Free Lucifer's Tears by James Thompson

regret.
    “The truth is you’re right,” I say. “I feel terrible guilt because I’m afraid I traumatized my wife to the point that it caused her miscarriage, and I’m terrified that she’ll lose this child, too. I’m scared that she’ll die.”
    “Kate is medicated for the hypertension associated with preeclampsia, the odds of her losing the child are slim. Your child is safe inside her.”
    “The odds aren’t slim enough. The statistics don’t make me less petrified.”
    He leans forward and locks eyes with me. For the first time I view him as someone trying to help me instead of as an adversary. “Kari,” he says, “I think we’ve made a breakthrough. Our first one. What do you say we start again, and now really begin your treatment.”
    I nod.
    “How are your headaches?” he asks.
    “Bad. A migraine is killing me right now. It hasn’t stopped for weeks.”
    “Describe the symptoms.”
    “They vary. Sometimes my temples pulse and throb. Sometimes it feels like I’m being stabbed deep in the head with a hot knife and an artery is about to explode. Most often though, I feel like my head is being squeezed, like a weight is on me, pushing me to the ground.”
    “This feeling of being stabbed deep in the head is medically impossible, because there are no nerves in that area. If you were about to have an aneurysm, you would never know it.”
    I hadn’t thought of that.
    “It’s possible that your migraines are caused by the gunshot wound to your head or another physical problem, but I would like you to consider the possibility that they’re psychosomatic, and that what you’re really experiencing are sublimated panic attacks generated by guilt over your wife’s miscarriage, and consequently, current fear for your wife and unborn child. That might be why the nearer she comes to term, the worse the headaches get.”
    “My headaches are panic attacks that last for weeks?”
    “Possibly. Still, I think you should have tests run to rule out physical problems.”
    “I already promised Kate I would.”
    “Good. Our time is up, and anyway, I think we should call it a day now.”
    “Me too.”
    For the first time since our initial meeting, we shake hands.

10
    Kate will have picked up her brother and sister from the airport by now. I agreed to meet them at five thirty, at a bar in our neighborhood, for a drink before dinner. I’m running late.
    I find a parking space on Vaasankatu and walk into Hilpea Hauki-The Happy Pike-a little bar Kate and I enjoy and consider our local. Most of its sales are from imported designer beers. Its prices are higher than most of the other bars in the neighborhood, but because of it, Hilpea Hauki has a better clientele, a low-key and less than roaring drunk atmosphere. Kate also likes it because the bartenders are a well-educated bunch, and she can speak English with them. It’s a nice place for us to get out of the house and chat.
    Kate, John and Mary are sitting at a corner table. The family resemblance is apparent. All three are tall, thin and rangy, have pale complexions and cinnamon-red hair-Kate’s in a chignon, Mary’s long and pulled back into a ponytail, John’s shoulder-length and also pulled back. Mary is twenty-four but looks older, except for young, dancing eyes. John is twenty-three, but looks younger, except for old, unwavering eyes.
    I lean over, give Kate a peck on the lips and introduce myself to the others. John stands, shakes my hand and grins. He’s got a rebel style with a pricey slant to it. He wears a leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, but the leather jacket is soft, expensive and Italian, the jeans Diesels, the boots Sedona West full-quill ostrich. Fancy garb for an academic. I take it he pictures himself a ladies’ man. He’s a little unsteady, appears to have had a few drinks on the plane. Mary shoots John a disapproving glance because of his wobbling, but her smile toward me is warm. She stands, too, leans across the table and hugs