My Date with A Wendigo
Synopsis
Elizabeth Rosseau and Abigail Lester were best friends. At twenty-one, they confess their feelings for each other before leaving for winter break. It should have been a love story, only Abigail never came back.
Six years later, Elizabeth contacts her one last time, and to her surprise, Abigail answers. Their chemistry is undeniable, but Abigail is hesitant to see her in person. She was in an accident that left her a monster, a wendigo. Now she’s in a support group for other inhuman cannibals and is mostly convinced that she could avoid eating Elizabeth, but Abigail doesn’t trust herself, and even more, she’s terrified that if Elizabeth finds out the truth, she’ll never want to see her again.
They want nothing more than to be together, but they belong to different worlds, different lives, and different food groups.
My Date with a Wendigo
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My Date with a Wendigo
© 2020 By Genevieve Sara McCluer. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-674-2
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: March 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Barbara Ann Wright
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Jessica, Danny, Alexandra, Kassandra, and Ryuu, for all of your support and help with my getting this out there. And a special thanks to my editor, Barbara. This definitely wouldn’t have happened without you.
Chapter One
Elizabeth
I throw on my jeans and tank top and fumble my way to the door, ignoring the snoring woman in the bed behind me. My phone battery is still at thirty percent by some miracle. I’ve missed three calls from Carol, which I will continue to ignore for the rest of my life, and ten calls and a dozen texts from Sandra. That is a bit more pressing. As I call her back from the girl’s porch, I wish I’d thought to grab my jacket before I went into tonight’s bar. Christ, it’s cold.
“You’re alive!” a voice from the other end announces.
“Thanks for the update. I wasn’t sure.” That was corny, but if it can keep us from discussing anything serious, I will be cornier than early James Bond.
“Liz, I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay?”
“I have a few painful scratches on my back. What is with girls only keeping two of their nails short?”
“Great. You should’ve let her cut you up some more.”
I sigh, grinding my foot in the gravel of snoring girl’s driveway. “Would you come pick me up? My car is still at the bar.” Besides, I’m probably not sober enough to drive.
I only have to wait in the cold for fifteen minutes before her SUV pulls in, crunching the gravel as it idles beside me. I could’ve waited inside, but that would have increased the chances of spending more time with snoring girl. I climb in and rest my aching head against the leather headrest. “Thanks, Sandy.”
She turns down the greatest hits of Lynyrd Skynyrd and glares until I meet her eyes. “You promised you’d stop doing this,” she says, the car staying annoyingly still.
“I didn’t promise you anything. Let me sleep. You can yell at me when we get back to my apartment.”
“No, you promised yourself. Remember? I think it was, ‘I’m tired of doing this to myself. I’m going back to school, I’m going to find a nice girl, and I’m going to stop drinking myself into a stupor and having one-night stands every night.’ That sound familiar?”
I open one eye enough to glare back. “What part of that did I not do? I went back to school, then grad school, and even got myself a nice job as a therapist. It was my day off; I can have some damn fun.”
“I know you’re still hurting from Carol, but this isn’t the right way to handle it.”
I close my eye again. “I dumped her. I’m fine. I just needed to get laid.”
“You dumped her because she said she loved you. Yesterday. You are clearly not fine.”
“It’s almost three thirty a.m. It was two days ago.”
“Well, it wasn’t when you did this stupid stunt.”
“I can’t believe you’d call this girl a stunt? For all you know, she could be my one true love.” I feign offense, my hand almost resting on my heart, but I can’t quite be bothered with that much movement right now.
“What’s her name?”
“Do I have to know that to love her?”
She shakes her head, staring up at the roof. “Elizabeth, this is getting ridiculous. You and Carol were happy together. I promise, you can be close to another human being without exploding.”
“Well, I don’t want to take the risk.” If I fall asleep now, I won’t have to listen to any more of this.
“Liz.” She places a hand on my shoulder, and I can feel her stupid empathetic eyes attempting to bore into my soul.
I refuse to open mine. “Sandra, drive. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’ll drive after we have this conversation.”
“I should’ve called an Uber.”
Her hand drops. Is she actually going to drive? Thank God. “Liz, I’m sick and tired of watching you crash and burn.”
I open my eyes and turn to fully face her. I’m sick of this; she’s been giving me this lecture for six years. “I’m not doing it anymore. I’m a therapist; I have my shit together. I’m successful; I have a good life. You don’t need to worry about me. I just wanted to go have one night of fun to help me forget about whatshername.”
“Carol.”
“Was that it?” I lean back, lacing my hands behind my head.
“You were together for a year; you know damn well that you haven’t forgotten her name.”
I shrug. “I thought it was Cassandra.”
She groans and shifts the car into reverse, backing out of the driveway. I win. “We’re still talking.” Damn it.
“How about you talk, and I take a nap?”
“Call Carol. When you’re sober, and it’s not a ridiculous time. Call her in the morning, okay? I’m not saying you have to get back together, just handle things like a mature adult.”
“She said she never wanted to speak to me again.” She also called me three times, but Sandy doesn’t have to know that.
“Well, maybe you should suck it up and call Abigail?”
If there was a brake on my side, I’d have slammed it. I stare, my mouth hanging open. I haven’t thought of Abby in years. Why on Earth would I talk to her now? “Fuck you.” It is clearly not a sore spot.
She rolls her eyes and focuses on driving rather than returning my look of astonishment and anger. “Right, because bottling all of that up is healthy. What a great therapist you must be.”
“I’m the best therapist,” I say, holding my head up high and doing my best to shake what she’d said. I’m fine. Not like Abby would respond, anyway.
“It’s been long enough, Liz. You n
eed to either forget about her or ask her what happened. How bad could it really be?”
I glare out the window, choking back whatever I want to say. I can barely think. A tear runs down my cheek, and I hate myself for it. It’s been six fucking years. I’m fine. “I’m fine.” Totally, completely fine.
“All right. I went too far. I’m sorry; we can drop it. You’re too tired for this tonight.”
This is just residual emotions from my breakup, or maybe I’m sad that I didn’t find out what snoring girl’s name is. It has nothing to do with her bringing up my best friend of eighteen years who vanished off the face of the Earth without so much as a good-bye after I told her how I felt about her. I handled that fine. “Can we stop for food? I could really go for some Timmies right now.”
“Doughnuts aren’t food.”
“Then they don’t have any calories.”
She paused to consider, stopping at a red light and hitting her blinker. “I can’t argue with that logic. We can eat all we want.”
I admire her restraint for not adding, “Besides, it’s healthier than drunken one-night stands.” Though I suppose that point would be somewhat nullified following a drunken one-night stand.
* * *
With a dozen doughnuts, a large box of Tim Bits, and two coffees on my table, I can finally ignore Sandra. She can’t call out my decisions while shoving her second Boston cream in her face. I bury my own feelings under a pile of fried carbs. With the coffee to wash it down, it’s not that hard. Doughnuts will never abandon me. The thought that I’ve been the one abandoning people is enough to show that I am far too sober. “Want some wine?”
“Wine to go with our coffee and doughnuts?” That damn judgmental stare.
“It’s been a rough week, okay?”
“How much have you had to drink this week?” Her raised eyebrows and warm brown eyes manage to radiate both their traditional judgment and compassion. As a therapist, I should learn to do that. Though maybe judgmental isn’t a great look for me.
With a sigh, I add, “This is the only night I’ve had anything to drink. I promise I’m not an alcoholic. Somehow, addiction doesn’t seem to be one of my self-destructive tendencies.”
She sighs, glancing toward the cabinet above the stove where I keep the wine. “Help yourself if you need it. I’m not in the mood.”
Well, that certainly sucks all the fun out. I drain my coffee, hoping that it will make me less self-aware. I think the double chocolate doughnut actually manages. “Thank you. For picking me up, I mean, not the lecture.”
“You’re welcome for both.” She runs her fingers through her long black weave. “I’ll do it anytime, you know that. Please don’t make me keep having to.”
I groan and stuff another bite in my mouth. “Fine. I’ll try that whole healthy thing. I suppose I should at least take another look at it, if for no other reason than so I know what I’m talking about when I tell my clients to do it.”
“One-night stands can be healthy; you just don’t do them in a healthy way.”
“Is this ’cause I don’t know her name? I bet it’s Laura. She looked like a Laura.”
Sandra shakes her head. “You’re exhausting.”
“It’s just late. I’m a delight.”
She checks the time and lets out a long groan. “I’m tired. I’ve been up since six yesterday morning. I couldn’t sleep because I was too worried about you.”
“Want to crash here? I’ll need you to help me get my car in the morning.”
“I’m too tired to stay up, but after all that coffee, I don’t think I could sleep either.”
I consider for a moment, my eyes falling on the TV in the living room. “Want to binge shitty movies until we pass out on the couch?”
“Fine, but I get to pick the movies.”
I narrow my eyes and take a sip of coffee. “Can I at least pick the genre?”
“Nope. You owe me.” She grins, her almost perfect teeth showing as she meets my gaze. “We’re watching romcoms.”
“Damn you and your straight shit.”
“You love it.”
“I do not.” I throw a doughnut hole at her. I’m very mature.
She catches it and pops it in her mouth. “Thanks. You’re so considerate. How about The Proposal?”
“I said I’d watch movies with you, not marry you.”
Rolling her eyes, she stands from the chair and prances to the living room. “Come on. It’s good, I promise.”
It isn’t. I hate it. Halfway through whatever second movie she picks, I am mercifully granted sleep by whatever deity or being controls insomnia. They are, however, a fickle bastard, as I dream of Abigail. She’s walking away, and I can’t quite reach her. Then I’m late for class because why have one nightmare when you can have two?
The couch is soaked with sweat when I wake up, and the sun is only starting to shine through the western window. The credits to some movie are scrolling on the screen, but Sandra is sleeping peacefully, her head propped up on the armrest of the couch and my favorite blanket wrapped tightly around her.
I shower and throw on some clean clothes before heading back downstairs. I want to wake her since I need a car, but she stayed up twenty-two hours straight because of how much she cares about me, and even I’m not heartless enough to wake her after that. I grab a book and fall back on the couch. Somewhere around chapter three, I fall asleep, but this time, my dreams are far less contentious, and I make it through a few more hours.
* * *
My client is convinced he’s dead. I’m a little jealous, but I’m also trying very hard to contain my excitement. Cotard delusion is rare, and I didn’t think I would ever have a patient with it. I try my best to recall how to treat it. I wish he’d bothered to tell me about it before scheduling the appointment.
I give in and look it up, doing my best to look as if I’m taking notes. I didn’t expect to ever deal with it. The class that mentioned it must’ve been four years ago, and I didn’t have any reason to retain that information. Unfortunately, treatment is primarily pharmacological, and I am not a psychiatrist. It is usually part of another disorder, so maybe we can work toward that.
“I’m dead, doctor. It’s not a delusion, I swear. The whole world keeps going by, but I’m not part of it anymore. I’m just a walking corpse.”
He doesn’t show any signs of decay, but contrary to his claim, I am not a doctor, so I’m far from qualified to pronounce him. “I know a good psychiatrist I could recommend. I’m happy to keep seeing you, but she’d be a lot more helpful.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “No, I don’t want to see anyone else. No one else notices me. I looked you up, and you’re the best; there’s no one else I can talk to.”
My reviews are good, but the best? I’m pretty sure my therapist is better. I should give her a call; it’s been a few years. “Dennis, I’m happy to keep talking to you for as long as you need. I think it would be helpful if you also saw Dr. Marovsky.”
“No, I can’t. He’d look right through me.” He does look a little dead as his eyes stare at nothing. He’s still breathing. I wonder if pointing that out would help? From what I recall, confronting a delusion only tends to make them double down on it.
“Why is it that you want therapy?” Let’s toss him a low ball; maybe then I can figure out how to proceed.
“I need someone to really see me.” His gray eyes just keep staring into me. I shudder. “I was going to try a medium, but they’d have to summon me, and I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get them to notice me. Your name popped up at some point, and I knew you were the answer. I knew you’d be able to help, that you could hear me, that you could talk to me. I need to feel whole, to feel alive again. Please, Ms. Rousseau, I can’t talk with anyone else; it has to be you.”
Am I stealing his money? There’s not a lot I can do for him. Maybe, if I earn his trust, I can convince him to see a psychiatrist? I’m sure there’s some therapy I could pursue, especially if
I can find out what’s causing his delusion. Other than that, I can have him talk to someone else and help him realize that others can see him too, and maybe that would convince him to talk to a doctor? It’s worth a shot. “Of course, Mr. Bernard, I’m happy to help.”
We make it through the rest of the session without any real progress, but the first session is really to meet the patient, do an excessive amount of paperwork, and figure out what path the treatment should take, and I’ve done the two parts that I’m not dreading. That just leaves paperwork. I feel so much better than I did this weekend. It’s a nice reminder that I know what I’m doing with my life, and it’s hard to feel alone when I have people paying to talk to me.
After my sixth patient of the day, I’m out of appointments and ready to pack up. Helping other people work through their stuff does wonders for me. I check my phone as I head to the car and find another call from Carol. Maybe she left something important at my place and wants it back. If that’s the case, it would be cruel to ignore her. I take a deep breath, trying my best to pretend this isn’t one of the things I want to do least in the entire world. Even working on Dennis’s file was more appealing. I start the car and call her back, letting it play through my speakers.
She answers on the second ring. “Lizzy?”
I never did like that name. “I’m here.”
“Oh thank God.” She lets out a shuddering breath. She’s been crying. This was a terrible idea. I resist hanging up only through the knowledge that she would call back a dozen more times. “I’ve missed you.”
I haven’t. Maybe I’m the one who’s dead inside. I don’t miss her at all. No matter what my behavior Friday would suggest, she’s been the last thing on my mind. “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can give her.
“Can you please tell me why?”
I blow out a breath as I stop at a red light. There’s a Mexican place on my left that sounds delicious, and it would give me an excuse to get off the phone, but she deserves better than my brushing her off, no matter how little I want to deal with her. “It needed to happen. I’m sorry I hurt you, but I didn’t want to keep stringing you along. I don’t love you. I don’t know if I’m even capable of love. When I realized how serious you were, I had to end things. It was for your own good. I should have done it months ago before you grew attached.” I’m so healthy. I’m an expert on healthy. Literally.
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