Page 5 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

“Like who?”

“A former client?”

Neither of us have considered that before, mostly because our clients are typical Bostonians these days. But we both worked in previous psychiatric wards and offices before we moved out here. You remember some of your clients, but there are some who only come in for a couple sessions and over the years… you forget the details.

Former client. Why didn’t I think of that before? I don’t have any clients that immediately come to mind, but Mallory and I both specialize in addiction therapy. We’ve had our fair share ofunwellpatients. But there are ways around that type of conflict of interest so you can pass off a client that scares the shit out of you on someone more suitable.

“I can’t think of anyone.”

But that doesn’t mean she’s wrong.

“It’s possible,” Mallory says. “People who come to us often have secrets.”

“I don’t remember getting stalker energy from anyone.”

“We need a private investigator.”

“I don’t have the budget for that this month.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“Doyouhave money for that?” I mutter.

Mallory, like many white women in New England, appears to have a mysterious source of emergency income for traveling and luxuries like private investigators.

“I have a PI on retainer because of my dating history. I’ll call him,” she says, leaving zero room for argument this time.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll send you the new unknown number.”

“Perfect. Don’t leave for work tomorrow without me,” Mallory says. “I’ll walk you there so you don’t get kidnapped.”

“Thanks, Mallory. Very comforting.”

“Enjoy your forbidden ramen.”

* * *

Two

Ethan

A few weeks later, in Boston…

“Iremember when I used to call you my little bear. Now you’re a very very big bear.”

“Mom… I’m a grown ass man. I don’t need you reminding me that you used to call me little bear.”

I need a break from the bullshit we both went through today. I got mom set up with her new oncologist but hearing all those big science words just made it all too real. Mom is sick and I can’t look at her without facing that reality.

I can’t let it break me and I can’t show her how fucking scared I am.

“Will you call me when you get to the bar?”

“No. Because again, I’m a grown ass man.”

“Well, you’re still my little boy. I remember changing your diapers. Vividly.”

“This is why I need to be at the bar.”

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