I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  There is no denying that my attraction to Ian is strong, but I need to figure out if it’s Ian that I’m pulled toward, or if it’s my longing to resurrect the memory of Dalton and what we shared.

  Chapter 19

  This morning when T arrives I’m in the same spot I was in when he arrived yesterday morning. He arches an eyebrow at me and motions for me to move my legs so he can sit beside me. “Would you sleep better if I had Callahan move this porch swing up to your bedroom?” For some reason hearing Ian’s name in the same sentence as “bedroom” causes my stomach to flutter. My cheeks heat up, and I shake my head, quickly turning away, hopeful that T won’t notice.

  Gwen pokes her head out the front door, “Breakfast is ready, you two.” T stands and reaches for my hand to follow him inside.

  “I see the security company was here yesterday,” T comments. He dollops a heaping glob of butter onto his cinnamon roll. I peer around the kitchen, confused as to how he knows they were here. When I don’t notice any telltale signs, my narrowed eyes land back on T. The weight of my stare catches his attention. “What?” he asks.

  “How do you know they were here?” I whisper.

  His eyes twinkle mischievously, and he says, “I’m psychic.”

  I watch him pointedly, drumming my fingers on the tabletop.

  “They stuck one of those damn metal signs in the front yard,” he admits. “That and the panel on the wall over there.”

  “Before we leave for your appointment this afternoon, I’ll show you how everything works,” Gwen offers. She blows to cool her coffee and smiles at me. I twist my mouth indicating my displeasure when she mentions the shrink. She misinterprets my expression as an indication that I’m worried about learning how to use the alarm. “There’s nothing to it.”

  I stab a hot cinnamon roll with my fork and drop it onto my plate. “It’s not the alarm system that worries me.”

  T picks up Gwen’s high fiber cereal box and starts to read it, suddenly engrossed in the nutritional value of tree bark. He knows I’m less than thrilled about baring my soul to some stranger, even if — especially if — said stranger has a degree in working with crazy people.

  Gwen removes the box from T’s hands, pouring herself a bowl of cereal. “There’s nothing to worry about. Dr. Stephens is really good. He’s had years of experience in dealing with PTSD. I think you’ll like him.”

  T clears his throat and changes the subject, “Callahan will do the finish work in the upstairs bathroom, now that Drake is done.”

  “Drake?”

  “The plumber,” T says. He taps a spoon on the edge of his saucer. T has a hard time sitting still; he has all sorts of annoying nervous tics. My hand shoots across the table and I snatch the spoon out of his hand. I place it back on the table and shake my head in reprimand.

  Gwen smiles over her coffee cup at me and asks, “When will the plumber get started on the new laundry room?”

  “Today,” T sighs and reaches for his spoon again. “Damn, these are the best cinnamon rolls. I’m going to need to start working out again if I keep eating like this.”

  A snort slips out. T hasn’t worked out a day in his life. He’s never had to since he has the metabolism of a freaking hummingbird. “I’ll get a workout plan put together for you,” I snicker.

  After breakfast, I go out to check on Mama Dog. All of the food is gone and she’s curled up with her pups. She watches me warily, but doesn’t protest when I reach for the empty pie tin. I guess she’s figured out the whole “don’t bite the hand that feeds you” thing.

  While I’m in the garage getting her food, the slam of a car door causes me to start. I figure it’s probably T heading back to town so I peek out the door to wave goodbye and my breath hitches in my chest when I come face to face with Ian. I drop the pie tin and it clatters to the floor, dog food flying in several hundred directions at once.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes and when we both kneel at the same time to retrieve the dog food, our foreheads knock together. It throws me off balance and I land gracefully on my sweat pants-covered ass.

  A warm burst of laughter erupts from Ian’s mouth, and it’s infectious. I should be horrified by my appearance. Bed-head hair sticking out at forty-five degree angles. Dressed in the rattiest pair of sweat pants I own — complete with matching hoodie. Oh, and the fingerless black gloves add to the look of supreme hotness. I’m sure I must look decidedly unattractive. I envy people like Ian who have effortless good looks.

  I reach up and rub the spot on my forehead where we collided. “Ouch,” I hiss.

  A sexy-as-sin, lopsided grin lights up his eyes and he pushes to his feet. He extends his hand to help me up. His eyes rove over my glamorous hair and he reaches for me. I freeze, but don’t flinch away or try to stop him. He extracts a piece of dog food from my bangs and holds it in front of my face. “You gonna eat this?” he teases.

  I plant my hands on my hips. “Yes dammit. I was saving that for later,” I whisper with a straight face. Before I think about what I’m doing, I snatch the kibble from between his index finger and thumb and toss it into my open mouth.

  His jaw drops, “Wow. Just wow. I can’t believe you did that!” He laughs and shakes his head, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  I smile coyly while trying to salvage as much of the spilled dog food as I can. I sense the heat of his eyes drilling into my back. He doesn’t seem able to make up his mind whether to stay where he is or to follow me across the driveway to Mama Dog. When I drop to my hands and knees and slip the pan under the porch for Mama Dog, I hear his boots crunch the gravel behind me.

  “I’m glad you decided to share,” he informs me. I glance sideways to where he’s crouched down next to me and he smirks. “The dog food, I mean.”

  I grin, absentmindedly running my tongue over my full lips and nod. His eyes flicker casually to my mouth. When I stand, he trails behind as I walk inside. He stops in the kitchen to talk to Gwen. I leave the two of them alone and go upstairs to find something to wear to my appointment this afternoon.

  A few minutes later when I make my way back down through the kitchen to use Gwen’s shower, they stop talking as soon as I come into view. Okay, like that’s not obvious.

  I stop in my tracks and narrow my eyes suspiciously at both of them. No one speaks, and I continue on my way as though I’m not dying to know what they were saying about me. As soon as I’m down the hallway, their muffled voices start up again. I tiptoe slowly back to eavesdrop.

  The color drains from my face when I overhear the end of Ian’s sentence, “…have her committed.”

  “Sometimes we do what we have to do. It’s not always easy,” Gwen replies.

  Oh. Hell. No. I clutch at my throat and back away from their voices, inching toward the bathroom. I slip inside and press my back against the door. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Repeat.

  A trickle of sweat sprouts at the nape of my neck and meanders down my spine. What the hell? He thinks I need to be committed? I mean, yeah, I know I have my moments, but hearing his words is like a slap to the face. Good thing his opinion doesn’t matter to me since I don’t even like him that much.

  Chapter 20

  The afternoon sun warms my face but does little to remove the chill in my bones. I zone out as I stare through the windshield. Gwen glances away from the road and comments, “It’s beautiful for October. Not too many nice days like these left, I bet.”

  She wants to make small talk, and I’m convinced that if I engage in conversation with her I’ll wind up asking her what she and Ian had been discussing earlier. I rub at the back of my neck, pulling absently at my hair. I grow more restless as each passing mile brings us closer to Dr. Stephens’ office.

  The office is among a row of businesses occupying a one-story brick building. His front door is sandwiched between a used bookstore and a small caf��. Gwen walks into the waiting area with me and gives my name to the receptionist. We’re told that
the doctor will be with us shortly, to have a seat. Gwen tells me she’s going to the bookstore next door and for me to come over there once I’m finished with Dr. Stephens. How about I go to the bookstore and you take a siesta on the doc’s couch? I think to myself.

  I sit on the edge of one of the waiting room chairs, rubbing my clammy hands on my jeans. Unfortunately, before I’m able to bolt out the door, the receptionist smiles brightly and ushers me down the hall to the first door on the right. I’m surprised when the door opens and Dr. Stephens is already inside. He stands and smiles warmly, “Come in, come in,” he steps around the massive desk to greet me.

  He’s not a tall man, built like a piece of string. His hair reminds me of Albert Einstein’s, white and wild. The first thing I notice about his face is his smile. My, what big teeth you have, grandpa. I’d place him in his mid-fifties.

  “Sit wherever you feel most comfortable,” he offers. I wonder briefly what he’d think if I were to plop my butt into the cushy leather chair behind his desk. Instead, I sit in one of the other less comfortable chairs.

  As soon as I’m seated, he settles back into his chair and opens a folder in front of him. He rifles through the papers before closing the file and clasping his hands in front of him. He peers over the top of his glasses, sizing me up. “So, Rhane,” he begins. I uncross my legs and fidget in the chair under his scrutinizing gaze. “This is your first appointment. What would you like to do today?”

  Okay. So not what I expected him to say. I re-cross my legs and fidget some more. “You’re the doctor, aren’t you supposed to tell me?” I whisper.

  He chuckles. “Thanks for reminding me. I forget who’s the doctor and who’s the patient sometimes.” When he takes notice of the look on my face he grins. “Teasing.”

  “I can’t speak very loudly, can you hear me okay?”

  “Of course I can hear you. I’m also pretty adept at lip reading and I know a bit of sign language too. Whichever you prefer,” he smirks. “Don’t let the white hair fool you. Nothing wrong with my hearing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying,” he leans forward. “What do you want to do today?”

  I shrug.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a little bit about how I work. Is it alright with you if I do most of the talking today?”

  I nod. Knock yourself out, doc. I think to myself.

  A toothy smile stretches across his face, “I wanted to make sure. It is your dime. I don’t want you to report back to Ms. Cummings how I wouldn’t let you get a word in edgewise and what a quack you think I am.”

  “Pfft,” I curl my lip at him. As if.

  He rolls his chair away from the desk and moves around to stand in front of it. He hoists all of his eighty-five pounds onto the top of the solid cherry desk. “Okay, you comfy? Can I get you some water? Anything?” he asks.

  “I’m good.”

  He swings his legs back and forth like a small child sitting in a chair too high off the floor for their feet to reach. “I know a little bit about you,” he says.

  My eyebrows draw together. “How?”

  He smiles. “I got some juicy tidbits off of Google. But that doesn’t really tell me much about Rhane the human being. How you feel about everything.”

  “Google? Seriously?” I uncross my legs and put my feet flat on the floor. I keep my expression closed, not convinced whether I should believe him. Doing an internet search on your clients seems rather unprofessional in my opinion.

  “Sure. For instance, I know you were a singer. I know you were with an up and coming rock band called Fate’s Crazy which consisted of four people. Two of those people you no longer communicate with. At all. The third member, your boyfriend, was killed in the same accident that left you without a voice. I know you don’t remember much about the accident and judging from the circles under your eyes, I’d say you’re not sleeping very well.” He pauses to wait for my reaction. “How am I doing so far?”

  Trying hard to keep my expression neutral, I say, “Not bad.”

  After a short silence, he blurts, “I don’t think you’re ready for the truth.” Causing me to flinch in my chair a little.

  Tilting my head to the side, I stare evenly at him and ask, “What do you mean?”

  “The mind is an amazing thing. The whole body is, really. But that’s another topic for a different day,” he smiles. “Why do you think it is that you’re not able to remember much about the night of the accident?”

  “Umm, because of my head injury?” I want to add, duh, but swallow my snarkism.

  “Yes and no, but not exactly. Did you ever see that movie, the one with Jack Nicholson? Where he says, ‘Truth? You can’t handle the truth.’?”

  I nod.

  “Well, after the accident, you’re brain flipped a switch, so to speak, so you couldn’t remember. When you’re ready, when you can handle the truth, then perhaps you will,” he says. He hops down from the desk and walks back behind it, taking a seat in his chair. “I know you’re probably wondering why the hell you’re paying me if I’m not going to do anything. Right?”

  Again, I nod.

  He drums his fingers on his narrow thighs, “Hypnosis is controversial and has limited scientific evidence to support its worth. In some cases it could cause strong emotions and might even alter your memories. Even leading one to fabricate false memories unwittingly.” His face remains impassive as he says this.

  I frown, “Okay.” What am I supposed to say to that? “That’s deep.”

  He smiles broadly. “Just throwing that out there so you know the pros and cons. I could hypnotize you to help you remember. But, frankly, I’m not sure you’re ready to go down that road just yet. I would like to see you at least once a week. When you’re ready to remember, I’ll try to help you get it all out into the open where we can deal with things from that perspective. Until then, let’s talk about something we can work on in the meantime.”

  I raise my eyebrows and fiddle with the neck of my t-shirt. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You’re not sleeping. Ms. Cummings, Gwen, believes you suffer from PTSD. Nightmares. Anger issues. An overall avoidance of sleep. Right?”

  “Sure,” I say. “All of the above.”

  “Nightmares are almost always due to an underlying medical or mental health condition. It’s my job to try to figure out the underlying problem.” He pauses and leans back in his chair to watch me before continuing. “You probably avoid sleep because you’re afraid you’ll dream. I suspect the nightmares have given you fragments of what happened the night of the accident. Those nightmares seem pretty damn real to your brain. So, even though your body is exhausted, it’s your brain that fights sleep.”

  I lower my eyes and nod silently.

  “Are you taking anything to help you sleep?” he asks.

  Again, I nod. “I have a prescription for sleeping pills.”

  “Hopefully, you won’t have to rely on them long-term,” he says.

  “I’ve had anger issues for as far back as I can remember, really.” I admit, still unable to look him in the eye.

  “Indeed,” he nods. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

  I toy with a loose string on my jeans.

  “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  I smile. “Would hypnosis make me quack like a duck?”

  “Absolutely not,” he reassures me. “Maybe moo like a cow, but I think it’s a pretty safe bet that nothing duck-like will come from your hypnosis session with me.”

  My eyes pop open in disbelief.

  “I’m teasing. I don’t run that kind of a practice.” He taps his pencil on the desk. “Although I’d make more money if I did, probably.”

  I breathe a heavy sigh and relax into the chair. I grin at him and ask, “Google? Really?”

  He laughs, “Well, yeah, that and YouTube.” My face crumples, and I go back to picking at the string. Google, I would have expected, but I had no ide
a there were videos of us on YouTube.

  We fill the forty-five minute appointment with him asking questions about my anger issues. A knot of anxiety forms in my stomach when he asks, “Do you believe your anger had something to do with the accident?”

  “I don’t really know,” I admit with a one shoulder shrug.

  Finally, after the longest forty-five minutes of my life, he clears his throat, “Well, that’s enough for the first week.”

  I stand and make my way toward the door. I trail behind him as he leads me down the hall to the front desk. He tells the receptionist that he’d like to see me next week and an appointment for next Thursday afternoon is set. “See you next week, Rhane,” as he gives a little wave.

  “Yeah, see ya.”

  Chapter 21

  The bell over the bookstore door jangles as I push it open to search for Gwen. Apparently she notices me before I do her; I can tell by the questions written all over her face. I try to ease the full-out scowl I’m wearing into a minor frown.

  “How’d it go?” she asks, closing the paperback she was thumbing through.

  I shrug. “He’s interesting.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” she says quietly. Her mouth flickers into an almost smile, as though she knew what my opinion of Dr. Stephens would be. “Let me pay for these books and we can go home.”

  Looking around the cluttered area, I twist my mouth into a half frown when I spot the small caf�� tucked at the back of the store. A young woman sits with her laptop open, typing away, and I reach for Gwen and nod toward the caf��. “Do we have Internet at the house?”

  She nods. “Thomas had wireless installed. It’s slow and spotty, but it gets the job done.”

  “I think I need to buy a laptop,” I decide.

  She grins and pays the clerk for the worn mystery novels, stuffing them into her bag. She leans toward me and says, “Let’s go get you a laptop. I think that’s a great idea.”