Page 56 of The New Couple in 5B

That’s Dr. Black’s big thing, that we’re either operating from love or from fear. It seemed overly simplistic at first—people act out of all sorts of motives. But the older I get, the more I think it’s true. Unless you’re a sociopath like my father. And then you’re just operating from your own sick agenda, unconcerned with anything but your own delusions and desires.

I tell Dr. Black about my call with Sarah, the things she said.

“Remember that your sister is still in your father’s thrall. That he’s pulling her strings, coloring her reality. She hasn’t broken free the way you have.”

I’m not free.I’m surprised at how fast the thought comes up.I’m running. They’re always at my heels, psychologically speaking.

I look down at my fingers. I keep them carefully manicured, this time in a simple white-and-pink French. If I don’t, when things get rough, I chew them ragged.

“She said there was a monster in a castle, drinking my blood.”

Dr. Black offers a patient smile. He takes a sip from his water glass.

“She saw thatin her dreams, which are no more prophetic than yours or mine. Even allegorically, it’s not representational.”

My phone is buzzing in my bag, but I ignore it. I’m sure I turned it off before coming in here.

“You are a strong woman with a successful career and a good marriage. You have escaped a traumatic past and are building a good life for yourself.”

I breathe and close my eyes, let his words sink in.

“You’ve just received an exceptional inheritance and a new book deal. These are all good things. They arenotdiminished by darkness or evil, despite the terrible toll mental illness took on Chad’s cousin.”

It’s hard not to see it that way, that every light thing has its dark counterpart.

“Even if the Windermere has a dark history,” Dr. Black goes on, “that means very little in this city. Bad things happen everywhere, all the time. That’s life, unfortunately. But remember, good things happen everywhere, all the time, too. And you won’t bepunishedfor enjoying them.”

He’s right; I carry that fear that good things will be followed by bad, that enjoyment of life, success, unexpected joys is a way to make yourself vulnerable to the evil eye, the destroyer, the force that wants to crush and ruin everything golden.

It reminds me of the pendants.

“Chad was wearing a strange necklace,” I tell Dr. Black. I describe it, say that it was a gift from Ella and Charles. I tell him that Dana was wearing the same necklace.

“He said that Ella had a drawer full of them, that she often gives them as gifts, even has one for me,” I finish.

“So they knew Dana, right?” he asks.

“Maybe? I’m not sure we’ve discussed it.”

He folds his hands together. “Anyway, it’s a common enough symbol.”

After a moment, he stands up, walks over to his bookshelf. When he returns, he has a bronze hand figurine in his palm. In its center a blue eye. He offers it and I take it. It’s cold and heavy in my grasp.

“The eye is soapstone, obsidian and blue topaz. My wife picked it up at a market in Greece. Many cultures have this belief that success, good fortune, draws bad energy—jealously, malevolence. That those things can hurt us. These types of talismans—like the things your grandmother sends you—ease our anxiety over things we can’t control.”

“Superstition.”

“The world can be a scary place, right? If something helps us to manage our anxiety, I support that.”

“Well, it didn’t help Dana.” The words sound harsh, dark, and I wish I hadn’t uttered them but there they are, floating on the air.

Dr. Black takes his seat, draws and releases a breath. I put the hand down on the low coffee table between us; it glints in the light coming in from the tall windows.

“Ultimately, it’s our choices and not just the outside forces working with or against us that determine ourfateordestiny. That’s what I believe anyway. Dana chose to end her life. It’s not as simple as that, of course, because depression, mental illness, can be a trickster, making us think we don’t have choices when we do.”

But what if she didn’t choose? I think but don’t say. I know our hour is almost up and I don’t want to go down that road with him. Tell him that I’m wondering if someone wanted Dana dead; didn’t want her telling me whatever it was she had to say; didn’t want her to have that box with its letter from Ivan. Because, even to me, it all sounds a little far-fetched. And I am very invested in seeming—being—sane and stable.

“Keep it,” he says, nodding toward the icon.

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