The server returned with their drinks. They ordered: a grilled chicken breast and plain baked potato for Kyle; the quarter barbecue chicken dinner with fries for Heather.

"Did anything else happen with Zack?" asked Heather.

Kyle took a sip of his wine. "He told me that Becky is in therapy."

Heather nodded. "Yes."

"You knew that?"

"She started seeing someone after Mary died."

"It was the same therapist Mary had been going to," said Kyle. "Zack told me that."

"Mary was in therapy, too? Good G.o.d, I didn't know that." was in therapy, too? Good G.o.d, I didn't know that."

"I was shocked, too," said Kyle.

"You'd think she'd have told me."

"Or me," said Kyle, forcefully.

"Of course," said Heather. "Of course." She paused. "I wonder if it had anything to do with Rachel?"

"Who?"

"Rachel Cohen. Remember? Mary's friend-she died of leukemia when Mary was eighteen."

"Oh, yes. Poor girl."

"Mary had been quite distraught about that. Maybe she started seeing a therapist over it-a little grief counseling, you know?"

"Why wouldn't she have come to you?" asked Kyle.

"Well, I'm hardly a clinician. Besides, no girl wants her mother for a therapist-and I suspect she wouldn't have wanted anyone I might have recommended, either."

"So how would Mary find a therapist?" asked Kyle.

"I don't know," said Heather. "Maybe Dr. Redmond recommended somebody." Lloyd Redmond had been Kyle's physician, and later, the whole family's physician, for nearly thirty years. "I'll call him in the morning and see what I can find out."

Their meals arrived. They ate mostly in silence, and afterward went to their separate homes.

The phone rang in Kyle's lab at 10:30 Tuesday morning. A couple of grad students were present, working quietly inside Cheetah's console; the console's faceplate, including Cheetah's eyes, had been removed and was leaning now against the curving outer wall.

The Caller ID showed it was Heather, calling from her office in Sidney Smith Hall on the west side of St. George Street, a block farther south.

"I was right," said Heather. "Dr. Redmond did did recommend a therapist to Mary several months before she died." recommend a therapist to Mary several months before she died."

"What's the therapist's name?

"Lydia Gurdjieff." She spelled the unusual last name.

"Ever heard of her?"

"No. I've checked the online directory for the OPA; she's not listed."

"I'm going to go see her," said Kyle.

"No," said Heather. "I think I should go-alone."

Kyle opened his mouth to object, but then realized his wife was right. Not only was he the enemy in this therapist's eyes, but Heather, not Kyle, was the trained psychologist.

"When?" he asked.

"Today, if possible."

"Thanks," said Kyle.

Heather might have shrugged or nodded, or even smiled encouragingly; there was no way for Kyle to tell. Sometimes he wished video phones had had taken off. taken off.

"h.e.l.lo, Ms. Gurdjieff," said Heather, walking into the therapist's consulting room. The walls were covered with blue wallpaper but it was curling a bit at the seams, revealing the painted surface beneath. "Thank you for seeing me."

"My pleasure, Ms. Davis-or may I call you Heather?" Heather wasn't taking any special pains to disguise her ident.i.ty; she used her own last name, but Rebecca and Mary had shared Kyle's last name. There was no reason to think this Gurdjieff person would make the connection. "Heather is fine."

"Well, Heather, we don't often have a cancellation, but I guess today is your lucky day. Please, have a seat, or use the couch if you prefer."

Heather considered for a moment, then, with a little shrug, lay down on the couch. Even with all her training in psychology, she'd never actually lain on a therapist's couch before and it seemed an experience not to be missed.

"I'm not sure why I'm here," Heather said. "I haven't been sleeping well." She looked beyond the therapist to the walls; there were framed diplomas on them. The highest degree seemed to be a master's.

"That's surprisingly common," said Gurdjieff. Her voice was warm and pleasant, with perhaps a trace of a Newfoundland accent.

"I also don't have much of an appet.i.te," said Heather. Gurdjieff nodded and took a datapad off her desk. She started writing on it with a stylus. "And you think there's a psychological cause for this?"

"At first I thought it was some kind of flu," said Heather, "but it's been going on for months."

Gurdjieff made another note on her pad. She was putting too much pressure on the stylus; it made a slight chalk-on-blackboard screech against the gla.s.s plate.

"You're married, aren't you?"

Heather nodded; she still wore a plain wedding band.

"Children?"

"Two boys," said Heather, although she regretted it at once. She probably should have included at least one daughter. "Sixteen and nineteen."

"And they're not the source of the problem?"

"I don't think so."

"Are your parents still alive?"

Heather saw no reason not to answer that truthfully. "No."

"I'm sorry."

Heather tilted her head, accepting the comment.

They talked for another half hour, the therapist's questions seemingly innocuous.

And then she said it: "A cla.s.sic case, really."

"What?" asked Heather.

"Incest survivor."

"What?"

"Oh, you don't consciously remember it-that's not at all unusual. But everything you've said suggests that's what happened."

Heather tried to keep her tone flat. "That's ridiculous."

"Denial is natural," said Gurdjieff. "I don't expect you to come to terms with it right away."

"But I wasn't abused."

"Your father is dead, you said?"

"Yes."

"Did you cry at his funeral?"

That struck a little too close to home. "No," Heather said softly.

"It was him, wasn't it?"

"It was n.o.body."

"You didn't have a much-older brother, did you? Or a grandfather who visited a lot? Maybe an uncle you were often alone with?"

"No."

"Then it was probably your father."

Heather tried to make her voice sound firm. "He couldn't possibly have done anything like that."

Gurdjieff smiled sadly. "That's what everyone thinks at first. But you're suffering from what we call post-traumatic stress disorder. It's the same thing that happened to those vets from the Gulf and Colombian Wars, only instead of reliving the memories, you're repressing them." Gurdjieff touched Heather's hand. "Look, it's nothing to be ashamed of-you have to remember that. It's nothing you did. It's not your fault."

Heather was quiet.

Gurdjieff lowered her voice. "It's more common than you think," she said. "It happened to me, too."

"Really?"

The therapist nodded. "From when I was six or so until when I was fourteen. Not every night, but often."

"That's-that's terrible. I'm so sorry for you."

Gurdjieff held up her left hand. "Don't feel sorry for me-or for yourself. We have to take strength from this."

"What did you do?"

"It's too bad your father is dead; you can't confront him. That's the best thing, you know: confronting your abuser. It's enormously empowering. It's not for everyone, of course. Some women are afraid to do it, afraid that they will end up being disinherited, or cut off from the rest of their family. But when it works, it's terrific."

"Oh?" said Heather. "You've had other patients go through this?"

"Many."

Heather wasn't sure how hard to push it. "Anyone recently?"

"Well, I can't really talk about other patients . . ."

"Of course not. Of course not. Just in general terms, I mean. What happens? An average case."

"Well, one of my patients did confront her abuser just last week."

Heather felt her heart begin to race. She tried to be very careful. "Did it help him?"

"Her, actually. Yes."

"In what way? I mean, is she free of whatever was bothering her?"

"Yes."

"How do you know? I mean, how can you tell it made a difference?"

"Well, this woman-I guess it won't hurt to tell you she had an eating disorder. That's common in cases like this; the other common symptom is trouble sleeping, like what you're having. Anyway she was bulimic-but she hasn't had to purge since then. See, what she really wanted to purge, what she really wanted to get out of her system, is out now."

"But I don't think I was abused. Was she like me, unsure?"

"At first, yes. It was only later that it all came out. It'll come out for you, too. We'll find the truth and we'll face it together."

"I don't know. I don't think this happened. And-and-I mean, come on. Incest-s.e.xual abuse. That's the stuff of tabloids, no? I mean, it's practically a cliche."

"You're so wrong, it's staggering," said Gurdjieff sharply "And it's not just you-it's society in general. You know, in the nineteen-eighties, when we really started talking about s.e.xual abuse and incest, the topic did get a great deal of exposure. And for people like me-people who had been abused-it was a breath of fresh air. We weren't a dirty little secret anymore; the horrible things that had been done to us were out in the open, and we finally understood that it wasn't our fault. But it's an unpleasant truth, and people like you-people who saw their neighbors and their fathers and their churches in a whole new light-were uncomfortable with it. You liked it better when it was hidden away, something you didn't have to deal with. You want to force it into the background, marginalize it, remove it from the agenda, prevent it from being discussed."

Heather thought about this. Incest, pedophilia, child abuse-they were all things that might naturally come up in psychology cla.s.ses. But how often did she mention them? A pa.s.sing reference here, a brief aside there-and then moving on quickly before it got too unpleasant, to Maslow's drive for self-actualization, to Adler's introverts and extroverts, to Skinner's operant conditioning. "Perhaps," she said.

"Maybe you're right," said Gurdjieff, apparently willing to concede a little if Heather was also willing to do so. "Maybe nothing did happen in your past-but why don't we find out for sure?"