My first meeting with Stu had ended well--and surprisingly early. We’d actually stopped on the positive accomplishment of the corpse anagram and my admission it was the dead that I’d feared, not the comforting blackness of my future death. I couldn’t have told him how the two were different, but in my muddled world, they just were. The rest of that first day had been spent in a companionable getting-to-know-you sort of way as we’d cooked lasagna and talked over world events. If the psychologist in him had been excavating any deep dark clues into my past, he’d hid it well. In fact, I’d spent many pleasant moments in the weeks since then fantasizing about our future relationship…
Even though I continued to take the scenic route to work, we quickly established a regular pattern to our not-quite-doctor-patient relationship. Stu would arrive at my house each Wednesday evening with a new activity to move me along the psychotherapy ladder of success--as he called it--while I focused on making homemade pasta of one sort or another.
The second meeting, we’d read the obituaries… which sounds oddly morbid, but turned into quite an entertaining couple of hours. It gave me an opportunity to act out some of the more memorable conversations from the kitchen table of my youth.
“Did you see Shirl died?” My mother had stabbed at the newspaper with a marinara-coated finger.
“Shirl who?” my father had asked with his bushy eyebrows scrunched together and a tell-tale flush crawling up his fleshy cheeks.
“What, you know more than one Shirl? The skinny blonde bimbo with big bazooms you took to your junior prom--” Mom wiped her finger on the towel hanging from the waistband of her stretch pants.
“Ack with the junior prom, already. For Christ’s sake, I was sixteen…”
“Yeah, well, it was the boobies that got her in the end, you know…”
“What are you talkin’ about, Livia?”
“Breast cancer. It’s what got her. Such a shame… six kids and a fat ass, and it was still--” She cupped her breasts and pushed them up until they quivered under her chin.
“Ma! Don’t ever do that again,” I’d said.
Stu had laughed until his eyes sparkled with unshed tears over my impressions. It gave me a chance to talk about my past without going into specifics of the event every other psychologist had wanted me to dwell on. There was no reason--that wasn’t the root of my problem.
The next week, Stu had shown up wearing an old pair of sweat pants, running shoes, and a Gold’s Gym T-shirt.
“Are we going for a run?” I’d asked, frantically calculating how to change the timing on the seafood risotto.
With a grin, my not-a-date-not-a-doctor guest produced an old VHS tape and player. He’d said it was just a quick workout, starring Linnea Quigley.
“Linnea Quigley? The scream queen from Night of the Living Dead?” My voice had risen and my breath immediately became erratic. It had been a near disaster--because, no, I didn’t do zombies. In fact, I couldn’t even say zombie--which made my entire argument something more like a ridiculous pantomime.
Stu had made all the right therapy noises--hmm… I see… how does that make you feel… even as he shoved my furniture aside and set up the VCR. Before I knew it, I was watching the most ridiculous, campy clip of Linnea leading a bunch of not-scary-at-all zombies in an exercise class.
I might still have problems with the word--and I wasn’t about to let Stu convince me to watch The Walking--The Walking D-e-a-d--that show on AMC--but the Horror Workout was closer to horrible than to horror. We’d laughed, and after a while, I’d even tried a few of the heavy arm shuffles and shambling twists. And just like the previous week, we’d ended with a new list of words and activities for me to work on, as well as a note about celebrating milestones--such as being able to spell or say a certain word that I’d avoided for more years than I cared to admit.
Lying in bed, thinking over the past few weeks should have kept me awake, but my lids finally grew heavy. Despite the progress we’d made, I felt myself drifting straight into the dream. I knew what was coming--what always came--yet the dream pinned me to sleep, a paralysis so complete I was helpless against the pull.
***
I didn’t drive in the dream… I never drive. That would be too close to reality for the dream to maintain its surreal quality. I walked through trees and brush as tall as any high-rise. They closed around me, leaving little more than a slit for the night sky to look down upon the small and insignificant woman tripping along the path. Crickets and tree frogs chirped merrily, at odds with the choking sensation of doom that crept along the ground like a fog, turning the whole world gray, ready to swallow me whole. Still I walked… footsteps quick, light, rapid. Almost running.
The water called to me, raising her voice to roll like a minor chord, at harmonic odds with the other night sounds. Still, I followed her as beckoned, for she was my siren song. As I tripped along the uneven path, I tried to peer through the gathering darkness, doing my best to avoid the roots and branches that reached for me, as if they sensed the danger I was bolting toward and would hold me back, if only I would slow this mad, headlong rush.
The tumbling madness of the river as she raged south toward the lake drove all other sounds from the night now--just as the trees closed in around me, obliterating all signs of the stars and moon. It was dark and still except for the pounding current that raced along the riverbank and pulsed through my veins. Like the smell of stepping into your childhood home after a long visit away, the scent of pine and dirt and water filled my nostrils. I was nearly there.
The wind brushed over me and I shivered in the sudden chill, and realized I was sweating. My hair stuck unpleasantly to my neck and forehead and all I could think about was diving into the cool swirling depths of the river. And then I was there.
Face first, I tumbled into the breath-stealing cold. Water closed around me, the torrents tossing me as if I were nothing more than an autumn leaf, my showy color a too-brief final moment of glory in my season of life. Then there was no room for anything else in my mind except the water as I was plunged deep, the slight metallic and dirt flavor of the river washed over my tongue and forced its way down my throat. My nostrils filled and my lungs spasmed, as they desperately fought against the rising tide. Sinking. Drowning. Dead.
Only I wasn’t. Not me. I blinked against the watery depths and stared into a black face that no longer resembled anyone I could have ever known. Not in life. Not in death. Black flesh, swollen and waterlogged, floated in watery ribbons from the gray-white skull. Glowing eyes, blue as robin’s eggs met my gaze. Blinked.
I opened my mouth to scream and more water rushed in. The world grew blacker. Fingers clawed at my throat, and I thought they might have been mine.
With the suddenness of dreams, my eyes opened and I saw I wasn’t in the water anymore. I was back in my room, only this time I knew I wasn’t alone. I lay on my back, damp from sweat and fear… heart thundering at an unsustainable level, like a bullet train approaching a dead man’s curve.
No, I wasn’t alone in the room… not anymore. I could sense the presence of another… being. Not something alive… something d-e-a-d.
Moving as quietly as possible, I kicked and twisted to free myself from the tangled sheet and in the process knocked my cell phone to the floor.
Don’t look under the bed. Don’t look under the bed. Don’t look…
Hanging my head over the side, I reached down, my hand patting into the deep shadows under the bed and coming up empty. I leaned farther, my eyes squeezed tight, against what I couldn’t say. Or maybe I could, but I wouldn’t. Not now.
When the top of my head touched the carpet, I sucked in a deep breath and popped my lids open.
A body was lying there, caressed by a cobweb and caught between a dust bunny and a lost sock. Wet, stringy hair framed a face shriveled and black, like old leather left to the elements. My fingers scrabbled for the phone, just as the face turned toward me. Once-familiar blue eyes glowed coolly from pus-filled li
ds, then a gap opened where his mouth should have been and the creature hissed.
I awoke with a muffled scream. Really woke, not the faux wakefulness that allowed the dream to pull you under again. I kicked free from the covers and fell to the floor. Crawling on my hands and knees, I made it only as far as the bedside wastebasket before the gagging turned into vomiting. I vomited until I thought my eyes might be bleeding and my lungs would turn inside out with the force of each non-productive spasm. When it was finally done, I stayed on the floor, too weak to move.
Leaning back against the bed, tears fell from my eyes because that was all biology allowed, but I wept from my soul, great shoulder-shaking sobs that robbed me of breath and left me as nothing more than a bag of bones propped against the mattress. I stayed there long past the tears, until the faint gray of the pre-dawn pulled me to my feet to face another day.
This is how I go on.
Chapter Five
That evening, when I opened the door to Stu, he stood on the porch studying me for a long moment before finally stepping inside. I caught a look in the mirror when I’d first come home from work--and the circles under my eyes would do any raccoon proud. My complexion was pasty, and no amount of blush and foundation would be enough to bring it back from the lifeless gray of a sleepless night. My clothing wasn’t quite workday-put-together… more like blue jeans and a loose T-shirt--my normal after-work attire, but not something that I’d worn around Stu so far.
As soon as I shut the door behind him, he drew me into his arms, and I was enveloped by a spicy ocean spray scent. It was the first true physical contact between us, and surprisingly intimate. Stu’s heart beat against my cheek… I tightened my arms and sucked in a ragged breath. For a moment, my breasts pressed against his abs, then he pulled his hips back before the contact turned to something more than comfort.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Stu asked as he broke our embrace and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. He steered us to the kitchen--the site of all our Wednesday night meetings so far.
Without answering right away, I allowed him to fuss over me for a minute. He pulled out a kitchen chair, then turned to the bottle of wine I’d left breathing on the counter. He poured two glasses, then joined me at the table.
“Tell me what happened, Hannah,” he said, removing any hint of a question.
Sitting there in my brightly lit kitchen, I could still feel the tendrils of the dream, calling me like a lover, begging for me to return. In my heart of hearts, I knew something was badly out of alignment between my waking and sleeping self. It was disheartening that after so many years of trying and a cross country re-boot, I wasn’t any better than I was the day they let me out of the hospital. The progress I’d thought we’d made the last month was illusory. I wasn’t just necrophobic… there was more to it. There had to be.
Didn’t there?
“Am I mad?” I blurted the question that had haunted me my entire adult life. Oh, not in a debilitating oh-poor-me sort of everyday way. That wasn’t my style. But I couldn’t deny asking myself the question whenever the next doctor in line prescribed a new medication or talked about in-patient therapy options. I was an educated woman with excellent internet skills… I could look up treatment options as well as the next person. Phobias responded to short term cognitive behavioral therapy--they shouldn’t require more hospitalization than I’d already had.
Stu leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows crawling nearly to his hairline.
“Mad? What on earth would make you think that? Having a fear that gets out of control isn’t a symptom of madness.” He made finger quotes to emphasize his point. “Besides, the term madness is hardly a clinical diagnosis, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“I wanted to get better, Stu, really I did. For a time, with you--I had hoped we were on the right track.” I pressed my fingers to the table and studied the backs of my hands, as if there might be an answer there. “So far, every week… I felt better after we met. Lighter. Almost re-energized. But this week--at first it was the same, you know?” I looked up to find him studying me through narrowed eyes.
“Then…” he prompted.
“It seemed to get harder and harder to remember any progress. And last night’s dream was more vivid than ever. It was as if…”
Cocking his head to the side as if he were listening to more than just my words, Stu frowned. “As if you were being pulled back,” he said slowly. Stu sighed. “This is the first you’ve told me about dreams. I think maybe it’s time you tell me all of it. “
“All of it? You mean the dream?”
“I mean everything.”
“I thought you said I wouldn’t have to relive my past,” I said through a throat that suddenly felt very tight.
“Hannah, you are getting better--can’t you see the progress? Feel it? But something is holding you back, pulling you under. Unless you are willing to go that last step with me…”
“Are you asking me to go all the way?” I quipped, the joke a reflex attempt to lighten the mood. Or maybe such was the nature of our relationship, that even in the times that felt most desperate, Stu brought a joke to my lips and a smile to my heart.
He was right. I did want this--I wanted to get better because once I was, we could take that next step in our relationship. I sucked in a big breath.
“His name was Vance Carter and we were seventeen.”
“Your first love?” Stu asked, a curious expression crossing his face for an instant before he schooled his features back into the professional interest he usually wore when we talked about d-e-a-t-h.
“Not hardly. Just a friend. I’m not sure I could even classify us as good friends--although I think we might have been, had things worked out differently.” I tapped my fingernails lightly against the edge of the table.
“We lived in a small town, just outside Allentown, Pennsylvania. Not much happened there beyond football and the steel mill, but it was what we knew. Only I wasn’t into the whole sports scene, and Vance was new to the town--I always thought it was a special sort of cruelty that his parents moved him in his senior year of high school. Anyway, he arrived a few weeks shy of the end of the season--and the school was all excited about the upcoming homecoming game. We were undefeated with visions of a state championship, riding high. Vance was too new to fit into any of the cliques and I suppose I was too oblivious to care.”
“You seem like you’d be a popular girl…”
A smile tugged at one corner of my mouth. “Why? Because I have big bazooms, as my momma would say?”
“Do you? I hadn’t noticed,” Stu said, feigning indifference. “I was more thinking of your confidence. It’s a trait I often associate with people who have natural charisma.”
The conversation was less difficult for our attempts at humor, but no re-telling would ever be easy. I smiled tightly and continued.
“To the outside world, I probably did look like one of the popular kids--I just never really cared. When Vance stepped into my American government class, the teacher took one long look at his button-up shirt, and assigned him to the seat next to mine. A few weeks later, it seemed the most logical thing in the world to take him to homecoming.”
Leaning forward, Stu grabbed the wineglasses and handed one to me. He raised the glass in a silent toast then took a sip. I had a feeling he was waiting for me to continue, but when I didn’t, he tried a little conversational nudge.
“So what happened?”
I gave a casual shrug of one shoulder and ordered my thundering heart to slow. I took a sip of wine, but the Bordeaux turned to vinegar on my tongue. After setting down my glass, I folded my hands on the table.
“Nothing. We went to the dance and had a fun time. Turned out Vance was gay and we had a great time dissecting everyone’s outfits and poofy hairstyles. We danced a little--he could replicate every Kevin Bacon move from Footloose. When it was time to go, we got in his ancient Chevy Vega and drove off.” My hands started to shake so violently I had to
put them in my lap and twist them together.
Stu scooted his chair closer and reached for my hands, his grip firm, the touch grounding me so that I could continue.
“I never even saw what happened. Or if I did, I don’t remember. One minute we were singing along to “It’s Raining Men,” and the next, we were nose down in a small creek that flowed under the road. They told me later we’d gone off the bridge and floated a ways before we stuck, but I just don’t--” My voice started to rise, but Stu squeezed my fingers tighter, pulling me back into the here and now.
“That was a long time ago, Hannah, you’re safe. Take a good look around your kitchen. See all the lights? Know where you are?”
I swallowed hard, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I’m okay,” I agreed.
“Is there more? How long were you there?”
“According the accident records, it was more than fifty-six hours before they found us. Another three before they cut me free.”
“And Vance?”
“I tried to save him. To hold his face up out of the water so he could breathe, only… he never took a breath. They said later he died on impact.” With most of the story told, I looked up at Stu and caught the pity in his eyes.
“Oh, Hannah… of course this was a tragic event no one should have to endure, let alone a teenager. Losing someone you were close to has to affect how you feel about death.”
“It wasn’t that,” I said, my voice sounding like a plea. “It really wasn’t that. We were friends, but nothing more.”
“Hannah--”
“I watched him,” I whispered, telling him what I’d never shared before.
Stu went very still. “Tell me what you mean,” he whispered back.
“I watched him. The first night, there was a glow from the headlights for a while, and I could see Vance, his face just below the surface of the water. There was no light in his eyes, though. They just stared at me. Blue and flat and… d-d-dead.” I forced the word out between wooden lips.
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