“During the session, I’m going to ask how you’re feeling… that’s when you can give me a number—twenty, thirty, fifty, and so on,” Dr. Tillman said as I placed my hands on my lap and took a deep breath.
Dr. Tillman stood from her chair and walked to the corner of the room. Her heels scraped against the carpet as she made her way to the doors and dimmed the lights, making the space feel more like a massage room than a psychologist’s office.
“I want you to lie back and close your eyes,” Dr. Tillman said as she returned to her chair, “and tell me what happened that night. I want you to speak in first person, present time. Describe the situation in detail, as if it is happening to you right now.”
“Okay,” I nodded and took another deep breath. I closed my eyes as a silent tug of cynicism lurked in the back of my mind. It rose from my head and hovered behind me as it looked down at us with a crooked smile. It silently taunted me, like a playground bully who mocked the attempts I made to get past him.
“Where are you?” Dr. Tillman’s asked.
I squeezed my eyes shut harder and concentrated on the black abyss in front of me. A thin white light formed, and it stretched across the center of my vision. It slowly grew wider, as if I was subconsciously walking toward it.
Gradually, sharp lines in the shapes of dry leaves appeared before me. They dangled off the decaying tree branches, which looked like malevolent arms trying to grab me. I envisioned myself pushing past the branches, twigs snapping beneath my feet with each step. The edges of the leaves scraped along my face and pulled at the loose strands of my hair.
“I’m in Mirror Woods,” I said.
As if I was actually there, I saw myself maneuver through the dense cluster of trees and bushes that served as a barrier between the road and Lathan Collins’ lair.
“Good,” Dr. Tillman replied. “What are you doing there?”
I envisioned the same dusk sky from that night. It rolled over in dark shades of red, creating a threatening filter. My heart pounded inside my chest like a hammer against a cement wall, and my lungs tightened with each whack. The menacing sky hovered over the backyard of the abandoned home, which looked like a lonely rowboat stranded in the middle of the ocean, waiting to be rescued.
That’s where I was headed.
“I’m looking for the house,” I answered, my eyes still closed.
“Describe the area.”
“It’s warm. The sun is coming through the trees. Every step I take, I can hear the leaves crunch beneath my feet. I see it.”
“See what?”
“The house. It’s hidden behind the trees, but I can see it,” I said. “It’s farther away than I thought it would be. I’m walking toward the backdoor. The screen door is broken at the bottom. The wood trim is decayed. No one has lived here for a long time.” I paused. “I’m looking around—making sure not to even blink. I hear him.”
“Who do you hear?”
“Him!” I repeated. A snap of a twig from behind me echoed in my head, and then it went dark. My vision had been taken from me again. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t hear him. I could only feel him.
The cold, muggy floor of that basement. My ankle, shackled to the wall. Rachel’s voice, pleading for help. All I could do was sit there.
I sat there, frozen with fear, as I waited for Lathan to come down those stairs. I sat there as I waited to see Angela Truman’s face stretched over Lathan’s head, her skin full of silent screams from the strain.
Behind my closed eyes, a wall of tears formed. It sealed my eyelids further shut, like a coat of glue had been smeared across my lashes. The pressure in my jawline grew to a throbbing ache as I clenched my teeth tighter. The room had become more suffocating than a sauna.
It was as if a heavy boulder had rolled onto my chest, and I took a deep breath to try to get it off me. My chest rose as my lungs tightened, and a sharp pain pierced my rib cage. My lungs—they couldn’t expand. They couldn’t lift my chest high enough to move the boulder.
A soft pop escaped from my mouth as my lips parted and allowed more air to fill me. It still wasn’t enough. This weight was crushing me.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Tillman calmly asked. How could she be so calm when I was trapped under this thing? “What number are you?” Her voice became more concerned.
“I don’t know,” I gasped. “Seventy?” I tried to take a deep breath. The boulder had sunk so far into my chest that it was now resting on my spine.
“Where are you?” she asked again.
“I’m there. I’m with Rachel. I’m with him.” The ghastly echo of Lathan’s footsteps coming down the stairs seized my mind.
“I want you to remain still, with your eyes closed. And I want you to walk out of the house, Lena. Leave Rachel there. Leave Lathan there. He can’t hurt you. You’re in my office, and you’re safe.” I heard Dr. Tillman adjust in her chair, as if she was now sitting on the edge of the cushion, ready to lift this boulder off my chest at any moment.
Sweat dripped from my palms. But knowing I was outside the abandoned house, away from Lathan, made the boulder crushing through my chest slowly shrink to the size of a cinderblock. I envisioned myself walking away from the house, through the dense woods and toward my car.
The cinderblock was only a pebble now.
I saw my car parked on the side of the road. Waves of sunlight reflected off the hood. I opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. I took a deep breath. My lungs filled with air, and my chest stretched out until I couldn’t fill it any more.
The pebble was gone.
My eyelids, which had been suction-cupped together at the base, slowly opened. My vision blurred as I focused on Dr. Tillman. I was no longer in Mirror Woods. I wasn’t even in my car. I was with Dr. Tillman. I was in her office. I was safe.
“That’s enough for today,” she said from the edge of her cushion, just as I had imagined. Her eyes fixed on me as her lips pouted into a concerned frown. She held the notepad and pen loosely in her hands, as if she was ready to drop them on the floor in case she had to call for medical assistance.
I sat up from my reclined position in the chair, and my head throbbed as if it had been filled with wet cement. Dr. Tillman stood from her chair and walked toward the corner of her office. A burst of brightness shone down on us as she flipped the light switch, and I blinked back the blinding glare. The thin beams of sunlight around the edges of the curtains drowned in the artificial light that now filled the office.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Tillman asked after she sat back down.
“Um….” I tried to clear my dry throat. A thin coat of film covered my tongue as I gauged a number. “Thirty? Thirty-Five.”
“Is that normal for you?”
“No.” I shook my head—and immediately regretted my honesty.
“What is?”
I didn’t want to tell her. I was certain that, if I did, she would send me to the psych ward with a complementary straightjacket. But to hell with it. If that’s where I needed to be, then so be it. I wasn’t going to put myself through another exposure session. No way—not happening.
“Forty… on a good day,” I answered.
“What’s a bad day?”
“You just saw it.”
Dr. Tillman leaned back in her chair. As she crossed her legs, she brought her two index fingers together in a point, and slowly nodded.
Here it was. She was going to send me packing.
“You said you’re at a thirty now… thirty-five. Why is that?”
“Because I’m with you,” I confided.
“That’s quite common,” she said. A rush of assuredness washed over me. “I don’t pose a threat. The real world is stressful.”
I nodded. I was finally talking to someone who understood.
“When you feel yourself getting worked up, there are home remedies that can help alleviate some of that stress. Going outside, leaving the situation that’s causing your stress, sound therapy—”
“Sound therapy?”
“Tranquil music. Or noises, like ocean waves or—”
“What?” I snapped. I couldn’t believe the audacity of her suggestion. Was I, a sergeant with the West Joseph Police Department, supposed to leave the middle of a crime scene in order to listen to a whispering waterfall?
Is this what my life had become? Harmonious plucks of guitar strings and soothing sounds of nature? If this was all I had to look forward to—envisioning myself chasing puppies along a creek through a field of wheat—then why fight it? Bring on the straightjacket and tiny paper cup of valium. I would rather be out of my mind and emotionally numb than listen to some gurgling-water soundtrack that would inevitably make me wet the bed.
“Sound therapy is just one of many options,” Dr. Tillman calmly replied.
I shook my head as I glanced toward the window. The damn curtains were still closed. How was I supposed to find peace and relaxation if I couldn’t even look out the window? My chest became tight again, and I held my breath to control my breathing.
My thirty-five was at a forty. Now fifty. Maybe Dr. Tillman had sounds of a babbling brook I could listen to.
“It’s common among those who suffer from PTSD to avoid situations that remind them of the event. In your case, that’s Mirror Woods.”
“Sometimes I don’t have a choice,” I retorted. “If I’m called, I have to go.”
“Yes, I understand,” she said with a slight adjustment in her tone. “Is it possible that when you’re called to Mirror Woods, you could listen to something that will help keep you calm?”
“I guess.” I shrugged. She wasn’t letting this sound-therapy thing go. “What else do people with PTSD do? You said it was common to avoid situations—what else?”
“You might try avoiding people who trigger memories of the event,” she said.
“It was just me there,” I reminded her. “And Rachel Sanzone.”
“It isn’t just the people who were physically there. People who were pertinent in your life at the time may also cause triggers,” she added.
The only pertinent person in my life at the time was Abi. Until five days ago, she still was. “I live with Abi,” I said. “I have to look her every day.” Abi and I had yet to discuss what our living arrangements would be once she got back from Pittsburgh. I would be content with her living in the house until she found a place of her own. Just because we broke up didn’t mean I wanted her gone.
I had a clear opportunity to tell Dr. Tillman about my pending break up with Abi, but I didn’t. Telling Dr. Tillman would have made it too real. And I wasn’t ready to admit I may soon be on my own.
The harsh truth of my newfound autonomy was that I forgot how to be independent.
I remembered Dr. Tillman telling me that co-dependency was a symptom of PTSD. Had co-dependency cost me my independence? I needed Abi to make decisions and guide me through life. She was my shelter. She was my sanity.
But I couldn’t tell Dr. Tillman any of this. Not yet, anyway. Besides, Abi and I were technically still together. We had been through too much together to break up over the phone. This was something that deserved to be done face-to-face.
“But do you see her?” Dr. Tillman asked.
I braced myself for the windows to shatter as the office began to cave in. The weight of Dr. Tillman’s question was almost as heavy as that boulder. Do I see Abi? I may look at her every day, but do I really see her?
“No,” I finally said. “I avoid her. I barricade myself in the office while she’s in the living room. She goes to bed without me because she’s tired of waiting.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Relieved, in a way. Resentful in another.”
“How so?”
“Relieved that I don’t have to face her or talk about it. Resentful because she doesn’t go the extra mile to figure me out.” But it was more than just an extra mile she’d have to go. She could travel around the world and still wouldn’t get anywhere with me.
“Is that fair to her?”
“No,” I quickly answered. It wasn’t fair. Not to her, not to me—not to anyone. But it was how I felt. She was the one person I could take everything out on, and I knew she would still be there to sweep up the broken pieces of our relationship.
“What do you want to say to her?” Dr. Tillman began to write in her notepad again. The room quieted as I thought about my answer. The only sound was the scribble of a pen across paper.
What did I want to say to Abi? I’m sorry was definitely a start. I had apologized to her—but not for everything I should have. “I want to say, ‘You have every right to leave,’” I said. “And that just because I’ve given up on us doesn’t mean I want you to.’”
“Have you really given up on your relationship?” Dr. Tillman continued to write.
“More yes than no. I just can’t fight anymore. I need her to do all the work.”
“Who’s to blame for what happened with Lathan?” Dr. Tillman put down her pen and focused her eyes on me. I was unprepared for her shift in questions.
“Ultimately Lathan is to blame. He’s the one who chose his actions….” I trailed off.
“But….”
“But I blame Abi too. I blame her because I wanted to make her proud of me.” Tears began to form. “Deep down, I wanted to catch him. I wanted to catch the bad guy all by myself.” I swallowed back the tears and forced a smile. “I wanted to make her proud to be with me.”
“Did you want to make anyone else proud?”
“I wanted to make everyone proud. My boss, my co-workers, the entire town. Everyone.” I slumped back in the chair.
“Do you place blame on your boss, your co-workers, or the town?” Dr. Tillman asked.
“No.” I paused. “Only Abi,” I sullenly admitted.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” A tear fell. “I know it’s not fair to her.”
“Let’s go back to my original question: What do you see when you look at her?”
I paused as I thought more about her question. “I see someone who pities me,” I said. Dr. Tillman became a blur as my eyes filled with tears. “I feel her pity.” I took a deep breath and held it in as I tried to get my fifty back down to a thirty—or at least forty. I would settle for forty.
“How has your anger toward her been? Any physical symptoms?”
“Like, have I hit her? Absolutely not.” I exhaled, completely appalled at the suggestion.
“What about your tone? Your words? When those who suffer from PTSD get worked up, they become jittery. They’re often on edge, as if they’re anticipating a dangerous situation to occur. This can cause a person to become angry or irritable. It’s called hyper-arousal.”
“I’m easily irritated,” I nodded. “Abi walks on eggshells around me. I can hear it in her tone.”
“During your next session, we’ll discuss your attitude and perception of Abi. Until then, I would like for you to start seeing things from her perspective. You don’t have to keep a journal per se, but make a few mental notes on how Abi may be interpreting your actions.”
“Okay,” I said. I was so physically and emotionally exhausted that I would have agreed to anything Dr. Tillman said. I felt as if I had completed a triathlon in less than an hour. My eyes burned as I fought to keep them open. I was completely drained, as if someone had knocked the wind out of me. But at least this would buy me some time before I had to confess to Dr. Tillman that Abi and I had broken up. “Thank you,” I said as I stood from the chair.
“I’ll see you next week,” she said, politely reminding me of our now-weekly appointments.
I checked the clock on Dr. Tillman’s wall as I exited her office doors. The thin minute hand moved past the number twelve, and the hour hand pointed directly at the number five. Cait and I had plans to stake out the West Joseph Shopping Plaza in the hope that we could find the person who’d sent the emails. I was supposed to meet her at the police station at
5:15. And if I didn’t hurry, I was going to be late.
***
“Any luck with the photo?” I asked Abram when I walked into my office.
He was sitting behind my desk, and the glow of the amber sun coming from the back window highlighted his gelled hairline. A high-pitched squeak pulsed from underneath the seat as he rocked back and forth, as if this was his office and I was the intruder.
Cait sat across from him, on the visitors’ side of the desk—where anyone other than me should be. I took a deep breath, half-expecting to smell urine from where Abram had marked his territory. But I decided to let it go. I glanced at Cait, and she gave me a simple nod. She was too engrossed in the file in front of her to notice that Abram had made no attempt to give up the seat behind my desk.
“Yes,” he answered. “Her name is Kristen Valeri.”
He handed me back the photo that had been left on my car at the warehouse, along with a Missing Persons Report on Kristen Valeri. I held the photo in my left hand and the Missing Persons Report in my right, comparing the two images. Shallow dimples dented her cheeks in both photos. The Missing Persons Report must have featured her driver’s license picture; the plain, soft blue background made her dark hair and bright green eyes stand out.
The two photos were clearly of the same person.
“I’m reading over the Missing Persons Report now,” Cait chimed in, though she never looked up from the file.
“My chair?” I said to Abram as I placed the photo and report on the desk. His eyes widened, as if he had just now realized I was the rightful owner.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He sat forward in the chair as he adjusted his tie and stood up. He took a step to the side. I scooted my chair back and sat down, the cushion warm and sweaty, and I looked at the sheet of paper in the center of my desk. I didn’t recognize it from the victims’ case files.
“What’s this?” I asked Abram as I picked up the piece of paper.
“I made a list of each restaurant and coffee shop at West Joseph Plaza that offers Wi-Fi, along with their hours of operation,” he said. “And it’s Wednesday. So if the sender follows suit, he or she will be sending another video tonight.”
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