got caught in the lip of the wall. As she struggled to free herself while trying to push me over, she lost her balance. She sort of somersaulted over my chest and fell over the edge. Linda didn’t scream exactly. Instead, she made a long groan of clumsiness, like someone overreacting to stubbing a toe. The mink coat lay on the roof, worse off for its ordeal.
Scooping up the mink, I briefly thought about making a run for it. But I dialed 911, gave my name, and said an ill, naked patient of mine fell off the roof of the building after a struggle. It was only then I noticed that she didn’t fall all the way to the pavement; a ledge about three stories down broke her fall. I pretended to sound overjoyed by the possibility she might still be alive. I hung around to show my so-called concern and looked up from my tenth floor office window as the cops and paramedics walked out to the precarious ledge and lifted her body inside.
I called home and explained I was following the ambulance to the hospital. This was only partially true. First, I made a brief stop. I wanted there to be nothing to link me to much of anything, so I threw the torn mink coat into a pile of plastic bags near a Goodwill dumpster where some homeless person no doubt would find it. This seemed to me smarter than throwing it in the river. Things thrown into water or buried in the earth have a way of turning back up. This way, by the time the coat was found—assuming the police would ever look for it—it would have changed so many grubby hands, it would prove nothing.
I spent about two hours in the waiting room before a doctor came out. I already knew that Marty, Linda’s estranged husband, was out of town, so the attending physician spoke to me, since I was her doctor.
“Well, things could be worse,” he said. “Mrs. Goldstein is in a deep coma. She may or may not wake up. But she is alive.”
“What a miracle.” I hoped I sounded convincing.
“And her baby is alive. We had to deliver it immediately. The child’s a good month premature. We’ve all got our fingers crossed it’ll make it.”
I pretended to smile. “Out of curiosity, is it a boy or a girl?” I thought it odd that the doctor referred to the baby as an “it,” as if Linda had given birth to a guppy. Not that I was shedding tears of joy at being a father again.
“A girl.”
“Gee, that’s great.” I, of course, would’ve made the same statement if it was a boy. I never understood why people had to say they were happy about a baby’s sex, whether it was a boy or a girl. Of course, a lot of everyday customs struck me as ridiculous.
I saw a couple of uniformed cops walking toward me. One was a fairly young man, and one was a much older man.
“Dr. Falcon?” asked the younger man, though he did not wait for me to answer. “We have a few questions for you.” I got the impression that the older man was his senior partner and was training him. Yet the older man seemed primarily interested in his paper cup of hospital coffee.
“Of course.” I gestured that we could all sit on the vinyl waiting room sofa.
“You can sit, but we prefer to stand,” he said.
As a psychologist, I knew that they were trying to put me in a vulnerable position by towering over me. I pretended not to notice. “Fine, I’ll sit.” I sighed with exhaustion. “It’s been a long night.”
The younger officer asked me what happened. I knew that what I said would determine my future existence. “I was at home with my wife and daughter. My daughter lives out of state, and we were having a nice little reunion. Mrs. Goldstein called me on my cell and said she was on the roof of my office building, ready to jump. Naturally, I hurried over.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“She said she would jump for certain if I did,” I lied. “It all happened so fast. When I got to the rooftop, I saw she was nude, except for her shoes. I tried to lead her away, but she kicked me hard in the groin.
Scooping up the mink, I briefly thought about making a run for it. But I dialed 911, gave my name, and said an ill, naked patient of mine fell off the roof of the building after a struggle. It was only then I noticed that she didn’t fall all the way to the pavement; a ledge about three stories down broke her fall. I pretended to sound overjoyed by the possibility she might still be alive. I hung around to show my so-called concern and looked up from my tenth floor office window as the cops and paramedics walked out to the precarious ledge and lifted her body inside.
I called home and explained I was following the ambulance to the hospital. This was only partially true. First, I made a brief stop. I wanted there to be nothing to link me to much of anything, so I threw the torn mink coat into a pile of plastic bags near a Goodwill dumpster where some homeless person no doubt would find it. This seemed to me smarter than throwing it in the river. Things thrown into water or buried in the earth have a way of turning back up. This way, by the time the coat was found—assuming the police would ever look for it—it would have changed so many grubby hands, it would prove nothing.
I spent about two hours in the waiting room before a doctor came out. I already knew that Marty, Linda’s estranged husband, was out of town, so the attending physician spoke to me, since I was her doctor.
“Well, things could be worse,” he said. “Mrs. Goldstein is in a deep coma. She may or may not wake up. But she is alive.”
“What a miracle.” I hoped I sounded convincing.
“And her baby is alive. We had to deliver it immediately. The child’s a good month premature. We’ve all got our fingers crossed it’ll make it.”
I pretended to smile. “Out of curiosity, is it a boy or a girl?” I thought it odd that the doctor referred to the baby as an “it,” as if Linda had given birth to a guppy. Not that I was shedding tears of joy at being a father again.
“A girl.”
“Gee, that’s great.” I, of course, would’ve made the same statement if it was a boy. I never understood why people had to say they were happy about a baby’s sex, whether it was a boy or a girl. Of course, a lot of everyday customs struck me as ridiculous.
I saw a couple of uniformed cops walking toward me. One was a fairly young man, and one was a much older man.
“Dr. Falcon?” asked the younger man, though he did not wait for me to answer. “We have a few questions for you.” I got the impression that the older man was his senior partner and was training him. Yet the older man seemed primarily interested in his paper cup of hospital coffee.
“Of course.” I gestured that we could all sit on the vinyl waiting room sofa.
“You can sit, but we prefer to stand,” he said.
As a psychologist, I knew that they were trying to put me in a vulnerable position by towering over me. I pretended not to notice. “Fine, I’ll sit.” I sighed with exhaustion. “It’s been a long night.”
The younger officer asked me what happened. I knew that what I said would determine my future existence. “I was at home with my wife and daughter. My daughter lives out of state, and we were having a nice little reunion. Mrs. Goldstein called me on my cell and said she was on the roof of my office building, ready to jump. Naturally, I hurried over.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“She said she would jump for certain if I did,” I lied. “It all happened so fast. When I got to the rooftop, I saw she was nude, except for her shoes. I tried to lead her away, but she kicked me hard in the groin.
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