trans·fer·ence: a novel

by Ava Harrison

  “I’m not.” He brushes his finger across my cheek and wipes away the moisture.

  “Would it be better for us to talk about it?” His eyes narrow with concern and I shake my head adamantly.

  “No.” I tilt my head into his hand and stare up into his cerulean eyes. The ones that have hypnotized me in the past, and I open my heart and allow them to put me under their trance once again. In that moment, I let myself fade into the fairy tale story you read with a happily ever after.

  I wasn’t the patient and he wasn’t the doctor. We were merely two people falling in love.

  “Please, let’s just enjoy this time together.” He sets his glass on the table and lifts mine from my hands. He wraps his arms around me. I inhale his scent, and immerse myself in the comfort he brings me. With one whisper of a single kiss against my forehead, he pulls back and leads me to the table, and although I want to cry, I vow to enjoy every moment of this last night together.

  After dinner, he draws me toward him. Our mouths collide. We tell each other everything we can share with each sweep of our tongue.

  This kiss makes me believe my lie. His lips tell a tale of their own, and as our bodies join, I let myself go. I let myself become immersed in the imaginary pages of what we could have been.

  Bittersweet. That’s what this is. As we both pack our belongings, sadness hovers in the air. It lingers and bathes us. It’s all-encompassing and tangible. Choking us as the seconds pass.

  My own heart breaks a million times before we even leave the room. As I step outside, I turn back one final time to memorize each second we spent here together.

  If I could push reset, I would, but I can’t. So I hold my head high and walk with Preston to our car.

  The drive is silent. Neither of us dare speak. I watch out the window as the city comes into view. I want to ask if there’s a chance for us. Not now, but maybe in the future. He cares for me. I know it. It’s in every gesture. Every look. Every touch. But love me, or even care about me enough to risk his future? Well, that’s a question I don’t know the answer to. A question I’m not willing to risk. No, I won’t ask. I’ll bite my lip and not beg him to give me a chance.

  “Eve,” he says, his head turning slightly to see my eyes. “I bought you something.” He reaches for the bag on the back seat and hands it to me.

  “Should I open it now?”

  “No,” he says, but nothing more. He doesn’t need to. The implication is there, laced behind the pain etched in his voice. It’s a parting gift. There is no future here. These will be the last minutes spent in the bubble we created.

  I will leave it as it was meant to be.

  A stolen moment.

  One chapter of a book.

  My whole body hurts from the weight of emotion hanging above us. The tension is so high I might suffocate.

  Through the windshield, I see my apartment building. It looms in the distance, but as the seconds pass, the space separating the car from my home disintegrates until we are back where we started two days ago, his Range Rover parked in front of my building.

  Two days.

  A lifetime.

  Everything between us has changed, yet it all stays the same.

  This is it. This is the end. I want to beg and plead. Tell him to never leave me. Tell him to risk it all for me.

  Tell him I’m falling in love with him. That he is everything I’ve ever hoped and dreamed about. Instead, as a lone tear drips down my face . . .

  I say good-bye. I want to crumble to my feet, but instead, I square my shoulders and hold my head high. Plenty of time later to fall apart. I will not let him see how badly I hurt. I know he’s hurting, too, but unfortunately, the timing isn’t right for us.

  Later that night, I lie in bed with his box in my hand. I need to open it, but do I dare? Once I do, it’s official. Mustering all the strength left in my body, I tear away at the paper. There is a note inside the box.

  Eve, I want you to have this. It will catch your nightmares and help you to the other side.

  Preston

  It’s a tiny gold dream catcher necklace, and with all that I have left, I fall to pieces on my bed. Sometime later, I hear a knock on my door, but I don’t answer.

  “Eve?” Silence. “Sweetie?” Sydney pops her head in through the crack of the door. I don’t bother to answer or even move from where I’m submerged under the heavy blanket. “Are you okay?” When I still don’t answer, the door creaks and her feet pad against the floor. The bed dips as she sits at the foot. “You’re worrying me. You’ve been in here since you came back from your trip. Do you want to talk about it?”

  I lift the blanket and look into her deep brown eyes. “Not much to tell,” I say under my breath and I hope she takes the hint . . . I don’t want to tell.

  Sometimes the most amazing moments are the ones we can’t talk about.

  That’s how it felt every time Preston was near.

  His proximity alone lit me on fire, and I won’t tell her that. I want to keep the memory to myself. I don’t want to share it with anyone.

  “I can’t help you if I don’t know what happened.”

  “Nothing happened, Syd. It was amazing. It was perfect. It was the best two days of my life. But that’s all it was. That’s all it will ever be—two days. Two fucking days is all I get.” Anger and sadness bleed from my words. “Want to know how I am? I’m a mess.”

  “You’re not a mess.”

  “I promise you, I am.” Her eyes meet mine and the air is tense. I plaster on a fake smile and gleam up at her.

  “This isn’t like you. Sure, you’ve had a tough go the last couple of months, but normally you’re the strongest person I know. Even after Richard, you managed to land one of the largest accounts the firm has ever seen. That’s not a small feat. If you can do that, you can get through a little breakup.”

  “It’s not even a breakup.” I pout.

  “It is.”

  “How can we call it a breakup when he was never mine to break up from?”

  “A break then. After the shit you’ve been through, you’ll get through this break.

  “I know you’re right. I just wonder how much a person can take. Like my mom. What was the final straw for her?”

  “Have you ever thought to ask her?” I narrow my eyes at Sydney.

  “Every day. Every time I’m there I try to ask her questions but she’s too sick to answer anything. To be honest, I don’t even think she realizes her behavior isn’t normal.”

  “Maybe she needs a therapist. Know anyone?” she jokes and I shoot her the look of death. “Too soon?”

  I grimace at her. “Yeah. I think so.” She gives me big puppy dog eyes and I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, I’m going to hop in the shower. Do you want to go out for dinner or order in?”

  “I say we get Chinese and get drunk off food. A little MSG will make you feel better.”

  “Syd, I’m pretty sure that statement is actually reversed. I think they have banned MSG for being really bad for you.”

  “Tomato, tomaaatoe.” I snort at that and she giggles.

  Once dressed after my shower, I follow the smell of Chinese permeating the air. It leads me to the living room, where little white cartons are sitting on the coffee table.

  “Wine?,” Sydney screams through the walls of the kitchen.

  “Sure.” A few minutes later she comes out with two glasses filled to the rim with Pinot Grigio. I hope and pray this night with her with help drown my misery. Somehow I doubt anything will, but I smile anyway and try to forget.

  Weeks pass slowly when you’re sad. They don’t ebb and flow like a passing tide. Rather, they are like quicksand, and the harder you attempt to pull away, the more stuck you become.

  It’s been one month since my trip with Preston and I’ve sworn to Sydney I’ll get out of my funk, but really I’m learning to fake it better. By Friday after work I can no longer pretend to smile. I have nothing left in me.

  I throw myself into
work and organizing Richard’s estate. Today I’ve decide to take up the task of cleaning out his closet.

  Walking into Richard’s apartment wakes up all sorts of feelings. Sadness is laced with smiles. There were some great times here. There were also some not so great times, but the good outweigh the bad. I’m overcome with emotion. I blink away moisture, and the room comes into focus. It’s just like the last time. Except it’s different now . . . empty. A picture on the console table pops out at me. It’s the same picture I have in my apartment, the one from my graduation. Instantly a smile forms.

  Right after Richard died, I had the apartment professionally cleaned. Since the windows haven’t been opened in weeks the air is stale; bleach still wafts through the air.

  All the furniture has been sold through an estate sale, and all that remains to be done is to go through Richard’s personal belongings. With a deep inhale I set off for the master bedroom. Suits still hang in the closet. Shoes are still displayed along the wall. Goodwill. Or maybe a charity that helps men get back on their feet. I’ve heard of a few that train and dress the unemployed for interviews. Richard would like that. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Grabbing my phone, I make a note to look into companies that provide that service, then I set off to do my task.

  There’s a step stool in the back of the walk-in closet that Richard obviously used to store boxes on the top shelf. For twenty minutes, I rummage. There are bills and receipts in one box. The next box has old pictures. They make me smile as I take a few out and remember the better times. Every muscle starts to ache after two hours of sorting, and by the time I’m ready to give up for the day, I see one more box in the back corner. In order to grab it I have to climb to the highest step of the ladder and lean my whole body up and onto the shelf. My fingers are barely able to reach it, but as I stretch one more inch, I secure it in my hand.

  It’s marked “Miscellaneous.” As I pull the box down and almost have it safely on the floor, it slips and it crashes, turning over on its side.

  Papers spread against the hardwood floors.

  Just my luck, now I have to go through everything. I hop down to clean up the floor. The first thing that becomes apparent is that some of these papers are actual legal documents. Some are contracts. There’s an operator’s agreement between my mom and Richard. LLC paperwork. Banking information. With a huff I pull the lid fully off and decide to see what else he has in here. There’s a picture of Richard and myself. A few small envelopes, nothing that seems too important. A book. I pick up the book and notice it’s a Jane Austen. It looks to match my mom’s old collection—the ones that sat in our library growing up. When I lift it to get a better look, a piece of paper falls out. I reach out and turn it over.

  My heart stops.

  An arctic chill runs up my spine.

  Every last bit of oxygen leaves my body.

  I’m stuck. My feet heavy like cement.

  What the hell is this?

  I see crimson.

  I crumble to the ground.

  I’m desperately gasping for air.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t stop the memories that flow into my brain.

  All at once consuming me with pain.

  There was blood on my hands.

  Get it off! Get it off!

  A rush of broken visions flashes in my mind. Take shape and tell me a story.

  My heart races in my ears and I can no longer hear anything.

  The vision of me is so clear, and I bite back a sob.

  I was small.

  So small.

  An innocent child.

  I sat on the floor, my doll in hand and I gently brushed her hair. In the distance I heard a sound. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was loud, like the fireworks we saw on the Fourth of July. It made my ears hurt and the walls shake. I hugged my doll to me tightly. Where was Mommy? Maybe she knew where the loud bang came from. The sound was scary.

  “Mommy?” She didn’t answer. My feet pressed against the cold wood floor as I peered out of the playroom. “Mommy?” Where did she go?

  Maybe Daddy knew. A smile grew on my face and the fear I felt left my body. He always knew everything. Mommy always said he’d protect us from harm. The house was silent as I padded down the hallway toward the library. He often sat in there for hours.

  “Daddy?” My little hands pounded on the door, but he wouldn’t answer.

  Turning the knob, I peeked my head inside. “Daddy, are you in there? I can’t find Mommy,” I said as I flung the door open. “Daddy.” I couldn’t see him. Where was he? The room smelled funny, like he had blown out a candle. What was that smell? I walked in further and from where I stood I could finally see him.

  “What are you doing there?” I walked to where I saw my dad.

  “What are you looking for on the floor? Did you drop something?”

  He was turned to face under the desk. “Daddy?”

  My foot slipped out from under me and I fell and hit the floor. My hands hit the wood first, then my stomach.

  “Ouch!” I yelped as I brought my hand forward to lift myself back off the floor.

  I slipped on something warm.

  It was thick against my fingers.

  It was all over my dress.

  My hands were red.

  Why were my hands red?

  Everything was red.

  Looking around me, I noticed I was sitting in a pool of red liquid. Red spread over the surface of my skin. Was this blood?

  Why was I bleeding? I shook my head. My heart rate sped up.

  I wasn’t bleeding.

  It wasn’t blood.

  It was . . .

  “Daddy!” I could barely call out to him.

  The blood was flowing from the back of his head.

  I tapped at his shoulder and fear spread throughout my body when he didn’t answer. “Why aren’t you answering me, Daddy. Daddy!” I shook him with all my might, and his head flopped forward. His open eyes stared at me. But he still didn’t answer. “Please, Daddy. Answer me.”

  Why wouldn’t he answer?

  “No!” I manage to scream. I press my palms against my eyes to force the memory out of my mind. “No. No. No. No.” I rock in place.

  A knot is lodged in my throat but I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

  My father.

  Dead.

  I found him.

  It was a suicide.

  The blood.

  I run my hands down my shirt as I wipe away the memory, but there’s no point.

  The visions tear at my soul. I’m holding my father’s note. His last words. It grows heavy in my hand.

  The note that brings it all back. That makes me remember.

  A suicide note.

  With a shaky hand, I force myself to read his last words.

  I’m so sorry, Laura. My intentions were never to harm you. I don’t want to bring you pain. I don’t want you to be ashamed of what I’ve done. Sometimes I think this will pass. That I will get through this, and you’ll look at me like the husband you were once proud of. But now I know I have failed you too many times. I have failed our family. This is the only way out, the only way I can stop the pain I’m causing you. You were right. Everything you said was right. I failed you. I failed Eve. For that I’m truly and forever sorry. I hope you find the happiness you seek. This is the only way. I can’t stand the disappointment I see in your eyes.

  Please don’t be sad, for I’m not worthy of your tears.

  Please forgive me, and what I’ve done to us.

  This is the only way. I know how to make it all better now.

  Tell Eve that Daddy will always protect her. Tell her I love her.

  My hand shakes. A sob breaks lose. Everything trembles. My body collapses forward. Every tiny shred of remaining strength breaks. What is this? What the hell is this? I have no idea what’s going on. No clue, but I can’t move. I can’t think. The world is shutting down. The walls are closing in. It feels as if
I’m drowning. Ice-cold liquid fills my veins as I realize my entire life is a lie. Everything I know is wrong. Nothing makes sense.

  Time stops. Everything ceases to be. Lying on the floor, I think of nothing but the betrayal. As the seconds turn to minutes and then hours, I realize I haven’t moved from my spot on the floor.

  Nothing will ever make sense again, but in truth, it all makes sense. Every vague answer. Every sidestep. All to avoid this. But she won’t avoid it any longer. I need to know everything and she will tell me. I have that right. I deserve to know.

  My anger fuels my body. I make my way out of Richard’s apartment and storm into hers. The hallway is quiet. No doubt she is curled up in her bed, hiding from the world. How nice it must be to hide from everything in your life.

  “Mom?” She doesn’t answer, and I step further into the room. “Mom. I’m talking to you.”

  “I’m not well. Can we speak after my nap?”

  “No. You will speak to me now!” With that her head rises from her pillow.

  “What is this about?” She seems more alert than normal, but when I lift the paper into her line of vision she flinches, and the look in her eye fades as she shrinks back into herself.

  “I’m dizzy. Can we talk about this later?”

  “No, Mom. I deserve answers. How could you not tell me? How could you keep this from me? How could Richard?”

  “I had to. We had to.” Her voice is so sad. She’s broken.

  “I–I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t even know where to start. I’m not sure I have the energy to tell it.”

  “Please, Mom,” I plead and she finally relents.

  “You were so young. We lived a good life. Your-your father was a good man. It was my fault. Everything is my fault.” She starts to sob uncontrollably. I don’t know how to help her. Her tears break out like a river. Never stopping. Always flowing.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I said things. Bad things,” she whispers.

  “Mom, please. I think you owe it to me to tell me the full story. What happened? And no more saying you’re sick. No more hiding. No more lying.”