Twisted

say those words to you or you were imagining them they weren’t real. Repeat that.”
    “I—”
    “Repeat it!”
    “They weren’t real.”
    “Now say, ‘There was no ghost. My father’s dead.’ ”
    “There was no ghost. My father’s dead.”
    “Good!” Harry laughed. “Again.”
    She repeated this mantra several times, calming each time. Finally a faint smile crossed her lips. Then she frowned. “But the bird . . .” She again opened her purse and took out the shattered ceramic, cradling the pieces in her trembling hand.
    “Whatever happened to the bird doesn’t matter. It’s only a piece of porcelain.”
    “But . . .” She looked down at the broken shards.
    Harry leaned forward. “Listen to me, Patsy. Listen carefully.” Passionately the doctor said, “I want you to go home, take that last bird and smash the hell out of it.”
    “You want me to . . .”
    “Take a hammer and crush it.”
    She started to protest but then she smiled. “Can I do that?”
    “You bet you can. Just give yourself permission to. Go home, have a nice glass of wine, find a hammer and smash it.” He reached under his desk and picked up the wastebasket. He held it out for her. “They’re just pieces of china, Patsy.”
    After a moment she tossed the pieces of the statue into the container.
    “Good, Patsy.” And—thinking, the hell with transference—the doctor gave his patient a huge hug.

    That evening Patsy Randolph returned home and found Peter sitting in front of the television.
    “You’re late,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”
    “Out shopping. I got a bottle of wine.”
    “We’re supposed to go to Jack and Louise’s tonight. Don’t tell me you forgot.”
    “I don’t feel like it,” she said. “I don’t feel well. I—”
    “No. We’re going. You’re not getting out of it.” He spoke in that same weird, abrupt tone he’d been using for the past week.
    “Well, can I at least take care of a few things first?”
    “Sure. But I don’t want to be late.”
    Patsy walked into the kitchen, opened a bottle of the expensive Merlot and poured a large glass just like Dr. Bernstein had told her. She sipped it. She felt good. Very good. “Where’s the hammer?” she called.
    “Hammer? What do you need the hammer for?”
    “I have to fix something.”
    “I think it’s in the drawer beside the refrigerator.”
    She found it. Carried it into the living room. She glanced at the last Boehm bird, an owl.
    Peter looked at the tool then back to the TV. “What do you have to fix?”
    “You,” she answered and brought the blunt end down on the top of his head with all her strength.
    It took another dozen blows to kill him and when she’d finished she stood back and gazed at the remarkable patterns the blood made on the carpet and couch. Then she went into the bedroom and picked up her diary from the bedside table—the one Dr. Bernstein had suggested she keep. Back in the livingroom Patsy sat down beside her husband’s corpse and she wrote a rambling passage in the booklet about how, at last, she’d gotten the ghosts to stop speaking to her. She was finally at peace. She didn’t add as much as she wanted to; it was very time-consuming to write using your finger for a pen and blood for ink.
    When Patsy’d finished she picked up the hammer and smashed the Boehm ceramic owl into dust. Then she began screaming as loudly as she could, “The ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead!”
    Long before she was hoarse the police and medics arrived. When they took her away she was wearing a straitjacket.

    A week later Harry Bernstein sat in the prison hospital waiting room. He knew he was a sight—he hadn’t shaved in several days and was wearing wrinkled clothes—which in fact he’d slept in last night. He stared at the filthy floor.
    “You all right?” This question came from a tall, thin man with a perfect beard. He wore a gorgeous suit and Armani-framed glasses. He was Patsy’s lead defense lawyer.
    “I never thought she’d do it,” Harry said to him. “I knew there was risk. I knew something was wrong. But I thought I had everything under control.”
    The lawyer looked at him sympathetically. “I heard you’ve been having some trouble too. Your patients . . .”
    Harry laughed bitterly. “Are quitting in droves.Well, wouldn’t you? Park Avenue shrinks are a dime a dozen. Why should they risk seeing me? I might get them killed or committed.”
    The