Three Fates

I’m making this up? You think this is all some complicated delusion?” The insult of it kicked her energy level back up again. Certainly she had delusions, or else why would she be here. But they were much more simplistic, much more ordinary.
    And he, at two hundred fifty dollars for a fifty-minute hour, should know it.
    “I’m not that crazy. There was a man in Helsinki.”
    “An Irishman,” Lowenstein said patiently.
    “Yes, yes, an Irishman, but he could have been a one-legged Scotsman, for all that matters.”
    He smiled, gently. “Your month of travel was a big step for you, Tia. I believe it opened you up to yourself. To the imagination you often stifle. The challenge now will be to channel and refine that imagination. Perhaps, as a writer—”
    “There was a man in Helsinki,” she said again, between her teeth. “He came to New York to see me, pretended a personal interest in me when, in fact, he was only interested in my connection to the Three Fates. Those Fates are real, they exist. I’ve documented it. My ancestor owned one and was traveling to England on the Lusitania to acquire the second. That’s fact, documented fact.”
    “And this Irishman claims his ancestor, also aboard the ship, stole the statue.”
    “Exactly.” She huffed out a breath. “And that Anita Gaye stole the statue from him—the Irishman. I can’t substantiate that. In fact, I had strong doubts about it until Jack Burdett came to see me.”
    “The one who pretended to be a police detective.”
    “Yes. See, it’s not that complicated if you just follow the steps in a linear fashion. My problem is I’m not sure what to do about it, what step to take next. If my phones are tapped, it seems to me I should report it. But then there’ll be all sorts of awkward questions, won’t there, and if the phones are, subsequently, untapped, Ms. Gaye will know that I know she had them tapped, then I lose the advantage of working behind the scenes, so to speak, to find the other two Fates.”
    She took a long breath. “And I don’t actually talk on the phone that much anyway, so maybe I should leave it alone for now.”
    “Tia, have you considered that your reluctance to report this stems from your subconscious knowledge that there is nothing wrong with your phones?”
    “No.” But his calm, patient question planted the seed of doubt in her mind. “This isn’t paranoia.”
    “Tia, do you remember calling me from your hotel in London at the beginning of your tour and telling me you were afraid the man staying down the hall was stalking you because twice he rode in the elevator with you?”
    “Yes.” Mortified, she dropped her gaze to her hands. “But that was different. That was paranoia.”
    Except for all she knew, for all anyone knew, she thought, she’d been right and had had a lucky escape from a crazed British stalker.
    “You’ve made great strides,” he continued. “Important ones. You faced down your travel phobia. You confronted your fear of dealing with the public. You spent four consecutive weeks exploring yourself and your own capabilities, and expanded your safety zone. You should be proud of yourself.”
    To show he was proud of her, he leaned over, patted her arm lightly. “Change, Tia, change creates new challenges. You have a tendency, as we’ve discussed before, to manufacture scenarios within your mind—exotic, complicated scenarios wherein you’re surrounded or beset by some sort of danger or threat. A fatal illness, an international plot. And so beset, you retreat, constrict that safety zone to your apartment. I’m not surprised that finding yourself in familiar surroundings again, dealing with the natural physical and mental fatigue of a long, demanding trip, you’d need to revert to pattern.”
    “I’m not doing that,” she said under her breath. “I can’t even see the pattern anymore.”
    “We’ll work on that during our next session.” He leaned over to pat her arm again. “It might be best if we go back to our twice-weekly sessions for the time being. Don’t think of that as a step back, but as a new beginning. Angela will schedule you.”
    She looked at him, the kindly face, the trim beard, the dash of gray at the temples. It was like, she realized, being indulged and dismissed by an affectionate parent.
    If there was a pattern in her life, she thought as she got to her feet, this was it.
    “Thank you, Doctor.”
    “I want you to continue your relaxation and imagery