The Secret Room

by Sandra Block

  The comment has been deleted.

  I move over to the page of her sister who left the comment, Marion Thomas. Mining through it, I don’t learn much. A sparse, rarely visited page. Googling her tells me she is a real estate agent and once went on a trip to Cancún. A scant digital footprint.

  I know I shouldn’t do it. And Mike, Sam, Scotty, and even Detective Adams would tell me I shouldn’t do it. But I pull up a message box.

  I saw your comment, and I know Andre. Could you call me sometime?

  * * *

  Officer Maloney grabs me as soon as I get into the clinic. “Dr. Goldman, can I get your help?”

  I quicken my steps to follow him. “What’s going on?”

  “Aubrey Kane. We have her in the hole. She’s asking for you.”

  “In solitary?” I am jogging to keep up with him. “What happened?”

  “Usual drama. But this time her nails are trimmed down, and she couldn’t sneak anything sharp in. So she’s biting instead.”

  “Biting who?” As he leads me into the freezing shoebox of a room, I am given the answer. She is biting herself. Aubrey is lying on the floor in a white, formless cotton sack, meant to prevent self-harm. Like a straitjacket, with fewer ties. Bite marks are bleeding through the cloth up and down her arms. She still has blood on her teeth. The room is illuminated by a single bulb hanging from the high ceiling.

  Maloney says, “I tried to call Dr. Novaire like the warden recommended, but—”

  “You couldn’t reach him,” I say, finishing his sentence. “Aubrey,” I call to her. She doesn’t look at me. She is shivering, her teeth clacking. “Aubrey,” I repeat, softer. She turns this time, as Maloney backs up. I kneel down to her level. “What happened, Aubrey?”

  “I need to get out of here,” she whispers in a voice that’s hoarse, probably from screaming.

  “I understand. But they won’t let you out if you’re hurting yourself.”

  “I had a nightmare.” Her eyes are squeezing out tears. “A bad, bad one this time.” She rolls around in the cotton sack. “I’ll die in here.”

  I put my hands on her birdlike shoulders, which are still quaking. “We’ll get through this, Aubrey.”

  “The motel room,” she moans.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Todd.”

  “You can tell me.”

  Her chest is heaving. “He came back that night. But he brought men with him. Men I didn’t know.” I sit beside her, rubbing her shoulder. “I was in and out of it, but the worst parts I remember. It went on for hours. Hours and hours,” she says, hiccupping with crying now. “When I said no, they were laughing. And Todd, he was raping me, too.”

  I rub her shaking shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Aubrey.”

  “I begged them to stop, and they wouldn’t.” She shakes her head in angry disbelief. “They just laughed at me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, soothing her. “They should never have done that. That was a crime, Aubrey. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “And the worst part is…” I can smell acrid sweat through the cloth. She is hyperventilating now, barely getting the words out. “The worst part is that I knew I would get punished for what I did, eventually.”

  “No one deserves that. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” she cuts me off. “I did deserve it. I did something terrible.” Her breath grows short again. “You don’t even know what I did.”

  “That doesn’t mean you deserved to be hurt, Aubrey—”

  “After it happened, I thought, that was it. I’d been punished. It was over. I could stop feeling so bad about it then. That I would finally be forgiven. But I was wrong. It wasn’t over. I keep dreaming about her. And she’ll never forgive me.”

  “Who?” I ask. “Who won’t forgive you?”

  But Aubrey doesn’t answer.

  * * *

  I sip my fruity-smelling herbal tea, having abandoned my usual cappuccino since my stomach is off yet again. I’ve already double-checked my Facebook messages for anything from Marion Thomas. Not a word.

  “So you didn’t find anything more?” I ask Scotty. I pleaded with him to put his mad computer skills to work searching out more information on Marion Thomas, Charmayne’s sister.

  “No, sorry.” He straightens out the sugar box at a table. “We’ve been crazy. Went to see a bunch of bands last week.”

  “Any good ones?” I blow on my steaming tea.

  “Yeah. Pretty good. I think we’re going with the Underdogs. Mostly nineties and classics.” He tidies the next table, a skip in his step.

  “How about anything on his first wife, then?” I push my luck because he’s in a good mood. “Like a marriage certificate or anything?”

  “Who are we talking about again?” He smiles and nods at a regular customer coming in the door.

  “Andre’s father.”

  “No, sorry, didn’t get a chance yet.” His phone rings then. “Hey, babe.” I hear twittering on the other end. “No, remember? I’m closing. Can they do it tomorrow?” The song changes to some snazzy jazz tune, and I try not to eavesdrop. “No, I already told you. It’s not a big deal. Do it without me, then. I trust you.” More yapping comes over the line. “Of course I care. I’m just saying I can’t do it tonight.” There is a pause then. “Babe? Babe.” He shoves his phone in his back pocket with a grunt.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “Just about this stupid tasting thing. Who cares? It’s between Tiddlybinks and Lucarelli’s. Who cares? It’s just fucking food.”

  “Yeah, well, the food is kind of important.”

  “I guess. Jeez, I never knew what a pain in the ass it was to plan a wedding.”

  I try not to laugh, considering he’s probably doing less than an eighth of the planning. “I’m sure she’s just stressed out.”

  “Probably PMS-ing,” he grumbles, hopping back up to the register to wait on a customer.

  I would argue against this as a sexist pronouncement, but he could be right. I feel as if I’ve been PMS-ing for two months straight now. As the next jazz tune comes on, a wailing saxophone, I open my forensic psychiatry text to get down to business. Just then a thought suddenly spears me. I actually gasp, out loud, and other customers look my way.

  It’s about Kristy PMS-ing. And me PMS-ing.

  And nausea.

  And the fact that I can’t really remember the last time I got my period.

  * * *

  I am hiding in the bathroom, listening for Mike’s snoring.

  I maneuver the stick so I don’t urinate on my hand, having verified ten times now that a cross means pregnant and one straight line means not pregnant. I am praying without apology for one line. It is my mantra.

  One line. One line. One line.

  But for all my concentration, I can’t pee. I am in the process of willing my bladder to relax with all my might when a text comes through.

  Grand Rounds canceled tomorrow because of snow. From Jason.

  Thanks, I text back. Usually I would add a snowman emoji, but I am in dire straits at the moment and there is no time for emoji. Calm down, relax, and pee.

  One line. One line. One line.

  I’m tracing back to see how this could even be possible. Sometimes I forget to get my scripts exactly on time, and I’ve missed a birth control pill here and there. It’s never been an issue before, but it was like a full week once. When was that? I’m trying to remember. Two months ago? Three?

  One line. One line. One line.

  Finally I am able to go, indeed splashing warm urine all over my hand, then put the stick on the windowsill and run over to wash my hands when I hear a snort. I pause to listen for more snoring but instead I hear footsteps and the doorknob being tried.

  “Zoe? You in there?”

  “Um…” I jog over to assess the stick, which still shows one line. But is another line fading in? “I’m sort of having some issues in here. Can you go downstairs?” I hear him gru
mbling, then footsteps receding.

  I’m dying to look at the stick again, but the box admonishes testers to wait a full thirty seconds to be sure. The second hand crawls by for fifteen more seconds.

  Still one line.

  I hear the water running in the downstairs guest bathroom. Ten more seconds have passed on my watch. I count out five more slow seconds, then an additional five seconds for good measure.

  Holding my breath, I walk over to the windowsill and pick up the stick.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I shouldn’t have done it, but I was desperate.

  I have something for you, I said, as the door to the room squeaked open. But it’s not a name.

  Your eyes narrowed. What is it, then?

  I told you about the boy I saw going to the clinic, all the while praying that nothing would happen to him. That I wouldn’t have to hurt him. A black kid, young-looking, I said.

  You scoffed. So what? That’s ninety percent of the inmates.

  He had red gloves on, I added.

  This stopped you a moment. You got that faraway look, and I could see the wheels turning in your head.

  I admitted that I didn’t know anything about him, other than the gloves. But maybe it could tide you over until I could get back on the computer. You paused, deciding. You looked around the room with impatience and maybe a note of distaste for the dirty, barren place. My stomach was fluttering as you stood there, debating, until finally you gave in. I could probably do something with it, you said. Then you pushed me down by my shoulders and told me I could give you a blow job, as if you were doing me a favor.

  And who am I kidding, I would take what I could get. So I dove right in but you were soft and you shoved me to the side, snarling like it was my fault, and jerked yourself off until you were hard. Then you grabbed my head, holding me so tight I could hardly move, thrusting until my throat was burning, until finally you grunted and I could taste your salty come, gagging me. I stood up, my eyes watering.

  You need to work on that, you said.

  I didn’t answer, but a little part of me hated you right then. The vile taste of you.

  I used to love that storage room, you know, with every piece of me.

  I know that sounds twisted and stupid. But I did. It was our little room. Our haven. And we had to make do. We had to take risks and take what we could get in this fucked-up, crazy place, and that was fine. That was better, even. We had to fight for it, not take it for granted. True love, real love.

  We used to lie in that room for hours.

  Do you remember that? Time just sailed by like it never does in here. Me, playing with your hair, watching your chest rise. You, tracing my collarbone with your fingers until I got chills. And then you would plunge your fingers in me, and I would be ready for you again. It was glorious.

  But not that day. That day, you were zipping up and I touched your arm and you peeled me off like I was a poisonous vine. Don’t be so needy, you said, your lips curled.

  Why I didn’t leave you right then, after that day? Why I didn’t just tell you to fuck off, that I wasn’t helping you anymore, and stop going to your stupid class?

  I can’t answer that…

  All I can say is that I couldn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Arthur plants his entire body on me, hoping for a bite of bagel.

  This is my second bagel with peanut butter, and I now see my peanut butter obsession for what it is, a check in the “craving” cliché box. Even Mike wondered aloud at the last grocery store run when I threw two more jars in the cart. I never knew you were such a peanut butter fan. Arthur dives in for a ninja lick with my every bite. Finally I put the plate down, and Arthur leaps off my lap with a complete lack of aplomb to get every morsel.

  I’ve been waiting all morning for the socially appropriate time to call, and figure seven a.m. is close enough. So I pick up my cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack,” I say, “it’s Zoe.”

  “Zoe, hi,” Jack says, his voice enlivened. “I’m glad you called.”

  I sit down on the couch, and Arthur checks to make sure I’m not offering any food, then resumes his licking. “Is this an okay time to talk?”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect. I don’t have to be to work for another hour.” A loud television news show echoes over the phone, then goes silent. “What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to ask you about something.”

  “First off,” he says, “I’m sorry. I was way out of line in our last conversation. That woman just drives me crazy. And I don’t like the idea of her manipulating you.”

  “Oh yeah, that. No problem. I don’t think I’ll be seeing her anymore anyway.”

  “Good,” he says.

  “I actually wanted to ask you about something else.” Abandoning his now-polished plate, Arthur takes an oof-provoking leap back onto my lap. “I wanted to ask about our family history a bit. A health history.” Arthur licks my lips, partly because he loves me and more because I taste like peanut butter, and I shove him away with a head pat.

  A muffled cough comes over the phone. “Sorry, getting over something.” He coughs again. “You mean, like diabetes and all that?”

  “Exactly.” I get out a notepad and draw up a little genetic family tree, and Arthur moves over to his blanket and lies down on his back. “So, starting with our mother. Did she have any illnesses, do you know?”

  “I was so young when she died,” he says, his voice pensive. “I don’t even know. Dad had liver failure, but that was on account of drinking. And I don’t think he had any siblings.”

  “Right.” I look at my drawing, which is a spare family tree thus far.

  “But Mom’s sister died of breast cancer, I think.”

  I add a branch and write down “BREAST CA.” “That sounds quasi-familiar.”

  “Grandparents.” He murmurs to himself in thought. “No clue. Sofia might know. Not that I’m recommending you ask her. Oh,” he says, interrupting himself excitedly. “I do remember one thing Dad told me, a while back. Right before he died. About his aunt.”

  “Maternal or paternal?”

  “No idea.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “I remember him saying she had a nervous breakdown. She was always a little off, he said. He wondered if that’s where Sofia got it.”

  I add a dismembered branch. “Did he say anything in particular?”

  “I vaguely remember him saying she would make these big plans, then go off and disappear in her bedroom for years. Basically the crazy old aunt.”

  Huh. Sounds bipolar to this psychiatrist. “How did she die?”

  “He didn’t say.” He pauses, thinking. “He just said he was always afraid Sofia’s genes came from her. From his bloodline. I don’t think so, though. She seems like an animal all to herself.” A gurgly cough escapes. “Why do you ask, anyway? You doing some project or something?”

  “Not exactly…”

  A long pause follows my conspicuous lack of explanation. He clears his throat, before a racking cough overtakes him, and I wait patiently for him to get back on the line. At last he does, taking in a deep breath. “Wait,” he says, as if something just struck him. “Are you pregnant?”

  * * *

  Jason teases his forelock, a nervous habit that is also quite distracting.

  “Transcranial magnetic stimulation has been used in various clinical situations, including Parkinson’s, as well as seizure detection.” He hits the next PowerPoint slide, and a multicolored bar graph pops up. “The newest data shows its real promise may lie in treating depression.”

  Twenty minutes into the psychiatry grand rounds, and I haven’t heard a word. Every ADHD medication is out of my bloodstream, and I barely slept a wink last night.

  “The technical components are simple…” Jason moves to the next slide, which whooshes onto the screen. He is big on animation; any more spinning, fade-ins and -outs, or dissolving images and I’m going to be mo
tion sick, on top of my now-explicable nausea. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Novaire, his eyelids drifting downward. Pulling out my iPad, I write up a note to keep me focused: “TRANSCRANIAL MAGNETIC STIMULATION.” Jason plays with his hair again. “TMS may be a safer, more viable alternative to ECT.”

  ECT, otherwise known as electroconvulsive therapy, which we almost gave to Jane Doe last year. Thankfully, we never had to. My foot is tapping, which wakes up Dr. Novaire. He pats a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. I try my damnedest to concentrate, but it’s impossible, as one thought keeps screaming inside my head.

  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

  I start a note on my iPad, in an effort to be objective about this.

  Pros: Cute baby.

  Cons: I don’t want a baby.

  Pros: Mike would be a great father.

  Cons: He might not want to be a father.

  Pros: I would have time to have the baby after the fellowship.

  Cons: I’m not ready to have a baby.

  I slap the keyboard case closed on my iPad. I can’t do this right now. This isn’t helping. I need to focus on Jason. TMS.

  Focus, focus, focus.

  My foot is going again, as if it’s about to jump right off my leg, and I stand up and scramble down the long row of seats as unobtrusively as possible (wholly unrealistic at over six feet) and make it to the bathroom. After splashing my face with water, I look up in the mirror and notice that I appear oddly normal. Not as if my mind is peeling in a million directions. Not as if I have a secret the size of a cranberry bean lodged in my uterus. (Yes, a cranberry bean, straight off pregnantbabes.com.) I pat off my face with a paper towel, though the strong brown-paper smell makes me nauseous.

  On the way back in, I nearly run into Dr. Novaire. “Oh, Zoe, quick word.” I brace myself. “How is the pilot going?”

  “Um, okay, I guess.” My foot is tapping and he looks down at it. “I think Sofia may not want to continue the project, but that’s okay because I’ve started with another patient, Tyler Evans. And I have some more on my list.”