LITMIR.BIZ

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doctor nodded wearily. “In the short term. But what you need is to talk—”

      “I know what you think I need.”

      “There’s no physiological reason for your bouts of shortness of breath. You don’t have, thank God, lung cancer or emphysema. I don’t see any evidence that it’s an allergic reaction to anything. It’s not bronchitis. You’ve identified plainly what brings on the attacks.”

      “If there’s nothing physiological, then why do the inhalers work?”

      “They open up your air passages regardless of what brings on the symptoms,” Bert said. “Has it been happening more often, or less?”

      Bourque paused. “About the same.” Another pause. “I had one this morning. I got called to a scene, and I was okay, but then I had this … flash … I guess you’d call it. And then I started to tighten up.”

      “Is it almost always that one memory that brings it on? The drops—”

      Bourque raised a hand, signaling he didn’t need his memory refreshed. “That does, for sure. But other moments of stress sometimes trigger it. Or a tense situation brings back the memory, and it happens.” He paused. “There doesn’t always have to be a reason.”

      Bert nodded sympathetically. “The department doesn’t have anyone you can talk to?”

      “I don’t need to talk to anyone in the department. I have you.”

      “I’m not a shrink.”

      “I don’t need a shrink.”

      “Maybe you do. You either need to talk to someone, or—”

      “Or what?”

      “I don’t know.” The doctor waved his hands in frustration. “Maybe you’re like Jimmy Stewart in that Hitchcock movie. He gets vertigo after suffering a trauma. It takes another trauma to cure him of it.”

      Bourque scanned the walls, looking at the various framed medical degrees.

      “What are you looking for?” Bert asked.

      “Something from the New York Film Academy. I’m guessing that’s where you got your medical degree.”

      Bert ignored the shot. “It’s been eight months. You need to see someone who can bring more to the table than I can.”

      “I’m not baring my soul to anyone in the department.”

      Bert sighed again. “Maybe the department is the problem.”

      Bourque looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

      The doctor said, “Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work. Do you actually like what you do?”

      Bourque took several seconds to answer. “Sure.”

      “That was convincing.”

      Bourque looked away. “I’m okay at what I do. It’s not a bad job.”

      “I’ve been seeing you since you were in short pants,” Bert said. “I know this was never your first choice.”

      “Okay, I couldn’t get accepted into architectural school. I got over it. Dad was a cop. His two brothers were cops. So I went into the family business. It was what they wanted for me, anyway.”

      Bert turned back to the computer, fingers poised over the keyboard. But he had a change of thought and swiveled his chair back to face Bourque.

      “Have you tried that exercise I gave you, for when things start tightening up, you have trouble bringing in air?”

      “Tell me again.”

      “When it starts happening, try not to focus on it. Focus on something else. You think, what are five things I see in front of me? What are five sounds I’m hearing? What are the birthdays for people in my family? List the Mets in alphabetical order. The ten most-wanted list. Or here’s a good one for you: New York’s ten most historic buildings. Or most popular with tourists. Tallest, I don’t know. That would seem to be right up your alley.”

      Bourque looked at him dubiously. “Seriously?”

      “Just try it.”

      It was Bourque’s turn to sigh. “If it’s all in my head, it’s not like it can kill me. Right? If I lost my inhaler, it’s not going to get so bad that I can’t breathe at all. It’s not like I’m going to die.”

      Bert slowly shook his head, then went back to the keyboard. “I’ll do you one more scrip,” he said.

Five

      So far as Barbara knew, Paula Chatsworth had no family in the city. She hailed from Montpelier, had come to NYU to study journalism, and never went back. Barbara got to know Paula three years earlier when she did a summer internship at Manhattan Today. Barbara had seen a lot of herself in the young woman. An eagerness to learn matched by a healthy contempt for authority. And she swore a lot. For some reason, Barbara didn’t expect that from a Vermont girl, but she was pleased. Paula had assured Barbara that Vermont girls could cuss with the best of them.

      Manhattan Today didn’t take Paula on permanently, and Barbara lost touch with her. She’d run into her once in the Grand Central Market, getting a taco at Ana Maria. Three minutes of small talk, enough time to learn that Paula had not found a job in her field of study, but was working as a copywriter for a firm that managed a number of websites. “I’m right up by Bloomingdale’s,” she said. “So I don’t have to go far to get rid of my paycheck.”

      Paula hadn’t mentioned anything about being in a relationship, but it was only a quick meeting, and there was no reason why she would have. She hadn’t looked conscious as she was wheeled to the ambulance, but the police would probably be looking through her phone for a contact, if it wasn’t password protected, or talking to her coworkers to find next of kin.

      Barbara thought she might be able to help.

      Once she’d learned which hospital Paula had been taken to, Barbara headed there. While she waited in the ER to find out how she was doing, Barbara tracked down her parents in Montpelier. She hoped someone, maybe from Paula’s work—she had, after all, been injured at her place of employment—had already been in touch, but it turned out Barbara was the first to call.

      “I don’t understand,” Paula’s mother, Sandy, said, her voice breaking. “How does an elevator just fall?”

      “They’ll be looking into that,” Barbara said. “Some kind of fluke accident, I’m guessing.”

      “We were always so worried about her going to New York,” Sandy said. “All the things that could happen. Muggings, shootings … I told her, don’t you dare get a bicycle, don’t be trying to ride around the city on a bike because everyone there drives crazy and you’ll get hit for sure. But an elevator?”

      “I know.” Barbara hardly knew what else to say. And offering comfort had never been one of her strengths. Shit happens was her basic philosophy. But still, her heart ached for the woman. Barbara asked if there was anyone in the city she should call. Sandy said if Paula had been seeing anyone, she and her husband didn’t know anything about it.

      “We haven’t heard from her for weeks,” Sandy said, and Barbara could hear her crying. “She might … we said some things …”

      Barbara waited.

      “Paula’s been sorting out who she is,” Sandy said quietly. “If you know what I mean. It’s been hard for me and Ken to … to accept.”

      Barbara remembered Paula mentioning once, during her internship, about going to the Cubbyhole, a well-known lesbian bar, one weekend. She’d made no effort to hide her sexual identity, so Barbara had an

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