I decided the best blind date was one where you drove yourself—regardless of what Penny said, it was a date—so I arrived at the restaurant at seven o’clock wearing a blue pencil skirt and matching sweater I hoped showed I had some self-respect but screamed I’m not looking for a relationship.
La Hacienda Chop House met my every expectation. The dim glow emitted by miniature lamps placed at the center of each table produced just enough illumination to show off the plush red velvet chairs and tan and burgundy brocade wallpaper. Wait staff breezed by in short, mustard yellow jackets, black pants and bow ties, right out of another era. The one exception was the maître de who dressed in a black tuxedo. A menu clutched to his side, he led me to the table where Robert Hayward waited, already perusing the wine list.
He had sandy brown hair and wore a jacket and tie. As soon as I reached the table, he pulled out my chair and, once I sat down, shook my hand with a firm grip.
“You’re Penny’s friend,” he said.
“That’s me. Frankie Chandler.”
“Is that your given name? Frankie?”
“It’s actually Frances, but I prefer Frankie,” I explained.
He made an Hmm noise.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“What do you think it means?”
Just then Kemper and Penny arrived, Kemper wearing a blue suit that hung from his six-foot-tall frame. Soaking wet, he weighed a hundred and forty pounds. Penny opted for college-girl sweet with a fawn wool skirt, matching blouse and sweater, and headband to pull back her blond hair.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Robert said, setting the wine list aside, “but I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the wine. It’s a mellow red that should go with any entrée.”
In the mood for an Amaretto Sour, I nonetheless accepted his offer gracefully.
“So, what do you do?” Robert asked me. “Not that that defines you.” He gave a brief laugh. “It’s just a conversation starter.”
“I work with animals,” I said, with a quick glance toward Penny. “Animal behavior.”
“Ahhh. We’re in the same line of work,” Robert said. “I’m a clinical psychologist. A people behaviorist, if you will.”
“That explains the Hmmm,” I muttered.
He chuckled. “Occupational hazard. Your preference for the masculine form of your name tells me you like to put up a tough front.”
“That’s reading an awful lot into my name. I might have a favorite uncle named Frank I like to remember through my name.”
“Masculine association,” he said. “But we shouldn’t talk shop.” Obviously, his vast powers of perception picked up on my irritation.
“Ask Robert about your problem,” Penny said, just as the waiter arrived with our wine. He poured the first glass for Robert and waited while my clinical psychologist non-date swirled, stuck his nose in the glass and inhaled deeply. When Robert motioned, the waiter served the rest of the table.
“And what problem is that?” Robert leaned back in his chair and studied me.
Kemper said, “That’s not really fair. This is Robert’s night off.”
Robert just smiled. “It's fine.” His eyes roamed over me. “Frankie is a lot prettier than most of my clients. It will be my pleasure to help her any way I can.”
“Well—” I hesitated, just to show I respected his right to avoid free consultations.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged, with a quick wink at Kemper. Kemper, however, paled. Penny must have filled him in.
I began gently. “I have this friend—”
He waved me off. “Forget the friend business. We’re talking about you and we know it.”
“Okay.” I’d given this a lot of thought in the shower. Every time I had a flash or heard a humming noise, my brain felt invaded. I needed something to keep uninvited guests out of my head until I figured out what to do about Sandy. “In your professional opinion, do you think it’s a good plan to use, say, the image of a doorway to keep out bad thoughts?”
I could tell he was dying to ask what kind of bad thoughts but had the good manners to keep dinner conversation light. “It could work…temporarily.”
“Why temporarily?” There was panic in my voice.
He toyed with his wine glass. “If you have memories you’re trying to repress—”
“Not memories. At least, not mine.”
His blue eyes glittered with interest. “Not your memories,” he repeated. “If something in your subconscious is trying to make it to your conscious mind, then pushing it away will build up stress and pressure that could manifest physically.”
“Like headaches?”
“Exactly. It’s best to address these things and take away the power they hold over us. And the first step is to own them.”
This wasn’t helping. I didn’t have repressed memories of being spanked when I was four. I tried to explain without sounding like a candidate for a straitjacket. “What if, well, something on the outside is trying to, well, get in?”
He took a deep, slow drink of wine. I think he was stalling. “It may feel like these thoughts aren’t yours, but I assure you, they come from you.”
I scooted my chair to face him, ignoring Kemper’s expression. I saw Penny had her hand on his arm to hold him back. I decided if I wanted Robert’s professional opinion, I’d have to level with him. “You don’t understand. These—thoughts—are being transmitted to me by animals.”
His left eye twitched.
“You’ve heard of horse whispering? Crank it up a notch. So, you see, I don’t have control over the incoming messages, but I’d really, really like some way of stopping the assault.”
He perked up. “Assault. Interesting word choice. Do you often feel the world is ganging up on you?”
I gave up and scooted my chair back, but Robert had received a challenge and wasn’t going down lightly.
“Wait. I want to help.” He looked to Kemper. “Did you set this up? I was just telling you how bored I’ve been with the usual entitled brats whining about how they deserve better and people moaning about circumstances that arise from their choices.” He paused and took a slug of wine. “And suddenly this lady—your friend—has this ridiculous story about talking to animals.”
Kemper glared at me. “Well, um, you see—”
Robert broke into a smile. “Thank you.”
Kemper hid his face behind his own glass of wine. “You’re welcome.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “It’s a test of your abilities. A challenge to your prowess as a mental health professional. The prize is the satisfaction you’ve conquered an incredibly difficult but imaginary problem.”
He accepted the gauntlet with a curt nod. Now that he didn’t think I was talking about myself, I actually enjoyed getting it off my chest.
“So, let’s say you have this client, and she is legitimately getting messages from animals and needs to find a way to make it stop.”
Robert set down his glass and rubbed his hands together. “Obviously, she’s mentally unhinged, because animals don’t talk to people. But I understand what you’re saying. She believes in this delusion, so I need to work with her as if I believe what she’s saying.”
“Ri-i-i-ght,” I said, not liking his description of me.
He picked up his glass again and swirled his wine around, noticed it was nearly empty, and held it out for Kemper to refill. “I like imagery. I find you can accomplish many things if you can envision them, so I think the idea about using a door to control these thoughts is good. However,” he held up a finger for emphasis, “what I said about holding back negative thoughts holds true. The negative thoughts must be dealt with eventually or the situation could become dangerous.” The idea of danger seemed to please him.
“But sometimes she hears this humming. It’s almost like white noise.”
Robert narrowed his eyes. “You said she receives messages, as in plural. It would make sense that if all the voices were talking at once, they might blur into this white noise you’re describing.”
“How can she deal with these voices when she can’t understand them?”
“Interesting.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Perhaps the image of a radio would help. She could tune into a specific channel to listen to a specific voice. Of course, she’d be subconsciously choosing which message appealed most to her conscious mind, but it could work.”
“And you don’t recommend just shutting all the voices out?” I figured he would say no, but I had to give it one more shot. He didn’t disappoint.
“No. Definitely not. Unthinkable. Clients who try to repress these triggers wind up with physical manifestations like headaches and nausea. Eventually…it’s a bad thing.” He tented his fingers under his chin. “When did this problem start?”
“About a week ago.”
He glanced sharply in my direction. “What happened then?”
“She had her first vision.”
“We’re talking visions now?” He seemed to think I was changing the rules on him.
“Visions and voices. Sorry if I didn’t clarify.” To keep up the pretense I was acting out my part in a practical joke, I added, “I forgot to check my script before dinner.”
“Some traumatic event must have forced her to manifest physically in such a brief span of time. What was it?”
“Traumatic for her?”
“Of course. She’s the one having the visions.”
The trauma belonged to Sandy. “So, you’re saying the reason these visions and voices and things started was because of this first trauma.”
“Right.”
“But the cravings started before then,” I muttered, remembering Trixie’s treats.
“What’s that?” Robert leaned in. “You say the episodes started before the main trauma?”
“No,” I said, remembering Margarita was already dead when the humming and such began. I just didn’t have my appointment right when she died. “The trauma happened but didn’t materialize in a big way for a week. But little things were happening.” Like my sleeping with Chauncey’s ball and craving peanut butter. Those had all started a little over a week ago, around the time Sandy had witnessed a murder.
“So, it’s as if the thought was pushing its way through but didn’t break all the way into your—her mind for a week.” Robert thought about it. “Yes. That is a definite explanation.”
The waiter approached the table and leaned in to speak with Robert. I zoned out with my own thoughts. It was making sense. Sandy had been so traumatized by witnessing the abduction and possibly the murder he had forced himself into my head. I’d gone years without hearing from my dog and cat clients. The only reason they could access me now was because Sandy had opened the way in. And as he was trying to get in, the cravings and such leaked in. “And to cure this lady, would you recommend going back to this first incident?”
The waiter walked off and Robert turned his attention back to me. “You’ve got to destroy the root to kill the weed.”
I liked the idea. If I could take care of Sandy’s problem, then the doorway might close up for good. I could go back to being a normal fake. In the meantime, the radio dial sounded like it might work. I’d have to practice on Emily and Chauncey when I got home.
“That’s good,” I said, nodding slowly. “Really good.” Then I flashed him my brightest smile. “You win.”
He waved off our praise—mine sincere and Kemper’s blended with relief—but Robert couldn’t hide his pleasure.
I felt considerably cheered and actually enjoyed Robert’s company until the waiter appeared with our entrees. Robert had ordered for me—a nice grilled salmon. During the meal, I gained sympathy for Pavlov’s dogs, because every time my non-date raised his sautéed onion and blue cheese smothered filet to his mouth, I salivated.
Thank goodness we had met him at the restaurant. If he tried to kiss me goodnight with the smell of steak on his breath, I might have bitten him.