The Secret Keeper

2

2

Carrie and I agreed to meet at the exclusive Broadmoor Country Club near the Madison Park area at eight pm. Although I’ve been a guest there a couple of times, I wasn’t a Country Club kind of guy. I was social, but not particularly outgoing. My impression was that the majority of the members belonged for the purpose of networking, making associations to benefit their careers. While there was nothing wrong with that, and it would behoove me to get my face out in the public for referrals, I found the connections too plastic and insincere. I’d prefer to have a handful of good friends, rather than hundreds of acquaintances. My referrals came from a number of physicians in the area and satisfied customers who told others.

I went home after work to wash up and change into a fresh white shirt. I wore the same blue suit and red-striped tie. After pouring myself a scotch on the rocks, I turned on the TV to kill time. Restless and bored, I jumped into my car, left early and took a circuitous route, reflecting on the events of the day. Except for Francois, nothing about my other patients stood out as unusual. Movement with most of them was minimal, but all in all, productive. I still couldn’t fathom how I had been conned into keeping Francois’ formula for his security system. Hiding and securing documents wasn’t part of my job description. I empathized with Francois, and wanting to help, responded to his need. For a few minutes I got carried away with the cloak and dagger mystery of it all before concluding that while he was paranoid, I felt Francois was grossly overreacting. I suspected nothing would come of this and Francois would someday ask for the formula long after I had forgotten I had it. I was more concerned with his health, and toyed with calling Dr. Tomi Suzuki to get an up-to-date reading on Francois’ brain tumor. But I would need to get Francois’ consent.

Traffic seemed to be slowing. Then I saw the flashing lights. It looked like there had been an accident ahead. Too impatient to wait for it to clear and thinking it could delay my arrival, I made a sharp right turn and took an alternate road. One, actually, more direct. Carrie was a dear, dear friend and I felt the anger surge. What kind of jerk could break off a relationship on someone’s birthday? Carrie and Colby had been on and off so often I labeled their relationship bipolar. I’d met Colby on a number of occasions and found him to be likeable, and full of fun with a good sense of humor. In public he always seemed to treat Carrie with kindness and respect. He was different in private, Carrie would tell me. He was moody, jealous of her relationship with me, and uncomfortable with closeness. He was divorced for more than two years but was still suffering from the sting and, I believe, had intimacy issues originating from before the divorce. The best that I could hope for was that Carrie could get beyond this, and finally accept that the relationship was over and move on with her life.

The Country Club lights served as a beacon illuminating the winding road surrounded by a championship golf course. I slipped Carrie’s gift into my jacket pocket as I motored into the asphalt parking lot and pulled into a wide space so my Porsche wouldn’t get dinged. I flipped up my suit collar, shoved my hands into my pockets, and began my trek to the club. It was the start of fall. Football season had just begun and the weather was chilly and damp. A family of four exited a car and scurried ahead, the little girl exclaiming loudly she was getting a Shirley Temple cocktail. Through the dining room window I saw wait staff drifting in between tables and heard the soothing, muted tinkling sounds of a piano.

Inside, I quickly glanced once around for Carrie. I didn’t expect to see her since I was early, and she was usually late. I took a dark, leather seat at the edge of the low-lit Tudor designed lounge with its dark, ceiling beams and wainscoting to wait for her. A couple of golfers still lingered at the bar beneath the televisions tuned to Mariner baseball and high school football. I declined a drink offer from a friendly cocktail waitress, chose to wait for Carrie. In addition to the bartender, there was another man who sat a short distance away, engrossed in his smart phone. When my eyes adjusted to the low light, I took him to be in his early to mid-fifties, sporting a white-stubble, unshaven contemporary look. I speculated that he was probably checking out the closing prices of his stocks. Distinguished in a tailored, camel cashmere, sport jacket and a white shirt sans tie, he caught me looking at him and gave me a wave and a “Hi”, then returned to his electronic device.

A short time later a young girl stood under the lights at the edge of the bar apparently looking for somebody. She wore a sleeveless red dress, cut six inches above her knees; it was thin, clinging, almost diaphanous and clearly displayed her black bra and black bikini panties underneath. Her make-up was garish with bright, red lips, and heavy eyeliner. Not finding what she was looking for, she strutted off clicking her heels.

“A little much, wouldn’t you say?” the man said, turning toward me.

“Definitely.”

“Would you say she was only thirteen or fourteen?”

“Hard to tell the way she dressed, but I think you pegged it about right.”

“Jesus! These young girls nowadays dress like hookers. Then they wonder about date rape.”

“They don’t leave much to the imagination.”

“They throw it in your face.” He got up from his chair and sat down on one beside me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away. It’s just that I have a twenty-three year old daughter, Brie and I’m actually waiting for her. She’s beyond the stage of that girl, and she never was that… in your face…but it was a b***h raising her. How do you protect them without coming across as an ogre? The rules are so different nowadays.”

“It’s not easy.” It wasn’t easy doing therapy either with families where an adolescent girl was brazenly defiant.

“You have a daughter?”

“No,” I almost said I had a son, but I didn’t want to get into that conversation.

He held out his hand. “Scott Parsons.”

“Grant Garrick”

We shook.

“What do you do, Grant?”

“I’m a psychiatrist.”

The waitress sashayed up to Scott with another drink. “Can I buy you one?”

“Thanks, no. My friend will be here momentarily.”

He signed the check. She disappeared. “If I knew you better, I’d ask you how to get my daughter to break up with the guy she’s seeing. He’s not right for her.”

I smiled. I wasn’t going to volunteer.

“I’m a VP with the Cable Companies. We’re a telecommunication giant. Into cables, microwave relay towers, optical switching stations, long-distance voice franchises, chunks of regional local loop, and satellites. Plus a few related odds and ends.”

“I’m very fond of our electronic world. I take it all for granted. Never give a second thought to how it all works.”

“Most people don’t unless you’re some kind of a nerd who salivates on the inner-workings of this invisible world. And I use nerd in the most respectful way as they keep the systems running. Security is a major problem. We depend on the white-hat hackers.”

I assumed he was talking about the good guys who rooted out the bugs and viruses. With the mention of security my interview with Francois Du Blois popped into my head, “Do you know Francois Du Blois?”

“Know of him. Frenchy’s a genius. On the leading edge of innovation. He’s to the security business what Steve Jobs was to Apple. You know him?”

I hesitated, unable to breach confidentiality by revealing my patients. “No. I just read a piece about him, something about a company power fight.”

Scott slugged his drink. “Yeah, I understand he’s getting the shaft…new board…They claim he’s too old, want him to quietly fade away.”

“You’d think we’d get beyond the age thing. The mind doesn’t suddenly evaporate. Some of our greatest inventors were in their eighties and nineties.”

“It’s not the age…just an excuse. I hear he can be a cantankerous old cuss, but it’s all about control. Oh, here comes my daughter.”

With lustrous, golden hair cascading below her shoulders, Brie was an attractive twenty-three, dressed in a fitted off-white, two-piece suit that showcased her curves. She strutted to the table, and touched Scott’s shoulder. “Sorry, traffic was a bear.” She turned and smiled warmly, her blue eyes displaying a little interest in me.

There was something electric in the way she looked at me with those sensuous blue eyes when Scott introduced us. Was it real or was I seeing what I wanted to see? It was only a moment before Scott said it was nice to meet me and they walked away. I watched her glide forward, her swan neck high, buttocks firm in her form-fitting skirt.

Carrie arrived soon after, checked her coat and found me in the lounge. She looked lovely, and wore the low cut gold dress that sparkled and showed just a tease of cleavage. Her hair hung in ringlets. She had to have pushed herself to get ready since she had anticipated an evening with Colby, instead of with me. The maitre d’ directed us to our table in the corner of the room in front of the expansive window with a moonlit view of the golf course, the immediate area illuminated by an outside halogen lamp. We sat beneath a shimmering chandelier at a table dressed with starched linen, crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and a white rose bouquet.

“You certainly know how to pack a punch. Did you notice the heads turn when you walked by?”

Carrie blushed, showing me a measure of sweet innocence. Although she knew how to maximize her beauty in the courtroom, she didn’t take it for granted.

“Does the occasion call for champagne?”

“No, it’s not that kind of party. I’ll just have a glass of wine.”

The waiter took our drink order.

“Do you want to tell me about Colby?”

“Some other time. That’s such a downer. Tonight let’s just enjoy each other.”

We did. We talked about the early years when I worked for her father, before either of us had gone on to grad school. She told me she was going to be an outstanding lawyer and work with her dad; I talked of med school and helping people through psychiatry. It wasn’t complicated. Yet, there was something energizing about sharing your plans with another who was totally supportive. Each of us had reached our individual career goals, and we had both become part of the other’s personal life journey. Where once we anticipated our futures; now we looked back nostalgically.

Carrie declined dessert after dinner and was emphatic I shouldn’t embarrass her by ordering her a birthday cake and having wait-staff sing to her at the table. We didn’t know if they did that in the sophisticated country club, and got silly making up our own versions of how they might pull it off. I suggested they could do a “Hail to the President”, march in wearing a tux, carrying flags and having an opera diva sing the birthday song. Carrie suggested a symphony. Then we both talked about the choreography, the costumes, etc. to no end. At one point we got so loud we had diners watching and shushing us. Childish? Extremely, but it effectively took Carrie out of the doldrums.

Brushing the tears from her eyes from laughing so much, Carrie reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Thanks for making this a good birthday.”

“Every birthday girl must get a present,” I said, reaching into my jacket pocket and handing her a narrow box that had been store wrapped.

She grabbed it, vigorously tore off the wrapping and opened the box. Her face flushed with astonishment as she eyed the necklace. “Oh my God, it’s beautiful! Exquisite!”

It was a ruby teardrop necklace on a gold chain. “I got it in Moscow. It’s a copy of a necklace worn by a Russian princess during the Romanov dynasty.”

Holding it in her hand and running her fingers over the stone, she asked, “When were you in Russia?”

“The summer before last when I went to the International Psychiatry Conference in Warsaw. A few of us extended our stay and took a side trip to Moscow.”

“Of course, now I remember. I’m overwhelmed, Grant. Is that why you wanted me to wear the gold dress?”

I nodded, grinning.

“You sly dog. Help me put it on.”

She rotated in her chair so I could reach and fasten it. “Stunning! It was made for you. You are a princess.”

Carrie glowed, radiating feel good vibes. I couldn’t help but think that Colby was such a fool. How could he not possibly see that Carrie was a rare treasure to behold?

“You still feel like partying?” I asked.

“No, let’s end this on a high note.”

At the exit, as we were about to leave, we hugged. Carrie kissed me and said, “You can spend the night and make this one of my best birthdays ever.”

I was severely tempted. Carrie was not only physically alluring but when you emotionally and intellectually mesh so well with another an intangible, almost a spiritual layer is added to the physical pleasure. “What? And ruin a beautiful friendship?”

As I drove away I knew turning down s*x with Carrie was the right decision and that she would eventually see it that way as well. During the more than fifteen years we have been friends we intermittently considered sleeping with one another. I don’t doubt that s*x would be extremely fulfilling because of the bond between us but I fear, and Carrie agrees that s*x would alter our relationship. I think that s*x between people who have a strong emotional bond brings with it a kind of possessiveness that isn’t there without the s*x. Perhaps it has something to do with the merging of two as one. It’s a melding together, a blurring of boundaries, of identities. You are me; I am you. There’s a misperception of ownership in the sense that since I am you I own you, and therefore curtail your s****l freedom. Casual s*x doesn’t operate in the same way because it doesn’t have that emotional bond or commitment. Maybe when humans evolve further, the need for s****l possessiveness will result in something else such as the past Victorian attitudes adjusted to those of present day. As a therapist who deals with matters of sexuality on a regular basis, I think of science fiction writer Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, in which people think nothing unusual of having s*x with another if they are sexually attracted. Science fiction often precedes reality. Did Heinlein foretell the future? Only time will tell.

So much for intellectual discourse. Emotionally, I was horny. Carrie had turned me on and it had been a while since I had had s*x. The evening was still early. I decided to drive by Hanna’s house, see if she was still up. Funny that I would call it Hanna’s house since she got the house in the divorce settlement. Still, until recently, I had always referred to it as our house. Did that mean I had finally accepted the reality of the divorce? I may have gotten the house out of my system, but I hadn’t got Hanna out of my system.

As I drove up the hill, winding through the affluent subdivision, I recalled the pride of achievement, being able to live in such a lush setting of elegant homes and spacious manicured lots. Some of the homes, like mine, were on the inlet cove with views of the Puget Sound. It didn’t take long for me to make the transition from the thrill of appreciation for what I had achieved through my hard work and dogged determination to that righteous feeling of entitlement. Maybe that was a purpose of tragedies, covert or otherwise, to knock you off your high-horse and remind you of your humanity and humble beginnings.

I passed by the Sorensons, party animal neighbors, who appeared to be hosting some kind of shindig, as their manse was lit up like a lighthouse and their yard resembled a car lot. I liked Phil and Kay and enjoyed their parties. They were people-people and had a knack for putting guests at ease. It occurred to me suddenly that Hanna could be there.

Her house lights were on. I pulled into the drive. The wind had picked up, brushing a branch from a tree I planted too close to the house across a drainpipe, making that screeching chalkboard sound that sent a shiver down my spine. I’d need to trim the branch. I rang the doorbell. Hanna came to the door barefoot, wearing a loose, teal Mariners jersey and white short-shorts. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pressed to the left side of her make-up free face as if she’d been laying on it. She gave me a vacant stare. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

Hanna and I maintained a friendly relationship. She yawned, opened the door. “Just coming from work?”

“No,” I said, closing the door behind me. “Was with Carrie for dinner. Her birthday. Colby dumped her.”

“Poor thing.” She drifted to the bar. “Scotch?”

I lingered on the curves of her legs. She was a beautiful and exciting woman. I had pictured men breaking down the doors to see her after the divorce, but if they did she wasn’t interested. She remained available. “Yeah. She’s better off without him. Guy’s got commitment issues.”

“I don’t know if I should renew the house insurance or go with the company Jill recommends,” Hanna said, returning with the drinks.

“You got info from Jill?”

“Yeah.”

“Give it to me before I leave. I’ll look it over.” I scanned the living room, the buttery yellow walls, the light and comfortable-looking furniture, everything top quality, but never ostentatious. Hanna had a natural decorating knack, an extension of her inner self, a need to seek out and surround herself with beauty and harmony.

We sat together on the oatmeal-colored couch. “You’re looking good, Hanna.” She smiled, batting her eyes, deep, brown pools I used to drown in, but now dark bags sagged beneath them. Her complexion looked jaundiced; her face drawn. Historically slender, she had lost so much weight that her clothes drooped on her bony shoulders. She looked like a person in the end stages of a terminal illness, but it was all emotional, a result of the tragedy. I was concerned because I knew the physical could follow as sure as night follows day.

“I know what I look like, Grant. You don’t have to sweet talk me.” She sighed, sipped her wine.

“You’re still beautiful to me. You doing okay?”

She pushed back the tears, forced a smile. “No, not really. I have my good days. They’re few and far between. I don’t understand it, Grant. Kevin had so much going for him. Where were the signs? Even now as I look back, I don’t see any. I mean, things didn’t always go his way. They don’t for anybody. But I thought he was stronger.” She began to silently sob.

I slid over, held her. I hadn’t picked up on the depth of Kevin’s depression either. To me he seemed like a normal teenager with his ups and downs. But I was a specialist, a therapist with an MD degree trained to deal with abnormalities. Hanna thought I should have recognized the symptoms and found some way to prevent what happened to our son. She blamed me for his death. It was her condemnation that led to our divorce. And despite all my angry, loud denials, I also blamed myself. How could I have not seen it coming?

“I need your strength, Grant. For you to tell me I’m all right.”

Neither of us were all right. We were fighting to restore a semblance of balance, a stability to our lives after losing the core of what anchored us to each other. It was like learning to walk with prosthetics after your legs had been amputated. Hanna needed encouragement. “You’re more than all right. Kevin’s suicide was just one of those tragic events that occurs without warning. No one is at fault. Whenever I think I have my finger on the pulse of human behavior, something always happens to humble me.”

“Don’t talk. Just hold me.”

I did. I felt her tears wet my cheeks as we absorbed the raw emanating tenderness energizing our bodies.

“Make love to me,” she whispered.

We were in bed before we finished our drinks.

I awoke to the smell of bacon sizzling. When I came to the kitchen Hanna stood in front of the cooktop, dressed in yesterday’s clothes. I sidled up, kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

She hummed a smile. “We’re still good in bed together. We haven’t lost that.” She took the bacon out of the pan, blotted it with a paper towel.

I noticed she had set the kitchen table. “Can we eat in the sunroom?”

“If you like.” She dished out the scrambled eggs, fixed the plates.

We carried everything into the window-filled sunroom with the water view at the back of the house that overlooked the lushly landscaped yard, planted with several varieties of Japanese Maples that were just beginning to turn to glittering shades of red and gold. I used to love eating there watching the seasons change, checking out the many varieties of birds that Hanna beckoned with her many feeders. “Something’s different,” I said.

“I thought shrinks were supposed to be observers,” Hanna said.

“Of human nature, not sunrooms….Oh, you’ve painted…” The white walls had turned to mauve. “How come?”

“I had to do something.” A deep sadness took over. “I had dreams…nightmares of Kevin. I dreamed I couldn’t sleep so I got up and went into the sunroom to retrieve a magazine I’d been reading. I shrieked when I entered the room, startled to see Kevin wrapped in a gray blanket, sitting on that chair.” She pointed to the green winged-back chair in the corner. “He was sitting on his legs and was completely covered up except for his face.” She began to tear up, her face twisted in anguish. “He had the most awful…sorrowful expression. Pure agony. I ran to him. I said…pleaded with him…why, Kevin, why did you jump off that bridge?” She began to sob.

I padded over, wrapped her in my arms.

“I thought maybe he’d tell me why he killed himself, but he ignored me like I wasn’t there. He just stayed in that same position with those tortuous eyes.”

Neither one of us had anticipated our fifteen year old son’s suicide. Few parents would. But we never even knew the depths of his depression. We thought his downs were ephemeral and typical of adolescent mood swings that he’d outgrow. We were so wrong. Hanna had been able to manage some compartmentalizing, but deep down she still blamed me.

“We may never know why, Hanna.”

Time heals slowly. As the distance from Kevin’s suicide increased, we still have those deep moments like Hanna experienced.