Then he sent the woman to FAO Schwarz to pick out a teddy bear. She could shower it with the same affection she'd lavished on the dog, and could imagine her love was reciprocated- with about as much validity as with a real pet. She didn't have to walk it or feed it, didn't have to clean up its messes, and, by God, the thing was guaranteed hypoallergenic.
And now she has a houseful of stuffed animals- no surprise there, and you can have all the stuffed pets you want without the neighbors complaining of the noise and the smell- and she thinks he's a genius, and who's to say he's not?
And she loves him.
And, he asks himself a second time, isn't that the whole point? You can't do this for the money, because there's just nowhere near enough of it. People think you've got a license to coin money, getting a hundred dollars an hour to listen (or not listen) to dreams and fears and childhood memories. As if it's a fortune, and as if you're stealing it!
But how many patients can you see, fifteen a week? Twenty? And how many actually pay a hundred dollars an hour? Peter and his chums, for example, paid sixty dollars each for their individual sessions. In group therapy, when he works with all five of them, he charges them each twenty-five dollars, so he does in fact take in $125 for that particular weekly hour.
But, for heaven's sake, you have to knock yourself out to drag down a hundred thousand dollars a year, and how far does that go in New York in the twenty-first century? Any other medical specialty is almost certainly more lucrative. Forget the plastic surgeons, the anesthesiologists. Why, storefront family practitioners can see as many patients in an hour or two as he sees in a week.
A hundred thousand. The big law firms are offering $150,000 to kids fresh out of law school! No, forget the money. You can't do what he does for the money. You have to do it for love.
And that, of course, is where the real money is.
There is an awkward moment when he realizes that Peter has stopped talking, that there is an expectant quality to the silence. Has he been asked a question?
"Hmmm," he says, leaning forward, clearly giving the matter some thought. "Peter, do me a favor. Say that again, word for word, with the same inflection you just used. Can you do that?"
"I can try," Peter says.
And he does, bless him. And it is a question, just as he'd sensed, and Peter, having voiced it a second time, then proceeds to answer it himself. A breakthrough, thanks to his own inspired inattentiveness.
They think he's a genius. And, really, who is he to say they're wrong?
"Peter," he says, "I've been thinking about Kristin."
"Oh."
"I'm sure you've been thinking about her yourself."
"Some."
"Have you had any further contact with her?"
"I called her after what happened. I think I told you about that."
"Yes, I believe you did."
"And I'm glad I did, Doc. It was the decent thing to do. I wanted to, but at first I was, well…"
"Afraid?"
"Yes, sure, let's call it by its right name, huh? Fear. I was afraid."
"Would you like to sit up now, Peter?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Good. Take the chair. You were afraid to call, but you called, and you're glad you did."
"Yes."
He got to his feet, put his hands together, rocked back on his heels. "Peter," he said, "when two people relate in a certain way, when there's a particular magic that they create between themselves, it's really a rather remarkable thing."
"I know."
"I always sensed that magic with you and Kristin."
"So did I, but…"
"But you separated. You went to Williamsburg and she returned to her parents' house."
"Right."
"And that was inevitable. You were committed to the others, to Marsha and Lucian and Kieran and Ruth Ann."
"And to you, don't forget."
"Well," he says. His smile is gentle, self-effacing. "To me insofar as I embody in your mind your own best interests. You and the others shared a goal, and what we determined together was that Kristin did not share that goal."
"Not the way everybody else did."
"The five of you," he says, "are a family, Peter."
"Yes, we are."
"The house is perfect for you. You have a floor, Marsha and Lucian have a floor, Ruth Ann and Kieran have a floor. But you work together, you create this space together."
"Yes."
"As a family."
Family is the magic word; delivered with the right cadence, it can bring Peter almost to tears.
"Kristin had a family of her own," he says, "and she was not ready to change one nest for another. You made the right decision, Peter."
"I know."
"And she made the right decision, too."
"I know that now. I wasn't sure at first, but now I know you're right."
"But her situation has changed."
"Because- "
"Because she lost her family."
"It was a terrible thing."
What a way with words the fellow has! "A terrible thing," he echoes. "What do we get in life, Peter?"
"What do we get?"
"You know the answer, Peter."
"We get what we get."
"Exactly. We get what we get, and what we do with it makes it good fortune or bad. You and Kristin belong together."
"That's what I always thought."
Thought, he notes, rather than think. What's this?
"I think you should call her," he says, pressing. "I think you should visit her, I think you should be with her in her hour of need." Did he really say that? No matter. "You have broad shoulders, Peter, and that's what she needs right now, even as she needs once again to be part of a family."
"But- "
He waits. His hand goes to his throat, and his fingers find the rhodochrosite disc. He strokes it, feels its cool smoothness.
"There's this woman I sort of met, she's a sculptor? She lives on Wythe Avenue in Northside Williamsburg? She's really nice, and her values are the same as mine, as ours, and, and I thought maybe…"
The words trail off. He touches the pink stone disc again, thinks: Clarity. He waits a beat, then says, "Rebound."
"Pardon?"
He's on his feet, pacing, spins around to face Peter Meredith. He says, "Rebound, Peter! You're on the rebound! That's all this is."
"You really think so?"
"I know so. Stand up. Up! Yes. Face me, yes. Now close your eyes. Now hold out both your hands, palms up. All right. Are you ready?"
"Uh, I guess."
"Put your feelings for Kristin in your right hand. Feel the weight, the substance. Do you feel it?"
"Yes."
"Now put whatever it is you feel for this sculptor in your other hand. There! Do you feel the difference?"
"Yes."
"Open your eyes, Peter. Which hand is heavier?"
"This one."
"The body doesn't lie. It feels the weight of one, the lack of substance of the other. Tell me, then. Where is your destiny?"
"With Kristin?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"It's with Kristin."
"What's with Kristin?"
"My destiny."
He goes to him, embraces him. "Peter," he says, "I'm so proud of you. Do you know how proud I am?"