by Abbi Cook
Opening the blue book, I flip to the last page I read. Lauren wrote about how she was enjoying school and how she couldn't wait to begin her upper level psychology courses. All I can think about is how excited she sounds in diary entries like that, but if that was true, why did she run away? It doesn't make sense.
I don't dwell on how incongruous her life sounds and flip the page to another entry. Just a few words in and I'm already missing the enthusiasm of the previous one.
Sometimes I fear that she's forcing things on me. I don't know how because I rarely eat or drink anything around her, but there are times when I feel utterly out of control, like someone could tell me to rob a bank and I'd do it without a second thought. That scares me more than I can say.
My chest tightens as my eyes roam over the page filled with my youngest sister's confession of how afraid she was, but of what? The person she referred to as she couldn't have been my mother, but she's never mentioned any other female in her diary so far. My mother is a number of things, not the least of which can be difficult on any given day, but what could Lauren have meant by saying she was forcing things on her?
I push the idea of my mother doing anything like that to my sister out of my mind immediately. It's ridiculous. I'd hoped reading Lauren's diary would take my mind off my problems, but it's only made me even more unhappy now, so I shut the little blue book and push it away from me under the covers.
Maybe if I get some sleep I'll be in a better mood. I just want to forget about how odd things are with Adam and what I did with Alexei. I am feeling a little tired, so I'll close my eyes for a little while.
"Natalie, what are you doing?" my mother snaps when she walks into the kitchen and sees me with a bowl of fruit just an hour before dinner.
I look down at the blueberries and strawberries and then up at her. "I was hungry. I know dinner's soon, but it's fruit, so it's not bad for me."
Her eyes narrow angrily. "What have I told you about eating right before dinner? I make sure there's a good meal on the table every night, and you ruin it every day by snacking after school. Put that back in the refrigerator where it belongs. You can wait until dinnertime."
I glance at the fruit and my mouth waters. I can't help that in the past few months I've been hungrier than I've ever been before in my life. I'm a teenage girl now, so doesn't that mean I'm having a growth spurt or something like that?
"Please, Mom. I'm hungry. I feel lightheaded. Just a few blueberries?"
Furious I haven't obeyed her yet and returned the food to the refrigerator and now I'm questioning her, she glares at me. "Natalie Tarrigan, you have three seconds to get that bowl of fruit back where it belongs before I get really mad. Keep in mind I'm already mad, so not doing what I tell you to do right now is going to make things much worse."
I've never liked when she's angry at me like this, so I grab the bowl and hurry to return it to the refrigerator like she wants. My emotions are all over the place today for some reason, and before I turn around to face her again, I begin to cry. I don't know why, but I do and I can't stop myself.
She sees the tears rolling down my cheeks and shakes her head. "What are you crying about? I swear sometimes I don't understand you. Get doing your homework, and I'll call you for dinner in about an hour."
Unable to control my emotions, I hurry out of the room before they spill out all over the place. My mother has little appreciation for emotional outbursts, and she'd hate the one that seems to be brewing inside me at the moment. I run to the half-bathroom and close the door behind me, feeling even more lightheaded than before. Why wouldn't she just let me have a few blueberries?
I don't know why I'm acting like this. I've felt strange all day. One minute I feel like I'm going to faint, and the next minute I feel like I'm about to burst into tears. Patting my face with some cool water, I look into the mirror and see a pimple forming on the tip of my nose. Great. I'm an emotional, lightheaded, zit face.
Since I feel like I'm going to fall down, I unbutton my jeans and sit down on the toilet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something strange, and when I look down at my underwear, I see blood. Why would I be bleeding in my panties?
Worry races through me. Where could the blood be coming from? Did I cut myself? I quickly think of everything I've done that day and can't come up with a reason why I'd be bleeding into my underwear.
Now panic sets in and I scream, "Mom! Come here! Mom!"
The tears flow like someone turned on a faucet inside my eyes. The powder room door flies open, hitting the wall behind it, and my mother stands there wide-eyed.
"What's wrong, Natalie?" she asks in that truly worried voice she so rarely uses with me.
I point down at my lap and sob. "There's blood! I don't know what's bleeding, but there's blood on my underwear."
Instead of rushing over to see the small red spot I'm now pointing at, she stands in the doorway and smiles. Why would she be happy, I wonder. How does she know I'm not hurt?
"Oh, you're fine, honey. That's nothing to worry about. Let me get you a pad. I'll be right back."
As my mind races with questions like how is bleeding not bad and what's a pad, I sit there on the toilet shaking in fear. Why is she happy about whatever this is? Not having the answers to any of these questions makes my emotions unravel, and by the time she returns a few seconds later, I'm hyperventilating and sobbing like a baby.
"Calm down, Natalie. You're fine. It's just your period. Here let me show you how to put the pad on."
I can barely see through the tears to watch her attach this pad thing to my underwear, and when she's finished, I feel like I'm going to be sick. I still don't know what's wrong with me.
"Pull your pants up and come to the kitchen. I want to talk to you."
After I do as she says, I walk out behind her still crying uncontrollably. I can't stop myself, which I know will bother her, but every time I try, the tears come harder. She begins to explain what a period is and how she's happy for me because of some reason I can't hear when my ears start pounding like someone has a jackhammer in my head, but I'm inconsolable.
"Stop crying!" she scolds me, the smile disappearing from her face. "You're acting ridiculous. Stop crying now!"
But I can't, so she storms over to the cabinet. When she returns, she has a cup of something in her hand. "You're going to drink this, and then you're going to calm down. Do you hear me?"
I nod because I know I have to, but nothing inside my brain is telling me I'm going to be calming down anytime soon. I take the cup from her and tip it up to have a sip. It’s the drink my mother always gives us when we’re upset.
Warm milk with nutmeg on top.
Not that I think that’s going to make me feel any better at this moment.
When I hesitate to take another drink, my mother points at the cup. “Keep drinking. I promise you’ll feel better.”
Impatience flashes in my mother's eyes, so I hurry to do as she says. I can only hope she's right and I'll calm down because feeling like I'm going to explode from my emotions might make me sick right there in the kitchen.
Then, as if by magic, every crazy thing inside me begins to retreat into the background, and that calmness she promised washes over me. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as she takes the cup from my hold.
"See? You feel better. I knew that would calm you down. Now sit and let's talk about what happened."
Chapter Nineteen
Natalie
I sit up in bed clutching my throat as my dream begins to recede into my mind. My hands shaking, I search for Lauren's diary under the sheets and find it on Adam's side of the bed. Grabbing a pen from my nightstand, I quickly jot down on the last page all the details of my dream before I forget.
First time getting my period. Frantic. Mother upset by my emotionality and made me drink something to calm me. Felt relaxed afterward. What did she give me?
My heart continues to slam into my chest, even now minutes later after I'm fully awa
ke. I try as hard as I can to think of a time when my mother forced me to drink something to relax me. Oh, God! My memory is like Swiss cheese. All those holes in the past make it impossible to believe anything for sure. But why would she? My mother never had any difficulty making me bend to her will. Her control over my life, except for a few very distinct times, was practically absolute.
This clinches it. I need to speak to that therapist Claire suggested. I find the card in my purse and walk to the farthest part of my bedroom away from the door. I'm still not sure about what I'm doing, but I need professional help. Even if the therapist decides all these dreams and flashbacks are utterly normal for someone who's had a head injury, I need to hear that from someone who knows about these things.
My hand shakes as I hold the phone to my ear. After three rings, a woman with a soft voice answers, and I'm immediately more at ease. Her words sound so kind.
"Doctor's office. How may I help you?"
Swallowing hard, I push down all my fears and squeak out, "Hello, I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Trevino." Before she can respond, I add, "As soon as possible, please."
I wait for what seems like forever for her to say something, but when she does speak, she says, "He has an opening three days from now at one in the afternoon. Would that work?"
"Yes," I answer excitedly, happy that I won't have to wait the weeks or months it usually takes to get an appointment with a doctor.
"Okay. I just need your name."
Suddenly, I wonder if I should use a fake name, but which one? Maybe I should use my maiden name, although anyone could find out my identity through that.
My gaze settles on my sister's blue diary sitting on the bed and I blurt out, "Lauren Tarrigan." I don't know why I don't want to give my real name. It's silly, actually. Seeing a therapist isn't a crime or anything, so why would I lie and give my sister's name?
As all those thoughts run through my head, the woman repeats the time and gives the address of the therapist's office that I have on the card in my hand. I thank her and end the call, relieved that I've finally made an appointment.
And just as soon as that relief settles into me, worry follows. Adam is like my mother when it comes to anything having to do with therapists and psychiatrists. He doesn't believe they're useful or even needed. People can figure out their own problems without the help of some high-priced charlatan, according to him. He can’t know I’m going to this appointment.
I gather up the blue diary and the therapist's card and hide them beneath my winter sweaters in my drawer. Then I delete the call to the doctor in my history on my phone before putting it back in my purse. That way, even if Adam checks my phone for whatever reason, he won't see it. He doesn't go through my phone very often, but on the off chance he does, I'm safe.
I return to bed feeling like there's hope for me. Maybe I am losing my mind, but I'm thinking that a doctor's help would be a good thing if that's happening.
Lying back on the pillow, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even as the details of the dream evaporate from my thoughts, I can see my mother's face and her eyes full of anger at how upset I was about getting my period for the first time. How did she think I'd react as a thirteen-year-old girl finding blood on her underwear? I reacted the way any normal person would who thought they were bleeding from somewhere on their body that shouldn't be hurt.
As I reflect on the dream, I think about how that day really happened. I don't know why, but that memory I haven't forgotten. Although neither my mother nor my tutor had told me about menstruating or what to expect the first time, it happened with relatively little fanfare. I sat down in the upstairs bathroom and found blood on my underwear. I didn't know what to think, so I found my mother and told her. She reacted by giving me a maxi pad and a short rundown on everything that was happening with my body. No excitement. No frantic crying. Just the usual calm exchange she and I usually had about things.
Why would my mind create such a tumultuous scene for something so mundane?
The sound of a door opening downstairs rouses me from my thoughts. Glancing over at the clock, I see it's nearly five. That sound must be Adam home already.
I hurry downstairs to see him standing just inside the back door looking through the mail from that afternoon, and I stop on the second to last stair to look at him. I love the way he looks in his dark grey suit. Today he paired it with a light grey dress shirt and a deep blue tie with grey and black stripes I bought him last fall. The whole look screams professional and accomplished, just as I knew it would.
"How was your day? You're home early," I say with a smile, hoping he had a better day at work than I had here.
For the first time in months, he smiles warmly at me and opens his arms, beckoning me to come to him. My husband is rarely demonstrative like this anymore, I guess since we aren't honeymooners now, but today he seems downright romantic.
"Come here. I was thinking about you all day, so I decided to come home early and see how you are. Are you feeling better?"
I hurry over to where he stands waiting for me and smile up at him. "Yes, I'm feeling great. Perfectly fine, actually."
Dipping his head, he kisses me sweetly on the lips as a feeling of utter happiness washes over me. We aren't like this enough anymore. Between Adam's work, my injury, and our disappointment over not getting pregnant, we've neglected the romance in our marriage for far too long.
He cradles my face in his hands and smiles down at me. "Do you feel up to making dinner, or should we order out?"
His offer stuns me. Order out? My husband never wants to order food for dinner. He must be trying very hard to be sweet if he's offering take-out instead of having me cook.
"I feel fine, but it would be nice to have someone else make dinner. What do you have in mind?"
Adam looks up at the ceiling in that cute way that makes it seem like he's really thinking about what I asked when all the while he already has something in mind. I haven't seen him do that in ages. I've missed him acting like this. I don't know what's caused this change in him, but I love it.
"Hmmm, what do you think about Chinese food from that place in Ellicott City? I know you love their won-ton soup, and I have a craving for some sweet and sour pork. Sound good?" he asks, searching my face like he truly hopes his suggestion pleases me.
"I love that idea!" I squeal. "I think we still have one of their take-out menus in the kitchen drawer. Let me go find it."
White paper containers of half-eaten Chinese food sit scattered around the kitchen table after we gorged ourselves on far too much sweet and sour pork, beef and broccoli, and white rice. A look of satisfaction settles into Adam's face, and I have to admit the meal tasted delicious, even for take-out.
He looks so relaxed that I can't help but think that now might be a good time to broach the topic of what I've been going through lately. I don't like keeping things from my husband. He cares for me, so hiding what I've been dealing with after my head injury feels wrong.
Pushing my plate away toward the middle of the table, I quietly begin by saying, "Adam, do you ever have nightmares?"
My question seems out of the blue, which makes him furrow his brow for a moment before he answers, "Of course. Sometimes."
Serious look aside, he still seems in a good mood, so I continue. "Well, I've been having these nightmares. Well, some of them are like dreams, but they all leave me feeling uncomfortable."
He doesn't respond but merely nods his understanding. His mouth hasn't turned down into a frown yet, so he isn't disinterested in what I have to say.
"Some of them are about things in the past that I'm sort of having a hard time remembering. Like I had one this afternoon that would probably be considered a dream because it wasn't really frightening, but it's strange because I thought I knew how that event happened, but in my dream it was totally different."
"Oh. What happened?" he asks, furrowing his brow again.
I shrug, suddenly feeling like I'm being sill
y. "Nothing really. Just that in my dream the first time I got my period was a really traumatic event, but in real life, nothing horrible happened that day."
"I'm sure it's just a dream, Natalie. I wouldn't make too big a deal of it."
Feeling deflated, I add, "And I had one where the night we met was completely different than how it really happened."
That makes him lean forward toward me and smile. "At least you're thinking of me in your dreams."
"They're sometimes very scary, Adam. I'm just worried I'm having problems remembering the past because of my injury."
Sitting back in his chair, he shakes his head, dismissing all my fears. "I wouldn't worry. You remember the past just fine. Don't let yourself get confused by dreams you have at night."
I wish I could tell him it isn't just dreams while I'm sleeping but those visions or whatever they are while I'm wide awake, but he wouldn't understand. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am making too big a deal about these things.
"Let's go upstairs. I'll take care of the garbage here in a little while, and you can rest."
Before I can tell him that I rested all day, he gets up from the table and comes around to stand next to my chair. He puts his hand out to take mine, and even though I'm not tired in the least, I let him lead me upstairs to the bedroom.
Opening the door, he ushers me in and says, "I think you should take a sleeping pill tonight. That way you'll have a night full of restful sleep and not be bothered by any dreams."
I don't argue against the suggestion because the idea of a night of good sleep with no nightmares sounds like heaven. Even more, it will allow me to not think about Alexei.
When Adam hands me the pill and a glass of water, I take it, happy for the chance to put all of what I've been going through behind me. Lying back on the bed, I relish the coolness of the pillow against my head. Adam comes around to sit beside me, and the last thing I see before I close my eyes is concern in his dark eyes as he leans toward me, watching over me.