The Reality Conspiracy by Joseph A. Citro

expensive room-service breakfast, Karen began to pack her suitcase for the drive back to Vermont.
    It was almost a quarter to eleven, and Dr. Gudhausen still hadn't phoned. Yesterday he had agreed to do a little research, maybe call a colleague or two, then get back to her with whatever insight he could offer about treating Lucy Washburn. Their plan had been to meet, maybe have lunch, before Karen left for home.
    So why hadn't he called? Had she failed to impress on him that she had to check out of her hotel room by eleven?
    Or had he been humoring her from the start, politely feigning professional interest in the strange coincidence she had discovered?
    Of course not! That was her insecurity talking; Dr. Gudhausen had not been faking interest. He had been concerned, even, it seemed, a little nervous. The whole bizarre situation clearly had started his mental wheels turning, she was sure of it'. "If I were a superstitious man," Dr. Gudhausen had said, "I'd be pretty spooked right now. I've seen a lot of these MPD situations, but never anything quite like this. It's . . . well, frankly, Karen, it's uncanny. The only conclusion I can jump to right now is that Lucy Washburn and Herbert Gold have somehow stored separate sets of identical memories, assimilated independently, but apparently from the same source. Highly unlikely, I admit. It would have to be something they've both experienced, but experienced distinctly separate from one another: a movie, perhaps, or something on television? Possibly a book? Maybe even a magazine article? Who can say?" He shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Lame, I admit, but beyond that, I'm stumped."
    Karen glanced at her watch. Ten to eleven. Okay, she'd wait exactly ten more minutes, then go to the lobby, check out, and call Dr. Gudhausen from a pay phone. Still, it irritated her: his time was no more valuable than her own. Alter she'd traveled all this way, could he really expect her to hang around a hotel room waiting for his call?
    Karen had to bare down with all her weight to close her suitcase. Jeez , she laughed to herself, I come to Boston for two days and I bring clothes enough for a week! It was a good thing, though, because she'd had a pretty dress to wear at dinner last night with Jeff.
    She picked up the bulging suitcase and put it by the door. Then she leaned her attaché case against it and looked around the room for things forgotten.
    Yes, by gosh, it had been a pleasant evening, in spite of her initial reservations. Jeff was bright and entertaining— rather silly actually , she thought, then quickly added—in an endearing sort of way. In retrospect, she was pleased with herself for not running away before he had arrived at the restaurant. If she had, true to her entrenched patterns of behavior, she'd have spent the entire evening cursing herself for her cowardice. Oh, she had blown similar situations before. Over and over she kept learning the same lesson: sometimes it's good to be a little adventurous; sometimes a bit of courage pays off.
    The bottom line, of course, was that she'd had a great evening. She wanted to see Jeff again. She just hoped he felt the same way. Did he?
    Well, she'd find out soon enough. A good indication would be whether he would follow through on that trip to Burlington they had talked about.
    The phone rang.
    Karen jumped a little, having all but given up on Dr. Gudhausen. She stepped quickly around the unmade bed and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
    "Dr. Bradley?"
    "Yes?"
    "Oh, good; glad I caught you. Stan Gudhausen here. Look, I'm sorry about cutting this so close to the wire, but I've been trying to track down an old friend of mine. Haven't accomplished much of anything except running up my Sprint bill. Anyway, the guy's a priest. A Jesuit psychologist. Crackerjack clinician. Listen, Doctor, if I may, I'd like to invite myself up to Vermont for a day or two. I think I'd like to examine that little Washburn girl in person, if that would be all