Speaking in Tongues

future? Well, in a way they do. They make us look at who we are, where we fit in with the godhead or the Oversoul—”
    “Oh, you know Emerson?” she asked, pointing to a book of his writings.
    Dr. Peters walked to it and pulled the volume off the shelf. He flipped through it, held up the book and showed her the title of an essay, “The Oversoul.” “I’ve been reading him since college . . . I think fortune-telling makes us look at where we fit in with the life force, what our relationships are like, makes us question where we’re going. That has to affect our future.”
    “That’s true,” she said, feeling warm and comfortable. She sipped more wine. “That’s what I’ve always felt. Most people don’t get it. They just makefun of the Madame Zostra’s fortune-telling stuff. It’s not fair. My ex . . .”
    But she decided to let the thought die. And Dr. Peters didn’t push her to finish.
    The doctor was looking at her bookshelf, head cocked sideways. Pointing out volumes. “Ah, Joseph Campbell. That’s very good. Sure, sure . . . You know Jung?”
    “Sort of, not really.”
    “About the archetypes? There are certain persistent myths we see surfacing in people’s lives. The Arthurian legend—you know it?”
    Know it? she thought, laughing to herself. I lived it.
    “T. H. White, Camelot, the whole thing.” She pointed out an old copy of The Once and Future King.
    “What a book that is,” he said. “Oh, and The Mists of Avalon,” nodding at the book.
    “The best,” she said enthusiastically. Remembering how Tate didn’t have time for any of this. She found the old angers and resentments churning up again and recalled how much comfort she’d found in the New Age world. Here was a man who truly understood her. It was so refreshing . . .
    Dr. Peters tapped his glass to hers and they sipped. Her glass was nearly empty. Yet she didn’t feel drunk, she felt elated. He sat down close to her. “Um, Bett . . . I don’t know how much Megan told you about me.”
    “Nothing, really. But she didn’t want to talk about her therapy sessions. That’s what we were going to do today, Tate and I. Meet her for lunch and find out how it was going.”
    He nodded. He was really quite a handsome man,well built. Interior designer Bett McCall thought: Proportions are everything.
    “Dr. Hanson saw her more frequently than I did. But I wanted to come over tonight and just talk to you about her a little. Try to reassure you.”
    Oh, I’ll take that. Anything you want to give me in the reassurance department, I’ll take.
    “Have you heard anything from her?” he asked.
    “Not a word. But there are some funny things going on.”
    “What sort of things?”
    “We think maybe somebody was following her. My husband . . . my ex-husband thinks it might have to do with a case he’s working on. He thinks the man he’s suing is trying to distract him or something. I don’t know.”
    “Any . . . what would they say on NYPD Blue ? Any concrete leads?”
    “Not really. But Tate’s been in touch with a friend of his at the police.”
    “Oh, is that the detective who called me? He asked me a few questions about Megan. Um, what’s his name again?”
    “Konstantinatis.”
    “Right. Well,” he continued, pouring more wine, “I think you should know what I told him.”
    “What’s that?”
    “That I don’t think she’s in any danger.”
    “Oh, did she say something to you about running away?” Bett asked quickly. “You’d tell me if she did.”
    “Ordinarily that’d be confidential. But . . . yes, I would tell you. And she didn’t say anything specificabout it though she was always talking about going to a big city like San Francisco or New York.”
    “They found an Amtrak timetable in her car. She’d marked trains to New York.”
    He nodded, as if a mystery had been explained. “I’d guess that’s what happened. No, I’d say I’m positive that’s what happened. I really doubt there are stalkers or bogeymen out to get her.”
    “Why’re you so sure?”
    He didn’t answer her. Instead he said, “I think we need more wine. I’ll get it. Okay?”
    “Sure.”
    Dr. Peters vanished into the kitchen. He returned a moment later, sat down and poured. After a moment he asked, “How does your husband feel about his daughter?”
    “Tate’s . . .” She groped for words.
    He supplied one. “Indifferent?”
    “Yes. He’s never been very involved with Megan.”
    “I