A woman’s voice calls from the doorway, “Office hours over?”
I look up from my monitor and smile.
Liz Hargraves is my psychiatric colleague and occasional confidante—in other words, when I need her, she’s my shrink.
“I’ve seen my last patient, Liz, if that’s what you mean. Come on in and pull up a couch.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” she says, plopping down in my Lazy Boy chair and tilting it full back.
“You look wasted—rough day?”
“Yes,” she frowns, and hesitates before adding, “but it’s not that Martin—I hardly know how to tell you. Is this a bad time?”
I put away the file and take off my glasses. “This is a good time. What’s up?”
“I’m not sleeping—my heart’s racing—I can’t stand how I feel.”
I can see the dark circles under her eyes and the gray pallor of her skin.
“Going through a rough patch?”
“It’s more than that—for want of a better word, it’s bizarre.”
“Really? What’s going on?”
“It’s someone I’ve known for some time—Brad May—we went through grad school and interned in the same hospital. We’re colleagues—run into each other at conferences—you know the drill.”
I do the know the drill, I muse and I’m worried.
She’s flustered.
“It’s silly—I feel foolish now I’m telling you.”
“Look, you look like hell and something about this guy’s bugging you, so why not just come clean?”
“You want me to start at the beginning?”
I nod.
I pull a bottle of Dewar from my desk drawer along with two glasses and pour us both a double shot.
“I don’t care how long this takes—and I should warn you—I have another quart bottle in the cabinet behind you. So, lead on, I’m all yours.”
“You’re a dear, Martin—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“You’ve done the same for me many times, so now, make a good act of confession.”
I give her a mock blessing, making the sign of the cross over her, and steeple my hands on the desk before me.
She laughs, sips her whiskey and I see the tension in her face begin to dissolve.
“As I said, it’s silly really. Brad’s hardly said anything to me other than shoptalk and the occasional coffee chat at conferences—but, I guess it started with the feeling of being watched.”
My eyebrows arch. I can sense where this is going.
“When did you first experience feeling observed?”
“It started several months ago, usually at night. I like to read in bed before turning out the light—just the odd romance novel—that type of thing. I had this overwhelming feeling I was being observed.”
“You live in a downtown condo don’t you?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “Toronto’s becoming condo city and mine’s right on the Lakeshore. I have a splendid view of the lake.”
“I take it, you draw your curtains at night?”
“Of course, but as I said—there’s nothing but lake and I’m in the penthouse—so no peeping Tom’s likely.”
“I see.”
“Occasionally, during the day though, I’d feel I was being watched—sometimes in the mall—but even when I was alone in the elevator. Gradually, I had the sense it was Brad—don’t ask me why, I just did.”
“But you never actually ran into him—perhaps by accident?”
“Never. Not once. I can’t say he was stalking me, because honestly, I’ve no evidence of that—and yet, I’m convinced he is.”
“So, you feel you’re going mad—and you’re entertaining an irrational delusion?”
“Well, yes—thank you for putting it bluntly—but, that’s exactly how I feel.”
“And you feel threatened?”
“I feel I’m being stalked and dominated—and yes, it has a sexual component as well—I know you haven’t asked, but I can sense that too.”
“I hate to ask, Liz, but have you ever felt attracted to Brad?”
She pauses, staring at the ceiling for several seconds, before softly answering. “Yes, at the beginning, when we were in graduate studies— I did feel an attraction toward him, but he was engaged at the time.”
“So, the right guy at the wrong time?”
“Something like that.”
She’s still single and not seeing anyone as far as I know. I cringe inside, not wanting to probe, but I still have to broach the question regardless. “Are you sure it’s not projection?”
“Definitely. I am so over him. The more I’ve seen of Brad over the years, the less I’ve liked him. I find him vain and childish in ways—occasionally, socially inappropriate.”
“So, in other words, he’ll make the odd sexual remark?”
She nods. “My defences immediately go up—it nauseates me, to tell the truth.”
I sip my Dewar’s and stare through the window at the night outside—the jumbled mosaic of coloured windows shimmering in the darkness.
“Do you think I’m mad?” she whispers.
I turn back to face her. “Not at all.”
No, what I think is more ominous than a crazed stalker. There’s a shadow across her life and I don’t want to alarm her, but I need to protect her.
