by H. M. Ward
I press my lips together and then shove the laptop toward him. He takes it but doesn’t look at the screen. “While I was looking at the memories, the page refreshed and a new picture of Zach showed up at the top. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Abby, we’ve talked about this already. Social media sites have algorithms and they play out in ways that are meant to draw in more use from each profile. They were showing you an image you haven’t seen in a while to get you to—”
I cut him off and point at the computer. “No, it’s not an old picture. It’s not one I took on our trip—”
“Abby,” he tries to cut me off, but I won’t let him.
“—but it is Zach and there’s a massive scar down his side. There’s a scar.” My hopes are on the last word. I cling to it, even though it’s coated with fear and apprehension.
Dr. Patel blinks at me. He understands what I’m saying. He spits out, “You think you saw your dead husband on Facebook?”
I nod once, too afraid to admit it.
Dr. Patel glances down at the screen and inhales slowly before meeting my gaze. “Isn’t it possible that this is just another glitch? A family member uploads a picture from a previous trip and tags him. It makes it look like Zach’s account is active again, even though it’s not. Remember that? Remember how upset you were when you saw movement on his page? Or the time a new message appeared in your personal Facebook messages from Zach? But it wasn’t new, was it?”
“No, but—”
“It was an old message and the system glitched, highlighted it, and bumped it to the top so you’d see it. Abby, this is more of the same. Facebook doesn’t know he’s dead so they keep trying to get you interacting again.”
My voice is sharper and I become more adamant. Stabbing my finger into the arm of my chair, I protest, “Dr. Patel, that’s not it. There was no tag. It was on his account, on his page. It fed through to my wall.”
Silence. Then, “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” My brow is pinched together so tight that my head throbs. My heart is about to snap again. I feel the fissures opening up and I can’t stand it.
“Absolutely, one hundred percent certain that there was no tag at all? That his mother or brother didn’t load the picture?”
“I’m certain. Tim wouldn’t do that and his mom doesn’t hate me that much anymore.” Doubt takes hold and now I’m not sure. A tag could have shown through to my feed as well, but someone would have had to tag me. I didn’t’ see one. There was no caption, no post. Just the picture.
I shake my head and lean forward in my chair. Something inside me fights it, that this wasn’t just an old picture being reposted. “But the scar. He didn’t have that scar before he—” my voice catches in my throat, “when I knew him.”
Dr. Patel’s dark brows knit together as he carefully touches the pads of his fingertips to one another, tapping them twice before speaking. “Is it possible that the man you saw was someone else?”
“It was Zach.”
“How do you know? Did you see his entire face?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
I bristle. He doesn’t believe me. “Because I have eyes and I’d know my husband’s profile anywhere. It was him. Please. I brought the computer so you could see for yourself. I need to know how else that picture could have gotten there because otherwise I’m losing it. Dr. Patel, please look.” I hand him the computer, placing it in his hands.
There’s an awkward moment where he isn’t sure if looking is enabling me or if I need more serious help. Either way, he decides and looks down at the screen. His eyes search the page and then he shakes his head. “There’s nothing here, Abby.”
I bounce up from the couch and cross the room in two strides before pulling the laptop from him. “It was at the top. I just saw it.”
“You’re under a lot of stress, Abby. Maybe it wasn’t what you thought?” His voice is kind, but it’s filled with concern that makes me tread carefully.
I hesitate, standing in the middle of the room with the laptop balanced on my forearm, scrolling, looking for the picture that spooked me earlier, but it’s not there. I click to Zach’s page. Nothing. Then I go to Zara’s. Nothing. His mother’s. Pictures of pies and pintrest repostings. His father’s. Old cars. His brother’s, Tim’s. Sports. Work. He checked in at my place in the middle of last night.
“Tim was at your house late last night?” He gives me a look that implies too many things.
I ignore his question and backpedal. Trembling, I slide my foot a step away from him. “Where is it?” I try a few more clicks, refresh the page, and go back to my feed. The memory time-jumps pop up, framed in orange like always, but that new picture is gone.
“Abby…”
My stomach twists so tight that it wrings all the air out of my lungs. A repressed shiver takes hold and I tremble as tears roll down my cheeks. “I saw him.”
The voice in the back of my head has gone quiet. I broke her. She doesn’t wail at me to shut up, that he’ll think I’m crazy. In the moment, I feel insane. I thought I saw a dead man and I came here to have the image explained away. I never expected the picture to disappear.
Dr. Patel is next to me, although I don’t remember him standing. He leads me back to the couch. “Are you still taking your medicines, Abby?”
I nod and bury my face in my hands, ashamed. What’s happening to me? Did I see that picture or not?
“Perhaps we should consider increasing the dosage.” It’s not a question this time. I hear him scribbling in his pad before he adds, “And the police were at your house early this morning, is that right? Is that why Tim was there?”
I wipe my eyes and look up at him. “Yes. Someone broke my window.”
“I see. How many times has this occurred now?”
“Three.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat and nods slowly. “And all these dive weights have a word on them?”
“You know they do.” I snap.
There’s a beat of silence before he asks me, pointblank, “Do you need to stop something? Let’s be real for a moment. I want to ask you a serious question.” He pauses making the tension in the air thicker for the bomb he’s about to drop.
I straighten my spine, certain I’m not going to like where this conversation is going.
Chapter 9
Dr. Patel steeples his fingers, then asks calmly as he watches for my reaction. “Are you a liar, Abby? Is it possible you’re lonely and need the attention? After everything you’ve been through—”
My eyes narrow into thin slits and very pointed words form in my mind. I bite them back as I rise and grab my purse. Cutting him off, I spit out, “I suspect you already know the answer to that question. I also suspect you know that it’s difficult to lose a loved one, so when social media starts reviving their account to make them appear alive—it’s more difficult than you can comprehend. You’ve not sustained this type of loss, not in this culture. It will happen to you one day and when it does, you’ll be met with jeers and ridicule rather than empathy because that’s what you doled out!” I’m across the room, hand on the doorknob, when he speaks.
“Abby, I had to ask.” He calls out after me. “Please understand that I needed to make sure you’re safe when you leave my office.”
My palm is still attached to the knob when I look over my shoulder and glare at him. “You didn’t have to say it like that.”
“Yes, I did. I needed to see an emotional reaction that was the correct level, considering the stimulus. Abby, Ms. Sabba.”
“Don’t call me that—”
“Please,” his voice softens, pleading with me, “sit down. I need to explain something to you.”
Part of me wants to say “fuck you,” walk out the door, slam it, and never come back. But his reply seems so rational and the lack of emotion coming from him now makes me think this isn’t bullshit. Besides, I’d storm out of his office only to call an Uber and
wait on his curb. Swallowing my pride, I turn and retake my seat on the couch, clutching my purse on my lap. My spine is ram-rod straight and my face is blank.
Dr. Patel puts his notebook down and catches my eye. “Abby. You’re at a dangerous junction between being able to distinguish reality from memories. The lines bleed together in your grief, and to some extent that’s anticipated and helps one achieve normalcy. Eventually it recedes when the person’s grief fades and the memories are clear and have a sense of nostalgia with them. The memories are recognized as distant recollections of the past and embraced as such.”
“I know what a memory is.” I glare at him, defensive to the core.
He nods, not unkindly. “Have your nightmares stopped?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at him and breathe, wishing to God I was stronger than this weak woman I’ve become.
He nods slowly, in that bobble-head way of his. “It’s to be expected. You endured a traumatic experience. You lost your husband in the process, and your best friend died a few months prior. The support system you’d seek at times like this is missing. The human mind is a complex thing. It will create what it needs most, and you need a close friend, someone who understands you.”
I counter, “I have Tim. I have Vi.”
“Do either of them have a similar relationship to what you had with Zach or Zara?”
“No two friendships are the same.” I know what he’s getting at, and that intentionally being obtuse won’t help matters.
“Rightly so. No two people are the same. However, you’ve sustained a great loss. To function at any level, you’ve most likely pushed away those who were close to you and could have filled that role.” He pauses for my response, but when I say nothing he continues. “Lean on them more. Force yourself to do it, otherwise you won’t like the road you’re headed down.”
“I can’t. I—” I’m about to make really good reasons why I’m not up to being vulnerable with more people when he cuts me off.
“You must. And there is one other thing I want you to do for yourself, to avoid the path you’re straying toward. You must be able to recognize what is real and what is not. Memories are not real. They can seem real, but they are not tangible in the present. Do you understand what I mean?”
I glare at him. “Yes.” I’m not an idiot. That picture was there.
“When memories appear while you are awake, and seem to be real, I want you to identify them, spell them out in your mind, and then decide—real or not real? If it is not real, take the thought, the memory, and mentally cross it out. Let’s practice. Imagine a pet you had as a child. Can you do that?”
I don’t want to do it, but I comply. “Yes. Cheri. My poodle.”
“Can you see her coat, the way it shines? Can you feel her curly mane and catch her scent?”
I nod. “Yes, it’s there.”
“Good. Good. Now, spell her name in your mind. Then take a thick black marker and cross her name out. Cross out the thoughts of her scent, her coat, her breath on your face. Do you see it?”
“I see it.”
“Cross it out. Push the thoughts back into the slot of your mind reserved for memories.”
I’m there with her, on the staircase of my parent’s house before they passed away. I’m with my poodle, and laying my head on her side as we watch mom cook dinner in the kitchen. I can smell Cheri’s strawberry shampoo, feel her curly coat as I twist it around my finger, and her warm doggie breath against my cheek.
I nod when I’ve done it. “How is this supposed to help me?”
“It’s differentiation, Abby. It will keep memories from trying to become something more. Right now your memories are vying for dominance. You cannot let them. Do you understand the consequences of allowing that to occur? You won’t be able to distinguish reality any longer. You won’t be trusted with children. You’ll lose everything if you need to be hospitalized to work through this. It’s much better if you can do it privately. Promise me you’ll do this and take it seriously.”
I stare at the closed laptop on his table. I need to accept that picture was a memory. There was no scar. I imagined it. I can do that.
I can.
“Abby, your freedom lies on the other side of accepting the truth. I know you’ve heard the saying, ‘the truth will set you free.’ In your case, it is the road to freedom. Strike out your demons, control your fate. You get to decide how this story ends. Which conclusion will you choose?”
“Freedom.” The word consumes me as every piece of grief that clings fervently to my being tries to cling harder. For a moment, I can breathe. For a second I can picture what it might feel like to not be crushed by numbness every day of my life. My soul drips with failure from heartbreak that won’t mend. I lost too much.
Throat tight, I manage to rasp out the rest of my thoughts while wringing my hands, “I want freedom more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life. I want to close my eyes and not see the gory remains of the man I once loved. I want to move forward with whatever is next. I want that so badly, but how do I get there when I’m drowning in grief?”
The kindness in his voice is filled with patience. He tilts his head to the side, watching me closely. “It will pass. Time will see to that.”
Silence fills the room because there are too many thoughts to get the words out. I break away, and stare at the leathery wall. My palms pass over the backs of my hands again and again, as I try to unlock my jaw and force out the words.
My voice is tight, barely there. “It’s already been a long time—longer than most people I know.”
A soft smile covers his features as his dark brows inch together. There’s no pity in his voice, it’s different. Something else. “Abby, your husband’s passing was more traumatic than anything most people will ever experience. You were there, and it covered you in scars on the inside and out.” He lifts a finger, indicating the marks on my cheek. “Stop being so hard on yourself. Look forward, Abby. Strikeout the things that threaten to undo you. Can you do that?”
Nodding, I confess softly, “I can. I will. I don’t want to cry anymore.” I want to smile again, even if it’s selfish. I want to be free of the crushing guilt that strangles me when my head hits the pillow every night. There was a time when joy filled my body and I laughed. Lips parted, I shift my eyes back to his and draw in a breath. “I want to move forward.”
Admitting the desire to move on feels like betrayal. Zach is gone because of me, because of that day and my decisions. My nasty words. That argument. We wouldn’t have been there in that shop at that time if it weren’t for me. That’s been something I can’t release even though everyone says it’s not my fault.
It doesn’t matter, because I know if it weren’t for me, Zach would be alive. We’d be hating each other and divorced like normal people. But maybe not. Maybe we would have worked through it. Found a second chance. Been happy. Moving on is freedom, but saying I want to move forward feels like such an egregious sin that nearly claws out the tatters of my heart to confess. It’s weakness, not strength. I’m so weary that I’d do anything to not feel this way anymore.
Dr. Patel leans forward in his chair, as his brows lift slightly. “Are you serious?”
I nod once and swallow hard. “Yes, but I’m not sure if I can do it, and failure will make things so much worse. How am I supposed to do it? Even if I wanted to move on, I don’t know how.”
The stifled smile on Dr. Patel’s face whispers of pride, although I’m not sure why. He pulls out his tablet and taps the screen a few times as he explains that he’s giving me new prescriptions and changing the dose of one, making it slightly higher than before. “This will help you not fall apart when you have a setback. Abby, life is filled with forward and backward movements. Backsliding is not failure. It’s part of life, but these will help you adjust. Routines are important. Keep them. With summer coming, you need a plan. Oh, and the acclimation period for the new medicine can make you feel sleepy. Best not drive for a fe
w days.”
Chapter 10
I should have tapped on a different Uber option. What was I thinking? K’Teal offers a throaty laugh before leaning toward me in the front seat of the old car, bobbing his head in amazement. “Pumpkin spiced kettle corn is the best, man. I can’t believe you haven’t tried it!”
Resisting the urge to pull away and jump out the door of a moving beast of a car, I force a fake smile. It screams awkward. The tight laugh I offer in reply doesn’t help any. Then I find my thumbs rising in unison. “It sounds amazing.”
“It’s fucking dope. You have no idea what you’re missing, dog. Imagine the perfect blend of salty and sweet. Then add in the pumpkin spice and,” he groans in a way that sounds too sexual as he pulls on the steering wheel, taking us around a corner.
Almost home. Almost home. I chant the phrase repetitively in my mind and continue with my plastic smirk. The vlog camera is freaking me out. K’Teal goes on and on about kettle corn. I’m only half listening when we’re finally on my block. He belts out a massive chuckle and slaps the steering wheel. “Dude, there was popcorn everywhere. And it stuck, man! All over the walls. It was crazy. I thought cooking using the pressure cooker would have been swicked, but alas,” that massive smile of his fades,” it wasn’t. That was the last of my spice stash too.”
My eyebrows have crept over my hairline at this confession. My neck cranes forward, toward him. “You tried to cook popcorn in a pressure cooker?”
“Yup.” He chuckles as he pulls over in front of my house. “Epic fail. Lid wasn’t locked or some shit like that. I couldn’t even eat it. It was like, raw kernels covered in sugar and spice. Kinda like you.” That huge grin returns as he bobs his head, agreeing with his own profound assessment of me.
When his lips part, the smile slides off his face as he looks past me toward my home. “Dude, your door is open.”