Tormentor Mine

by Anna Zaires

  Most of the time, she sounds better than the actual singer.

  “We met in a chemistry lab,” she continues, “because believe it or not, George was thinking about going to med school at the time.” I hear a few chuckles in the crowd, and Sara’s lips curve in a faint smile as she says, “Yes, George, who couldn’t stand the sight of blood, actually considered becoming a doctor. Fortunately, he quickly discovered his true passion—journalism—and the rest is history.”

  She goes on to talk about her husband’s various habits and quirks, including his love for cheese sandwiches drizzled with honey, then moves on to his achievements and good deeds, detailing his unwavering support for the veterans and the homeless. As she speaks, I notice that everything she says has to do with him, rather than the two of them. Other than the initial mention of how they first met, Sara’s speech could’ve been made by a roommate or a friend—anyone who knew Cobakis, really. Even her voice is steady and calm, with no hint of the pain I glimpsed in her eyes that night.

  It’s only when she gets to the accident that I see some real emotion on her face. “George was many wonderful things,” she says, gazing out over the crowd. “But all those things ended eighteen months ago, when his car hit that guardrail and went over. Everything he was died that day. What remained was not George. It was a shell of him, a body without a mind. When death came for him early Saturday morning, it didn’t get my husband. It got only that shell. George himself was long gone by then, and nothing could make him suffer.”

  Her chin lifts as she says this last part, and I stare at her intently. She doesn’t know I’m here—the FBI would be all over me if she did—but I feel like she’s speaking directly to me, telling me that I failed. Does she sense me on some level? Feel me watching her?

  Does she know that when I stood over her husband’s bedside two nights ago, for a brief moment I considered not pulling the trigger?

  She finishes her speech with the traditional words about how much George will be missed, and then she steps off the podium, letting the priest have his final say. I watch her walk back to the elderly couple, and when the crowd starts to disperse, I quietly follow the other mourners out of the cemetery.

  The funeral is over, and my fascination with Sara must be too.

  There are more people on my list, and fortunately for her, Sara is not one of them.

  Part II

  6

  Sara

  * * *

  “Darling, are you not eating again?” Mom asks with a worried frown. Though she was vacuuming when I dropped by, her makeup is as perfect as always, her short white hair is prettily curled, and her earrings match her stylish necklace. “You’ve been looking so thin lately.”

  “Most people would consider that a good thing,” I say dryly, but to appease her, I reach for a second serving of her homemade apple pie.

  “Not when you look like a chihuahua could drag you away,” Mom says and pushes more pie toward me. “You have to take care of yourself; otherwise, you won’t be able to help those patients of yours.”

  “I know that, Mom,” I say between bites of the pie. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s been a busy winter, but things should slow down soon.”

  “Sara, darling…” The worry lines on her face deepen. “It’s been six months since George—” She stops and takes a breath. “Look, what I’m saying is you can’t keep working yourself to death. It’s too much for you, your regular workload, plus all this new volunteering. Are you sleeping at all?”

  “Of course, Mom. I sleep like the dead.” It’s not a lie; I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow and don’t wake up until my alarm goes off. Or at least that’s what happens if I’m completely worn out. On the days when I have something approaching a normal schedule, I wake up shaking and sweating from nightmares, so I do my best to exhaust myself every day.

  “How’s the house sale going? Any offers yet?” Dad asks, shuffling into the dining room. He’s using a walker again, so his arthritis must be acting up, but I’m pleased to see that his posture is a bit straighter. He’s actually following his physical therapist’s orders this time and swimming in the gym every day.

  “The realtor is having an Open House next week,” I answer, suppressing the urge to praise Dad for doing the right thing. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his age, so anything having to do with his or my mom’s health is off limits as far as dinnertime conversation. It drives me crazy, but at the same time, I can’t help but admire his resolve.

  At almost eighty-seven years of age, my dad is as tough as ever.

  “Oh, good,” Mom says. “I hope you’ll get some offers from that. Be sure to bake cookies that morning; they make the house smell nice.”

  “I might ask my realtor to buy some and microwave them before the first visitors arrive,” I say, smiling at her. “I don’t think I’ll have time to bake.”

  “Of course she won’t, Lorna.” Dad takes a seat next to Mom and reaches for a slice of pie. Glancing up at me, he says gruffly, “You probably won’t be home at all, right?”

  I nod. “I’m supposed to go to the clinic straight from the hospital that day.”

  He frowns. “You’re still doing that?”

  “Those women need me, Dad.” I try to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “You have no idea what it’s like in that neighborhood.”

  “But, darling, that neighborhood is precisely why we don’t want you going there,” Mom interjects. “Can’t you volunteer elsewhere? And going there at night, after you’ve already put in one of your long shifts…”

  “Mom, I never carry cash or valuables with me, and I’m only there for a couple of hours in the evenings,” I say, hanging on to my patience by a thread. We’ve had this argument at least five times in the last three months, and each time, my parents pretend like we’ve never discussed this before. “I park right in front of the building, and go straight in. It’s as safe as can be.”

  Mom sighs and shakes her head, but doesn’t argue further. Dad, however, keeps frowning at me over his slice of pie. To distract him, I get up and say, “Would anyone like some coffee or tea?”

  “Decaf coffee for your dad,” Mom says. “And chamomile tea for me, please.”

  “One decaf coffee and one chamomile tea coming up,” I say, walking over to the fancy coffee machine I got for them last Christmas. After I make the requested drinks and bring them to the table, I go back and make a cup of real java for myself.

  After this dinner, I’m going to be on call and could use the caffeine.

  “So guess what, darling?” Mom says when I rejoin them at the table. “We’re going to have the Levinsons over for dinner on Saturday.”

  I take a sip of my coffee. It’s hot and strong, just like I like it. “That’s nice.”

  “They’ve been asking about you,” Dad says, stirring sugar into his coffee.

  “Uh-huh.” I keep my expression neutral. “Please tell them hello for me.”

  “Why don’t you come over too, darling?” Mom says, as though the idea just occurred to her. “I know they would love to see you, and I’ll make your favorite—”

  “Mom, I’m not interested in dating Joe—or anyone—right now,” I say, softening my refusal with a smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m not there yet. I know you love Joe’s parents, and he’s a wonderful lawyer and a very nice man, but I’m just not ready.”

  “You won’t know if you’re ready until you get out there and try,” Dad says while Mom sighs and looks down into her tea cup. “You can’t let yourself die alongside George, Sara. You’re stronger than that.”

  I gulp down my coffee instead of replying. He’s wrong. I’m not strong. It’s all I can do to sit here and pretend that I’m okay, that I’m still whole and functional and sane. My parents, like everyone else, don’t know what happened that Friday night. They think George passed away in his sleep, his death the belated result of the car accident that put him in a coma eighteen months earlier. I explained away the closed-casket funera
l as a way for me to cope with my grief, and nobody questioned it. If my parents knew the truth, they’d be devastated, and I’ll never do that to them.

  Nobody except the FBI and my therapist know about the fugitive and my role in George’s death.

  “Just think about it,” Mom says when I remain silent. “You don’t have to commit to anything or do anything that you don’t want to do. Just please, consider coming over this Saturday.”

  I look at her, and for the first time, I notice the strain hidden under her perfect makeup and stylish accessories. My mom is nine years younger than my dad, and she’s so trim and energetic that sometimes I forget that age is taking a toll on her too, that all this worry about me can’t be good for her health.

  “I’ll think about it, Mom,” I promise and get up to clear the dishes off the table. “If I don’t have to work on Saturday, I’ll try to come over.”

  7

  Sara

  * * *

  My on-call shift is a blur of emergencies, everything from a five-months-pregnant woman coming in with severe bleeding to one of my patients going into labor seven weeks early. I end up performing a C-section on her, but luckily, the baby—a tiny but perfectly formed boy—is able to breathe and suckle on his own. The woman and her husband sob in happiness and thank me profusely, and by the time I head into the locker room to change out of my scrubs, I’m physically and emotionally drained. However, I’m also deeply satisfied.

  Every child I bring into this world, every woman whose body I help heal, makes me feel a tiny bit better, alleviating the guilt that smothers me like a wet rag.

  No, don’t go there. Stop. Only it’s too late, and the memories flood in, dark and toxic. Gasping, I sink down on the bench next to my locker, my hands clutching at the hard wooden board.

  A hand over my mouth. A knife at my throat. A wet cloth over my face. Water in my nose, in my lungs—

  “Hey, Sara.” Soft hands grip my arms. “Sara, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

  I’m wheezing, my throat impossibly tight, but I manage a small nod. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on slowing my breathing as the therapist taught me, and after a few moments, the worst of the suffocating sensation recedes.

  Opening my eyes, I look at Marsha, who’s staring at me with concern.

  “I’m fine,” I say shakily, standing up to open my locker. My skin is cold and clammy, and my knees feel like they’re about to buckle, but I don’t want anyone at the hospital knowing about my panic attacks. “I forgot to eat again, so it’s probably just low blood sugar.”

  Marsha’s blue eyes widen. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “What?” Despite my still-uneven breathing, I’m startled into a laugh. “No, of course not.”

  “Oh, okay.” She grins at me. “And here I thought you were finally living it up.”

  I give her a get real look. “Even if I were, you think I don’t know how to prevent pregnancy?”

  “Hey, you never know. Accidents happen.” She opens her locker and starts changing out of her scrubs. “Seriously, though, you should grab a bite with me and the girls. We’re heading out to Patty’s right now.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “A bar at five in the morning?”

  “Yeah, so what? We’re not going to be boozing it up. They have breakfast twenty-four-seven, and it’s way better than the cafeteria. You should try it.”

  I’m about to refuse, but then I remember I have next to nothing in my refrigerator. I didn’t lie about not eating today; the dinner at my parents’ house was over ten hours ago, and I’m starving.

  “Okay,” I say, surprising Marsha almost as much as I surprise myself. “I’ll come.”

  And ignoring my friend’s excited squeals, I put on my street clothes and walk over to the sink to freshen up.

  * * *

  When we get to Patty’s, I’m not surprised to see many familiar faces there. A lot of the hospital staff go to this bar to unwind and socialize after work. I didn’t expect the place to be this full at this time of night—or morning, depending on one’s perspective—but if they serve breakfast as well as alcohol, it makes sense.

  Marsha, myself, and two nurses from the ER make our way to a table in the corner, where a harried-looking waitress takes our orders. The moment she’s gone, Marsha launches into a story about her crazy weekend at a club in downtown Chicago, and the two nurses—Andy and Tonya—laugh and tease her about the guy she almost picked up. Afterward, Andy tells everyone about her boyfriend’s insistence on using purple condoms, and by the time our food comes out, the three of them are laughing so hard the waitress gives us all dirty looks.

  I’m laughing too, because the story is funny, but I don’t feel the joy that normally comes with laughter. I haven’t felt it in a long time. It’s as if something inside me is frozen, dulling all emotions and sensations. My therapist says it’s another way my PTSD manifests itself, but I don’t know if he’s right. Long before the stranger invaded my home—before the accident, even—I’ve been feeling like there is a barrier between me and the rest of the world, a wall of false appearances and lies.

  For years, I’ve been wearing a mask, and now it feels like I’ve become that mask, like there’s nothing real underneath it.

  “What about you, Sara?” Tonya asks, and I realize I zoned out, chowing down my eggs on autopilot. “How was your weekend?”

  “It was good, thanks.” Putting down my fork, I attempt a smile. “Nothing exciting. I’m selling my house, so I had to clean out my garage and do some other boring stuff.” I was also on call for eighteen hours and volunteered at the clinic for five more, but I don’t tell Tonya that. Marsha already thinks I’m a workaholic; if she heard I’m subbing in for some of the other doctors at my hospital-owned practice and helping at the clinic on top of my usual workload, I’d never hear the end of it.

  “You should come out with us next Friday,” Tonya says, extending a slim brown arm to pick up a salt shaker. At twenty-four, she’s one of the youngest nurses on staff, and from what Marsha’s told me, she’s even more of a party girl than my friend, driving guys of all ages wild with her dimpled smile and tight body. “We’re going to grab some drinks at Patty’s, then head into the city. I know a promoter at that hot new club downtown, so we won’t even have to wait in line.”

  I blink at the unexpected offer. “Oh, I don’t know… I’m not sure if—”

  “You’re not working Friday night,” Marsha says. “I know, I checked the schedule.”

  “Yes, but you know how it is.” I spear eggs with my fork. “Babies don’t always arrive on a schedule.”

  “Come on, Marsha, let her be,” Andy says, tucking a red curl behind her ear. “Can’t you see the poor girl is tired right now? If she wants to go, she’ll go. No need to drag her anywhere.”

  She winks at me, and I give her a grateful smile. This is my first time interacting with Andy outside the hospital hallways, and I’m discovering that I genuinely like her. Like me, she’s in her late twenties, and according to Marsha, she’s had a steady boyfriend for the last five years. The boyfriend—he of the purple condoms—is apparently a self-absorbed douchebag, but Andy loves him anyway.

  “You moved here from Michigan, right?” I ask her, and Andy nods, grinning, then tells me all about how Larry, her boyfriend, got a job in the area, forcing the two of them to move. Listening to her, I decide that Marsha is not far off in her assessment of Andy’s boyfriend.

  Larry does seem like a selfish douche.

  The rest of the meal flies by in casual, friendly conversation, and by the time we pay the bill and head out of the bar, I’m feeling lighter than I have in months. Maybe my dad is right; getting out and socializing could be good for me.

  Maybe I will go to that dinner with the Levinsons, and even to the club with Tonya.

  My improved mood continues as I say goodbye to the three women and walk the two blocks to the hospital parking lot to get my car. Lady Gaga is singing in my headphones, and the sky i
s just beginning to lighten. It feels like the early dawn is speaking to me, promising me that at some point in the not-too-distant future, the darkness may dissipate for me too.

  It feels good, that tiny ray of hope. It feels like a step forward.

  I’m already in the parking lot when it happens again.

  It starts off as a light prickle across my skin… a quiet pinging in my nerves. The blast of adrenaline is next, accompanied by a surge of debilitating terror. My heart rate spikes, and my body tenses for an attack. Gasping, I spin around, tearing off my headphones as I rummage in my bag for a canister of pepper spray, but there’s no one there.

  There’s just that sense of danger, a feeling of being watched. Panting, I turn in a circle, clutching the pepper spray, but I don’t see anyone.

  I never see anyone when my brain misfires like this.

  Shaking, I make my way to my car and get inside. It takes several minutes of breathing exercises before I’m calm enough to drive, and I know that despite my tiredness, I won’t be able to sleep today.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, I turn left instead of right.

  I might as well go to the clinic. They’re not expecting me until tomorrow, but they’re always grateful for the help.

  8

  Sara

  * * *

  “Tell me about this latest episode, Sara,” Dr. Evans says, crossing his long legs. “What made you think someone was watching you?”

  “I don’t know. It was just…” I inhale, trying to find the right words, then shake my head. “It was nothing concrete. I honestly don’t know.”