“Some of my patients are.”

“So why does everyone have to suffer because of a few? That’s not democracy.”

“It’s consideration,” I said.

“Fine.” She jammed the pack back into the purse. “How much time left now?”

CHAPTER 2

THE SECOND TIME she was twenty minutes late, hurried into the office muttering what might have been an apology.

Same getup, different color scheme: black tank top, sunburn pink shorts, lips coarsened by bright red paste.

Same precarious sandals and cheap little purse. She reeked of tobacco and a rose-heavy perfume. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was mussed.

She took a long time settling in the chair, finally said, “Got hung up.”

“You and your friends?”

“Yeah.” Hair flip. “Sorry.”

“Hung up where?”

“Around… the pier.”

“Santa Monica?” I said.

“We like the beach.” She massaged one bare, bronze shoulder.

“Nice sunny day,” I said, smiling. “Classes must have let out early.”

Sudden, bright laughter tumbled from between the crimson lips. “Right.”

“School’s a drag, huh?”

“School would have to be on uppers to be a drag.” She produced the cigarette pack, bounced it on a shiny knee. “When I was little they tested my IQ. I’m supposed to be supersmart. They say I should be studying more. I say I’m smart enough to know it’s a waste of time.”

“No interest in any subject?” I said.

“Nutrition – love that garlic bread. Is today when we talk about sex?”

That caught me off guard. “I don’t recall our scheduling that.”

“They scheduled it. I’ve been instructed to talk to you about it.”

“By your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It’s mostly Lyle’s idea. He’s positive I’m doing the dirty, gonna get pregnant, stick him with a ‘little nigger grandkid.’ Like if I was, talking to you about it would help. Like just because I don’t talk to them, I’m going to throw up my insides to some outsider.”

“Sometimes talking to an outsider can be safer.”

“Maybe for some people,” she said. “But explain me this: When you’re young everyone’s always knocking into your head never talk to strangers, beware of strangers, watch out for strangers. So now they’re paying for me to tell my secrets to a stranger?”

She ran a fingernail under the seal of the pack, slit it open, played with the foil flap. “What bullshit.”

“Maybe they’re hoping eventually you won’t consider me a stranger.”

“They can hope all they want.” Low, tight laugh. “Hey, I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just coming out that way – Sorry, you seem like a nice guy. It’s just that I shouldn’t have to be here, okay? Face it: They’re just using you to punish me – like grounding me or threatening not to let me get my license next year. None of that worked, and this won’t either. You have to care to be controlled, and I don’t do caring.”

“What are they punishing you for, Lauren?”

“They say it’s my attitude,” she said, “but you know what I think? I think they’re jealous.”

“Of what?”

“My happiness.”

“You’re happy and they’re not.”

“They’re making themselves out to be all… in control. Especially him.” She lowered her voice to a hostile baritone parody: “‘Lauren, you’re screwing up your life. This therapy crap is goddamn expensive. I want you to go in there and spill your guts.’”

Last week she’d talked about spitting out secrets. The emetic approach to insight.

“So,” I said, “your parents aren’t happy, they’re taking it out on you, and I’m the weapon.”

“They’re stuck where they are and I’m cool, free, enjoying my life, and that bugs them. Soon as I get my own money, I’m out of there, bye-bye, Lyle and Jane.”

“Do you have a plan to get money?”

She shrugged. “I’ll figure something out – I’m not talking right now. I’m not impractical, I know even McDonald’s won’t hire me without their permission. But someday.”

“Did you try to work at McDonald’s?”

Nod. “I wanted my own money. But they said no. ‘No outside work until your grades come up.’ Which they won’t, so forget that.”

“Why won’t your grades come up?” I said.

“’Cause I don’t want them to.”

“So it’s a few more years of this.”

Her eyes shifted. “I’ll figure something out – Listen, forget sex. I don’t want to talk to you about it. Or anything else. No offense, but I just don’t want to spill my guts.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, great.” She shot to her feet. “See you next week.”

Ten minutes to go. I said, “No way you can stick it out?”

“Are you going to tell them I split early?”

“No, but-”

“Thanks,” she said. “No, I really can’t stick it out, this is hurting my head – Tell you what, next week I’ll come on time and stay the whole time, okay? Promise.”

“It’s only ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes too long.”

“Give it a chance, Lauren. We don’t have to talk about your problems.”

“What, then?”

“Tell me about your interests.”

“I’m interested in the beach,” she said. “Okay? I’m interested in freedom – which is exactly what I need right now. Next week I’ll be good – I mean it.”

Next week. Conning me or did she really intend to return?

“I’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Sure,” I said. “Take care.”

Big smile. Hair flip. “You’re a doll.” Swinging the purse like a slingshot, she hurried out. I caught up with her in the waiting room, just as she whipped out her lighter.

Jamming the cigarette in her mouth, she shoved at the door. I watched her trot down the hall, a girl in a hurry, haloed by a cloud of smoke.

I thought about her a few times – the image of self-destructive escape. Then that faded too.

Six years later I was invited to a bachelor party the weekend before Halloween.

A forty-five-year-old radiation oncologist at Western Pediatrics was getting married to an O.R. nurse, and a consortium of hospital physicians and administrators had rented the presidential suite of the Beverly Monarch Hotel for the send-off.

Steaks, ribs, buffalo wings, assorted fried and grilled stuff on the buffet. Iced tubs of beer, serve-yourself bar, Cuban cigars, gooey desserts. My contact with the honoree – a mumbling loner lacking in social skills – had been a few stiff, unproductive discussions about patient care, and I wondered why I’d been included in the festivities. Perhaps every face helped.

There was no shortage of faces when I arrived late. The suite was vast, a string of mood-lit, black-carpeted rooms packed with sweaty men. Penthouse level – no doubt a great view – but the drapes were drawn and the air felt heavy. Suit jackets and neckties were heaped on a sofa near the door under a hand-lettered sign that said, GET CASUAL! I made my way through testosterone guffaws, random backslapping, blue cigar fog, the strained glee of boozy toasts.

A crowd swarmed the food. I finally got close enough to redeem a skewer of teriyaki beef and a Grolsch. Belched cheers and scattered applause from the next room drew me to a larger throng. I drifted over, found scores of eyes trained forward on the hundred-inch projection TV the hotel provided for presidents.

Skin flicks flashing larger than life. Bodies squishing and squirming and slapping in time to an asthmatic sax score. The men around me gaped and pretended to be casual. I wandered away, got more food, stood to the side, chewing and wondering what the hell I was doing there, why I just didn’t wipe my mouth and leave.

A pathologist I knew sauntered by with a whiskey in his hand.

“Hey,” he said, eyeing the screen. “Aren’t you the guy who’s supposed to explain why we do this?”