quickly. “After twenty-four hours, you can file a missing persons report.” He looked away as he said this, as though he knew Porter would never do it.
On a very core level, Porter knew that all his efforts were in vain. Caroline was long gone, far away, beyond his reach. He knew it deep inside, just as in some way he had always known she would go. Maybe not always, he decided, but soon after they’d met. He’d managed the fear the only way he knew how, doing his best to control the events of their shared life, but it had come to naught. The inevitability of this realization now burned in his gut like hot coals at the bottom of a fireplace.
He busied himself in the days to come scouring train, bus, and airline schedules for connections to places she might have gone, but the list was endless. He dug through her belongings for clues but found nothing.
His mind reeled as he struggled to accept the basic fact of his existence from this moment forward. Dr. Porter Moross was a realist. He liked to think of himself in this way, and took great pride in the fact that he had dedicated his life to helping others learn to accept their reality as well. But now he learned why most patients resisted psychotherapy.
The truth was reality sucked.
He refused to comfort himself with the fantasy that his wife might reappear on their doorstep, teary-eyedand contrite, begging to try again. Dr. Porter Moross was not one to indulge in emotional thumb sucking of any kind.
Porter gave himself over completely and fully, in private, to grieving the loss of his wife. He realized he could keep the most options open for himself by avoiding all discussion of his wife, except in such cases when he judged it to be to his advantage.
The first opportunity presented itself the first night on the day Caroline had left, during a chance encounter with his neighbors. Lindsay Crowley was a loud, crass Texan possessed of a deep-seated desire to be the center of attention. Porter had disliked her on sight, and had been disappointed that Caroline hadn’t seen her for what she was.
But now, more than anything, Porter hoped his feelings for Lindsay Crowley were not mutual.
That first night the walls threatened to close in on him and Porter stumbled outside into a heat so intense it was causing the tar seams at the edges of the sidewalk to melt. But Porter didn’t notice. Pain squeezed everything else from his mind, weighing on him like an acid fog, erasing all color from his world and rendering everything gray.
His wife had left him.
He wore his cell phone clipped to his belt. He had programmed his computer to place a call automatically if he received any e-mails from Beltway Security Investigations. He took the pager along as backup. He turned in the direction of Twenty-ninth Street Park, not as the result of any conscious choice but as a way to avoid the lights and noise of Wisconsin Avenue.
The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other required all his concentration, and he shuffled along, head down, trying to keep his panic from swallowing him alive.
“Howdy there, stranger.”
Lost in his emotions, Porter did not instantly recognize the voice. He just knew it carried a negative connotation. He hunched his shoulders deeper.
But it was no use. He’d been spotted.
“You see, John, I told you we’re not crazy for taking our power walk tonight. Porter’s out, and he’s a doctor.”
John. Recognition flashed, and Porter lifted his head, sensing opportunity. He arranged his features to hide the irritation he felt for Lindsay Crowley and her endless chatter. “Hi, Lindsay, John.”
They stopped in front of him, John Crowley standing quietly while Lindsay bobbed up and down, to and fro on the balls of her feet, like a jogger waiting for a traffic light to turn green. Annoying.
“Where’s Caroline? Don’t tell me you left her home cleaning the dishes all by her lonesome?”
Porter knew they were taking it all in, from his dress
On a very core level, Porter knew that all his efforts were in vain. Caroline was long gone, far away, beyond his reach. He knew it deep inside, just as in some way he had always known she would go. Maybe not always, he decided, but soon after they’d met. He’d managed the fear the only way he knew how, doing his best to control the events of their shared life, but it had come to naught. The inevitability of this realization now burned in his gut like hot coals at the bottom of a fireplace.
He busied himself in the days to come scouring train, bus, and airline schedules for connections to places she might have gone, but the list was endless. He dug through her belongings for clues but found nothing.
His mind reeled as he struggled to accept the basic fact of his existence from this moment forward. Dr. Porter Moross was a realist. He liked to think of himself in this way, and took great pride in the fact that he had dedicated his life to helping others learn to accept their reality as well. But now he learned why most patients resisted psychotherapy.
The truth was reality sucked.
He refused to comfort himself with the fantasy that his wife might reappear on their doorstep, teary-eyedand contrite, begging to try again. Dr. Porter Moross was not one to indulge in emotional thumb sucking of any kind.
Porter gave himself over completely and fully, in private, to grieving the loss of his wife. He realized he could keep the most options open for himself by avoiding all discussion of his wife, except in such cases when he judged it to be to his advantage.
The first opportunity presented itself the first night on the day Caroline had left, during a chance encounter with his neighbors. Lindsay Crowley was a loud, crass Texan possessed of a deep-seated desire to be the center of attention. Porter had disliked her on sight, and had been disappointed that Caroline hadn’t seen her for what she was.
But now, more than anything, Porter hoped his feelings for Lindsay Crowley were not mutual.
That first night the walls threatened to close in on him and Porter stumbled outside into a heat so intense it was causing the tar seams at the edges of the sidewalk to melt. But Porter didn’t notice. Pain squeezed everything else from his mind, weighing on him like an acid fog, erasing all color from his world and rendering everything gray.
His wife had left him.
He wore his cell phone clipped to his belt. He had programmed his computer to place a call automatically if he received any e-mails from Beltway Security Investigations. He took the pager along as backup. He turned in the direction of Twenty-ninth Street Park, not as the result of any conscious choice but as a way to avoid the lights and noise of Wisconsin Avenue.
The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other required all his concentration, and he shuffled along, head down, trying to keep his panic from swallowing him alive.
“Howdy there, stranger.”
Lost in his emotions, Porter did not instantly recognize the voice. He just knew it carried a negative connotation. He hunched his shoulders deeper.
But it was no use. He’d been spotted.
“You see, John, I told you we’re not crazy for taking our power walk tonight. Porter’s out, and he’s a doctor.”
John. Recognition flashed, and Porter lifted his head, sensing opportunity. He arranged his features to hide the irritation he felt for Lindsay Crowley and her endless chatter. “Hi, Lindsay, John.”
They stopped in front of him, John Crowley standing quietly while Lindsay bobbed up and down, to and fro on the balls of her feet, like a jogger waiting for a traffic light to turn green. Annoying.
“Where’s Caroline? Don’t tell me you left her home cleaning the dishes all by her lonesome?”
Porter knew they were taking it all in, from his dress
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