Blood Trance

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Oh.”

  Right from the start I disliked Helen, and not just because she'd recently come flying at me in the woods, ready to attack and kill me. Or because I wasn't getting any sort of straight answer. Or because of the sparse, rather unfavorable report Maddy had given of the woman, either. I just didn't care for the way she had led us back to the house in silence, then ordered us into the kitchen for an enforced, or rather patrolled, cup of coffee. And I didn't care for the way she directed her stepdaughter around as if Loretta were her own personal maid.

  Loretta looked at me, eyes open and innocent, and asked, “What would you prefer, Alex, decaffeinated coffee or regular?”

  I wanted to counter Helen and cast my allegiance with Loretta. It was late, though, and the last thing I wanted was to be lying in the dark in some musty motel room, my eyes wide open as my heart pumped away.

  “Actually, I'd like decaf,” I replied.

  “You see?” said Helen. “You see, Loretta? You have to think of others. You always have to ask.”

  “Yes, Helen.”

  “Alex, take it slowly here and focus clearly on this and this alone. What was Loretta's reaction?”

  I looked at Loretta, studied her, and watched as her hands curled into tight fists. Tension, that was it. A lot of it. She glared at her stepmother for just an instant, and that's when I saw it.

  “Saw what?”

  All the hatred. It came beaming out of Loretta's eyes, all hot, wanting to cut into the other woman, slice her as if with an invisible knife. You couldn't miss it, so blatant, brazenly exhibited for just a moment before Loretta quickly moved on, her fingers clawing open the canister of decaf.

  “But I bet you'd like it strong,” said Loretta. “I remember your sister. She drank her coffee very, very strong. It was so black you couldn't even see the side of the cup showing through.”

  “Yes,” I said, “that's the way I like it, too.”

  It was all rather surreal, and I glanced at Helen, who was looking away, lost in thought or disinterest. I wanted to punch her, of course, for the problem was already clear. Perhaps Helen wasn't the source of the severe, even debilitating, lack of self-worth that had caused Loretta to seek my sister's professional help several years ago, but she certainly was doing nothing to improve it.

  As I sat there watching Loretta so carefully measure the coffee and pour the water into the machine, as I noticed how Helen was observing Loretta's every move, I realized how little Maddy had really told me about this family. And just then I had this thud of a realization, the sinking kind, as if I'd been tricked yet again. How typical. My sister had done it once more. She'd sent me first into a situation, then later into a trance, without telling me all she knew. In her sessions with my sister, Loretta had most certainly alluded to, if not outright told Maddy about, the dynamics going on now between Loretta and Helen. How could she not? And I guessed there was more, too, for it was completely obvious that this sick household had been infested by contempt and hate.

  I felt myself pausing, then splitting in two. One part of me magically floated out of the scene, right out of that kitchen in suburban Chicago. There was someone watching over all this, someone who could answer these questions, I knew, but I got nothing in response, which pissed me off. I needed an answer. Had to have one in order to move on. If I got nothing from way up above, from my regal sister who was now impersonating some form of higher power, then I was going to jump ship and completely abandon this flight of a trance.

  “All right, yes. I knew there were problems between Loretta and Helen. And, yes, you're right Loretta hated her.”

  Just as quickly as the answer came, so did an intuitive realization. I understood now. This was why Loretta had come to see my sister. Loretta had sought out the help of a therapist not because she felt herself to be worthless or was afraid to leave the house but because deep inside, hidden from everyone, she was such an angry person, someone so full of rage that she was afraid she was going to explode.

  Oh, shit. I gazed back into my trance, looked down on myself sitting in that kitchen, watched as Loretta carefully handed me a cup of hot, black coffee, then served her stepmother as if this was some sort of test she was terrified of flunking—don't spill, Loretta!— and I understood. Loretta had sought out professional help in large part because of her boiling hatred of her stepmother.

  “Correct again.”

  And Loretta had talked about her anger and maybe even about wanting to hurt Helen. She had, hadn't she?

  “Yes. We'd just gotten into that in our last session. We'd been using hypnosis almost from the start, but when I put her under in that last session, there was a personality split of sorts. The good Loretta, the one who'd been struggling to do everything right, was pushed aside by the bad Loretta, a little girl full of rage who wanted nothing more than to scream and to—”

  Kill Helen.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  How, with a knife?

  “Yes.”

  Oh, Jesus. I understood now why Maddy had taken Loretta's note so seriously, why she'd been so eager for me to pack my bags and head down to Chicago. Maddy had been afraid that the note was a sign, a forewarning, that Loretta was intending to kill Helen, so she'd sent me off, hoping that a harbinger from her would stop it. If so, though, why hadn't my sister said anything directly, given me clear directions?

  ”I should have. That was my error.”

  A mistake that had cost Helen her life? Oh, my God. That was why Maddy was so interested in this, even obsessed by Loretta, because if she proved Loretta innocent, Maddy would also prove herself guiltless. That was it, why Maddy was willing to do anything, even bring Loretta to the island.

  “Your coffee's getting cold.”

  I knew I was being manipulated but I also knew it was unimportant. An issue for later. Suddenly the two parts of me were fused back together, and I looked down, wrapped my hands around a mug that was warm and steaming.

  A distant voice chanted and commanded, “Take a sip, feel it pull you back to that moment, that time. Swallow the coffee and taste it again. Was it indeed strong?”

  Without thinking, I lifted the mug to my lips, took a long sip, felt the bitterness dark and heavy in my mouth. And when I raised my eyes, there they were, those two women, stepdaughter and stepmother who were almost close enough in age to be sisters, staring at me.

  “This is good, Loretta,” I said. “Nice and strong.”

  “You don't want any milk or sugar?”

  I shook my head.

  “I know that's the way your sister liked it, nice and black,” she repeated.

  Loretta's tired eyes suddenly grew wide as if she'd forgotten something. Not saying a word, she dashed out of the kitchen and into the living room. As I heard her fumbling for something in the other room, I glanced back at Helen, who looked at me and shook her head. Seconds later, Loretta was back, clutching three photographs mounted in acrylic frames. She hurried over to the table, eagerly holding one of the pictures out to me.

  “See, I have a sister, too,” said Loretta, proudly. “That's Carol Marie. She owns a store in the mall. She's very clever like Daddy. Good in business. Isn't she pretty?”

  It looked like a high school picture, makeup just so, hair all done up, but she was attractive, and I said, “Yes, she's very pretty.”

  “And this one's my brother, Billy. He was a good student. Top grades. And such a beautiful writer. He writes wonderful poetry.” Loretta smiled. “Billy and Carol Marie are twins; did you know that?”

  “Yes.” Studying the second picture, I saw a young man, light-brown hair, thick mustache, a handsome guy, and I asked, “Are they younger?”

  “Oh, yes. Lots younger. I'm the big sister.” Loretta fell into some sort of sad thought and glanced away. “Our mama died just after they were born.”

  “I'm sorry.” I motioned to the third photograph. “And who's that?”

  The smile bloomed again. “That was our daddy.”

  �
��My husband,” muttered Helen.

  As if her stepmother weren't even there, Loretta said to me, “Helen was his second wife. After our mother died, Daddy married Helen. That's when we moved up here, up to this suburb. We used to live in the city. Before that Helen was Daddy's—”

  “Loretta, please!” interrupted Helen. She looked at me. “John died five years ago from a stroke. We all miss him.”

  “Yes, we do,” agreed Loretta, looking down at the table top. “I miss him lots.”

  Helen took a sip of coffee, then moved the conversation away from her family, saying, “So you're the brother of the famous Maddy.”

  I nodded. To me my sister was just my sister, quirky and wonderful, not someone famous, just someone with a myriad of traits that often drove me crazy. Maybe I still harbored anger at her for the times she beat me up as a kid or tricked me; maybe I just knew all of that was part of her as well. Whatever, through the eyes of others like Loretta, I was now beginning to understand that Maddy had a gift. An ability to touch people in a profound and simple way. It was the gift of trauma, I knew. Inside that shell of misfortune created by her blindness and hardened still further by her paralysis lay a brilliant pearl, which Maddy had claimed and made good use of.

  “I wear it with a joy many cannot understand.”

  To Helen, I said, “Maddy left her practice quite quickly, as you must know.”

  Loretta interjected, “The bus.”

  I nodded. “And ever since then she's felt bad about leaving her clients in the lurch, so to speak. She just wanted me to look in on a few of them and say hello.”

  “How nice,” said Helen, a smile noticeably absent from her face. “Well, you can tell her that everyone's fine here.”

  Loretta quickly asked, “Oh, yes, but why don't you come back tomorrow, Alex? Why don't you come back and tell me all about Maddy—I mean Dr. Phillips.”

  “Loretta,” said her stepmother, “I don't think that would be a good idea. I really don't want you getting upset. We've had enough commotion around here for a while. Besides, I'm sure that Alex has many other things to do.”

  Loretta pursed her lips, folded her hands, then said, “I'd like him to come back.”

  “It's really no problem. I'd enjoy it,” I said, challenging Helen with a strong look. “I have plenty of time.”

  “Oh, good!” said Loretta, a large smile on her face. “That would be wonderful—I like visitors. Come back tomorrow, about eleven? I'll make something cold to drink and we'll sit outside and talk, all right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  It was two against one here, and Helen clamped her thin lips together, said nothing. Finally she sipped at her coffee.

  And finally she said, “Well, obviously my advice here doesn't count. Do as you two please. Now, if you'll excuse us, Alex. It's been a rather long day.”

  In other words, get the hell out. I looked at Loretta, studied her face, hoped she had the strength to battle Helen after I left. But did she?

  I took a last sip of coffee, started to rise, and invoked my sister yet again, saying, “Tomorrow, Loretta, you have to tell me what's new in your life. Maddy specifically wants to know how you're doing.”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, good.” Loretta started to get up, too. “I'll walk you to your car.” She paused, defiantly added, “I'll be right back, Helen.”

  As the two of us left the bright kitchen and crossed onto the white carpeting of the living room, Helen called after us, saying, “Just stay away from that goddamned park.”

  For all the order of the living room with its perfect floor covering, prim yellow-and-blue-upholstered furniture, and knickknacks so perfectly placed, I detested it. As we passed through it, another image kept seeping into my mind, one of chaos and violence. What I now saw here was artificially created, I knew. A desired perfection, one that would be wiped away in, I sensed, a horrible death. By the time we reached the front door I was shuddering with visions of the future. I moved past them, and Loretta and I stepped outside and into the cool night air, then proceeded to my small rental car parked by the curb.

  As we strolled down the drive to the street, in a low voice I said, “Loretta, Maddy got your letter and she's quite worried.”

  In a display of trust that I didn't expect so quickly, Loretta slipped her hand through my arm, and replied, “I'm afraid, too.”

  “Of what?”

  Loretta looked back at the house, and I followed her paranoia, glancing back as well. Helen stood in the living-room window, arms folded across her stomach and staring after us.

  Loretta continued, whispering, “I don't know— things. I'll tell you tomorrow.”

  Loretta was even more pale, her hair even more straight and flat in the dark. I saw the fear in her eyes as she kept glancing back at her stepmother so distinctly framed in the picture window.

  “Loretta, just tell me this,” I said. “Was there someone out there in the park chasing you tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  She nodded.

  “Who?”

  And she replied. “The man who hates my family.”

  With that she leaned forward, wrapped her arms around me, and kissed me firmly on the cheek. I stood there, taken aback, then watched as Loretta rushed back down the drive and inside the rambler.

  Chapter 8

  I liked nothing of what I'd seen tonight and didn't know what to make of any of it. Maddy had sent me to see one of her former patients who she feared was plotting to kill her own stepmother or perhaps take her own life, and I'd just seen justification for either or both. As I drove away from Loretta's, however, I knew it wasn't so simple, particularly in light of that business in the park. For a moment I'd been almost ready to believe there hadn't been anyone out in the woods pursuing Loretta, that perhaps it had all been a creation of Loretta's pitiful mind. But Loretta herself had just countered it all, said there had been someone after her. Someone with a good amount of ill will toward her family. And I had to believe that Helen knew there'd been danger as well, for she'd been there, hatred in her eyes, ready to slash. I didn't like this, not much at all. I turned off their street, taking a right around the far edge of the park. My motel, where I'd already checked in, was some fifteen minutes away, just the other side of highway 294, but I had no real desire to return there and drop myself in front of CNN or MTV. It wasn't even ten. Certainly there was a restaurant somewhere out here, one of the chains, that was still open. It was just a matter of finding my way out of this soft tangle of streets, this 1950s creation of winding roads, lanes, and culs-de-sac. But where was I? This area was a blur of suburbs, endless spacious homes surrounded by endless trees, and I wasn't even sure which suburb I was now in. Whether Loretta lived in Wheeling or Mt. Prospect, a finger of Arlington Heights or perhaps even in Deerfield, I couldn't guess.

  It was so quiet as I drove, the night so empty and dark, that I noticed the other car, the one that appeared behind me about a block from Loretta's, almost at once. I didn't think at first that it was following me; that idea didn't even occur to me. I noticed the powerful headlights, the beams reflecting off my rear-view mirror and cutting into my eyes, but I didn't give it much thought.

  “Was this the first time he came after you?”

  Yes. But even though I had no idea of the danger, I felt panicky. I'm not sure why, but I did. After the incident in the park and the odd conversations with Helen and Loretta, everything seemed off-color.

  “Off-color like the car following you, which was….”

  I glanced in my mirror, saw the other vehicle pass beneath a streetlight. Funny brown. An off-brown, something that was once a chocolaty color but was now more washed out.

  “Hold that image. Look at it,” directed my other-world boss. “So it was an old car?”

  Sure, old car, old color, paint faded. Big grill. Lots of chrome. I guessed it to be a Ford, something that had seen many miles and much use.

  “Good. Go on.”


  To test my fear, I turned left at the next corner and accelerated. For a few seconds the street behind me was dark and quiet, and I thought I was all wrong, just being paranoid, but then that same large automobile came screeching around the corner and racing in my trail. Reflexively, I sped up, tried to keep a lead. I checked the mirror, saw the car still gaining on me, and turned left, my tires crying as I whipped around. It was a short street, and at the very next corner there was a clump of birches, a fire hydrant, bushes and so on, and I steered right, turning past them. I kept my speed up, charging on. I kept checking the rearview mirror, too, hoping whoever it was wasn't really following me, but those bright beams came out of the night, lunging out, catching me in their light. This couldn't be, I wondered, a couple of doped-up high school kids, out for a night of suburban terrorism, could it? No, that'd be ridiculous. So why would anyone follow me?

  “Because not only had you just rescued Loretta in the park, she'd just kissed you. Obviously he understood you were very close or somehow very special to her.”

  Whatever this was, it was ridiculous, and when I came to a stop sign, I decided to play along no more. I pulled to a complete halt. I wasn't going to give in, I wasn't going to play this game, and I turned around in my seat and stared out the rear window. I had a temporary macho idea that I should jump out of the car, stand firm, demand to know what this was about. But reason as well as any number of weird stories, most of them involving Los Angeles, kept me in my car, and I stared back at the old Ford that was barreling down on me. Shit. It was doing just that, barreling, racing faster and faster. In one instant I wondered, This guy isn't going to hit me, is he? And in the next moment I knew he was. As the other car zeroed in on me, I could hear the roar of his engine filling the night.

  I spun back in my seat, rammed my right foot forward, stood on the gas and stared in the mirror. I knew at once there was no way I was going to make it, that there were only seconds before he rammed me, but there wasn't even that much time. I was probably going only ten or fifteen when there was an enormous crash and I was jolted and hurled forward. My head snapped back against the headrest, and my ears rang with the sound of crashing metal and breaking glass. As my body was thrown against the seat, the steering wheel jumped out of my hands. The next instant it seemed like I was flying upward, that I would smash against the ceiling of the car, but then the seatbelt locked, digging into my gut, holding me down. I lunged out for the steering wheel, grabbed it, and tried to keep some sort of control as the surge of the larger auto, its thrust, hurled me forward. Up ahead I saw a parked car, knew that I was about to be rammed directly into it, and wrestled the wheel to the left. I smashed my foot on the gas pedal, and there was the shrill tearing of metal as I somehow broke loose and pulled away.