by Liz Schulte
Meandering my way to Dr. Livingston's office I arrived late, but I still had to wait. I brushed passed the receptionist with nary a glance as the okay was given. Nodding to him as I walked through the door, I sat on the edge of the couch, tapping my foot impatiently. Immediately he began to scrutinize me with his beady little eyes.
“Well, you seem to have a lot more energy today, Ella”
“I’ve been writing again.”
“That’s wonderful. I told you, you could work past the medication barrier.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I want to though. I would like to stop taking them. I need to get back to normal.”
“What is normal? What about Danny?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is that over? Have you let go?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Of course, it isn’t over. Has the killer been caught? Look, I can’t write like I want and find his killer in a drug induced haze.”
“This wasn’t a personal attack. Just a question. Haven’t you already been doing both? Perhaps the medication is helping.”
“I've been trying, but not accomplishing much. I don’t know, I feel like I'm fighting against it more than it's helping. I struggle constantly with apathy. I had been feeling a bit more normal today ... before I came in here,” I muttered.
“You sound like you feel guilty.”
“Why would I feel guilty?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t.”
“Are you sure? Are you not feeling guilty about moving on with your life and leaving Danny behind? Perhaps you realize the medicine is doing its job and you're getting better so you want to stop that progress so you don't leave him. It would be natural.”
“No. I'm fine. I don't worry about forgetting Danny or leaving him behind. I just want to find him justice. He will always be with me. How about this scenario? You can’t have too many clients in such a small town. I bet you can hardly afford to lose one. Maybe you don’t want me to get better. Maybe you want to keep me coming back here and talking to you, never accomplishing anything except throwing more money into the pit that is supposedly my therapy.”
“There is no need to attack me, Ella. This isn’t personal.”
“What about it isn’t personal? You’re talking about me and my life. Everything is personal.”
“I'm glad you're doing better. I just want to make sure it's not only on the surface, that you haven’t tricked yourself into believing something that isn’t there.”
“Well, I suppose, only time will tell. But thank you, I'm in a much worse mood now.”
“Other than writing what have you done this week?”
“Nothing. I was focused.”
“Focused or obsessed?”
I rolled my eyes. “I went to the library and the grocery store.”
“Two public places in a week, that’s a lot for you. How did it go?”
“Not great.”
“Why?”
“They judged me.”
“Who did?”
“The people in the stores.”
“Are you sure they were judging you and you were not judging yourself?”
“I don’t know. Apparently, I'm nuts. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I think you're hard on yourself and you reflect your self-loathing onto other people.”
“Well doc, you have everything figured out. Session over.” I stormed out of his office early, flipping off the receptionist on the on the way. I knew my actions did little to support my case for my own sanity, but Dr. Livingston got under my skin better than anyone I had ever met.
I rode down the elevator feeling generally pissed off—at myself, Dr. Livingston, the universe.... I didn’t see Grant as I marched through the lobby of the hospital, but I wasn’t looking for him either.
“Hey!” I heard him shout from behind me. “Did you forget our date? I'm hurt.” Grant jogged up beside me.
“Date? I don’t think so.” I watched his face fall. He looked like a sad puppy. “But I did forget, sorry. I don’t feel much like having coffee.”
“You can’t get out of a promise that easily. You made a commitment. People shouldn’t just abandon their commitments, or they’ll come back to haunt you,” he said with an easy smile.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. It was only coffee, it wasn’t like I was marrying the guy. “You’re preaching to the choir. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”
“Bad visit?”
“One of many.”
“Well, my afternoon is pretty clear. We can go anywhere you want.”
“Fine.”
“There's a diner not far from here.”
“Molly’s?”
“Yes. It's a nice day. We should walk.”
“Whatever.”
Molly’s was the central hub of this little town. Clean, with teal linoleum floors and hardwood counters, it was retro in the best way. Molly, herself, was almost always behind the counter, wearing bejeweled cat glasses perched on the tip of her nose, with her artificially red hair pulled back into a tight bun. We took a seat on the patio and a middle-aged waitress came over to take our order.
“Hey, darlin'! Haven’t seen you in a while. Thought you left this small town for good.”
I knew the waitress was under no such impression. If I'd left town she would have known about it. They probably would have thrown a parade. Just my having lunch here with Grant would set off a whole slew of rumors and innuendo.
“I'll have coffee and a slice of cherry pie.”
As she was writing down my order, Grant said he wasn’t having anything. After she walked away I said to him indignantly, “It was your idea to come here and you aren’t even going to order?”
He just smiled and shrugged as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Pie was for suckers and I fell for it. At that moment it occurred to me that in certain ways he reminded me of Danny. He had the same easy smile and relaxed attitude, but there was something else I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around—something unsettling, though not necessarily bad.
“How have things been going?” he asked pleasantly.
“That seems like a loaded question at the moment.”
“Are you writing anything new?”
“Actually, yeah, I have started a new book.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“How do you know I write?”
“I have my sources.”
“Hmph.” I'm sure he had plenty of sources all right—all he had to do was ask anyone However, a nagging feeling that I shouldn’t let this go stayed with me. “Did you use the Internet? You don’t know my last name, do you?”
“Reynolds—again, I have my sources.”
“Why the effort? You barely know me and I only begrudgingly spoke with you in the first place. Why are you bothering to find anything out about me?”
“What can I say, I find you unlike anyone I have ever known.”
“And what exactly did you discover?”
“Well, you're an author. You’ve written a handful of books. Your husband died and there was some suspicion in regards to your involvement.”
“All true.” He had definitely been talking to the people in this town.
“And it explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way you approach things. The attitude you’ve taken since meeting me, the suspicion.”
“I just don’t understand why you approached me. Or, for that matter, why you continue to pursue conversations with me when I'm so obviously against them?”
“Well, at least, I can’t say I find you boring.”
I looked at him for what I knew was an uncomfortably long time, but it never made him uneasy. He looked back at me as if he were enjoying himself until I broke eye contact. Again, this reminded me of Danny. He had a way of always making me look away first, like he saw past me and into the depths of my mind. When I first met Danny, I found it incredibly unsettling. Over time I got more used to
it, but now Grant was having the exact same affect.
I realized I had drifted into my own thoughts too long for polite conversation when Grant penetrated my own musings.
“What are you thinking about?” He looked genuinely interested.
“You remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t find it a bit unnerving that you remind me of a man I supposedly killed?”
“No, if he was your husband, you probably liked him—therefore I'm glad I remind you of him. It'll improve my chances of getting you to like me. I don’t believe you killed anyone.”
It made me a little sad that I could be sitting across from this handsome doctor who said all the right things and still I could think of no one but Danny.
“It’s very sweet that you want me to like you, but I'm not dating.”
His smile gave me the impression he was trying not to laugh. I found it nearly impossible to decipher anything of what Grant was thinking. “Good, neither am I. We can be friends.”
“That’s very unlikely.”
“Well, I'm not afraid to take a little gamble.”
I finished the last of my coffee and gathered my purse. I laid money on the table next to my half eaten pie.
“I have a lot of work to do. I should go.”
He nodded. “I'll see you soon, Ella.”
I walked away, shaking my head at him. What a strange fellow.
It was a lovely day outside, perfect for walking. Going past the happy neighborhoods where nothing bad ever happened, I let my imagination run wild.
Lost in my daydreams, I almost missed my street. A shabby truck parked a little bit down the road from my house caught my eye. Anyone sitting in it would have a picturesque view of the house and my comings and goings. I had never seen a truck like this on my street. As I drew nearer I noticed someone was sitting in it, waiting. The anticipation of seeing the mystery driver grew inside of me until I wanted to run up to the truck and scream, “Why are you watching my house?”
I wrung my hands nervously as I continued my controlled approach. The person in the truck must have noticed me. The engine started quickly and the tires squealed around the cul-de-sac. The driver went by with an arm raised, blocking his face from view. I stared after the truck wondering if that was the man who killed Danny. Eventually I tore myself away and headed into the house, edgy and still glancing behind me.
Locking and double checking the door behind me, I felt agitated like something was going to jump out at any moment. In hopes of relaxing a little before I sat down to write, I got myself a glass of water. Something moving across the backyard caught my eye. I moved closer to the kitchen window to get a better look. Mr. Sexton was walking through the trees towards the fence separating our properties. I thought about yelling at him, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to initiate conversation with him. He looked up and our eyes met for a moment. I stepped back from the window, my heart thudding. I felt like a child who had been caught spying. It only took a second to bully myself into stepping back towards the window to make sure he actually left.
He was gone; relief flooded me. Shutting my eyes for a brief moment I chastised myself for being weak. This was my property. I had every right to go outside and let him have a piece of my mind. My eyes opened to a horrible face pressed and contorted against the windowpane. A scream ripped from my throat as I stumbled backwards into the center island. Mr. Sexton's laughter drifted into the house from the other side of the glass, a sound that was every bit as infuriating as it was ominous. Fear fueled a white-hot anger inside of me.
“Get out of here,” I bellowed. “I'm calling the police”
I picked up the phone with shaking hands and dialed Detective Troy’s cell phone number. He answered on the second ring.
“Troy.”
“Hey,” I said and then my mind went blank. I had no idea what to tell him. Was I being foolish for letting Mr. Sexton get to me with his crazy antics?
“Hi.”
“This is Ella … Ella Reynolds.” I blushed like a school girl. Part of me wanted to hang up the phone and pretend this never happened. Another part of me demanded an ally.
“I know who you are.” He laughed. “What’s going on?”
He took my silence as a clue that everything was not alright.
“Are you all right?” His voice was suddenly lower and more policeman like.
“I’m fine—I’m sorry. I shouldn't have called. I'm overreacting.”
“About what?” His voice hummed with concern.
“I’ll tell you later. Don't worry about it—”
He cut me off. “What exactly are you overreacting about?”
“It's not important really. My crazy neighbor was staring at me through my window trying to frighten me—obviously it worked. No harm done, though. I'm fine. Really.”
“I'll be there in five minutes.”
“No, no—I'll see you … when I see you. I should go, get some work done.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Gabriel sighed, “Okay, if you’re certain—but call me immediately if you see him again.”
“I will Thanks....”
I hung up feeling like a jackass. Did I seriously just call him to tattle on my neighbor? Making sure all my doors and windows were closed and locked, I found solace at my computer. I stared at the pages I’d written and imagined the pages I still needed to fill. It was overwhelming at the moment, even insurmountable. Another memory clawed at the edge of my consciousness, fighting itself free. This muse was harder on me than most; it flashed my own life before my eyes.
Danny and I worked tirelessly on renovating the house. Despite promising to try to get back into my routine, I couldn’t focus until the house was complete, until it felt more like my own. We redid the bedroom, the kitchen, both bathrooms, the family room.... It was slow going and as with any joint projects, there was more than the occasional argument and much bickering.
After a long, hard day of sanding floors, we were both exhausted and ready to collapse into bed. Danny came out of the bathroom and flopped down on his side .I got up slightly annoyed that I had to turn off the light when he was the last one to bed. The sound of the toilet running in the bathroom furthered my irritation. Couldn’t he do anything? I went into the bathroom to shake the handle only to discover it wasn’t just running it was overflowing.
“Danny!”
His muffled voiced came back at me. “What?”
“The toilet is overflowing!”
He came in with a weary expression, grumbling about why I couldn’t fix it myself. I ran to the downstairs bathroom for the plunger and found it was flooding too—all three bathrooms were. The mess was catastrophic. Danny had to turn off the water and we spent the rest of the night cleaning the mess up before it ruined all the work we’d done that day.
The next morning we called a plumber who discovered an astronomical amount of candy wrappers shoved into the pipes. We thanked him and paid for his time.
“How the hell did that happen” I asked Danny as soon as the plumber left.
Danny was lying on the couch, which had been moved into the hallway while we working on the living room.
“No idea. I hardly ever eat candy. I didn’t do it.”
“I never said you did. I just know I didn’t do it either. Don't you think it's strange? The house has been empty for how long? And the bathrooms worked fine until last night.”
“You're thinking about this way too hard. Obviously some kids got into the house before we moved here and flushed all the wrappers as a joke.”
“That's the lamest practical joke I've ever heard.”
“I never said they were bright, just bored.”
And that was just one of many setbacks we endured during the renovation. The constant onslaught of missing tools and flickering lights only added to the tension we both felt. We called electrician
after electrician, but no one seemed to be able to fix the lights—though they were all sure when they left that we would have no more problems. We found paint cans we were sure we had closed, open and dry the next morning. It’s no wonder our best friends were the people who owned the hardware store; we practically lived there.
On top of all of this, I was hardly able to sleep. Every night I’d fall asleep only to be woken by someone saying my name and occasionally laughing. Danny was never disturbed by noises and never remembered hearing a thing the next morning. He always kissed my forehead and said there was never a dull moment in my overactive imagination, which of course irritated me royally. Finally, the lack of sleep and the constant setbacks with our home repair did inspire me to get out of the house to finish revising my book. I began to spend a good portion of every day on my laptop at Molly’s Cafe. It was a nice break from the house—and from Danny.
The waitresses seemed to enjoy the fact that I was writing in their diner. They refilled my cup often, trying to catch a glimpse of the book, occasionally saying something about making history because nothing productive was ever accomplished in this diner. Molly would even sit with me and reminisce about what it was like to be young and in love. She told me I was welcome to use her tales in my books if I liked. Unsure whether she was hinting that I should make the books I wrote less dark, or if she had no idea about the types of books I wrote, I always smiled and thanked her. I enjoyed my time in the cafe. It made me feel more at home, and the people in town started to become friendlier as my face became more familiar.
A loud, official sounding knock on my front door drew me out of my warm memories of Molly’s and back into my cold living room. I started for the door, then had a terrible thought. What if it was Sexton coming to harass me again? I hesitated, looking at my watch. Where had the time gone? It had been nearly five hours since I sat down, though it felt like minutes. It was after six and the sun was setting. The knocking persisted, only louder. I wedged my foot against the door as I cracked it open to see who was outside.
“It took you long enough. I almost had to break in,” Gabriel said when our eyes met.
“Isn’t that illegal?” I opened the door wide.
“Not if you’re a cop.”
“No, I'm pretty sure it is even if you are a cop. I know this is a small town, but there’s still this thing called a warrant. You kinda should have one before you go into someone’s house uninvited.”
“So that’s how it works.”
I grinned back.
“Now what was that call about this afternoon? I almost came over but—”
“But you can’t drop everything for the girl who cried wolf one too many times.”
“No, because I didn't want to push after you said not to come over. So what happened?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
“Tell me.” I shook my head. “Do I have to insist?”
I sighed. “All right, all right.” I ran through what had happened. Maybe it was just my imagination, but Gabriel seemed surprised to hear that I had seen a real face, that I could identify an actual person, not just another phantom.
“You should file a police report. Press charges.”
“I don’t want to cause problems. Besides, I've dealt with the police department enough for one life time.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Not you. You’re fine, just them—the damn good ol’ boys.”
“They’re not so bad. They have good hearts once you get past their rough exteriors. If you don’t want to file a report, though I think you should, I'm at least going to have a come to Jesus talk with him.”
“You could, but you may just piss him off more and make my life even more miserable in the process.”
“No, I recognize his type. Bullies only respond to strength. If he sees you as just some woman he can torment. He’ll never stop.”
“Thank you, Mr. After School Special.”
Gabriel ignored my snide remark. “What else happened today?”
“Nothing. I saw Dr. Livingston, had coffee with some guy that I met a while ago, freaked myself out over a strange car as I was walking home, then had the incident with Mr. Sexton. After that I sat down to write.”
Gabriel's head tilted slightly back and he spoke slowly as if measuring his words. “Was your coffee date planned?”
“It wasn't a date. I ran into him in the hospital—actually I keep running into him. It’s kind of strange....”
“This guy, where’d you meet him?”
“O’Malley’s.”
“Hmph.”
“Apparently he works at the same hospital as my shrink.”
“That’s convenient.” Gabriel's voice had taken on a new sharper edge to it.
“What?” I had a sinking suspicion that things were about to become awkward between us. I wasn't dating Grant nor did I have any intentions of dating him, but I wasn't dating Gabriel either.
“Don’t you find that odd? What do you know about this man?”
“Not a lot. He seems to know more about me than I do about him, but who doesn't these days? And I really don't find it odd that we ran into each other—I'm bound to run into the same people here. It’s Hicksville, remember?”
“What’s his name? I can check around.”
“Grant … I can’t remember his last name … Actually I don’t think he ever told me his last name.”
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know. He claims to want to be my friend.” Gabriel looked at me as if that was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard, which pissed me off a little. “Yes, believe it or not, some people actually do want to be my friend even if they aren’t investigating a murder. Amazing, I know.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I shrugged. “Who made you my guardian anyway?”
“Well, if you don’t want help…”
Gabriel was Detective Troy again, but his face held anger beneath its calm surface. Before I could determine how to approach the situation, his phone rang. He answered, but spoke curtly. His end of the conversation was cryptic, making it impossible to determine what the call was about. He snapped his phone shut.
“I have to go.”
“Fine.”
“Yeah, great.” He walked out the door and probably out of my life.
I watched his car go and started to feel a little melancholy. Why did I have to be so difficult? Would it kill me to take it easy on someone just once? The same truck that was there this morning was back. I was still on the porch, trying to get a better look, when it started and drove off without headlights. I watched it disappear down the road, trying to convince myself it was just a coincidence, wishing I knew which house the truck belonged to.
While brushing my teeth, I heard the door open downstairs. I went to the railing and looked down into the living room. I thought I saw a shadow move towards the kitchen. With a lack of other options, I quietly retrieved the baseball bat from beneath my bed and crept downstairs. What I would do with it if I caught someone wasn't entirely clear to me. In reality, the intruder would probably take it away from me, or, even worse, use it on me, but right now it made me feel better to have it.
Why did it always have to be the kitchen? I went the back way, hoping to surprise the intruder, peeking around corners with an awful case of butterflies. It felt like I was in a bad horror movie where the heroine runs to a room without any exits rather than out the door. Except, I found nothing. I searched the entire house, but found no trace of anyone. Coming up from the basement, I heard footsteps upstairs. I rechecked the second floor to the same result. As soon as I started back to my room I heard noises downstairs again, but I was not going to play this game of cat and mouse any longer. I went into my room, shutting and locking the door behind me. If anyone was in my house that was human, he would have to pick the lock or break down the door. If it were a ghost …well, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it, was there?
I lay in b
ed, my mind shouting possibilities of all the terrible things that waited outside of my door, watching the door. Finally, accepting the fact I wasn’t going to get any sleep if I didn’t do something, I went into the bathroom. The only thing I could find was Nyquil, but that’d work. I took a hearty dose and headed to bed.
Chapter Nine