“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay,” Maria said, shifting in her chair before uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I’m not here because I’m depressed. I’m here because I need to talk to you about something.” Sylvia’s attention was no longer stuck on the rug between them. Her posture had straightened, her nail-picking had ceased, and the confidence that was so obviously lacking when she first sat down was now almost physical between them. She looked like a different woman. “You’re probably going to think I’m crazy when I say this, but I need you to promise me that you won’t have me locked up in a psych hospital.”
“I don’t … I mean, I can’t promise that…” After a deep breath, Maria cleared her throat and leaned back in her chair, grasping for an air of professionalism. “It’s harder than you think to get admitted to a psych hospital these days. Insurance companies won’t pay unless you threaten to kill yourself, or someone else, and it doesn’t do much good in the long run.”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” Sylvia replied. “And I’m not depressed. I’m here because God brought me back for a special purpose.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve been through all of this before,” Sylvia continued. “I’ve already lived this life, and I was brought back here by God to fulfill a very special purpose.”
It was an unexpected turn, a setback Maria hadn’t anticipated, as Sylvia drove their conversation down a path riddled with religious delusions. “Are you saying that God brought you back from the future?”
“Exactly,” Sylvia replied. “I know this sounds crazy, and you probably think I belong in the hospital, but I need you to hear me out and just try to consider the possibility. You have no idea how difficult it is to prove that you’ve come back from the future. It seems like it should be easy, right? But no matter what I tell you is going to happen, we’ll have to wait for it to happen before you’ll believe me.”
Sylvia’s pause was filled with expectation, so Maria nodded accordingly, but diagnoses were streaming through her head like the credits of a movie.
“So I have no way to prove myself to you,” she continued, “but I know about things that are going to happen to people.”
“Sometimes life can get pretty confusing,” Maria said, echoing the same worn-out words she’d been using for years. Psychosis would be the official diagnosis on paper for now, but she would have to follow Sylvia closely to rule out specific causes. She was so busy jotting down her thoughts—Rule out bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder—that Sylvia’s voice startled her again.
“I’m not confused,” she said. “Not anymore. The dreams finally make sense, but I just couldn’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Save those people from that tornado.”
Maria nodded. There it was. The catalyst to Sylvia’s delusions. There was nothing like a tornado to drag them out of hiding. If there was anything that could act as tinder to ignite religious delusions, it was a natural disaster, and there was no shortage of coverage on the F5 tornado that had swept through their area and left seventeen people dead. Add to that the unending news coverage to satisfy a nation full of people who were fascinated by death and you had the perfect recipe for a forest fire.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Maria said. “When the news is constantly replaying those horrible images over and over. Sometimes, when people have bad depression, the things that happen around them, that have absolutely nothing to do with them, start to feel very personal. And sometimes, with depression, you can start to feel like you’re responsible for the bad things that are happening. It can even be hard to figure out what’s real and what’s not. But listen to me, Sylvia. You are not responsible for anything that happened to anyone during that tornado.”
“I knew it was coming, Dr. Forssmann, and I didn’t do anything about it because I was selfish. And now all those people who died, their blood is on my hands.”
“It’s not your fault,” Maria said. “There’s something I can give you to make these thoughts that you’re having go away. There’s medicine that will help with the…” She hesitated long enough to remind herself not to say delusions. “The bad thoughts you’ve been having.”
“Medicine can’t fix this.” Sylvia shut her eyes, walking her fingers from her temples to her forehead, kneading the skin along the way. “I know you can’t see that, but I have to tell you what happened that day.” Maria nodded for her to continue, but Sylvia wasn’t waiting for her approval.
“There was a young couple hiding in the closet together during the storm. Shelby Whitten and John Ambers. They were twenty-five years old, they’d just gotten engaged, and they were riding out the storm together buried in some pillows and blankets. The tornado tore apart their house, and by the time it was over, John had been thrown into the field next door and Shelby had been buried under the rubble. Rescue crews found John right away, unconscious, with some broken bones, but at least he was still breathing. Shelby was dug out a few hours later and pronounced dead on the scene.”
“Sylvia, I think—”
“Please, Dr. Forssmann.” She held her hand up between them. “Please let me finish. I let Shelby die because, two years from now, I’ll meet John and we’ll fall in love and get married and live happily ever after. That’s the way it would have happened if I didn’t know about the tornado. The way it happened the first time, when I didn’t know. But this time I knew, and I didn’t do anything to warn those people because I wanted to be the one with him, not Shelby. And this time I just won’t be able to bear it. The screams from his nightmares about that night. I won’t be able to look him in the eye when he talks about all that suffering, and I’ll never be able to forgive myself for that selfish decision that cost so many lives.”
Sylvia’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and resolve, as her eyes rose up to meet Maria’s.
“Don’t you see now? It’s important to always do the right thing, even if you have to suffer the consequences. I made the wrong choice. God had a plan for me, but I chose selfishly, so now I’m here to make up for it. I’m here because something else happened in my life that I was powerless to stop all those years ago, and I won’t let it happen again.”
Sylvia’s story swirled through Maria’s head as she traced over the names John and Shelby on the notepad in her lap, wondering if those people ever existed and contemplating her next move. There was no talking away this illness, no therapy that could reverse the course of her psychosis. Sylvia would need medication.
“What is it that you plan to stop?” Maria asked.
“Something bad. I’m here to save you, Dr. Forssmann. I’m here to protect you and your baby.”
The air went stale as Maria forced it into her lungs before she choked out her next words. “Protect us from what?”
“The first time I was here, our lives intersected in an unimaginable way, and you ended up being someone very important to me. Now I finally understand why. I know from that past how much you worry about your son, but if you listen to me, he’s going to grow up to be a happy and healthy boy.”
“I guess I worry as much as the next mom.” Her voice was unwavering, but Maria’s heart pounded against her chest as Sylvia’s words, so confident and sure, reached a place inside of her that was so rarely exposed. No one knew about the fears she harbored for her son, not even her husband.
“Your pregnancy is not cursed,” Sylvia continued. “Not anymore. But you have to listen to me. Stay away from Rachel. There’s a laptop of hers in that storage unit you share with her that needs to get to the police, but don’t go there until after your baby is born.”
A flush of heat washed over Maria’s body before it landed in her face, the sweat from her neck dripping down her back as she struggled to maintain her composure. Sylvia was delusional and rambling and psychotic, and Maria was reading too much into her words. But how did she know about
the storage unit? And how did she know Maria was worried about her son?
The prescriptions she handed to Sylvia were barely legible, and Maria wasn’t even sure she’d signed them, but she pushed them into Sylvia’s hands as she rose from her chair.
“Thank you for your concern, Sylvia. I don’t want you to worry about me, though. I want you to get these prescriptions filled so we can get you feeling better right away.”
Sylvia placed her hand over Maria’s arm, her composure a marked contrast to Maria’s uneasiness. If someone who didn’t know better walked in at that moment, Maria would have been mistaken for the patient and Sylvia for the doctor. “Dr. Forssmann,” she said, “if you don’t listen to me, something bad is going to happen. You’ll see.”
“Just get those meds and start taking them.” Maria pushed her way past Sylvia and yanked the door open before ushering her out. “And I’ll see you back next month.”
It was unfamiliar territory, being flustered by a patient. Most of her patients had at least a decent respect for personal boundaries and wouldn’t dare make cryptic comments about her unborn child. Psychotic or not, it seemed grossly inappropriate. She watched from the doorway as Rachel tried to schedule a follow-up appointment, but Sylvia was talking over her, reciting some kind of poem. It wasn’t until she heard “forgive us our sins and purify us” that she knew it had to be scripture from the Bible.
Sylvia was sick, probably even sick enough for the hospital, but Maria watched in culpable silence as her patient slipped through the front door and out of their lives forever.
CHAPTER THREE
HAD SHE KNOWN THAT SUICIDE WAS ever on Sylvia’s radar, Maria would have done things much differently. The benefit of hindsight and a night of sleep gave her a clearer vision of how her actions, or inactions, had sent her patient to an early grave. She was tired. Her mind, once sharp and perceptive, was now dull and bogged down with menial and inconsequential tasks: car appointments, school field trips, soiled bedsheets. She couldn’t focus on the important things and couldn’t forgive herself for failing her patient.
Her hands trembled as she slid them off the counter and out of view of the receptionist who greeted her with a forced smile. She somehow stumbled through an awkward explanation of who she was and what she was doing at the police station, and the woman pointed her to a vacant waiting room where rows of blue plastic chairs sat in stark contrast to the whitewashed concrete walls. The room wasn’t designed for comfort, but Maria didn’t wait long.
“Dr. Forssmann?” A ruddy-faced, stout officer entered, his grip solid and his hands rough and calloused. “I’m Detective Andrews,” he said. “Thanks for coming by.” They snaked through the station to the detective’s spacious and well-adorned office, where an empty wingback chair awaited her. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Maria patted her ripe, pregnant belly. If she was about to be exposed as a second-rate psychiatrist, she could at least make herself out to be a decent parent. “No caffeine for me,” she said. “Maybe a cup of water?”
With a curt nod the detective left her to her angst, her mind churning through what-ifs and whys as her eyes scanned the overabundance of commendation awards on his walls. He was a military man at one time, and quite distinguished, with certificates and medals landscaping his walls and spilling over to his bookcase. It was her first time in a detective’s office, and while she wasn’t naive about suicides, she’d certainly never had to answer for the actions of her patients—or her treatment of them—until now.
The door creaked over the sound of the detective’s labored breathing as he kicked it shut behind him, a mug in each hand. Maria inhaled the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, watching longingly as he placed the steaming mug in front of his own chair. A stained cup of lukewarm tap water found its way to her hands before the detective settled his stocky frame behind a faux mahogany desk. He was a large man, likely solid muscle in his youth, but as he eased onto his chair, an aged and neglected belly protruded over his pants and his shirt collar squeezed his neck like a tourniquet.
“Thanks for coming in on such short notice,” he said. “I assume you know what this is about?”
Maria clutched her mug with clumsy hands, looking for an empty spot on the desk between them. “You have some questions for me about one of my patients,” she said. “I mean, one of my former patients.”
“Sylvia Woolf,” he replied. “She passed away last night … But I’m guessing you already knew?”
Maria nodded.
“We’re trying to find out a little more about her state of mind the last time you saw her,” he continued. “Maybe she said something that stuck with you? Something out of the ordinary?”
“Do you mean something that would have clued me in to the fact that she was suicidal?” The tremor in her hands had spread to her voice, and Maria knew better than to continue.
I just messed up.
Was that a good enough excuse? She teetered on the edge of tears before she clutched the mug of stale, coffee-flavored water from the desk and forced a sip. The hardened lines coursing through the detective’s face finally softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hate to question you like this after everything you’ve been through with your secretary.” He glanced at the notes on the edge of his desk. “Ms. Tillman?”
“You know Rachel?”
“No, but I searched her records before I called you in and found the information about her son.”
Maria shifted in her chair, the mention of Rachel’s name stabbing at her conscience. She had no reason to distrust her secretary, but Sylvia’s warning to steer clear of her hadn’t been forgotten. Stay away from Rachel. That tiny seed she’d planted, however outrageous it sounded, was already starting to sprout.
“I didn’t ask her to come in,” the detective continued. “I thought I’d talk to you first, see if we can get some of this straightened out so we can wrap up the investigation, and maybe she won’t have to come in at all.”
Investigation. It didn’t matter how she turned it, Maria couldn’t get the word to fit into her mind. It had sharp edges that jutted out beyond the margins of her comprehension, and the more she repeated it, the more foreign it sounded. Why was there an investigation into Sylvia’s suicide? Were they suspecting foul play? The detective smiled as if her thoughts had been broadcast throughout the room.
“You’re not a suspect,” he said, but the crooked smile on his face offered little relief for her festering guilt. Sylvia’s death was a crime of negligence, a failure of Maria to do what she had been entrusted to do, and whether her clinical judgment was being called into question or not, it was her complacence that gave Sylvia the chance to act.
“I guess I’ve just never seen such a thorough investigation into a suicide.”
“We don’t normally go to these lengths with an obvious suicide. And, to tell you the truth, it’s not really her death we’re investigating.” He leaned forward and rested his burly forearms on the top of his desk. “It’s the letter she left.”
“What letter?”
“We found it on her kitchen counter, stamped and sealed, ready to go. She was planning to mail it to you before she died. I’m not sure why it never found its way to the mailbox.”
“I can’t imagine why she would write me a letter. What does it say?”
“I guess you could call it a suicide note. I can’t discuss it, though.” The detective’s shoulders sagged, almost imperceptibly, as he contemplated his response. “It’s considered evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” she asked. “Maybe if you let me read it…”
“I can’t.” He pulled his arms from the desk before crossing them over his chest, weighing his options and clearly tempted to let her read it. She could see, from the way he watched her, that he wanted her to read the letter. “When you saw her in your office yesterday,” he said, “did she seem like she was concerned about you? Like she was trying to warn you about somethin
g?”
I’m here to save you, Dr. Forssmann.
“She had some warnings,” Maria said, as the detective pulled a notebook from his top drawer and flipped to an empty page, pen in hand, ready to record her memories. “But I’m sorry,” she continued. “I can’t discuss her appointment without a subpoena. Patient confidentiality laws.”
“I understand, and we’ll get one if we think we need it, but maybe you could just give me some details about Sylvia’s behavior outside of the doctor–patient setting.” He leaned over his open notebook, the empty blue lines eager to be filled. “Did you see her interact with other patients in the waiting room? Or with your secretary, Rachel? Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”
It was a memory she was reluctant to revisit, the cryptic warnings and odd behaviors that were such obvious symptoms of Sylvia’s illness but also were the very things that forced Maria to usher her out the door. “She quoted some Bible verse to Rachel before she left.”
“Do you know what verse it was?”
Maria shook her head, embarrassed that her shameful lack of biblical knowledge was about to be exposed, wishing she’d paid more attention all those years ago.
“Do you remember what you thought it meant? Anything would be helpful.”
“It was something about God forgiving you for your sins. Or asking for God’s forgiveness. Something like that. I just don’t remember.”
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”
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