But then Sam started to think what his father’s money could afford him—a simpler life, a little bit of luxury. He’d been ready for a change after nearly a decade working in the children’s psych ward at Bellevue Hospital, teaching grad students and treating irrevocably damaged children. And suddenly he felt better about the whole thing. On their second date he told the story to Annie, who wisely suggested he wait until his mother signed power of attorney over to him before spending the money, but it was complicated. Sam couldn’t say no to the money, nor could he stand the idea of having it. So he spent it, compulsively, every purchase aimed to wipe that smirk off Ted Statler’s face. Once he got started, he couldn’t stop himself—and on the stupidest shit. A nearly $5,000 Eames executive chair made of polished die-cast aluminum and locking casters? Thanks, Dad! A Lexus 350 with leather interior and automatic ignition? Thanks, Dad! Living large on credit, all of it to be immediately paid off as soon as his mother signs the money over to him, which is literally any day now, according to Sally French, the director of Rushing Waters.
But that was three months ago, and his mother still hasn’t signed the documents. “We’re working on it, Sam,” Mrs. French keeps assuring him. （She’s also been telling him to call her Sally, but she was their next-door neighbor growing up and he finds it impossible to reimagine her as a peer.） Margaret has deteriorated more quickly than anyone expected and, as legally required, has to endure a series of tests to prove she’s signing the papers in sound mind. She keeps failing.
He’s trying not to worry. It will all be fine. She’ll pass the tests, and he’ll get power of attorney. The money will transfer into his account, and he’ll wipe away the pile of debt he’s accrued, dozens of bills he’s been hiding here in his desk drawer, keeping them from Annie. （No need to worry her. It’s all going to be fine!）
The doorbell rings, and he slips the bills back into the drawer. With a deep breath, he presses the button to unlock the door.
“Hello,” Sam says, greeting the patient standing by the couch. “Come on in, sit wherever you’d like.”
Chapter 6
“A typical female can lay between 500 and 600 eggs,” I read on the website, repulsed. “Brown and yellow, with a skull shape on its thorax, it’s known as the death’s-head hawkmoth.” I take a closer look at the illustration, wondering if these could be the annoying things that came out of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes, eating their way through the linens. “In many cultures, they are thought to be a bad omen, and—”
Someone’s outside. I peer out the window. It’s Sam, sitting on the bottom step of the porch, reading. By the time I open the front door to join him, he’s on his feet, the book tucked under his arm.
“Shoot,” I say. “Was about to join you for a cup of coffee. Am I too late?”
“Yeah, I have to get downstairs. Was trying to get in some reading.”
“What’s the book?” I ask.
He holds it up. “Misery, by Stephen King. It’s totally deranged.” He lowers his voice. “Speaking of deranged, back to work.”
I shoot him a playful look and watch him retreat down the path. Back inside, I click the dead bolt into place and head to the study. He’s right: back to work.
*
I know his routine by heart: He makes a cup of coffee in the waiting room.
Walks to his desk and flips on the radio, depressing himself with politics on Morning Edition while waiting for his first patient to arrive.
The bell rings, and he goes to the closet, where he keeps his blue Brooks Brothers sports jacket.
Jacket goes on, radio goes off, door opens.
“Good morning,” Sam says.
“Hi, Sam.” It’s Numb Nancy, right on time for her ten a.m. She’s the head of development at Meadow Hills, a private boarding school twenty-three miles north, recently lost her lust for life.
“Come in, have a seat where you’d like,” Sam says. He says this a lot. Allowing patients to choose where to sit is all part of the work （I’ve been reading up on therapy techniques in my spare time, and people in the biz would see this as diagnostic）。 Nancy takes a seat on the far side of the sofa, the farthest point from Sam’s chair （and directly under the vent）。 It’s the spot chosen by a majority of patients. Only the Pharmacist’s Wife chooses the opposite end.
Nancy unzips a bag. “Give me a minute to set up,” she says.
She has a health condition. Tarsal tunnel syndrome. It causes numbness in both heels and treatment includes rolling the soles of the feet along two hard, spiky balls at least three times a day. What better time to do this than the next forty-five minutes, which, if last week was any indication, Nancy will spend grousing to Sam about Angela, her seventeen-year-old daughter.