A 3rd Time to Die

by George A Bernstein

  Her biggest concern was getting Keith to become a good father, and providing a sound family life for her children. That seemed more important than her own happiness.

  He only wished he could be the father in a happy family. Why had Toni never gotten pregnant again while they were still having unprotected sex? She was young and healthy, if she had only cut out the drinking. Could there be something physically wrong with her?

  Maybe he should check it out. Could the loss of their child and an inability to have another be the root of this self-destructive behavior? Maybe. When, exactly, did all this catting around with other men actually begin?

  She could probably use some psychiatric help. He grunted. Little chance of that happening. Would he even want to try again, if it were something fixable? A baby, adding new chains to an otherwise fractured union.

  Ashley Easton’s face wormed into his thoughts. She was the kind of women we wanted to father his child

  Looking up, he braked sharply, almost missing his street. Maybe he’d talk to Toni’s doctor. See if were something medical. He was still giving his wife the benefit of the doubt.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  "Have a seat, Mrs. Easton." Dr. Feldman ran a hand through thinning salt-and-pepper hair and motioned her toward a large, comfortable-looking burgundy leather armchair. He reclined in a duplicate, facing hers, dressed in aqua wool slacks and a long-sleeved paisley shirt, open at the collar.

  He was fiftyish, a short, dapper man, with a pencil-thin mustache under a large Semitic nose. It was a compassionate, trustworthy face. Leather loafers adorned his feet, crossed at the ankles in front of him. Informality, it seemed, had penetrated everywhere.

  "Shouldn't I be on the couch?" Perched on the edge of the seat, Ashley was uneasy. Her legs quivered, hands gripping the chair arms, like an edgy doe in a field, ready to bound away at the slightest provocation.

  The psychiatrist chuckled. "A couch is the stereotype for psycho-therapy, but it's not usually necessary. Let's first see what’s troubling you.

  “I see I was recommended by Shirley Baxter.”

  “Yes. And others.” She blushed. “You seem very highly regarded. I… I sorta checked you out. I even read your book.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, and I appreciate another sale. I’d do the same. Now, how can I help you?"

  Ashley paused, screwing up her courage. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth, then sighed.

  "I don't know how to begin. It's so complicated."

  "Just sit back, relax, and say whatever comes to mind. It's my job to sort it out. I'm pretty good at that. There's usually one final thing that pushes people to seek help. What was that?"

  "My marriage, I guess, but there other things, as well."

  "Okay. So, why don't we start with what is bothering you about your marriage. The rest will come at its own pace."

  Ashley looked up, a tear sliding slowly down her cheek. "It's in dog doodie. The marriage, I mean. Keith, my husband, and I haven't been in sync for several years. I know it's my fault, but now he has a mistress, and he's never home."

  “He has a mistress?”

  She nodded, dabbing at her eyes.

  "Why do you feel that's your fault?"

  "Somehow I've driven him away. I'm so involved with our children. We just had our third, a total accident. He never wanted her. And I ride my horse every day. I compete in jumping tournaments."

  "When do you ride the horse?" he asked.

  "Usually in the early afternoon. A friend is helping me train him for a Grand Prix event. That's like the World Series of jumping."

  "Is your husband home at those hours?"

  "Well, no," she said. "He didn't get home from work… you know, even before the mistress… until 6:30 or so."

  “So, now what time does he get home?”

  “Eleven, Twelve. Sometimes never. He’s out of town a lot, building a new factory in Louisiana.”

  "And the children. What about them?"

  "The baby mostly sleeps and eats. She's no trouble. The older ones dine with us… me, actually, since he’s rarely there for dinner. Afterward we read a story, or maybe a little television, then they're off to bed. Their homework is always done before we eat."

  The doctor leaned forward, hands on his knees. "So what you're saying is, neither your riding nor most of your care for your children interfere in any real way with your being with your husband. Right?"

  "I… I guess so," she answered slowly.

  "Then I ask again, why is it your fault he’s found another woman?"

  "Because, he's not the center of my world, anymore!" She spit it out, the words bitter acid on her tongue. “And there was always the damned sex.”

  “So, it’s your fault because your life doesn’t revolve solely entirely him and his needs? Do you think your need are important, too?”

  “I suppose, but… but he was the star athlete. He’s used to people adoring him. I love him, or thought I did, but I also want things for myself.”

  “That’s perfectly natural. He’s not a star athlete now, is he?”

  “No-o-o.” She settled back into the folds of the chair, moistening her crimson lips.

  “That was then, and not now. Marriage is about growing together and sharing. You’re entitled to attention and consideration, too. If he’s not giving that to you, that’s his problem, and certainly not your responsibility. We may need to do some joint counseling, if he’ll agree.”

  Ashley shook her head, evoking a tiny groan. “I doubt it. He doesn’t even know I’m here. He’s in Louisiana, probably with her, building that new factory.”

  “Okay. We’ll worry about that later. You mentioned sex. What’s the problem there?”

  “That is my fault. I get scared and freeze up.”

  “Scared? How do you mean?”

  “Well, at first, I get all aroused. My heart’s pumping, and I get really wet, you know, down there. But after we actually start intercourse, I start getting… actually terrified. I keep looking around, expecting someone to jump out and kill us, or something. Maybe it has to do with an incident that happened when I was a teen-ager.”

  She recounted the long-ago picnic with Allen Clarke, finishing by telling him, “The strange thing was that I found myself thinking in French. And I don’t know French!”

  “French? Is that the only time that happened?”

  “No.” She paused, studying him through slitted eyes, then shrugged. After all, he was a psychiatrist. “When I’m jumping the horse, too. Mostly during competitions.”

  “You think in French when you’re show jumping?” He raised thin dark eyebrows.

  “Yes. I studied it in school for two years, but I really don’t remember much of it. But it seems so natural… so fluent… when I’m riding. It just bubbles happily around my head then.”

  She hesitated, fidgeting in her seat, her hands in a death grip on the chair’s arms. Leaning forward, auburn hair falling across one eye, she pushed doggedly ahead.

  “It seems as if I’m on a fox hunt.”

  “I don’t understand.” He cocked his head, one eyebrow raised.

  “It happens mostly when I’m jumping in a competition. It’s kinda spooky. Suddenly, the show ring seems transmuted into a beautiful forest, and I’m jumping trees, streams and big fieldstone walls, “Tallyho” ringing in my head with a definite French lilt. I sense someone else riding, just behind me, and the ring doesn’t come back in focus until I’ve finished the course. “

  “Does this frighten you?” He sat upright, very alert. She paused before answering.

  “The first time I was terrified. Almost fell off the horse. I’ve gotten used to it now, and it’s actually pretty exhilarating. I seem like… like someone else… a carefree horsewoman, totally in charge, thrilled with the ride and the countryside. I’m not normally so audacious. And, everything racing through my head is in French!

  “I’m a good rider, but my friend says that in competition, it’s as if I
become someone else. A more fearless, natural horsewoman than I ever was. You’re only the second person I’ve ever told about this. Am I crazy, or what?”

  “What you are describing is very unusual,” he was smiling reassuringly, “but not in any way ‘crazy,’ as you put it. Something deeper is manifesting itself in this manner. It may very well be related with all the things we’ve discussed today: you’re willingness to accept the blame for your husband’s transgressions; your fear of something bad happening during sex; and these illusions while jumping. Tell me, have you ever actually ridden on a fox hunt?”

  She laughed. “No, that’s the strangest part. But, my friend runs them monthly. He’s hunted real fox in England and Spain. From what he’s said, my visions are more like a European hunt than anything I might see here. I plan on joining him on one next week. Then I’ll be able to make a comparison.”

  “That’s interesting,” Doctor Feldman said, rising. “I’m afraid we’re out of time, but we’ll want to get into this more next session.”

  She stood and stretched, feeling unusually calm, somehow relieved that she had gotten so much off her chest.

  “Do you think you can save my marriage, Doctor?”

  “That’s not up to me. What I can do is help you sort out your feelings and an sense of who you really are, and who you want to be. Not who your husband wants, but your own person. I may help you understand your marriage better, but in the end, it will be up to you to save it, or not.

  “We may try hypnotic regression to find a point, probably in your childhood, where these anxieties first took root. It’s something you apparently have buried in your subconscious, and that’s the quickest and least painful way to get at it. We’ll see what happens during the next few sessions first.”

  “Okay,” she said. “So, I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Feldman sat at his desk, studying his notes from Ashley Easton’s session, vaguely uneasy. Her strange visions smacked strongly of what some would insist were past life memories, especially since she experienced it in a foreign language.

  Bull! There’s no such thing as past lives, much less memories about them. She studied French in school. It was a subconscious vehicle to express other repressions… memories from this life.

  Still, how could he explain her sudden superior riding skills and her increased fluency in French, while living this hallucination? He shook his head, taking a slow breath.

  Well, the next few sessions would shake all of that out, and it would prove perfectly logical. Probably a stifled trauma from her childhood.

  So, why did he feel so edgy?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “So, Mr. Thornton, what can I do for you? Not PMS, I hope.”

  “No thanks, Doc.” Craig chuckled. “I’ll leave that for your patients. Just wanted to talk about Toni for a minute. I promise to be quick.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Dr. Green said. “A gynecologist doesn’t get many opportunities to talk to a man. Is there a problem?” He adjusted his white smock, repositioning the stethoscope. Thin, manicured fingers brushed at his small, graying moustache. Very professional.

  “I’m not sure. Uh, when was the last time Toni had a check-up.”

  “I looked when I heard you asked to see me. It’s been ten months.”

  “So she’s due again soon.”

  “Yes, but your wife seems a reluctant patient. She often stretches her annual physical to eighteen months. The best we can do is send a reminder. So, I ask again, is there a problem I should be aware of?”

  “Same answer. I don’t know. She does seem a little lethargic lately. Not full of her usual energy and bounce.” Craig had decided on this small lie to get to the question he really wanted answered.

  “I can’t imagine a reason for that without examining her. If you think there’s something wrong, you should see that she comes in ASAP. How’s her appetite?”

  “Good, I guess.” Especially for other men!

  “Has she gained or lost any significant amount of weight?”

  “No. Just as trim and gorgeous as ever. But, she… she doesn’t seem as interested in… ah… sex anymore.” Another white lie. He was speaking for himself, not the rest of the male population of the North Shore. He needed to approach this subject with extreme care if he expected to get a straight answer.

  “Well, I can’t tell you much else without an examination. Get her in here, and we’ll see what’s going on.”

  “I’ll try, but the last time you saw her, she seemed in good health?”

  “Perfect. A magnificent… uh, I mean excellent health. Couldn’t be better.” Dr. Green’s tongue flicked nervously across his lips. Craig suddenly saw him with new eyes: about fifty, fit looking, a pleasant face with distinguished graying temples to go with the lip hair. Another of Toni’s conquests, he realized. Probably how she paid her bill. He wondered if they did it right there. Even a doctor was human.

  “Could she be depressed,” Craig asked.

  “Depressed? Toni? I seriously doubt it. What would a beautiful, vibrant, wealthy young woman in her prime have to be depressed about? It could be hormonal, I suppose.”

  “I thought, maybe the baby…”

  “The baby?”

  “Why not? We lost our son right after birth. Maybe she’s depressed over not getting pregnant again.”

  “Not likely.” He made a depreciating gesture with his hand.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Women rarely get pregnant after having their tubes....” He stopped abruptly, staring at Craig, face aflame, then dropped his gaze.

  “Sorry. Patient confidentiality. I’ve said more than I should.”

  He started to turn away, but Craig sprang forward, grabbing his shoulder, spinning him around.

  “What about her tubes, Doc?”

  “You’ll have to ask your wife. I’m sorry. I should…”

  Craig snatched a handful of white smock at his throat, twisting it tightly, pulling the taller man’s face down level with his. His narrowed eyes bore into the other man’s.

  “What about her tubes?” The words hissed through tightly clenched teeth.

  “I… I can’t...” Green’s topaz eyes were large and round, as the angry man twisted his grip tighter.

  “The tubes, Doc?” A tightly fisted hand appeared in front of his face. He struggled for breath.

  “Tied. Had them… tied. After the baby.” He sucked in a grateful breath as the pressure on his neck went slack. He stumbled backwards, away from those burning eyes, so filled with fury. And hate?

  “The bitch! The fucking whore!”

  “She never told you?” The older man struggled for breath, as his fear slipped away. Thornton’s anger was no longer directed at him.

  “No. She kept up the future family charade to keep me around.”

  “Surely you wouldn’t seek a divorce over…”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Why should you care? When you fuck her again on her next visit, you won’t feel so guilty.”

  “Mr. Thornton! I never…”

  “Cut the crap, Doc. You’re just one of dozens. I suggest you wear a rubber. And when you next do her blood work, you might want to look at something other than cholesterol and hormone levels. For your own safety, if not for hers.”

  Doctor Green’s face told Craig he wasn’t going to await Toni’s next visit before doing some blood work… his own.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Craig slouched at his office desk, thoughts racing as he scrolled aimless circles on a blank piece of paper. His head throbbed, a three aspirin headache.

  The cunning bitch. She’d been fucking him for the past five years without ever climbing in his bed.

  Tied her tubes!

  The bitch! The dog’s would be the only patter of little feet in their house.

  She knew how badly he wanted kids. The promised family to keep them together. She knew exactly what buttons to push. Manipulation was her forte.


  How different she was from Ashley.

  Ashley!

  Knowing her gave him reason to hope for something better. His perfect plan of love along with position and money has really blown up in his face. He gained nothing from his efforts, tied to a conscienceless trollop who wouldn’t let him go without a bloody fight. He never needed her wealth or family connection, having succeeded in business strictly on his own.

  What to do? What to do? Had he and Toni ever really been in love? Certainly lust. Lots of lust! But love? He didn’t know anymore. He was so damned confused.

  Maybe he should spend some time back in therapy. Bruce was a no-nonsense psychiatrist, moving things right along. Yeah, he would help sort things out. It never paid to make emotional decisions. He’d already learned that lesson once. And he couldn’t let thoughts of Ashley (so warm and wonderful) interfere with doing what was right.

  They were, after all, just friends.

  Okay. I’ll call Bruce first thing tomorrow and arrange an appointment. At least he’d be doing something. Things couldn’t stay as they were.

  But, he had no idea how much they were about to change.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Ashley looked up from her Cosmo as the raised-panel cherry door opened.

  A heavyset, middle-aged woman emerged, dabbing at tear-reddened eyes, hurrying out of the waiting room. As the outer door closed, Dr. Feldman appeared in the doorway of the inner office.

  "Come in, Mrs. Easton." he said, holding the door for her.

  She thought of their past three sessions as she slipped into the office, settling in the familiar leather chair. Over the past several weeks, she’d come to realize her behavior during their marriage wasn’t so unusual, and certainly not unfair to Keith. In fact, she had treated him with consideration and affection.

  Finding a lover was his need, and had nothing to do with any inadequacies in her. Blaming herself was just a rationale to stay in the marriage. She was no longer sure that was a very good idea. Divorce, if it came to that, would be because of what he did, not her.