“But I’m serious,” she urged, and she was. She did not remember anything about the hypnosis after Dr. Bentley had starting asking her about the woods. What did she say about it? What did she say about anything past that point?
“Pity,” Dr. Morrison said, “you might have been a talented actress.”
Tears streaked down Hillary’s face as feelings of hopelessness and despair settled in her mind.
“Can I listen to the tape, the one from the hypnosis?” she said pitifully.
“I don’t have that tape, you know that.”
“Call Dr. Bentley...please, just call him.”
“Do you realize what time it is? Dr. Bentley is not at your disposal twenty-four, seven.”
“How would I know what time it is? There’s no clock in here. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if it’s daytime or nighttime.”
Dr. Morrison sighed, growing tired of being there.
“It’s almost six-thirty in the evening. Dr. Bentley is home now and I won’t disturb him. Perhaps if you tell me what it is that you purportedly just remembered, I may give him a call in the morning.”
“I remember my father...I think.”
“Uh-huh,” Dr. Morrison said dryly.
“It’s a big deal to me,” Hillary yelled.
“I know you remember a lot more than just your father.”
“I just have an image of him in my mind,” Hillary said nervously.
“So tell me, what was he like?”
“I’m not sure...I don’t think I loved him.”
“Oh really? What makes you say that?”
“I’d rather tell Dr. Bentley, he’s my psychologist isn’t he?”
“Psychiatrist,” Dr. Morrison corrected, “and don’t forget I’m your doctor too.”
“But you don’t care about me,” Hillary countered.
“Of course I do, you’re my patient.”
“And look at how you take care of me...I can’t remember the last time my hair was brushed, my teeth, for that matter. The sheets haven’t been changed in a long time and Monica doesn’t bathe me anymore like she used to.”
Dr. Morrison grew agitated by the mention of Monica’s name.
“Well what do you expect, really? Look at how you’ve treated her. Apart from destroying our marriage, you’ve destroyed her self-esteem.”
“I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. Why can’t you just let me go?”
“It’s not that simple,” he said softly, “as I’m sure you’re well aware.”
“Aware of what?”
“I really don’t have time for games, Hillary. Things would have worked out much better if you had just cooperated and been honest with us. Then again, I suppose if it was in your nature all along to be like that, you would never have been here in the first place.”
“I want to go home,” Hillary said firmly.
Dr. Morrison sensed a tantrum beginning to erupt.
“Have a good night, Hillary,” he said, dismissing her, turning to leave.
“I WANT TO GO HOOOMMMMMMEEE!” she screamed at the top of her lungs until her voice cracked.
Dr. Morrison ignored her, closing the door after exiting.
She continued to rant and rave and shout profanities that Dr. Morrison completely ignored until he was too far to even hear them. He had no pity for her, no sympathy for the monster who destroyed his already-failing marriage. In fact, much like Monica, her distress vindicated him. As he walked toward his office, he whistled a cheery little tune.
He stopped whistling when he noticed Monica waiting for him in his office, arms crossed and brows furrowed. He took a deep breath, anticipating—rightfully—the impending argument.
He took a seat on his comfortable, expensive-looking leather chair. Monica remained standing. She glared at him with eyes full of contempt. She said nothing. He waited for her to speak. After several terribly uncomfortable minutes, Patrick at last broke the staggering silence.
“Why don’t you have a seat, you look like you have something to say,” he said.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Monica blurted out.
Patrick furrowed his eyebrows. He looked upset. He knew how Monica felt about their marriage, especially during the past several weeks, and she had threatened to divorce him numerous times. Yet he never imagined that she would actually go through with it.
“Have a seat, Monica...please,” he said softly, motioning to the leather seat across from his desk.
Monica pulled it forward violently and allowed herself to plop down upon it. She kept her distance. She did not pull the seat up to Patrick’s desk. She re-folded her arms across her chest and stared at Patrick, no less venomously.
“Monica,” Patrick began, not entirely sure what to say—or even what he should say, “I, I think we need to really talk things through, rationally. Let’s not be hasty.”
“No Patrick,” Monica insisted, “I’ve made up my mind and there’s really nothing left to discuss. I’ve given this a lot of thought...a lot of thought, and I can’t stay married to you.”
“But that’s because you’re operating under false premises, you think I did something I absolutely DID NOT DO.” Patrick raised his voice at the end of his sentence for added emphasis.
“I don’t see why you’d even care...things have been bad between us for years.”
“No,” Patrick said, frowning, “not years. A while, yes, but that’s just the ordinary stress of life. Nothing we can’t deal with.”
“No Patrick, it’s too late.”
Patrick reached out for Monica’s hand, but she kept her arms folded. The scowl on her face made it clear to Patrick that her mind was made up. He became enraged by her unrelenting stance. He stood up swiftly and stared angrily into her hateful eyes.
“You’re just being childish,” he spat angrily, “you always have been. If you don’t get your way you throw a tantrum or do something ridiculous until you get what you want. Well is this what you want? You’d better think long and hard about it darling because we signed a prenuptial agreement and you won’t get anything but the clothes on your back!”
Monica was surprised to find that Patrick could hurt her even more deeply than he already had, but she didn’t flinch. She kept her frigid eyes affixed on his resentful glare. Did he really think she was interested in the money? She realized at that moment just how distant they had grown from one another. Their paths had diverged, rendering them bitter strangers. Even if there had been any remote possibility of reconciling prior to Patrick’s outburst, it was surely and entirely gone now, leaving absolutely no trace of lingering hope for recovery.
“I don’t care about any of that,” she said dryly, “I just wanted to give you a heads-up.” She unfolded her arms, stood up, turned and walked out of the office.
Patrick opened his mouth to call out to her, but shut it, knowing it would do no good. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, venting his frustration. He sat down again, collapsed his head upon his hands, arched his eyebrows and rubbed his forehead. This was his usual routine for pondering his problems and developing strategies to deal with them.
He asked himself a question he hadn’t wondered about since he and Monica were dating: Do I love her? His answer didn’t surprise him much. No, he did not love her. Not really; not like a man should love his wife. He realized that he simply cared about her now. The years had transformed passion and love into comfort and caring. He liked having her around, although why, he did not quite know. He figured that he liked the fact that she took care of things around the house—preparing his meals, doing the shopping, washing his clothes. He relied on her for those things and more recently, he had relied on her to help care for Hillary. Hillary.
Just thinking her name made his stomach clench. He couldn’t wait to rid the world of her. He’d throw a big party. Party. He sighed. The thought of parties and social events stirred those sickening anxiety pangs in the pit of his stomach. How could he face his colleagues at such g
atherings without her? It would be humiliating. Suddenly, Patrick knew that divorce was not an option. He didn’t love Monica any longer, but he still needed her around. He had an image to uphold, a reputation to maintain and he was not about to let her destroy everything he had worked so hard to acquire. Even if he hated her, he would never allow her to divorce him.
He swiped a stack of papers off his desk with a quick and violent shove of his arm, acting uncharacteristically immaturely. He cursed the day he decided to embark on this experiment. To think, he had placed his job and title at the hospital in jeopardy—for Hillary. He was so sure that he could develop a biological agent that diffused violence and pacified even the most psychotic mind. Now it was clear that his theories, his research—all of his efforts—had failed. Did he not think things through enough? Did he miscalculate something? Did he not give his trials sufficient time? He was a man of great competence and confidence. He was not used to doubting himself. He could not accept that his flawed experiment resulted from his own shortcomings. There was simply no possible way that he could have been so wrong. There had to be another explanation, some confounding variable that was impossible to foresee. Yes, that was it exactly. The flaw was not within him…not within his research, which surely was impeccable. The flaw, rather, was Hillary.
“Hillary...” Patrick hissed, feeling an overwhelming hatred well up within himself, a loathing that he’d never before experienced. He would make her pay for all the distress she’d caused him. He was almost glad that his experiment had failed, merely for the fact that it would justify her elimination. Of course, he had to wait for authorization to do so, but it was just a matter of time now. He would submit his final report and recommendations in the morning and wait for the directive. It was the only thing he had to look forward to now in his bleak, miserable life.
Stepping over the mess of papers on the floor, Patrick left his office in search of Monica. Though the possibility of reconciling seemed grim, he had nothing to lose. Even his pride was no longer intact at this point. He would lie—say whatever it took—make empty, meaningless promises, and get her back.
The door to Hillary’s room was still closed, and she was quiet now. Probably plotting her escape, Patrick joked to himself. He suppressed his urge to enter her room so that he could lash out at her further and make her life as hellish as she made his. If he had been a more professional, ethical man, he would have made sure that her urine bag was drained, her sheets changed, her basic hygiene needs met—all of the responsibilities that Monica had once assumed that now went undone.
Yet Patrick didn’t care if her limbs were massaged and exercised, whether her sheets were clean, whether she was comfortable at all. He didn’t care if she got bed sores or another infection or dropped dead, for that matter. In fact, he preferred it.
He came to a stop in front of the guest room—the room that Monica now occupied as her own. He tapped lightly on the door, waited a few seconds, then knocked more loudly. There was still no response. He was sure that Monica was ignoring him. At the risk of enraging her, he turned the doorknob slowly and opened the door. As he entered the room, it was clear that she was not there. He wondered where she had gone. He had never before questioned her comings and goings but now wondered if she was seeing someone else. After all, if she thought that he was unfaithful to her, what would keep her from straying as well? He abruptly left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Patrick walked downstairs to the den. Monica was not there. Nor was she in the laundry room. She had apparently left the house. Patrick trudged back upstairs angrily and peered through the window facing the driveway. It was just as he expected: Monica’s car was gone.
Overwhelmed by annoyance and resentment, Patrick walked down to the living room and sat on the couch. He would wait for her to come home and confront her then. He hoped, for her sake, that she had an acceptable explanation for her departure.
~12~
Patrick’s eyes fluttered open slowly. He was groggy and disoriented. It took him a moment to realize that he had fallen asleep on the couch while waiting for Monica to get home. Wondering what time it was, he checked his expensive Audemars Piguet wristwatch. He double-checked the time on the cable box across the room, disbelieving that it could really be almost two in the morning. Had Monica just paraded past him, leaving him asleep on the couch? He thought she was incredibly rude to do so and was fully prepared to return the favor by waking her to give her a piece of his mind. He sat up swiftly, wincing at the aches and pains that replaced his youth. He took a moment to stretch and adjust his stiff joints before walking upstairs.
Without knocking on the door, he threw the door to the guest room open and flicked the light switch. It was readily apparent that Monica had not yet returned home. Her bed was still made, the bedding flawlessly spread without a single wrinkle upon it. Patrick felt his chest tighten as his anxiety level rose.
“Where the hell is she?” he muttered, unable to control his imagination. He envisioned her in the arms of another man. What were they doing at the moment? He could see her in his mind, her body entwined with another, her face full of pleasure. It made him sick, with jealousy or rage, he could not tell and it didn’t much matter. He had an urge to destroy everything she had left behind. It took all of his willpower to subdue his violent thoughts.
Breathing rapidly, he struggled to catch his breath. He knew he needed to calm down, to think rationally. He walked down to the den, leaving Monica’s door open. He walked straight to the bar and poured himself a glassful of bourbon. He swigged it down in a few large gulps and poured another. He walked over to one of the oversized leather recliners and dropped down within it, careful not to spill his drink.
“Here’s to my wife, the tramp,” he said out loud, bringing his glass up to complete the toast. He took a smaller swig, set the glass upon the nearby table and pushed back on the recliner to lean back and prop his feet up. Hateful thoughts continued to ravage his mind. He was sure that he would be unable to fall asleep, but sleep devoured him at last nearly two hours later.
The cell phone in his pocket startled him awake a few hours later. His head felt heavy and he was too disoriented to sit up just yet. He fished for his phone, cursing the high-pitched ringing under his breath. He pulled it out and squinted as his eyes slowly focused on the display.
“Shit!” he exclaimed as he pressed the button to answer the call.
“I know, I’m sorry. I overslept,” he said wearily, pausing as the caller admonished him. “I’m not going in today, there’s no way that I can, so just get Elliott to cover for me...yes, I can cover his shift later tonight, that’s fine...yes...yes...fine, thanks.”
Patrick placed his phone back into his pocket and stretched out on the recliner. His thoughts returned to Monica but he had neither the mental strength nor energy to deal with her indiscretions, not now anyway. Besides, there were more pressing matters to tend to. He forced the recliner into an upright position and stood up, grabbing the rock glass from the table before heading over to the bar. He refilled his glass, this time with gin and a splash of tonic.
The best cure for a hangover is more alcohol, he thought, despite the fact that he merely had a headache, not quite a hangover. Still, somehow it justified his drinking at seven in the morning. Clutching his glass tightly, he made his way back up to his office. He stepped over the pile of papers he had left on the floor the night before and sat on his leather chair. He pulled his laptop toward him and opened a word document. He took a big swig of the gin and tonic before working on his report about Hillary.
He had originally planned to falsify the results, for his own benefit, but now he knew better. He deleted large sections of text as he thought about how he would, instead, exaggerate the results to the other extreme, effectively guaranteeing Hillary’s execution. After all, it was his report that would be relied upon for authorization, for justification. He couldn’t wait for that moment...to finally end the nightmare and be free of the curse. He man
aged a smile as he typed away.
He was making great progress when his momentum was interrupted by Hillary’s screaming. At first he tried to ignore her. Nearly ten minutes later, he slammed his office door, hoping to block out the sound of her wailing. He finished the remaining few sips in his glass and poured himself another drink, this time, straight gin. He could still hear Hillary, but it was a drastic improvement. He continued typing his report, at first keeping his usual pace. Before long, his concentration shattered and he found himself making numerous mistakes. He realized that the droning hum created by Hillary’s muffled screams was still distracting him. Angrily, he finished his gin and slammed the glass down. There was only one thing to do.
Patrick shoved the laptop violently across his desk. He opened the lower drawer on the left side of his desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He looked pleased to find that the bottle was just over half full. He twisted the cap off and nursed it like a starving baby. He needed as much help as possible to tolerate Hillary today. He could still hear her screaming. Shut up, shut up, he shouted in his head and took another big gulp for good measure.
He stood up, feeling the wooziness of an intense buzz. He had been drinking all morning on an empty stomach. There wasn’t much left in the bottle now. He carried it with him as he staggered toward Hillary’s room. As he got closer, her screams grew louder. He could hear what she was shouting: “just let me die!” Patrick couldn’t help but smile, as he thought, “I fully intend to!” He took a smaller swig just before turning the door knob and entering her room.
Patrick grimaced as he approached the bed. The stench was overwhelming. Between Hillary’s pungent body odor and the urine that was overflowing onto the floor from the overfilled pouch, Patrick’s stomach threatened to disgorge itself of all the alcohol he had ingested in lieu of breakfast. He made a loud retching sound, covered his mouth, but managed to retain the contents of his stomach. Hillary stopped shouting when she heard him. She turned to face him. Her eyes were sunken in, surrounded by dark circles, and her lips were dry and raw from all the gnawing she had done to pass the time.
Hillary_Tail of the Dog Page 13