What Looks Like Crazy

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

As a clinical
psychologist, I've spent most of my time trying to convince my clients they're not crazy. The truth is, everybody is a little bit crazy; it's just a matter of degree. Take me, for example: I'm not exactly the poster lady for mental wellness, and I'm the one
treating
these people. I find that scary.

Even scarier is the well-dressed thirtysomething guy threatening to jump from the rooftop of the ten-story North Atlanta building housing my office. He's a new patient, referred to me by a psychiatrist I once dated.

Dr. Thad Glazer and I met while I was working on my doctorate at Emory University. Thad was blond and good-looking, and had inherited his father's comfy practice and love for Italian suits. Our relationship ended when I caught him and his receptionist naked in his hot tub.

Thad limited his practice to medication management and referred patients to local psychologists for talk therapy, because he hated listening to people's problems. He amused himself by sending me the difficult cases—payback for breaking up with him and later marrying another man. Even more amusing to Thad was the fact that my marriage had hit the skids six months ago.

So that's how I ended up with Kevin “Wannabe Jumper” Bosley. And I had promised myself this was going to be a good day. I'd even dressed in my new yellow, white, and blue daisy skirt, and a yellow camisole. Just seeing it in the store had lifted my spirits.

“Listen to me very carefully, Kevin,” I said, taking a step toward him, while carefully maintaining a respectful distance in case he decided to take me with him. That, and the fact that I am terrified of being on rooftops of tall buildings. “You do
not
want to do this. Suicide is
never
the answer.”

“Back off, Dr. Holly!” he shouted. “You come any closer, and I'm bailing.”

Beside me, my best friend and receptionist, Mona Epps, was frantically trying to reach Thad on her cell phone. I had pled, bribed, and tried to bargain with Kevin, to no avail. Thad was my last hope. Despite being somewhat superficial and self-centered, Thad usually came through for me.

“You must really hate your mother,” Mona said, tossing Kevin a dirty look as she punched numbers on the phone.

Kevin blinked. “I don't hate my mother. What makes you say that?”

“Who do you think they'll call to the morgue to identify your body, you idiot! It's
always
the mother.”

“You have no right to call me an idiot,” he told her. “You don't know what I've been through.”

“Oh, puh-lease,” Mona said.

I shushed Mona. She was not the most diplomatic person in the world. Plus, she was annoyed as hell that she had broken a heel on her new Pradas as we'd chased Kevin six floors up the stairwell in our attempt to keep him from jumping. Fortunately Mona'd had the foresight to grab her cell phone, which was a good thing in case we needed to call 911, but by then it would be too late.

“Listen to me, Kevin,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, so that it would appear I was in control of the situation, even though my knees felt like tapioca pudding. “You can jump and put an end to your troubles, but what about the people who love you? What about those you leave behind? They'll be devastated. They'll blame themselves.”

Kevin gave me an odd look. Someone who is depressed enough to take his own life generally does not give much thought as to how it will affect others.

“Thad's on the line,” Mona said, offering me the phone.

“Hold on, Kevin,” I called, taking the phone from her. “I've got Dr. Glazer—”

“I'm not talking to that egotistical bastard,” he said. “Besides, this is his fault.”

“Thad, I have a situation here with Mr. Bosley, the patient you sent me,” I said quickly. “I could really use your help.”

On the other end, Thad made a
tsk
ing sound. “Now, Kate, you know the rules.”

I blinked. “What?”

“The rules, the rules,” he said.

My frayed nerves were close to snapping. When Thad and I had been an item, he'd always insisted that I tell him what I had on beneath my skirt. It was a game between lovers that Thad still liked to play, despite our split. “Stop kidding around, Thad,” I said. “This is an emergency.”

“You either play by the rules or we don't play at all.” I heard a smile in his voice.

“You are so childish!” I hissed, knowing he would find my annoyance even more amusing. “I've got a man ready to throw himself off the roof of my office building, and you expect me to describe my underwear?” Silence on the other end of the line. If Thad had been present, I would have personally drop-kicked his ass off the top of the building.

I turned and whispered into the phone. “Okay, dammit, they're black bikinis, cut high on the thigh and edged with red lace. Satisfied?”

“Give me a moment,” Thad said. “I want to envision you in them.”

I gritted my teeth. It would never occur to Thad that I was lying. He was the last man on earth I'd tell I was wearing plain, white, and very boring panties. I mean, why waste my Victoria's Secrets when I wasn't presently having sex? “Are you done yet?” I said.

“Okay, what's the problem?” he asked smoothly.

“Hello? Did you not
hear
me? Kevin Bosley is threatening to jump off the roof of my building!”

Thad sighed. “Damn, Kate, I send you a patient, and he tries to kill himself on the very first visit?”

“This is
not
my fault! He's angry because the medication you put him on—” I paused and lowered my voice again. “It's interfering with his sex life. Now, you need to get your butt over here and talk him out of jumping.”

“It's not his medication, sweetheart. He was having problems getting it up when he came to see me. I put him on a mild antidepressant with few side effects, but he needs to give it time to kick in.” Thad paused. “Look, even if I didn't have a tennis date, it would take forever to get to your office with the traffic. You're going to have to deal with this on your own, Kate.”

I looked at Kevin. His arms were crossed, and one foot was tapping impatiently. “Why me?” I asked. “Why didn't you send him to his medical doctor? How do you know it's not a physical problem?”

“It's not a physical thing. His wife left him for his best friend because their sex life was zero. Then, to make matters worse, he was fired from his job. I think he might have issues that led to his poor performance in the sack.”

“What kinds of issues?”

“Who knows? Could be guilt. You'd be surprised how many guys let that sort of thing get in the way.”

Oh, great, I thought. Another guilt-ridden man who couldn't get an erection because he just
knew
God had seen him whacking off to dirty pictures when he was fifteen years old, or because God knew he'd had lewd thoughts about some nun who taught him eighth-grade English at parochial school. My job was to listen respectfully to each sin and say, “Nope, that's not bad enough. What else have you got?”

“Why didn't
you
talk to him about all this?” I whispered.

“Kate, you know how it is. Guys don't like telling other guys they can't get it up. I mean, if you were some guy with a limp weenie, would you want to discuss it with somebody like
me
?” He laughed. “I can't relate to that sort of thing. By the way, if he jumps, your insurance will skyrocket.”

“That's not funny, Thad.”

“Hey, don't be like that. How about I make it up to you over dinner tonight? You could come to my place for steaks.”

I knew steaks at Thad's house meant getting naked in his hot tub as well. I pressed the ball of my hand to my forehead, where I could feel a headache coming on. “I'm married,” I said.

“Not for long,” he reminded me. “It could be a pre-divorce celebration.”

Thad didn't get it. My upcoming divorce did not inspire thoughts of cocktails and party favors. It hurt like hell to think about, so I kept shoving it aside in my head, sort of like moving an old chair into a corner because it didn't fit in the room. I didn't want to think about the divorce, and I especially did not want to discuss it with the man on the other end of the line.

“Good-bye, Thad.” I hung up and regarded Kevin.

“Well? What did he say?” Kevin asked.

I stood there for a moment. “Dr. Glazer wanted me to tell you that you have every reason to be optimistic, because he used to have your problem and I was able to cure him.”

 

An hour later
I was lying on the sofa in my office, doing deep-breathing exercises. I'd convinced Kevin Bosley not to jump to his death, and I'd somehow managed to hold myself together for our session. Now
I
was a wreck. Multiplication tables fired through my brain, taught to me by my late grandfather, who'd been a math teacher and my only normal relative.

There is a certain order to math that doesn't exist in life. The world can blow up, but two times two is always going to equal four. For some weird reason, I find that comforting. I like even numbers. I prefer to start my day with an even number of ink pens in the oversized “I Love Atlanta” coffee mug on my desk. Mona knows this. Which is why, if I have eight pens in my mug, she'll drop in an extra just to throw me off.

“How'd it go with Limpy?” Mona said, coming inside my office.

Mona and her mouth, I thought. No wonder she'd flunked out of Miss Millie's Charm School. “We'll be seeing a lot of him.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Mona plopped into the chair next to me and propped her feet on the coffee table.

Her housekeeper had obviously delivered another pair of pumps, because the wounded Pradas had been replaced. Mona wore only expensive designer fashions, and always looked great. She accessorized the reception room with her clothes.

“He'll pitch a tent in the hallway,” Mona said. “People will think we're selling Rolling Stones concert tickets.” She blew out a sigh. “What is it about men and their penises? It's all they care about. I mean, what about world peace, the rising crime rate, and unemployment? What about global warming?”

“Face it, Mona. A man who can't get an erection does not care if some polar bear doesn't have a place to hang his hat.” I couldn't believe those words had come out of my mouth. I knew Kevin was in a lot of pain, and I'm normally sympathetic, but I was having a crap day.

“Could we change the subject?” I said. I did not want to think about men's bodies, because then I'd have to think about my soon-to-be-ex-husband's body. They didn't get any sexier than Jay Rush: tall, dark, and broad-shouldered, with bone-melting blue eyes and a charm-your-panties-off smile. And I'd walked out on him. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he didn't come after me. Now all I was waiting for was a judge to make the split legal.

“Sorry,” Mona said. “I know you aren't supposed to discuss your patients with me, but they tell me everything, anyway.”

I had tried to discourage my patients from sharing their problems with Mona, who would then feel compelled to offer advice. Mona's answer to everything usually involved a trip to the mall.

Mona could afford to shop all she liked. She was rich. After flunking out of charm school and beauty college, she had met and married Mr. Moneybags, aka Henry Epps, a much older man who'd made a fortune inventing a fish lure that bass found irresistible. Mona liked to say she'd made her money the old-fashioned way: she'd married it.

However, unlike most gold diggers, Mona had fallen in love with Mr. Moneybags and was devastated when he had a heart attack, fell off his bass boat, and drowned. She and I had met shortly afterward, when she attended a grief group I had set up. We became friends, and I became a frequent visitor to her house in Buckhead, which is where a lot of Atlanta's wealthy lived. Mona's house had more square footage than most strip malls.

“You seem depressed,” Mona said. “You look like you could use a Prozac drip.” She turned and reached behind the chair for the teddy bear we'd named Bubba. Some of my young patients preferred talking to me through Bubba. The wear and tear on his fur was proof that he made the little ones feel safe and secure in my office.

“Bubba, Dr. Holly isn't feeling well today,” Mona said. “Could you please help her?” She put the bear right up to my face.

I sighed and closed my eyes, but it did not deter Mona. She changed her voice and pretended to be Bubba.

“Oh no, we have to help Dr. Kate,” the squeaky Bubba voice said. “Tell her she should get a manicure.”

I smacked my forehead. “Now, why didn't I think of that? You just solved all my problems, Bubba-Bear.”