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“You’re crying, Ms. Hart,” my doorman says tenderly.
I look up at him. My heart is racing so fast I feel sick and out of breath.
What is wrong with me?
It feels suddenly as if a semi has driven into my chest. I gasp at the pain of it.
I reach for Stanley, chirp, Help, as I trip over something and crash to the cold concrete floor.
* * *
“Ms. Hart?”
I open my eyes and discover that I’m in a hospital bed.
There’s a man in a white coat standing beside me. He is tall and a little disreputable-looking, with black hair that is too long in this buttoned-down era. His face is sharply planed, his nose a little hawklike. His skin is the color of creamed coffee. He’s part Hawaiian, maybe, or Asian and African-American. It’s hard to tell. I see tattoos along his wrists—tribal ones.
“I’m Dr. Grant,” he says. “You’re in the ER. Do you remember what happened?”
I remember all of it; amnesia would be a gift. But I don’t want to talk about it, especially not with this man, who looks at me as if I’m damaged goods. “I remember,” I answer.
“That’s good. ” He glances down at my chart. “Tallulah. ”
He has no idea who I am. That depresses me. “So when can I get out of here? My heart is doing its job now. ” I want to go home and pretend I didn’t have a heart attack. Which reminds me: I’m forty-six years old. How could I have had a heart attack?
He puts on a pair of ridiculously out-of-date reading glasses. “Well, Tallulah—”
“Tully, please. Only my brain-damaged mother calls me Tallulah. ”
He looks at me over the rim of his reading glasses. “Your mother is brain-damaged?”
“It was a joke. ”
He is not impressed by my humor. He probably lives in a world where people grow their own food and read philosophy before bed. He is as much an alien to my world as I am to his. “I see. Well. The point is that you didn’t have what’s commonly referred to as a heart attack. ”
“Stroke?”
“A panic attack often mirrors the symptoms—”
I sit up. “Oh, no. I did not have a panic attack. ”
“Did you take any drugs prior to the panic attack?”
“I did not have a panic attack. And of course I didn’t take drugs. Do I look like a drug addict?”
He seems not to know what to make of me. “I’ve taken liberty of contacting a colleague for a consult—”
Before he can finish, the curtains part and Dr. Harriet Bloom walks toward my bed. She is tall and thin; severe is the word that comes to mind—until you see the softness in her eyes. I have known Harriet for years. She is a prominent psychiatrist and has been a guest on my show many times. It’s good to see a friendly face.
“Harriet. Thank God. ”
“Hello, Tully. I’m glad I was on call. ” Harriet smiles at me and then looks at the doctor. “So, Desmond, how is our patient?”
“Not pleased to have had a panic attack. Apparently she’d prefer a heart attack. ”
“Call me a car service, Harriet,” I say. “I’m getting the hell out of here. ”
