“Stephanie Banack,” the voice said instead of hello.
Jess was nonplussed. “I’m sorry. Is this a recording?”
Stephanie Banack laughed. “No, it’s the real thing, I’m afraid. How can I help you?”
“It’s Jess Koster,” Jess said. “Maureen’s sister.”
There was a second’s silence. Then, “How are you, Jess? Is everything all right?”
“Maureen’s fine, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s me,” she continued quickly, afraid that if she slowed down, she’d stop altogether. “I was wondering if you might have some time to see me … soon.”
“I’ll make time,” the therapist said. “How about noon tomorrow?”
Jess hesitated, stammered. She hadn’t been expecting such immediate action.
“Come on, Jess. I don’t give up my lunch hour for just anybody.”
Jess nodded into the phone. “Twelve o’clock,” she agreed. “I’ll be there.”
S
tephanie Banack’s office was located on Michigan Avenue in the core of the downtown shopping district. “She’s obviously doing very well for herself,” Jess whispered into her coat collar as she waited for an elevator to take her to the fourteenth floor. She hadn’t seen Stephanie Banack in years, hadn’t felt the slightest desire to see her, had never understood her sister’s abiding friendship with the woman. But then there was much about Maureen that Jess didn’t understand. Especially these days. But that was another matter. Something that had nothing to do with why she was here.
Why
was
she here?
Jess looked around the mirror-lined, black-and-white marble lobby, trying to come up with a suitable response. Immediately, she concluded there was none. She had no good reason to be here. She was wasting valuable time and energy on something that required neither. She checked her watch, noted that it was five minutes to twelve, that she still
had time to call upstairs and cancel her appointment without seriously inconveniencing her sister’s friend. The woman had said she was giving up her lunch hour to accommodate Jess. Now she wouldn’t have to. She wouldn’t be inconveniencing her at all; she’d be doing her a favor.
Jess was searching the mirrored walls for a phone when the elevator closest to her opened. It stood there empty and waiting. Well, it seemed to be saying, what are you going to do? There’s no phone and I won’t wait forever. Shit or get off the pot, it hummed impatiently. What are you going to do?
“I guess I’m coming with you,” Jess answered, glad there was no one in the lobby to overhear her. “I’m talking to elevators, and I have to ask what I’m doing here?” She stepped inside, the elevator doors closing behind her.
The interior of the elevator was lined on three sides with mirrors the same as the lobby, and Jess discovered that no matter how she turned her head it was almost impossible to avoid her own reflection. Was this a deliberate ploy on the part of the therapists who occupied much of the building? Were they subtly forcing their reluctant patients to confront themselves? “Give me a break,” Jess said out loud, refusing to be intimidated by her own image, staring past her worry-filled eyes, and securing her hair behind her ears.
The elevator doors opened on the fourteenth floor. Jess stayed pressed against the rear wall, feeling the elevator vibrate against her back, nudging her gently forward. First you won’t come in; now you won’t leave, it seemed to say. Jess defiantly pushed herself out into the hall, biting down hard on her tongue to keep from saying good-bye. “You have now crossed the boundary from relative neurotic to
total fruitcake,” she said, walking across the soft blue-and-gray carpeting to the appropriate door at the far end of the corridor.
STEPHANIE BANACK
, the embossed gold lettering proclaimed across the dark oak, followed by an impressive number of degrees.
Too impressive, Jess thought, recalling the awkward teenager who’d often seemed glued to her sister’s side, unable to imagine her as a woman capable of amassing so many initials after her name: B.A., M.S.W., Ph.D. Obviously, the woman suffers from low self-esteem, Jess decided. All those expensive degrees to bolster her confidence when a nose job was probably all she really needed.
Jess was reaching for the doorknob when the door opened, and a young woman with a blond ponytail and deep purple eye shadow emerged. She smiled, the kind of loopy grin that went in all directions at once. “Are you Jess Koster?” she asked.
Jess took a step back, silently debating whether or not to take ownership of her identity. She nodded without speaking.
“I’m Dr. Banack’s receptionist. Dr. Banack is expecting you. You can go right in.”
She held the door open for Jess to enter, and Jess gamely stepped inside the office, holding her breath. All she had to do was wait a few seconds until she was sure the receptionist had gone, then she could leave. She’d find a pay phone somewhere on the street, call Stephanie Banack, B.A., M.S.W., Ph.D., and tell her there was no need for a consultation after all. She didn’t need anyone to tell her she was nuts; she’d figured it out all by herself. No need to waste Stephanie Banack’s time. No need for her to go hungry.
The reception area was pleasant enough, Jess observed, listening for the sound of an elevator door opening and
closing down the hall. The walls and carpet were a soft shade of gray, the two tub chairs against one wall a pleasing mint-green and gray stripe. There was a glass coffee table stacked with the latest in news and fashion magazines. The receptionist’s desk was a light oak; the computer resting on it top-of-the-line. Several Calder and Miró posters hung on the walls, as well as a mirror next to a small closet. A large benjamin plant filled one corner. All in all, very warm and inviting. Even reassuring. You make a very good first impression, dear, she acknowledged silently, hearing the woman juror from the Erica Barnowski case whisper in her ear.
“I have to get out of here,” Jess told herself.
“Jess, is that you?” The voice coming from the inner office was clear, friendly, in command.
Jess said nothing, her eyes glued to the half-open door.
“Jess?”
Jess heard movement, felt Stephanie Banack’s presence in the doorway even before she appeared.
“Jess?” Stephanie Banack asked tentatively, forcing Jess’s eyes to her own.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” Jess exclaimed, the words out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider them.
Stephanie Banack laughed, a rich sound full of solid mental health, Jess thought, reaching forward to shake Stephanie Banack’s outstretched hand.
“I guess you haven’t seen me since I had my nose done.”
“You had your nose done?” Jess asked, striving for sincerity.
“And my hair lightened. Here, let me have your coat.”
Jess allowed Stephanie Banack to help her off with her coat and hang it in the closet. She felt suddenly naked, despite the heavy wool of her black skirt and sweater.
The therapist motioned toward the inner office with a sweep of her hand. “Let’s go inside.”
The soft grays and greens of the reception area continued into the inner office, as did posters and plants. A large oak desk, its top covered with numerous framed photographs of three grinning boys, sat against one wall, a paisley swivel chair in front of it. Light from the window cast an almost eerie glow on the series of framed degrees that hung on the opposite wall. But the room was dominated by the large gray leather recliner that sat at its center.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you,” Stephanie Banack said. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine.”
“Still with the state’s attorney’s office?”
“Yes.”
“You’re happy there?”
“Very.”
“You’re not on the witness stand, Jess. You don’t have to confine your answers to one word.” Stephanie Banack patted the high back of the gray leather chair as she walked toward her desk and sat down, immediately swiveling her chair in Jess’s direction. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
Jess stubbornly remained standing, noting the proud thrust of Stephanie Banack’s shoulders, her effortlessly perfect posture, the warmth and directness of her smile. Surely Jess was in the wrong office. Or maybe she was in the right office but with the wrong therapist. The Stephanie Banack Jess had been expecting to see was stoop-shouldered and grim. She wore ill-fitting hand-me-downs, not sleek Armani pantsuits and stylish Maud Frizon shoes. This woman must be a
different
Stephanie Banack. It was
not altogether outside the realm of possibility that there were two therapists named Stephanie Banack practicing in downtown Chicago. Maybe they were
both
good friends of her sister. Or maybe this woman was an imposter, a patient who had murdered the real Stephanie Banack and assumed her identity. Maybe Jess should get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
Or maybe she should just check herself into the nearest psychiatric hospital. She was obviously certifiable, a definite wacko. Where were these crazy ideas coming from? “This was probably a mistake,” she heard herself say, disassociating herself from even the sound of her own voice.
“What was?”
“My coming here.”
“What makes you say that?”
Jess shook her head, said nothing.
“Jess, you’re already here. Why don’t you sit down? You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
Jess nodded, didn’t move.
“When you phoned last night,” the therapist ventured, “you sounded very distraught.”
“I was overreacting.”
“To what?”
Jess shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“You never struck me as the type who overreacts.”
“Maybe I never used to.”
“Maybe you aren’t now.”
Jess took a few tentative steps forward, touched the soft leather of the high-backed reclining chair. “Have you spoken to Maureen?”
“I usually speak to her every week or so.”
Jess hesitated. “I guess what I really meant to ask was, has she spoken to you?”
The therapist cocked her head. Jess was reminded immediately of a friendly cocker spaniel. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“About me,” Jess stated. “Has she said anything to you about me?”
“She mentioned some weeks back that you might call,” Stephanie Banack said simply. “That you were having some problems.”
“Did she say what they were?”
“I don’t think she knows.”
Jess came around to the front of the large recliner, slowly lowering herself into it, pushing against the back of the chair, feeling it surround her, like a cupped hand. The chair moved with her, a foot-rest miraculously rising as the chair reclined. Jess lifted her feet, rested them on the much needed support. “This chair’s great.”
Stephanie Banack nodded.
“So, tell me, what do you think of my sister these days?” Jess asked, deciding that since she was already sitting down, she might as well be friendly, make small talk. Play nice, as her mother used to say.
“I think she’s wonderful. Motherhood suits her.”
“You think so?”
“You don’t?”
“I think it’s a bit of a waste.” Jess looked toward the window. “Not that I think looking after children is a waste,” she clarified. “Just that someone with Maureen’s ability and brains, not to mention the job she gave up, well, it just seems like she should be doing something more with
her life than diapering babies and catering to her husband’s every whim.”
Stephanie Banack leaned forward. “You think that Maureen caters to Barry’s every whim?”
“You don’t?”
Stephanie Banack smiled. “That’s my line.”
“I mean, it’s not like my parents put her through all those years of school—and you know how much Harvard costs, even on a partial scholarship—only to see her throw it all away.”
“You think your father is disappointed?”
“I don’t know.” Jess looked toward the floor. “Probably not. He’s thrilled about his grandchildren. Besides, even if he were disappointed, he’d never say anything.”
“What about your mother?”
Jess felt her back stiffen. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you implied that your parents wouldn’t be happy with the choices Maureen has made recently …”
“What I said was that I didn’t think they’d put her through all those years of school so that she could stay home and make babies.”
“How
do
you think your mother would feel?”
Jess turned her head to one side, pressed her chin toward her shoulder. “She’d be furious.”
“What makes you say that?”
Jess felt her feet twitching impatiently on the footrest. “Come on, Stephanie, you were always over at our house. You knew my mother. You knew how important it was to her that her girls got a good education, that they made something of their lives, that they learned to stand on their own two feet.”
“A woman ahead of her time. I remember.”
“Well then, you should know how she’d feel about what Maureen is doing.”
“How would she feel?”
Jess searched the air for the proper adjectives. “Angry. Confused. Betrayed.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“I’m telling you how I think my mother would feel.”
“You don’t think your mother wanted Maureen to have a family?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying?”
Jess looked up at the ceiling, toward the window, at the series of framed degrees on the far wall, finally at the woman across from her. “Look, you must remember how upset my mother was when I told her I was going to marry Don. …”
“The circumstances were very different, Jess. …”
“How? How were they different?”
“Well, for one thing, you were very young. Don was so much older than you. He was a practicing attorney. You were just finishing your first year of law school. I don’t think it was marriage, per se, that your mother was objecting to, so much as the timing.”
Jess began chipping away at the clear polish on her fingernails. She said nothing.
“But Maureen had already finished her education,” Stephanie continued. “She was well established when she met and married Barry. I don’t think your mother would have had any objections to her taking some time off to raise a family.”
“I’m not saying my mother wouldn’t have wanted
Maureen to marry and have children,” Jess stated, anger propelling her words. “Why wouldn’t she? My mother loved having children. She loved being married. She’d dedicated her life to being the best wife and mother anybody could hope for. But …”