“Because…because…” Suddenly the logjam is broken. The words pour out. “Because I loved Liam, but sometimes I wanted him to go away. He was smarter at school. He was a better runner than me. He didn’t have zits. Everybody liked him best…even my Dad.”
Dr. Robin Harris leans in to her mike.
“Rivalries between brothers are natural. Starting with Cain and Abel…”
Danny has finally opened up. To be cut off just as he’s found his voice reduces him to tears.
“I don’t know who Cain and that other guy are,” he says. “This is about me and Liam. Can I just talk to Charlie D? Please. I just want to talk to Charlie D. Why doesn’t anything ever work for me?”
“We can make it work,” I say. “Stay on the line. My producer, Nova, will get your number. As soon as the show’s off the air, I’ll call you. We can talk for as long as you want. Off air. Just us. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good man. Later?”
“Later.”
I glance at the control room. Nova has the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder, and she’s keying information into her computer. I glance at my computer screen. Danny’s contact info is there. So is a single sentence. Sometimes we do good work. I look through the glass into the control room. When I catch her eye, Nova gives me the thumbs-up.
“Time to regroup,” I say. “What tunes do you want played at your send-off? Some groups seem like naturals. The Grateful Dead? Undertakin’ Daddies? Cold Play? Choose carefully. Remember, you don’t get a second chance to make a last request. Give us a call at 1-800-555-2333.”
Robin Harris is clearly not in the mood for fun and games, but I am conciliatory.
“Dr. Harris, what’s your pleasure?”
Her brilliant green eyes shoot daggers.
“Verdi’s Requiem,” she says.
“Ah, music as stately and regal as you are,” I say. “A perfect choice, but I suspect all your choices are perfect.”
“I believe in a well-ordered life,” she says; then, suddenly mindful of the network executives who’ve tuned in to catch her act, she offers an on-air olive branch. “What about you, Charlie D? What do you want played at your funeral?”
“Something tasty,” I say. “Maybe ‘Deep as Love’ by the Tord Gustavsen Trio. Let’s set a spell and listen.”
Tord’s trio is soothing. Nova’s words over the talkback are not. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland is up next,” she says. “Charlie, I struggled with this one. We may just be getting dragged into an ugly game between Gabe and Dr. Harris, but I’ve been talking to Gabe. He’s going down for the third time. I don’t think we have a choice. If Dr. Harris gives you any static, tell her this is my decision. She can beat me up after the show.”
“Nope,” I say. “All decisions around here are arrived at jointly. If you get beat up, I get beat up. But stand in front of me. That caterpillar costume you’re wearing appears to be bulletproof.”
Nova gives me her crooked smile, and immediately I feel better.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tord’s piano is sweet and tuneful, but Dr. Harris is not placated. “You don’t have the training to handle an adolescent as disturbed as Danny,” she says. “He needs a specialist.” She turns her face toward the control room to allow me to absorb her words. Her profile is classical, perfect and distant.
Without exchanging a single word with Gabriel Ireland, I can understand why he is crazy in love with this woman. Luckily for me, I have never been drawn to ice queens.
“Danny didn’t call a specialist,” I say. “He called me. Dr. Harris, we have a database with referral numbers for professionals in every area where we’re heard. When we have a caller whose problems demand the kind of help I can’t give them, I talk to them after the show and I refer them to a professional. I’m just Step One.”
“You’re the wrong step,” she says crisply. “As long as you operate within your area of expertise, you’re amusing. But you’re out of your depth with someone as seriously disturbed as Danny. For him, this could be a matter of life and death.”
Dr. Harris’s condescension raises my hackles.
“That’s precisely the reason why I cut you off,” I say. “As Louise noted so colorfully, you have degrees up the wazoo, but what you did with Danny was just plain stupid. That boy is being eaten alive by guilt because he wanted his brother dead and he got his wish. But instead of letting Danny say the words he needs to say if he’s ever going to recover, you launch into a lecture about Cain and freaking Abel.”
“Pointing out to Danny that his feelings are archetypal is accepted clinical protocol.”
“He’s sixteen years old, and he’s disintegrating. He doesn’t need to hear about archetypes. He just needs someone to listen. By the way, Dr. Harris, we’re back on the air in ten, and get ready, because I’m going to give you a chance to strut your stuff.”
“And we’re back,” I say. “Judging by the number of calls coming in on this, the Day of the Dead, a lot of you are haunted by ghoulies, ghosties, long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night. Luckily we have a pro to help us battle the ghoulies and ghosties. Tonight, I’m joined by Dr. Robin Harris, a thanatologist, a specialist in death. Dr. Harris, how did you get into your line of work?”
“For me, thanatology has always been a journey in search of answers,” she says in her thrilling voice. “When I was seven, my grandmother died. My parents had pretty much abandoned me, but my grandmother had always been there. I was alone with her when she had her fatal heart attack.”
“That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” Robin agrees. “But my grandmother always told me that whatever didn’t kill me would make me stronger. I realize now she was just repeating a truism, but I clung to those words. I was determined not to let my grandmother’s death kill me, and so I began to think seriously about what death meant. Even as a child, I knew that death was a natural phenomenon. I’d seen dead birds. I’d had pets that died. The principal of my school fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. Death was all around, so I made a decision to understand what it meant.”
“That was pretty gutsy,” I say.
Glowing with the sheen of self-love, Robin continues her autobiography.
“It was necessary,” she says. “I was a logical child, so I set out to find answers. After my grandmother died, I went to live with my mother’s brother and his wife. As fate would have it, my uncle owned a funeral home, and I spent hours with him, listening to his stories about how people reacted to death.”
“And you were seven years old,” I say.
“I wasn’t afraid,” she says. “My uncle recognized a kindred spirit in me. He told me that I’d been given a great gift. I was able to observe grief without being affected.”
“That’s quite a trick.”
“There’s no trick to it. Knowledge is power.”
“So your knowledge of death gives you power over it?”
“Yes.”
“And the fact that you’re not afraid of death gives you power over people who are.”