tale elevator music of being on hold. She couldn’t help but feel a little jilted. It felt like an eternity before Ginny came back on.
“I’m sorry, Dick?” Ginny asked.
Amanda’s brain reeled. “Ah, no thank you?”
“Oh my God, is that you, Ms. Hawthorne?”
“Yes.”
Ginny laughed nervously. “I so apologize. I have a couple of calls on hold, and I thought you were someone else. Good comeback though.”
“I assumed as much. Can you get me in to see Susan, please?”
“Of course. Do you have a specific day in mind?”
Trying not to sound desperate, Amanda squeaked, “Anytime, but as soon as possible, please.”
“She has a cancellation in two hours if you can make it.”
“I’ll be there.” Amanda wondered whether Ginny had heard the heartache in Amanda’s voice and magically carved out a time for her.
“Very well, Ms. Hawthorne. You’re all set to see Susan at eleven. I’m sorry for the mix-up while you were on hold.”
“No problem. Thank you.”
“See you soon,” Ginny said and hung up.
***
Amanda dragged herself through the shower and dressed in something marginally more presentable than pajamas. She gathered her courage and bag and left her house, determined to drive herself rather than rely on Frank Degrugilliers, her SFPD driver and Jack’s fixer. Frank, too, deserved some time off, since he had been instrumental in investigating the Kara Montiago conspiracy. He also took a bullet from Montiago’s wild-ass shooting spree.
Amanda had received a text from Frank when the nude photos hit the news a few days ago. He reminded her of what he had told her in the car when the Koreans were trying to blackmail her— Hang in there. It won’t be as bad as you think. Trust me.
Yeah, right! she thought, entering her white garage. Since her Jaguar reminded her of work, and it was a behemoth to park, she decided on the Mercedes Coupe that Jack had bought her, complete with the bulletproof windows that he had insisted on for her safety. He had personally given her driving lessons around the city in the sleek car to familiarize her with a manual transmission and high-performance engine.
Jack was a car guy, so he had mercilessly talked about every detail of the car during their afternoon together, including its color—iridium silver metallic—a shade she’d never even heard of. Indifferent to cars and their status, she had to admit the interior colors—red upholstery with black lacquer trim—suited her dark mood, reminding her of a few exclusive clubs in grungy, low places that she had visited in her twenties.
To feed her dark disposition, she played Billie Eilish’s new lament, Wish you were Gay, feeling the strong base reverberate through her chest, pounding against her pain. The lyrics reminded Amanda of Jen leaving her, especially the line “…when all you do is walk the other way.” Embracing the suck, Amanda recalled how they had made love to Eilish’s latest album, until she realized that falling down that manhole yet again plunged her into an abysmal darkness. She needed Susan’s help to find a manhole cover, or, better yet, to avoid going down that street altogether.
As she navigated the chicanes through Golden Gate park, she ground the car’s gears then struggled with downshifting as she cornered onto California Street. The car momentarily sputtered, but she stayed calm, forcing her memory to find the familiar pathways of coordinating the clutch and the gear shift. Several months ago, she had shifted smoothly while driving fast along the Pacific Coast Highway, but she had somehow regressed while living her chauffeured life.
She finally found a speed that required little shifting, as she moved with traffic on California Street toward Polk Gulch where the Cohen Clinic was located. The public ramp next to the clinic had plenty of spots available, so she didn’t have to waste time looking for a spot on the street.
A few minutes later, she found herself face-to-face with an inky-haired Ginny flaunting bright red lipstick. Ginny had penciled in her witch-black eyebrows to match her hair color, creating a startled look that belonged on an actress in the theater.
In contrast, Amanda was incognito, an Hermès scarf stylishly wrapped around her head and Coach sunglasses covering her face from eyebrow to cheekbone. She, too, looked like an actress, but of the furtive type trying to avoid paparazzi.
In a hushed voice, Amanda leaned over the counter and said, “I like your hair, Ginny. Thanks for working me in to see Susan today.”
“Anything for you, Ms. Hawthorne.” Ginny typed a few keystrokes on her keyboard. “You’re all checked in.”
“Very well.” Amanda remained at the counter but turned to glance at the people sitting quietly in the waiting room.
Continuing in a whisper, Ginny said, “I read about the Kara Montiago bust on the news. Were you there when she jumped out of the window?”
Amanda nodded but didn’t say anything, hoping to telepath her desire not to talk about it.
“No wonder you need to see Susan,” Ginny said. “How traumatizing.”
Amanda wanted to grab Ginny by the bullring in her nose and tell her to shut her pie hole. “It was.”
At that moment, Susan emerged from the back hallway. “Ready?”
Amanda rushed over to Susan before her fear of being recognized by someone in the waiting area came to fruition. She followed Susan down the main corridor, careful to avoid Jen’s hallway.
“Ginny gets bolder every time I check in,” Amanda said.
“What did she say this time?” Susan asked.
“Too much,” Amanda dismissed the temptation to tattle. “Never mind.”
“She’s pretty mouthy,” Susan said. “Her job is on the line with Dr. Cohen.”
“Yeah…well…it could be worse. She could try to shoot you like my assistant did. From where I stand, Ginny is just fine.”
Susan nodded solemnly.
Once they reached Susan’s office, Susan occupied her usual spot—her desk chair, but turned away from her desk, which was shoved against a wall. She motioned for Amanda to sit across from her. “Take your pick. Your old chair or my new sofa.”
Amanda admired the floral print sofa. “Nice addition.” She unwound the Hermès scarf from her head, as she leaned back into the sofa and crossed her legs. She sighed, nervously balling the scarf in her hands then stretching it out again. Before Susan could speak, Amanda uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them the opposite direction. Another sigh and twist of the scarf. She scooted her butt lower in a slouch.
“Comfortable?” Susan asked, watching.
Instead of answering, Amanda popped up and moved to the chair. “Sorry. The sofa doesn’t fit me quite right. Kind of uncomfortable.” She sank into the familiar club chair that was separated from the sofa by a coffee table with a box of tissues on it.
Susan turned slightly and rested her elbows on the adjustable arm rests of her desk chair, leaning her body over her legs, setting the stage for an intimate conversation. “What brings you in today, Amanda?”
Amanda removed her sunglasses, certain that her red, puffy eyes would tell half the story. With nauseating effort, she said, “Jen left me.”
Susan nodded slowly. “I saw the photos on the news.”
“Who didn’t?”
“It probably isn’t as bad as you think.”
“It couldn’t get any worse,” Amanda whined. “Didn’t you hear me? Jen left me.”
“I thought you told me some time ago that you had prepared Jen for the release of these photos and taken engagement photos together to counteract them.”
“We did—for a solo nude selfie of me. I had no idea there was a pic of Roxy and me in bed, so that was a complete shock, and apparently a deal breaker for Jen.”
“Ah yes, Roxy. It was interesting to see her face after hearing you talk about her.”
“She has a certain look, doesn’t she?” Amanda asked.
“Yes.” Susan paused for a minute. “And, how do you feel?”
“Like I want the earth to open up and suck me right into it.” She made a V-shape with her hands and slapped them together.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t function without Jen. And Kristin, of course. They’re my world.” Amanda’s throat constricted, threatening a sob, but she choked it back.
“Where are Jen and Kristin now?”
“They went to Jen’s family cabin in Wisconsin. Tommy went with them because he and I are on mandatory admin leave after the shooting in my office.”
“The Melanie Valentine incident?” Susan asked.
“I see you’re keeping up with my life on the news,” Amanda said.
Susan shrugged. “How do you feel about Tommy joining Jen and Kristin?”
Amanda shifted her gaze to a bookcase, looking for the answer that wasn’t there. “Surprisingly, not bad or jealous. He deserves to get away. He was shot in the shoulder saving me from Mel.”
“Tell me about that,” Susan said.
Amanda’s voice shrunk. “Mel was going to shoot me. She was pointing my own gun at me. Then, out of nowhere, Tommy barged into my office at that moment, so she turned her gun on him instead.”
Susan covered her mouth. “Then what happened?”
“I attacked Mel, and we got in a fight, rolling around and throwing punches, and she somehow managed to get on top of me. I could’ve taken her, but she was about to slam her fist into my face, so Tommy killed her.”
“That sounds pretty traumatic, even for someone who’s been in the line of fire before.”
Amanda shrugged. “I learned last week that guns are loud when they’re used indoors. Which reminds me, can you fill out the paperwork to make this visit official for my return-to-work requirement?”
“Of course, but tell me how you dealt with Tommy shooting Mel in your office. And, why was Mel trying to kill you?.”
“She was Eddy Valentine’s daughter, so she was exacting her revenge on me,” Amanda said without fanfare.
“Okay. I know Valentine’s death has plagued you. How are you coping with Mel’s plot and death?”
“I don’t give two shits about Eddy or Mel,” Amanda snarled. “I wish I would’ve killed her myself.” She again grasped her scarf and ran the liquid warmth of silk between her fingers, twisting her fists in the ends when she reached them. “Tommy and I analyzed the crap out of that situation over a few bottles of wine. I’m over it.”
Susan raised her eyebrows—not in disapproval but in surprise—at Amanda’s alcohol relapse.
Amanda sighed and absent-mindedly wrapped the scarf tightly around her hands and wrists, binding them together. “After our big shootout with Kara Montiago, we needed to decompress, so he came over to my place, and we drank and talked.”
“Was Jen there?”
“Yeah. She was sort of disappointed that I was in the line of fire again, and drinking, but she was relieved we were alive. Once she learned we were on mandatory leave, she invited us to her lake cabin.”
“Please, go on,” Susan urged.
The memory played across Amanda’s face, as she stared into the middle space between them. “We had a great time talking that night, like we had life figured out, you know? The three of us—connected by Kristin and our love and support of each other—navigating our way. The next morning, we were into our breakfast routine when the photo of Roxy and me dropped.”
“Then what happened?”
“I showed it to Jen, and she blew a cork.”
“What did she say?”
“She pieced together that I slept with Roxy more than once while we were in New York and Cape Cod. She was really devastated. I tried to tell her that I love only her but…”
“What did you say?”
“That it was only a one-night stand, which of course isn’t accurate, and I think she intuited, or deduced, that.”
“Last time you discussed Roxy with Jen, you admitted that you slept with Roxy, so what was different about this time?”
Amanda pulled hard against the scarf, now marking her wrists. “That’s what I asked!”
“What did Jen say?”
“First, she threw my phone over the balcony onto the street, shattering the screen.”
Susan nodded calmly.
“Then she accused me of having more than a one-night stand with Roxy, and repeated her tirade, all of which I’d heard before.”
“Is that when she decided to go to Wisconsin without you?”
Amanda scrunched her eyelids shut against the tidal wave of tears threatening to break through. She moved her bound wrists to the top of her head as if to keep if from exploding. “Yes.”
She didn’t know why she was fighting back the tears. Susan was her therapist, and Amanda had wept in front of her many times. On the other hand, she had sobbed nonstop since Jen had left, so she scrunched her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and continued in a tremulous voice. “Tommy tried to sooth her, but Jen was determined, so the three of them left without me.”
“When are they due back?” Susan asked.
“In a couple of weeks, I think.”
“That isn’t that long in the scheme of things,” Susan said in what Amanda considered to be a faintly patronizing tone.
She opened one eye and said into the expanding silence, “Easy for you to say. I’m in hell over here. I can’t go to work, so all I do is mope around the house missing them.”
“What tools are you using to cope?”
“Well, I’m not drinking if that’s what you’re asking.”
Susan smiled reassuringly. “You know I’m asking about more than drinking. What are you doing to work through the pain? Yoga? Walks on the beach?”
“I haven’t been able to bring myself to practice yoga, and I don’t know why. My instructor keeps texting me, which makes me feel really guilty.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been crying and playing cello.” Amanda unwrapped her hands a few twists from the scarf and held them out, palms-up, for Susan to inspect.
A wise woman, Susan honed in on the source right away. “I see the pads of your fingers on your left hand look a little sore.”
“Classic therapist understatement,” Amanda said in a teasing tone. “They’re hamburger meat. I dabbed some Neosporin on them before I came over here, but they sting like holy hell.” She curled her fingers toward her face and inspected the tips. Ignoring Susan, she unwound her wrists a few more turns from the scarf and dug deep into the right pocket of her capris, pulling out a tube of ointment. She squirted some onto her left thumb pad then proceeded to rub the tip of each left finger, working the ointment into her blisters. Once finished, she sighed in contentment.
Susan smiled. “Feel better?”
“A little.” Absorbed in the accoutrements of her drama, Amanda rewrapped her hands in the soft scarf, twisting endlessly until her hands lay close on her lap. “Where were we?”
“We were talking about coping mechanisms. How is playing the cello making you feel?”
“Fucking sad. And lonely. Nothing can chase away the loneliness—not even Saint-Saëns or Debussy. I’m just terrified I’ll never see Jen and Kristin again.”