“I won’t let anyone take you away.” My voice is rougher than I intended.
“I know that,” she says through clenched teeth. “But I can’t make myselfbelieveit.”
“Okay.” It’s on me, then. I hop out and cross behind the car to open her door. She glares at me. I hold out my hand.
“That’s the burnt one,” she grumbles.
I offer the other. She takes it begrudgingly.
“Good girl,” I murmur. She snorts.
She’s not as taken with me as she used to be. Part of me misses being on that pedestal, but mostly, it’s a relief. The more real she is with me, the more solid the ground feels under my feet.
I lead her up the steep limestone steps and ring the bell. We’re greeted almost immediately by a receptionist, a thin man with wire glasses. I don’t catch his name.
“Mrs. Maddox, if you’d follow me. Mr. Maddox, you are welcome to have a seat here. You’ll find coffee and tea on the credenza.” The man gestures to an alcove off the entrance hall, probably the original cloakroom, converted to awaiting area with two overstuffed chairs and an accent table stacked high withNational Geographics.
“All right?” I say to Cora.
She stares at me, obviously petrified, her damp hand crushing my fingers together.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” I say softly.
She blinks, and her grip tightens.
“It’ll be fine,” I whisper.
“I don’t trust you,” she whispers back.
I try to gently withdraw my hand. She digs her nails in.
“Cora, we agreed to do this.”
“Who the fuck iswe?” she whispers even quieter.
I give her the severe look that generally sends people scurrying.
Her eyes grow rounder, and her chin wobbles.
Instantly, my spine crumbles. Shit. Guesswe’regoing to therapy.
“Lead the way,” I tell the man.
To his credit, he doesn’t question the change of plans. He ushers us both into a pleasant, book-lined office with views of a rear courtyard. The bare trees are decorated with vintage-style hanging ornaments in red, blue, green, and gold. Inside, white poinsettias sit on a side table and on the window ledges. Everything is very tasteful and cozy.
Cora lowers herself to the edge of the leather sofa like her joints are rusted. I sit a little too close so our thighs touch.
I find her anxiety deeply disquieting. My instincts look for the thing I need to fight, but there’s nothing but Rothko and Frankenthaler prints and a wicker wastebasket. I can’t get comfortable in my seat. We must look like we’re about to bolt, which might be part of why Dr. Hoffman does a doubletake when she walks in and sees us both.
She recovers quickly. “You must be the Maddoxes.” She offers Cora her hand.
Cora blinks at it like it’s a rattlesnake. I reach into the breach and give the doctor a hearty shake with my left.
“I see you’re playing injured,” she says, nodding at my bandaged right hand.
“Not enough to bench me,” I say, returning the doctor’s friendly smile. The burn turned out to be second-degree, but it’s healing well.
Dr. Hoffman folds herself into the Eames chair across from the sofa and crosses her long, boney-kneed legs. She looks exactly like you’d imagine a Manhattan shrink would look. Gray hair in a tight bun. Houndstooth slacks, blouse, and pearls. Expensive watch and sensible shoes.
