Freudian Slip (10 page)

B
ALAM STOOD IN
L
ESLIE'S
apartment, trying to determine how she could be useful. She should have been fast asleep, but she was sitting with a picture of her and Kate Darby, an opened and nearly finished bottle of expensive Napa Valley wine, and a box of tissues.

Balam wandered her apartment searching for clues and found the first sitting on a bookshelf. A yearbook. From Dalton—an elementary-through-high-school Upper East Side institution of impeccable reputation. He pulled out what looked very much like an iPhone, but was instead connected to the Cosmic Superhighway. In an instant, he knew the Dalton School had yearly tuition in the $30,000 range.

“Rich girl,” he murmured. That explained something.

In Balam's experience, two of the greatest corruptors of human beings were great poverty and
great wealth. The poor sometimes made reckless decisions born of desperation. They could end up in Hell, but She quite often understood their temptations. Hunger. Pain. Lack.

The rich made callous decisions born of a life led without care or burden. Without care and burden, humans created their own dramas. They divorced and remarried, and they dragged their children through the detritus of their affairs and misbehaviors. They cared less about their fellow man as greed consumed them. They were, quite often, his easiest acquisitions.

He walked into Leslie's bedroom. It was decorated with expensive furniture. He touched the comforter, peeled it back. The thread count on her sheets was incredible! She had rich tastes befitting a Dalton grad.

But what else? He spied a picture on her nightstand. Of David and Kate. But Kate was nearly out of the picture, in profile.

She had a crush on David all along.

Another thing about mortals. They believed all was fair in love and war.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. He had invented the expression—to confuse them. In fact, She was the universe's ultimate pacifist. She despised war, and there was
nothing
fair about
it. No matter how much the military hid civilian casualty figures, declaring them inflated by the opposition and so on, every civilian casualty was a loss She felt keenly.

As for love…humans could make more abhorrent decisions for the sake of a thirty-second orgasm than for nearly any other reason. Long-term marriages tossed away. Lust was so fleeting. But they—mortals—talked themselves into believing it was real, and that it justified all sorts of behavior.

So Leslie had fallen for her best friend's guy. That explained a little more.

But there was one more piece. He was sure of it. He logged on to the Cosmic Superhighway again. Punching a few keys on his phone he smiled.

A side-by-side comparison. SAT scores. Report cards. Kate was much, much smarter than Leslie. And then, their confidential reviews at work. Kate's were stellar. Leslie's were less so.

Add professional jealousy and Leslie was a perfect Hellbound Trifecta.

This was going to be easy.

He walked back into the living room and sat down next to Leslie. He began speaking to her. Only, what he had to say were the very things she spoke to herself. The things she wouldn't admit to
Her, to Kate, to anyone. Leslie's deep, dark ugly side. Her insecurities.

Play on a human's insecurities, and the chess match with the angels was practically won. He had contacts at another publisher. And a plan was formulated.

“Hello, Leslie,” he intoned. “You know…if Kate and David were meant for each other, he never would have slept with you. Surely, you felt the attraction between you two. But better yet…are you really appreciated at that small publishing house? Wouldn't a giant house really give you the room to spread your wings, away from Kate and her small, little dreams. And wouldn't it be a feather in your cap to not only jump ship, but to take David with you? To bring him to the big leagues?”

He watched as Leslie dried her eyes, then leaned back and furrowed her brow. She was thinking.

“And really? He is that talented. Kate has got great instincts. But if she
really
cared about him, she would have encouraged him to leave. To go someplace bigger with a big, fat advance. You'd be doing him a
favor
if you left and then courted him to your new house. In fact…why not meet with a headhunter? I know just the one, too.”

Balam watched as the corners of her mouth
turned up ever so slightly. Soon, a full-blown devious grin spread across her face.

“There you go, Leslie. A girl after my own heart.”

T
HE EMERGENCY ROOM
, which Gus and Julian first passed through, was full of the cacophony and chaos of a typical urban hospital. Gunshot wounds, overdoses, car accidents and the usual assortment of illnesses and complaints, people speaking with anger and emotion and heartbreak in ten different languages.

Julian followed Gus past the gun-metal-gray waiting room chairs. They walked through the linoleum and cinder block hallways, took an elevator to the intensive care unit, and found Julian's body. Sitting next to Julian's body was his producer, Frank, looking ashen, with circles underneath his eyes, and reeking, slightly, of Jameson's whiskey.

Julian looked at his body, which seemed pretty much the same as when he'd left it—driven by machines, pale and lifeless. Occasionally his eyes darted beneath their lids, or he twitched, but otherwise, he looked like a corpse.

“Frank looks broken up over this. I didn't know he cared so much,” Julian said. “I've been a prick to him, you know.”

Gus nodded. “I do know, Julian.”

Julian stood over his producer's shoulder. Frank was whispering to the comatose Julian.

“You were always a bastard to me, Jules. Bitching and moaning about anything that flew into your mind. The temperature in the studio was too hot. The temperature in the studio was too cold. Your chair wasn't comfortable enough. You wanted more lesbians books on the show. You wanted a macrobiotic breakfast—but you washed it down with tequila. No one could make you happy. I know I sure couldn't.”

Julian listened to Frank, wanting to protest, but feeling, for the first time, ashamed.

“It's that inability to censor yourself that makes you impossible to turn off the radio, Jules. You have no filter. What you think comes out of your mouth. Like one giant id. Impossible to turn off the dial, and impossible to live with.”

Frank shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. “Even women. You banged beautiful women—could have any one in the room. You screwed porn stars and movie stars. But you took particular delight in trying to bang the girlfriends of the
interns, or of James. I mean why do that, except to humiliate these guys you worked with? Piss off the world. Rant all you want. But at the end of the day, Julian, be a decent human being.”

“Gus…aren't all women fair game?” Julian looked to his Guide for assurance.

“Apparently Frank doesn't think so. And now that you know more about the Boss, do you really think She feels that way?”

“All's fair in love and war. Isn't that what they say?”

“First, the Other Team says that. Second, shagging the girlfriend of an intern isn't love. It's…shagging. And nothing more.”

Frank sank his head into his hands. “And worst of all, Jules, is even though I know you banged Maureen that one time you were drunk, and you said it was because you were plastered, I think it's because you don't know how to be anything but a fucking bastard.” Frank looked up, tears in his eyes. “Yet after all we've been through—detoxing you off of heroin, the highs and lows of creating the greatest damn show in radio history, and all the rest of your insane, dysfunctional life—you're still my best friend and I can't stand to see you like this. They don't know if you're going to make it.”

Frank sobbed, and Julian leaned over and tried
to comfort him. “I…know I was that prick. I know I was. But if I had it to do over again, I wouldn't be. I swear it.”

Julian looked at Gus. “I'm going to go to Hell, aren't I?” Had he really been that awful? Hearing Frank's sobs, he started to think the answer was yes.

Gus shrugged his shoulders. “Julian…I told you…I'm not privy to that information.”

“Frank—” Julian put his hand on his producer's shoulder “—I swear to you, as the Boss is my witness, if I ever get back to my body, if I ever get out of Neither Here Nor There, I won't be such an asshole.”

Frank didn't respond. A nurse entered the room. “Visiting time is up. We shouldn't even have let you in here. It's the middle of the night. But given he's touch-and-go right now…”

Frank nodded. “I appreciate you bending the rules a bit.” He stood and looked down at Julian's body. “I'll see you tomorrow, pal. Hang in there.”

“You're a good friend,” the nurse said. “He's world famous and not a single other person has been to see him.”

“I know. His parents don't even want to have anything to do with him. Which is just as well, really. They weren't great parents. The suits at the
station, they're just worried about covering their investment. About ratings. Right now they're running ‘Best of Julian' segments.”

The nurse looked down at Julian's body. “You'd think his parents would come. You work in ICU long enough and you see the best and worst of people and their families. Most especially families. They should come together, but crises like these tend to rip them apart more.”

“Do you think he can hear me?”

The nurse, about fifty, plump, with tight ash-blonde curls cut close to her scalp, smiled. “We think so. Keep talking, Frank.” She patted Frank's arm. “You keep talking and don't give up.”

Frank nodded and left the room, shoulders slumped.

Julian walked over to Gus and observed the nurse turning him, checking his vitals, looking at the levels of fluids on the various IVs surrounding him.

“Come on, Gus. A hypothetical. If a man dies, and his life amounted to being a prick, does he automatically go to Hell?”

“Depends on his remorse. His intentions. Her arms are always opened wide, Julian. The Boss loves all Her children.”

“I've never felt so bad in my whole life. Frank was always so loyal to me. He and Maureen broke up 'cause of me, you know.”

“Why did you do it?” Gus asked.

“Because I could. Because no one ever said ‘no' to me. And now look at me—” Julian gestured to his body. “I may not get a second chance. Can't you tell me, Gus? Can't you tell me if I make it or not?”

“No. That's all classified.”

Julian stood and watched his body, chest rising and falling with the timing of the
whoosh
of the machines, all night. Gus stood with him. When day came, the nurses changed shifts. Julian thought of Kate. “Come on, Gus, I need to get back to her apartment.”

With a backward glance at his body, ventilator filling his lungs, Julian followed his Guide. He realized, with a cold starkness, that all his life he'd been a useless prick. And now, with Kate, he had a chance to fix that. Gus was dead wrong, Julian decided. He didn't need to be less involved. He needed to be more involved.

K
ATE SAT ON THE COUCH
in Mallory's ultra-modern studio. A bottle of wine, a wheel of brie and crackers sat on the glass coffee table. Al Green drifted through the speakers.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Kate asked, hoping Mal didn't think she'd finally lost it. She was avoiding her apartment. Avoiding the voice.

“Once, after Charlie died,” Mal said quietly, referring to her best friend who had died of AIDS years before, “I thought I saw him standing at the foot of my bed. I woke up, and there he was. He didn't look sick. He was smiling and looked so peaceful, but then I decided I was dreaming.” Mal frowned and looked over at Charlie's picture on the sleek chrome-and-glass shelves against the wall.

Kate stared down at the glass of pinot noir she was nursing. She swirled the glass. “I don't know…I keep getting this weird feeling like my
apartment is haunted. Maybe someone died in it. It's a really old building.”

“Oh, I
love
things like that. We should go see a psychic. Have a séance. Get an exorcist.”

“Sure, Mal.” Kate laughed. “If I start spewing pea soup and my head twists around, you call Father Damian.” She looked at Mal on the couch beside her. “I don't know. Maybe I'm just crazy. But it feels haunted. Nuts, huh?”

“No. You're human. You've been on a roller coaster. You walk in on David and the bitch. And then, just as you're starting to take baby steps toward moving on, he shows up with a rock.”

“A Tiffany's rock,” Kate said, shaking her head. “The perfect rock. Rose petals, candles. The perfect proposal. Could you forgive him, Mal?”

“Me? No. I'll love you no matter what you decide, but I couldn't.”

“Do you think I'm an idiot for even talking to him?”

“No. I think you're a woman who loved a man very much. You can't just shut that off. I think you've been through a lot.”

Kate sighed. “I'd better go. Thanks for listening. I'll muddle through it all.” She stood and leaned over and kissed Mal's cheek. “Thanks. Maybe it's just the anniversary of September 11.
It's still hard. I know it's years later. But I still think of him every day.” She swallowed hard. “I wish he was here, because he would know what I should do.”

“You know, I was born in this city and have always adored it. And the day the towers went down broke my heart. But I didn't lose my daddy. It was bad enough as his niece, as your cousin, but…he was your daddy.”

Kate nodded. “It was the most surreal, numbing, awful experience to watch the towers on television and realize my father was going up into them to do his job as people desperately poured out of them. Then the towers were gone. Gone. I watched it—this cloud of ash where the tallest building in Manhattan stood. Gone. Maybe that's what this all is. I want so desperately to believe there is a heaven that I made up a ghost in my apartment.”

“You know I don't buy into the family party line about heaven. Call me a firm
maybe
gal.”

“Agnostic?”

Mal nodded. “Do you know, I remember the day I walked up the center aisle of church to make First Holy Communion, but before that communion wafer hit my tongue, I was already wondering if there was a God. I just don't believe in Heaven, Kate. But if it exists, your dad is there.”

“I know.” Kate picked up her purse. “I'm going to go home. It was a long day today at the office. David sent me five flower arrangements.
Five!
Red roses, white roses, orchids, one arrangement that was made up of tiger lilies and a huge bouquet of wildflowers. A new arrangement came nearly every hour. Each time, the flowers were, of course, marched right by Leslie's office. I know she really wanted to ask me about them.”

“Did she?”

“No, but she looked pale and upset all day.”

“Good.”

“I know, but I still find the whole thing awkward. I don't want the drama. Anyway, let me get going.”

Mal suddenly stood. “Hold on.” She crossed the room to a drafting table that doubled as a desk and rifled through papers. “It's here somewhere.”

“What is?”

“Hold on.”

Kate smiled. Organization was not Mal's strong suit.

“Wait!” Mal held up a finger.

“What am I waiting for?”

“Ah-ha!” She plucked a business card out of a pile of papers and envelopes. “Here.” She walked to Kate and handed her a card.

“Dr. Raphael Tobit,” she read out loud. “Psychiatrist.”

“I met him—totally cute guy, by the way, but I think he's gay because I came on to him pretty strong and…nothing.”

“And you think I need a shrink?”

“No. Not exactly. When I asked him what he did, he pulled out the card. He said he specializes in grief work. Particularly people who have unresolved grief. Weird, I met him six months or so ago, but I can hear the conversation like it was yesterday. I took his card. Maybe some of this is…grief. And then with the stress of David and the whole thing, it's all bubbling to the surface, all this unresolved stuff.”

“You think?” Kate fingered the thick linen card stock. “I'm sure the guy is booked months in advance if he's any good. A Manhattan shrink? I mean, come on.”

“Well, why don't you call him?”

“All right. Maybe I will. Tomorrow morning.”

She turned and left Mal's apartment and walked the fifteen blocks to her place. The night was breezy, and the scent of a street cart of Greek gyros and onions permeated the air. She loved that about New York. Any food, any culture, was here. The city never slept, as the saying went. Even after 9/11, the
city went on. A little more tentatively, the people more fragile, but the city emerged from its tragedy.

The entire walk, she kept touching the card, like a talisman, as it sat in her pocket. She reached her building, went in, then climbed the stairs to her floor. When she reached her door, she turned her key in the lock and stepped into her apartment. She had always lived alone. Yet, now it felt strangely like she was sharing it.

Hello, Kate.

“All right.” Kate swallowed. “Ghost…I know you're here.” That was it, she was definitely cracking up.

I've been waiting for you to come home. You look beautiful.

Kate darted her head around the apartment feeling terrified but fascinated. She whispered, “Where are you?”

By the couch.

She looked over at Honey, and sure enough, her dog was staring right at the couch.

“Great. I'll likely sit on you.”

Kate moved toward the couch and passed through a pocket of cold air. She shivered and sat down opposite the couch in a chair.

“That cold spot. Is that you?”

I don't really know.

“You've been in my head, haven't you?”

Yes.

“You're the voice. The voice telling me I could get through this. I've
heard
you. I've
really
heard you.”

I know.

I'm not crazy.”

No. Not crazy. Not the slightest bit crazy.

“Can I see you?”

Haven't quite figured out how to do that yet. I'm new here.

“A new ghost.”

Sort of. It's complicated.

“No. Complicated is a woman sitting in the dark in her apartment talking to a poltergeist.”

I'm not a poltergeist…. Go into the light, Carol Anne.

Kate grinned. “A ghost with a sense of humor.”

Always, beautiful.

Kate slipped off her shoes and drew her knees up to her chest. She rocked back and forth slightly. “I can't believe I'm…This is nuts.”

No. Nuts is talking to yourself. You're talking to me, Katie Girl.

She smiled and shook her head. “My dad used to call me Katie Girl. Who are you? What's your name? I can't come in here calling out, ‘Hello, Mr. Ghost,' all the time.”

Jules. Call me Jules.

“Okay, Jules….” Kate looked up at the mantle where her father's photo peered back in the dress blues that always made her feel so proud. She thought of her conversation with Mallory. “So tell me…does Heaven exist?”

Haven't been there. They tell me it's lovely this time of year.

“What, like escaping to the Riviera?”

Something like that.

“This is insane. It's insane.” She thought about the card for the shrink. She was definitely going to call him in the morning.

No, insane is tossing away a beautiful girl like you for someone like Leslie.

“But how do I know that…you're a ghost and not someone I made up in my head?”

Do I sound like any thought you've ever had in your entire life before?

“No.”

Wait a minute.

“Hello?” Kate called out, but the voice didn't respond.

A minute or two later, she heard it again.
All right. Your refrigerator. What is the expiration date on the container of blueberry yogurt?

“How should I know?”

Precisely. How would you know? I can tell you, it's two days ago. Throw it out. Now, you can go and look.

Feeling a tingle at the nape of her neck, Kate rose and went to her refrigerator. She opened the door.

“You're wrong. There is no blueberry yogurt. Only cherry.”

Behind the pickle jar.

She moved the pickle jar, and there it was. A container of blueberry. She lifted it and looked at the date. It had expired two days before.

She dropped the container and slammed the fridge door shut. “This can't be happening.”

It is.

In a daze, she wandered back to the living room and sank into the couch. “It can't be.”

I wouldn't have thought it possible, either. Put it this way, circumstances have made me a believer.

Kate shook her head, then yawned.

Tired, angel?

“Yeah. I'm going to go to…bed. Wait a minute, what do you do when I'm in bed?”

Watch you. It's been the single most beautiful thing I've seen since I got here. I can tell when you're dreaming. I whisper to you. I'm with you all the time, you know.

“I've felt you, at the office. That day I confronted Leslie. You told me I could do it. And that shopping spree. The new clothes. The new underwear.” Kate blushed and stood up. “Wait a minute…Does that mean you've seen me naked?”

Yes. And also with boxes of tissues and mucus coming out of your nose. He broke your heart, Kate. Don't marry him.

“Hold on. I'm still getting past the you've-seen-me-naked thing.” She looked over toward the mantle. “You made the box fly across the room. You did that. I know I'm not crazy. I didn't imagine that. The box moved.”

You can't marry him. Please. Not him.

“Why do you care?”

I do. I still feel. When you sleep, I want you awake. I want you to talk to me.

Kate walked toward her bedroom. “I've felt you at night.”

When she entered her bedroom, she said, “Turn around. You may have seen me naked, but…not tonight.”

But I've seen it all already.

“Turn around!”

How will you even know if I do or not?

“I just will. Besides, you're an angel or something. You can't lie, can you?”

I can. It's just here I don't want to anymore. Funny…really. Here I am the man I should have always been.

“Are you turned around?”

Yes, Kate.

She hurriedly undressed, and, not really trusting him, she pulled her nightshirt over her regular shirt and slid her bra and shirt down her body and stepped out of them. She pulled back the covers. “You can turn around again, Jules.”

He didn't answer.

“Jules?”

I'm here. I'm just looking at you.