When Through Deep Waters

by Rachelle Dekker

  The whispers that followed her like a shadow hissed around her head, and she closed her eyes against their sudden appearance.

  Not now. Not here.

  Alicen.

  Do you hear us?

  The tears she’d been trying to fight off overpowered her, and again she felt them break across her lower eyelids. She shook her head, sniffing and trying to gain even a small amount of control.

  Do you hear us, Alicen?

  “I’m losing my sanity,” Alicen said. “I really am crazy. Just like she was.”

  “You’re referring to your grandmother Josephine?” Dr. Wells asked.

  Alicen didn’t respond. Her silence was enough.

  “Alicen, I think it is important we discuss her and her condition.”

  A wave of panic and nausea rolled through her body as her defense of the older woman sprang to action. “She was never diagnosed with a condition.”

  “You’re right, but many people believed—”

  “People believed all kinds of things about her that weren’t true.”

  Dr. Wells paused and changed his approach. “What did you believe about her?”

  Another wave of nausea washed through her. “I was so young,” Alicen said, getting lost in memories from the past. Remembering her dream from just a couple hours ago. The older woman’s beautiful tone washing through Alicen even now. Sitting in the forest, talking about grace, Alicen caught up in the confidence her grandmother had in what she believed. Alicen wasn’t sure how to answer Dr. Wells’s question.

  “From what I’ve seen of her file,” Dr. Wells continued, “it appears she may have suffered from some sort of schizophrenia or dementia.”

  Alicen shook her head. “No. She was never diagnosed.”

  “My understanding is that she refused to be. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t suffering from a disease.”

  “How is this helpful?” Alicen knew the answer to the question, but her mouth formed the words anyway.

  “These kinds of psychoses can oftentimes be hereditary, and not unlikely triggered by your recent tragedy,” he said.

  “But she wasn’t ever diagnosed. She was just . . .” Alicen’s words lost steam as her mind fully grasped what Dr. Wells was suggesting.

  “As scary as it feels,” the doctor explained, “giving what is happening to you a name and definition may serve as a comfort. It gives us some understanding and opens the different routes we can take to help you cope.”

  Help her cope? With a mental disorder? Alicen’s mind began to try to mold itself around the idea, but she just couldn’t get it to maneuver properly. There had to be some other explanation.

  The most recent memory of Grandma Joe floated across her mind again. Nagging at her. As if it wanted her to see something she was missing. Then a crazy thought blossomed, and her mouth spoke words before she could stop them. “Could it be more?”

  “More how?” Dr. Wells replied.

  Silence filled the office as Alicen’s mind began to churn over ideas that would make her sound crazier than she already did. “Helpers, sent to show me what my eyes alone could not see,” Grandma Joe had said. The words rang through Alicen’s brain like a bell.

  She glanced up at Dr. Wells, who was patiently waiting for her to speak. “Is there ever any truth to it?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Could they be real?”

  Dr. Wells thought about his answer carefully. “By they, you mean the things you’re seeing? You’re asking me if I believe in spirits? If it’s possible to be visited by something from beyond?”

  Alicen dropped her eyes sheepishly. “I bet you get asked that often.”

  He nodded. “Many patients believe in what they’re seeing.”

  “But you don’t believe it’s real?” Alicen asked.

  “If you had asked me ten years ago, I would have said that placing your belief in anything but science was a waste. Now, although I still claim to be a man of science, I also concede that the mind finds healing in different ways. I had a cousin who was tormented by her mind for much of her life—depression, anxiety, dangerous mood swings. It wasn’t until she was visited by angels a couple of years ago that she was able to find peace. She claims that God sent them to minister to her and care for her. I watched a woman I’ve known for forty years transform from being constantly miserable to being peaceful and happy. Now, do I think angels are real?” Dr. Wells smiled and shook his head. “No. Personally I’ve always found religion a bit far-fetched, but I can’t deny the impact it had on her. She would say God saved her. I would say her mind found a way to heal itself by giving her what she needed when she needed it.”

  “And what would you say is happening to me?” Alicen asked.

  “That’s what we are here to figure out. Together.” He let a beat of time pulse before plunging forward. “I would like to start you on an antipsychotic paired with a sleeping aid so we can get you rested.”

  Alicen shifted uncomfortably. “I was on an antipsychotic back in Santa Monica, and it only made me feel out of sorts.”

  “Adjusting to the medication can be uncomfortable, but since you’re suffering active delusions, I believe it is the best course of action. And we’ll take it slow. A mild grade to start with, just to give you some peace of mind.”

  Alicen swallowed, an unsure expression filling the lines in her face. Dr. Wells noticed and leaned toward her in his chair. “I’m here to help, Alicen, but only if you let me.”

  She bit the inside of her bottom lip and gave a small nod. Dr. Wells stood from his chair and walked to his desk. “I’ll write these up for you, and I encourage you to get them filled today. Just so you have them, so you can take them when you’re ready.”

  Nodding, she waited as Dr. Wells wrote up both prescriptions. Once finished, he crossed the room and handed them to Alicen as she stood. “You should have no problem getting these filled in town.”

  “Thanks,” Alicen said, placing the small square scripts in her purse.

  “We made progress today. Let’s keep the lines of communication open and meet again in a couple of days, all right?”

  Alicen forced a small grin. Dr. Wells returned her smile and gave her shoulder a soft pat. “Call me if you need anything,” he said.

  She nodded and left his office. Somewhere in her mind a delusional voice started saying maybe this had been what she needed. To just get it off her chest and start moving forward.

  Alicen drove straight to the local pharmacy and picked up both prescriptions, as suggested, just to have them close. Her mind was starting to clear from her discussion with Dr. Wells. She was starting to rationalize her own insanity. She probably wouldn’t even need the antipsychotic she now held in her hand. She just needed to get her mind back in check. Sleep would help, she thought. And with a sleeping aid in hand, she was surely on the road to recovery.

  Yes, that was all she needed. To talk it out, as she’d done, and to sleep.

  Yet her cynicism mocked the belief she was clutching. The belief that she could move forward. The belief that maybe things could get better. The belief that she was under no circumstance actually losing her mind.

  Victoria stood inside the small bathroom that was attached to her office. The hallways outside her locked office door were quiet. Still. The residents of Clover Mountain tucked into their white sheets, minds dulled as necessary, nurses gone home, only the night staff remaining. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been standing there. The small wooden box sat perched on the back ledge of the sink. A box she’d retrieved from the cabin earlier when she’d visited.

  Worn from time and use, the box held her secrets. Secrets she’d thought she’d killed along with Uncle Donald. But here it sat. Whispering for her to open the lid and release her darkness. A tool she’d learned to use when she failed. When she’d tried but couldn’t be better. When the filth in her began to show.

  Only through the admittance of our stains can we be cleansed.

  You reap what you sow, and life alw
ays comes to collect.

  Inside the wooden lid was a form of payment. The pain, and blood. It was her skin in the game. Maybe she could obtain forgiveness for the sins of her parents. For her own. But forgiveness didn’t come free.

  She needs to be taught the truth.

  Yes, Victoria thought as her uncle’s voice filled her mind. This sudden urge for penance was because of Alicen. The woman’s stains were infiltrating Victoria’s control. Alicen’s filth, her darkness. They were calling forth the same in Victoria.

  She is a worm.

  “Yes, the worst kind,” Victoria said.

  Why do you hate her?

  “I need to fix her.”

  Because you hate her?

  “Because of what she did.”

  Ah, yes. It always does come back to the children.

  Victoria backed away from the sink and ran her fingers through her hair, pushing against her scalp. “Children should be protected,” she whispered and closed her eyes to block out the images threatening to stir. He was right. Those who inflicted harm on their children rattled her control. They crawled under the skin and planted seeds that grew, tormenting Victoria constantly.

  Many had come, their mistakes paid for by those they were supposed to nurture, and Victoria had helped them amend. Controlled their true nature, dumbed down their ability to cause any more chaos, seen that they gave up their minds and wills as penance.

  All her patients were trouble, but this particular kind of trouble needed to be eradicated. If she had it her way, they would be disposed of. But she couldn’t go around killing patients. There were laws against such action. Yet blood still needed to be given for their sins. Metaphorically, of course.

  Taking their minds, shoving them into a place of numbed existence, became ample payment. Worse than death for some. And as she led each special case to a place of retribution, she found a sliver of her own. Their trouble became her trouble, and in fixing them, she healed herself.

  Alicen was no different.

  But then she was different, wasn’t she, Victoria thought. No other patient had affected her so deeply. Reading through her file, staring at her photo, discussing her progress with Dr. Wells—each time Alicen seemed to burrow deeper into Victoria’s mind. She couldn’t shake the woman.

  Weak—and foolish.

  Victoria cursed her uncle under her breath and glanced back at the box sitting on the sink. A long stream of silence passed as she stared, the longing to be clean pulsing in her arms. With as much resolve as she could conjure, Victoria yanked herself away from the small object, flicked the light off, and left the bathroom behind.

  She was neither weak nor foolish. She was in control. Victoria couldn’t lose focus on what was needed here. It was critical that Alicen pay for her trouble. She was a stain, and stains were best dealt with directly. Accept what she was. Blood for blood. It was necessary so Victoria didn’t have to pay with her own.

  Careful, little Victoria, or you’ll never be free.

  She would be clean. Through their punishment. Blood for blood. Time to bring Alicen into the fold.

  13

  When Alicen finally came to from the strong sleeping aid she’d taken the night before, morning sun was washing across the wooden floors of her bedroom. She pushed herself up from her pillow and out from under the covers. It took her a moment to realize where she was, to recall yesterday, to remember why she felt so disoriented, and to shake off the last bit of medication swirling through her bloodstream.

  Still a bit drowsy, she got ready for the day and made her way down to the kitchen, where Betty and Louise were already seated. They were being pleasant to one another, which Alicen found odd but ignored. She was coming out from the fog of her sleeping pill and found herself more refreshed than she’d been in a while.

  Betty hardly acknowledged her daughter as she walked into the kitchen, and Alicen ignored that as well. She had slept like a rock for the first time in months, and that gave her a twinge of hope for her future. Alicen just wanted a hot cup of coffee and to bask in the single most evident moment of normality she’d experienced in ages. She wouldn’t let her mother’s grumpy disposition interfere with that.

  The kitchen contained random pops of surface-level small talk before Louise announced they needed to make a stop at the grocery store before doing any work on the house or bookstore. They all decided to go together and rose to get ready. Again Betty made a solid effort at letting Alicen know she was ignoring her, but again Alicen managed not to let it get under her skin. The idea of experiencing the entire day with a clear and rested mind was just too lovely to allow Betty to ruin it.

  The drive to the market was quiet and quick. Once inside, Louise decided they should divide and conquer. “I’ll take half; you two take the other,” she said, holding out a folded piece of paper.

  Alicen had to fight hard not to audibly exhale her frustration at Louise’s manipulated pairing. She glanced sideways at her mother, who only shrugged. Saying she was too angry to shop with her daughter would be giving up too much. They would just have to suffer together.

  Betty snatched the list from Louise before Alicen could and turned to go grab a cart. Alicen shot a glare in Louise’s direction, and her friend responded with a work-it-out look before heading off in the opposite direction. Alicen steeled herself, reexamined the smidge of peace she had spotted on the horizon of her life, and grasped it. Then she walked toward Betty.

  “You push,” Betty said, stepping away from the silver buggy, list in hand.

  See the light at the end of the tunnel, Alicen, she thought.

  They walked toward the produce section at the right-hand side of the store. Betty quickly began collecting items in wispy plastic bags and securing them with green wire ties. Apples, mushrooms, red peppers, jalapeños, avocados, potatoes, each one clunking into the metal cart after she had bagged them.

  It was a risk to break the painful silence that had collected, knowing full well that an argument could ensue which might be even more unbearable, but Alicen knew it had to be done.

  “Did you sleep all right last night?” Alicen asked. Starting small seemed like the best strategy to test the waters.

  “Ha,” Betty replied.

  Clearly the waters were quite cold.

  “Oh, come on, Betty,” Alicen said, already losing her patience. If anyone had the right to be mad here, it was Alicen. Betty was at fault; she’d basically accused Alicen of killing her own daughter after suggesting that her sham of a marriage was worth saving. Betty should be groveling, not giving the cold shoulder.

  “Why can’t you just call me Mom?” Betty snapped, twisting her neck around violently to glare at Alicen.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Alicen fired back.

  Betty huffed and turned away. “The way you say it, it’s like it tastes rotten. I get it. I see. I was a terrible mother, still am. Poor Alicen with the terrible mother.”

  Alicen wished she hadn’t broken the silence. This was a typical pattern for Betty. Playing the victim, trying to get Alicen to admit fault. And it always worked.

  “Mom, you’re not terrible,” Alicen said, focusing on keeping her voice even and soft, though heat was building on the back of her neck.

  “Aren’t I, though?” Betty asked, glancing back, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. At the sight, Alicen softened without having to try. She had always hated to see her mother cry. She scrambled to think of something to ease Betty’s mind, but the woman was already in a downward spiral.

  “I can see the constant disappointment in your eyes,” Betty said. She took small, hard steps forward and continued to grab the items they needed, her voice low and harsh. “I wasn’t comforting enough. I wasn’t present enough. I wasn’t understanding enough.”

  “Mom, please,” Alicen tried. She couldn’t help but glance around to see if anyone was watching and judging. A nasty habit she’d learned in childhood. Don’t let them see your flaws; what will they think of you then? Only a small elderl
y woman stood within earshot, but she looked as though she’d have trouble hearing an argument even if it were happening right beside her.

  Betty sniffed and used the back of her hand to brush away escaped tears. “You’re right; I was never good at those things,” she said.

  “I didn’t say those things were a problem; you did,” Alicen said, but Betty ignored her. Alicen knew she had already lost the battle; nothing she could say would get through now. Betty was having a conversation with herself, and any chance for survival hung on Alicen’s ability to just listen.

  “At least I was better than her,” Betty said, and Alicen knew she was talking about Grandma Joe. “At least I didn’t lose my mind. I did better by you than she did by me, or at least I thought I had. That’s all I ever wanted—to be better than her.” Betty was hardly even speaking to Alicen at this point; she was caught up in herself.

  Soft laughter ruffled through the air as if a sudden light breeze were carrying the noise through the store. Alicen cringed. Not here, not today, she thought.

  Alicen.

  The sound was becoming as familiar to her as her own voice. She bit down on the inside of her bottom lip and tried not to let the change show in her face. Not that Betty was paying any attention; she was too busy wallowing in her own self-inflicted misery.

  “Have I failed at the only thing I ever tried to be?” Betty asked, suddenly turning to Alicen. “A better mother to you than the one I had?”

  Alicen was distracted by the collecting whispers weaving in and out of her ear canals and paused long enough to give Betty the ammunition she needed to continue to fire shame-filled bullets at herself. She huffed and sniffed again, nodding to herself and letting her self-pity further consume her.