Saving Elijah

but it certainly wouldn't be definitive."
    Dr. Selson reached over and tickled Elijah. "Right?"
    Elijah jerked his head down once. "Right."

    *    *    *

    My new patient, Heidi Vasquez, was one tough cookie. I got some very descriptive language about Larry's wife, right out of pop psychology 101. Heidi's rival was frigid, withholding, arrogant, controlling, and middle-aged, not to mention hysterical, shrewish, clinging, and volatile. What a woman. And Heidi had never even met her.
    I asked her how she knew all this. "Does Larry complain?"
    "Not so much. But I have a special sense about people."
    She was special indeed. And if you wanted to know the truth, Larry's wife hated men, and had made Larry's life miserable for years. Of course there were children involved, and Heidi said she felt bad about that, but still, this was the 1990s. Men left their wives all the time. Why, when Larry's wife was so clearly a miserable, unattractive, clinging, man-hating mess, wouldn't he leave her? What was wrong with him that he wouldn't leave such a woman for beautiful, young Heidi?
    "Ask her what bar she met Larry in," said the demon. It no longer had to materialize visibly in front of me to turn me to ice. It had only to whisper in my ear.
    I already knew what bar. She'd mentioned a place called Thursdays. She had in fact admitted to often picking up men in bars, behavior consistent with my diagnosis of narcissism. There's a certain element of entitlement, of grandiosity, of invulnerability, in reckless behavior. And God knows, Heidi felt entitled. All narcissists do. See. I could still diagnose, slap on a label, play the game.
    "Sam goes to Thursdays," the demon said. "It's two blocks from Grand Central Station. Stops in there after work sometimes."
    "Dr. Galligan? Did you hear me?"
    I was not going to let it take over this session. I asked Heidi what her goals were, other than marrying Larry.
    "Grad school," she said. "But I don't know if I can swing it myself. Last year I was accepted in a master's program at Pace, and my parents refused to pay."
    "Can they afford it?" I asked.
    "They somehow found the money to send me to college," she said sarcastically.
    "Had they saved to send you to college?"
    She glared at me. "I don't know. I think they saved, and they borrowed some. What's the difference? Last year they took a vacation in Aruba. They have plenty of money. They just don't care about anyone but themselves. Especially me."
    A near-perfect narcissistic projection. She was entitled to have them pay for grad school, but they weren't entitled to take a vacation. Never mind that they were probably up to their ears in the debt incurred to pay for her college, or that their generosity and sacrifice had probably never elicited an ounce of appreciation, understanding, or even acknowledgment from their daughter. She was entitled, they were required.
    And Larry was required to commit to her, just because she wanted it. Never mind that he'd been married many years and had young children.
    I tried a different approach. Steady. Easy. You know how to do this, I told myself. "Instead of focusing on how awful your parents make you feel, how about thinking what steps you could take to get you into grad school?"
    "What's the point? My parents won't pay. They paid for a graduate course at NYU two years ago, but I had to drop out in the middle."
    Add just one more reason they weren't willing to sacrifice. But Heidi, like all narcissists, simply could not take responsibility for any part it.
    "Why did you drop out?" I asked her.
    "Because the professor made a pass at me."
    Oh, boy. Getting anywhere with her wasn't going to be easy, but if she could learn how to empathize a little bit, see the other point of view, even just a little. I could show her, I could help her. If I could only hold on, maybe I could keep the twelve patients who remained.
    "Do you mind if I lie down?" She swung around and stretched herself out, her head at one end of the couch, her feet at the other. "Larry told me last night that his wife made a scene at a party a few weeks ago. The bitch called some woman stupid, right in front of a whole group of people."
    "Jerk," the demon whispered.
    I closed my eyes and saw Ann Louise Remson's face. At Mark's birthday party, I'd called her a jerk.
    "Jerk," the demon said, louder this time.
    Heidi was talking on. "Oh, yes," the demon told me. "He met her months ago. They are hot, my Dinah. You don't stand a chance against her.