A voice whispered over her shoulder from the black nothingness. Her head tilted, and her gaze shifted towards the sound. Amber tendrils dripped over her nude shoulder as every strand brushed through the delicate fibers that covered her fair skin. No light fell within the corner of the chamber. Through the black, she recognized it was he. His voice, though a mere whisper, obsessive and entreated, harmonious and sensitive, its solemn tones beckoned her as deeply as she did him.
Slowly, her hand reached into the drawer and removed several sheets of parchment, careful not to drop the cartridge fountain pen atop. Heat prickled across her skin as he, or it, drew near. The air tightened and cooled around her as she exhaled. Goosebumps arose on her shoulder as the ethereal consciousness touched her. And it drew the corners of her lips upwards. She dipped her head to her other shoulder and listened. Eyes closed as he spoke. Her pen twirled and moved across the parchment as the words passed through her and out her hand.
There is not one, but two whom you are to subjugate. Take heed for the time is short…
She accepted the dictation for nearly an hour, her purpose defined, she placed the pen atop the desk and smiled.
PART TWO
FALLING
CHAPTER 3
VOICES
I
5:54 p.m.
The incessant tick-tick-tick filled the room with each syncopated moment of time. It dissolved emotion and obliterated thought as it signaled every passing second of the scheduled hour. A handful of minutes left, and not a second later, Seabrook made sure of that. Usually, by this time, he would wrap things up with scheduling or feigned concerned over what should be considered until their next visit. Silence hushed the conversation minutes earlier, which allowed the rush-hour traffic to permeate and vibrate the library, furniture and degrees splayed about the wall in uneven patterns that screamed more of a look-at-me than an authoritative display.
She looked beyond the gold-rimmed glasses and into the chestnut eyes of Seabrook, Doctor Emanuel Seabrook, D.O. if you please, and waited the closing statement that halted behind his lips. He remained nonplussed, his mocha hand propping his mocha face. His fingernails gleamed brighter than his complexion in the diffused glow of the emerald and brass lamp before him. It was his go-to display of expectation of the lightbulb to illuminate his patients’ consciousness. It worked most times. But as a psychology minor in pursuit of a Sociology Degree, Heather didn’t fall for it.
An average GPA, temporarily dropped-out student, she couldn’t recall if she sought out therapy out of a real necessity or a forgetfulness of her course materials. She assumed she had the essential, though rudimentary tools to diagnose and treat herself as others in her classes. Irony mocked her as the realization dawned on her when student doctors psychologically contracted the diseases they studied.
Seabrook cleared his throat as Heather watched the impatience furrow his brow. She told him everything she needed to for the day, and the time came to say goodbye for the week. A knot tightened her belly as she repeated her question.
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Seabrook gazed out the window as a semi roared below on Flatbush Avenue. “Perhaps Freudian Therapy isn’t the solution for you,” he said. Heather withdrew. Seabrook was recommended to her by Kelsey when things started going south. After a handful of months, and long consideration, Heather made the call. Therapy worked, to a point. She knew the differences between Freudian, Gestalt, Psychodynamic and Cognitive Behavioral therapies. She didn’t want to yell at a chair in a simulated conflict. Nor did she wish to explore her own personal difficulties in short term analysis. Freudian was the way for her to discover the answers within herself. If the results of the last several appointments were to be included in a final exam, a big fat red F would surely be circled at the top of her paper.
“Would you like to try an experiment? Something to force you out of your comfort zone and push past all of this?” he said.
“Yes! Anything! I need to get out of this rut.”
Dr. Seabrook leaned on his elbows and focused.
“You seem to be doing all right in your professional life. Sure, you don’t have a full-time job now, but you’re doing the right thing to get there. You know what you should do, and you’re managing. That’s good. You have no idea how many clients allow that part of their life to fall apart. What I would like to see in you is independence. You think you have it now, but you’re still emotionally chained to the past. To— him.”
She smiled, knowing that if she heard his name aloud, it would evoke a less than pleasant reaction.
“When was the last time you went out with your friends?”
“A while. Just us girls.”
“Any male interaction?”
“No. None. I’m not ready.”
“No, you’re not. But it will come up. It’s normal. It’s natural.”
Heather sighed.
“You don’t have to do this now. You’ll know when you’re ready. But keep this in mind as to our little experiment: invite men to talk to you. You know, give the eye, or whatever it is you young single people do. It’s been so long, I don’t remember.”
Heather didn’t think he ever really knew. Every time she perused his degrees on the wall, NERD screamed in her mind.
“Let them talk to you, hit on you, whatever. And deny them.”
Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Reject them. Don’t use your past as an excuse, don’t say you just broke up with someone or any of that. Just let them know you’re not interested.”
Lips scrunched up one side of her face.
“This will allow you to think clearly, find your independence, find yourself.”
“I don’t know. Sounds kind of stuck up. Bitchy.”
Seabrook chuckled. “It’s not cordial, but I’ve seen remarkable results with my other clients in similar situations. You see, you’ve been attached at the hip to Chase.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I apologize. You lost the idea of who you are because you were so involved in him, you left yourself behind. This is a fun game of catch-up.”
6:04 pm.
Overtime. She hoped she didn’t have to pay out of pocket. Heather arose from her seat.
“I don’t know. How about a prescription for Xanax instead?”
“This first. I don’t like writing unnecessary scripts. You can do this. At your own pace, of course.”
“Fine. No drugs. Just be a bitch,” she muttered.
“I’m not saying—”
“I’m teasing. Next week. Same bat-time?”
He winked. “Same bat-channel.”
Heather pulled the door softly behind her as she exited the office. She glanced over at an older gentleman, sitting in the corner, irately bemused. His salt and pepper hair, slicked back, exposed deep cut widow’s peaks. A black lacquer cane rested against the wall beside him. A chill ran up her spine.
“Heather?”
Her head jerked sideways. A bolt of pain shot through and she grabbed her neck.
“Shit. Sorry. Guess I drifted,” Heather grinned. Gretchen didn’t return it.
“Same time next week?” Gretchen’s voice was dull, listless, absent. Her gaze, vacant. There was something about the secretary that nagged at Heather with every visit. There never was any light to her eyes, no color to her pasty complexion. The thinness of her frame seemed to wither over the last several months. Usually short-sleeved, Gretchen wore a sweater, despite the warm weather. Heather wondered if she was embarrassed of her appearance. Heather peered back to the other client. His varicose-laden hands lifted a newspaper and covered his face.
“Yeah, sounds good. Thanks,” Heather finished and stepped towards the elevator. The man lowered the paper to his lap and considered Seabrook’s door.
Heather padded into the lift and pressed the L button. A chime sounded before Girl from Ipanema played through the single, static-filled speaker.
II
&nbs
p; A pair of twenties and the ten-dollar bill folded over with an ATM receipt gave Heather pause to thank her father for teaching her how to budget her money.
“Bills first, then food, then entertainment,” he had said. And she listened. By no means was Heather financially comfortable, but she was smart enough to know when it was time to just say fuck it. But not too hard.
She considered that fifty bucks might be too much for a night of drinks with Kelsey, especially when she knew her limit before regretful decisions begun at three cocktails. And Heather was feeling rather content as she glanced at the melted remains of her second margarita. She considered the Xanax that fucking Seabrook wouldn’t prescribe and hoped that the expired ones she had from Beatrice would still take the edge off. Adhering to the minimum suggested dosage to lighten the boulder, and the consideration of her maximum libations, things were just fucking peachy.
“No drinking,” Beatrice warned her. Heather agreed. Fingers crossed.
A few nights earlier when anxiety hit an all-time high, the few glasses of wine with the medication lifted the suffocating pressure from her chest and cleared her mind. And for the first time in months, there was relief. Heather wondered where these magical pills had been all her life. And why the hell her doctor avoided offering a prescription. They fucking worked!
Marge’s Bar in Chelsea was a frequent spot for Heather and Beatrice back in the day. Although the establishment had been known as the premier singles bar, and they were both involved in relationships, they were able to be left alone for the better part of their visits.
Except the one time when Casey, Beatrice’s husband— then boyfriend, and Chase were invited as an assurance that the ladies were doing nothing but having an enjoyable time. Of course, something had to happen.
The four of them sat at a small table near the bar, enjoying some drinks and appetizers when this one guy couldn’t help but whisper lewd comments to his buddy about Heather’s low-cut blouse and what he would love to do to her tits if she wasn’t there with her loser boyfriend.
Whether by his acute radar that encompassed his girlfriend, or the man’s disregard for respect, Chase bolted from his seat and marched over.
“The fuck you say?” he growled. “Apologize to her, now!”
The man looked Chase up and down and smiled.
“Sit down and shut up, loser.”
The man’s friend slouched in his seat as he watched Chase bare his teeth and clench his fists.
“Chase, no!” Heather shrieked as she heard the sickening thud and watched the man tumble to the floor.
“You broke my jaw,” the man cried through the thick pour of blood as he clutched his face together. The man swatted blindly as Chase mounted him.
The man’s friend leaped to his feet to subdue the onslaught. Chase broke the friend’s nose with his elbow and sent him skating backwards.
Casey, Beatrice and Heather grabbed Chase by the arms and yanked him off.
Heather quivered, her eyes wide in disbelief. Beatrice took her and rushed away as Casey held Chase tight, pushing him to the door.
Heather motioned to the bartender for another round as a boy, in her eyes, smiled and stepped closer. Kelsey grabbed Heather’s wrist and yanked it down. A long, breathy belch of delight passed through and brought a smile to Kelsey’s lips.
“Last one. You know the rule,” Kelsey whispered.
“I know, I know. I’m fine. Really. So are you,” Heather said.
They examined each other for cracks in their respective foundations. Heather turned back slowly to the bartender.
“Another Mango Marge and a Sunrise?” he said. Heather nodded. Kelsey bit her lip as she regarded his mixology skills and tight physique.
“Changed my mind. You’re flagged. Is he even legal?” Heather said to Kelsey.
“He’s tender,” Kelsey leered. “I’ll bet he’s delicious.”
“Kels!”
“What? You wouldn’t? You see the size of his feet? It’s true, you know.”
Heather rolled her eyes and sighed.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. Watch and learn.”
The young bartender made his way back to the ladies and Heather watched the charming ignorance in his grin.
“Excuse me, handsome. Can I ask you a personal question?” Kelsey said.
“I guess,” he said.
“Don’t you dare, Kelsey. I’m warning you.”
“Is it true that your Mega-Marge could choke me if I swallowed it too fast?”
Heather’s cheeks reddened as she folded into her seat.
“No. Sorry. It’s much smaller than you’d hope,” he said.
Heather and Kelsey turned to each other and lost the battles against hysterics. The bartender shook his head and stepped away.
“You’re such a slut,” Heather groaned as she raised her drink. Kelsey noticed something beyond Heather and pulled her in close.
“Turn around, Prudey McNoSex,” she said. “You see that fine piece of man-meat standing there with his friends?”
Heather botched a feint glance and stared at the tall, dark and sexy, gym-toned man near the billiard table. She regarded the slim-fit shirt that stretched over his expansive chest and tight waistline. Heather turned back to Kelsey and bit her lip.
“I know, right?” Kelsey said.
“Hey. Off-subject, but I need to know,” she started. “You ever find out what the fuck happened with him?”
Heather sipped her margarita. It tasted as bitter as the question.
“Are you going to?”
Heather shrugged.
“You do owe it to yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong, you know?”
Heather nodded.
“We figured you would have already sifted through his trash by now and—”
Heather cleared her throat. “Not tonight. Please. Let’s have some fun.”
“Whoa,” Kelsey interrupted. Heather spun on her seat.
“He hasn’t stopped checking you out, bitch.”
Heather glanced back. Just a glance this time. He smiled to her.
“No, he’s not,” she said.
She didn’t get another word out when a tap on her shoulder paused her. She froze as Kelsey considered her and smirked.
Heather twisted in her seat. The soft, familiar fragrance of Nivea aftershave greeted her nostrils. It smelled like the calm before the storm. A storm that would blow through her like a tsunami, depleting all possibility of good judgment.
“Hi,” she grinned.
“Hey. I’m Tyler,” he said.
A flutter tickled her belly as she focused on his gaze, though her periphery drank in his chiseled frame, all the way down to his fine Italian shoes. She remembered hearing from someone, probably Kelsey, that a woman knows within the first ten seconds of meeting someone if she would sleep with them. Nine seconds in—
“I’m Heather. Nice to meet you,” she said and put out her hand. He accepted and kissed the back of it. Her other twirled her raven locks and revealed the sensitive part of her neck.
“So, T. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Their conversation drifted back and forth between college, aspirations, troubles, and mundane observations in an ever increasingly busy world of the typical mid to late twenty-year-old life. Heather realized she hadn’t had another drink in quite a while, inadvertently observing her preset limit. Examining the clock behind the bar, she knew to quit while she was ahead.
“You really have to go?”
“Yeah, I think so. I have to get up early tomorrow,” she said.
“You want a ride back? Your friend looks like she’s having a good time. Be a shame to make her leave too,” Tyler said.
Heather considered Kelsey who was enjoying a fit of kittenish laughter with two male suitors. Not drunk, but definitely not sober.
Heather and Kelsey had spent many similar nights back in college. Much more often than Heather, Kelsey would leave the parties first, en
suring she was the one who hung the scrunchie on the doorknob. Heather laughed every time when the hair piece and the three-inch thick fireproof door, proved useless against Kelsey’s earth-shattering, orgasmic wailing.
Heather made sure her privacy remained much quieter. Especially when she just wanted to be alone. Kelsey discovered Heather’s lack of companionship one night when she yanked the scrunchie away and stumbled into the room in a tequila-infused stupor.
“Who’re you fucking?” she slurred. Bundled up in her bleach-stained, thread-bare granny robe, Heather told her the guy lasted thirty-seconds and ran out.
“Who was he? Was he hot?”
Heather couldn’t think fast enough to compliment her lie.
“He— I don’t feel so good. My head’s splitting,” she mustered up before rolling over in her own arms.
Tonight, was the same. Heather detected it as the jabbing finger of doubt stabbed in the back of her mind. Something she couldn’t quite put her own finger on. Whatever it was, she tried to quell it.
“I shouldn’t. But if I did, what kind of car would you drive me home in?” she said.
“Corvette. Cozy enough for two,” he winked. She bit her lip.
“I don’t put out on the first date, you know,” she smiled.
“I didn’t—”
“No. Really,” she said.
Heather pressed up against Tyler and tilted her head upwards. He wrapped his arms around and pulled her in close enough to feel his growing intention that struggled within his slacks. She allowed it. Her lips parted as she permitted his warm, gentle tongue to slip past.
Heather heaved Tyler back and shook her head. A battle was lost against the fireflies and vertigo.
“You Okay, babe? What’s up?”
Her eyes remained clamped as she shivered.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. It’s just—”
He slipped his arm around her waist once more. She drifted back.
The Estranged Page 3