by Abbi Cook
"After she wagged her finger, he stood up and walked away, disappearing from my view. Then she disappeared too."
"Did she follow him?"
I think about that for a moment before answering. "No. She just sort of disappeared like she just sort of appeared in the room where he was sitting. But he walked away. It was as if I was watching a play and he walked off stage. Then it ended and I was simply staring at my husband as he sat in bed next to me."
"Is there anything else you can remember?" the doctor asks as he writes notes in his pad.
"No, that's it," I answer, shaking my head. "It was spooky to see all that right in front of me and then realize it wasn't there. Every time it happens, it's scary."
The doctor's eyes dart up from his notes to focus on my face. "Why is it scary? Are you ever in danger or is anyone ever harming you? Is it that kind of frightening?"
Am I in danger? More than you can know, doctor, but I don’t know how to tell you how insane my life has gotten in the past couple weeks.
I push that thought away and work to focus on the question at hand.
"No, not exactly," I say, searching for the words to describe why it's so terrifying to see these things so clearly and yet know they aren't happening and likely never existed. "It's scary because it's not supposed to happen. I'm seeing things that aren't there. One time I saw a little girl when I opened my closet doors one morning. She was just standing there. Another time I saw my husband sitting in a chair reading something in some room I didn't recognize."
"These things you're seeing, Lauren, are there. They might not be happening in front of your eyes at the moment you're seeing them, but they exist in your mind. What we need to find out is if they're memories you repressed for some reason trying to come back, which would mean they're truly flashbacks, or if they're simply scenes your mind is creating."
I wait for him to give that second option a proper name, but he stops talking before he does. Curious to know what to call them, and if visions is the appropriate word, I ask, "What's the actual name for them if my mind is creating them but they don't really exist?"
His face is expressionless, but I sense in his voice that he's worried when he answers. "Well, there are a number of names given to occurrences like that, but the best known one is hallucinations. I don't want you to get too hung up on that word, though. It doesn't mean anything more than just a way to categorize something. Nothing more, okay?"
Hallucinations? I repeat the word in my mind as I listen to the rest of what he has to say, the very mention of it frightening me. I may not know all the psychology in the world, but I've heard of hallucinations. I am crazy. Oh, God.
"I can see by your expression that you've heard that word before, but I really don't want you to worry about it, Lauren. You aren't crazy, if that's what you're thinking. Please don't worry. I don't think you're crazy, so don't let yourself think that."
Everything Adam said about putting crazy people away echoes in my brain. I don't want to be sent away. I won't go!
"I'm not crazy, Dr. Trevino. I know that. I won't let anyone put me away in some mental hospital. I thought therapy was supposed to help people, not send them to those places," I say, my voice cracking from the utter fear rushing through me.
My hands shake so hard, I push them between my legs and press my knees against them. I must look crazy. I'm not, though. I know I'm not.
The look on the doctor's face is one of pure pity as he reaches over and gently touches my arm. "Please, Lauren. It's okay. My profession doesn't do that to people for just having some waking dreams and nightmares. I promise you I won't be putting you in a mental hospital. I honestly don't even know where the nearest one is," he says with a smile I want to believe is genuine.
"You don't?"
"No, we don't. We've come a long way in the mental health field. I promise."
"You used the word hallucinations. My husband warned me that they put you away if you act crazy. Aren't hallucinations the same for losing your mind? I know I sound like I'm losing my mind, but I'm not crazy. I know I'm not."
"I don't think you are either," Dr. Trevino says in a definitive way that stops my mind from racing.
"You don't think I am? Then what's wrong with me, doctor?"
"I don't know, Lauren, but I want to help you find out," he answers in a soft voice I find soothing. "Just remember that word is only a name people use. It doesn't indicate who you are or if what you're going through is good or bad. There are no moral judgments here. You and I are working toward figuring out what's causing these things to happen to you so you can control them. Remember that."
His comforting words make me feel like I'm not about to unravel anymore, so I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. "I'm sorry I got so emotional there. I didn't mean to. My husband says I have an active imagination. That's what he thinks about all of this. That my imagination is too active."
My husband who doesn’t love me anymore, who is sleeping with another woman because I can’t give him a child, and who has hired not one but two hit men to kill me. God, I wish I could tell Dr. Trevino the truth about all of that.
A sly smile makes the corners of the doctor's mouth creep up until those wrinkles around his eyes appear again. "You know what Einstein said about imagination? He said it's more important than knowledge because knowledge is limited and imagination is so much more. He said it far more eloquently, but he was right. An active imagination is a great thing, Lauren."
"I think so too, but my husband is far more serious than I am. That's probably the reason why he thinks so little of my imagination," I say, trying to defend Adam even though I agree more with Einstein.
Dr. Trevino sits back and crosses his legs. "Well, let's put that imagination to work here. What do you think of your nightmares and waking dreams? Do you think they have any common themes?"
Pointing at his notepad, I say, "You wrote down the words WHICH PEOPLE earlier, and I wanted to mention it then, but I hoped you would come back to that since you made a note in big letters about it. It seems that all my nightmares and waking dreams have either my mother or my husband or both in them. Well, except for that little girl, but I only saw her for a flash of a moment and then she disappeared and I haven’t seen her again."
"Are your mother and husband close? Is there anything remarkable about their relationship?"
I try to think of anything even remotely interesting about when Adam and my mother are around one another, but there's nothing. He's respectful, like a son-in-law should be, and she's polite, like any daughter would hope her mother would be to her husband. Other than that, their relationship is like any other between in-laws, I guess.
"Not really. They like one another, but it's not like they spend time together when I'm not around. They do talk on the phone sometimes, at least lately, but I guess that's not out of the ordinary. They do have me in common, and I have been under the weather a bit because of my injury."
"How is your relationship with your mother? Are you the oldest or youngest of your siblings?" the doctor asks.
"Oldest," I answer. "My mother is a no-nonsense person, much like my husband, so she finds me a bit too emotional most of the time. Other than that, it's a good relationship. I'm not her favorite, but I think she loves me like I love her."
Even as Dr. Trevino smiles and nods, I know how that last sentence sounded. It wasn't a lie, though. I'm not her favorite. Tess is, although I don't know why. I do love my mother, though.
I wait for him to ask about my comment about not being the favorite daughter, but he doesn't. Instead, he returns to my mother. "What is your mother usually doing in your nightmares and waking dreams?"
"She seems to be conducting business, in my opinion."
He seems interested by this and jots down a few words. Looking up at me from his notes, he asks, "What does your mother do for a living? Is it possible that's what she's doing when you see her in these nightmares?"
"I don't think so. My mother has never worke
d a day of my life. She lives off the inheritance she got when my father passed away. What my mother chiefly does these days, as far as I can tell, is spend time in her garden. She used to give parties a lot before we all moved out, but nowadays, she doesn't even do that."
Tilting his wrist so he can check his watch, the doctor smiles and folds over the cover to his notepad, a sign our session is over. "Our time is up, but I want you to keep focusing on your nightmares, if you have any, and your waking dreams, assuming you have any of them. Write them down if you think that will help you remember the details better. I think we made good progress today. I'd like you to make an appointment for early next week. That will give us the weekend to rehash when we meet again."
I open my mouth to say something about the rest of my life that seems to be unraveling around me, but nothing comes out. How does someone just launch into a story like the one I’m living lately? I don’t know, and until I do, I can’t tell him anything.
After I thank him and make my way out to the receptionist's desk to schedule another session, I slowly walk to my car. I can't help think about how my mother seems to be a businesswoman in my thoughts, even though she's never been anything other than a stay-at-home mother in real life. How interesting that in the recesses of my mind I've made her into someone like Adam.
Then again, they are very alike.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Natalie
I replay my second session with Dr. Trevino the whole way home and can't help but feel like I'm making progress. I don't like the idea that my flashbacks are possibly hallucinations, though. Pushing that word out of my mind as I sit at a red light, I mumble, "Waking dreams. That's what they are. Waking dreams."
See, you weren't crazy, Natalie. The rest of your life is, but you aren’t.
The light turns green, so I continue toward the house, happy to be able to tell myself that tiny truth. It means more than I can explain to anyone, even my therapist, to know I'm not crazy. I'm not.
I reach home and see the garage door open and Adam's car parked inside. Why is he here at two o'clock in the afternoon? I know many people would immediately jump to the terrible conclusion that something bad has happened, but all I can think is something bad is about to happen to me.
All the happy thoughts I'd enjoyed on the ride home evaporate into thin air at the thought of what awaits me inside. I park my car outside on the driveway and walk all the way around the house to the backyard door. If I could, I'd choose anything else than going inside right now.
My hand hovers over the doorknob as my brain plays a game of tug-of-war with itself. I have no idea what Adam will be like if I go inside, but if I don't and quickly run to my car, I can put off whatever it is that's brought him home in the middle of the day until much later.
Or maybe forever. No, not forever. I don’t have anywhere to go to escape him.
I don't really have a choice. No matter how much I don't want to, I have to go inside and deal with him and the reason he's home early.
Knowing he'll ask me where I was, I scramble to think of a solid lie. I can't tell him I went to see Claire again. Three times in one week isn't believable, even for us. My mind goes blank for a long moment and my heart begins to pound like a jackhammer in my chest. Where have I been? I have to tell him something because for damn sure he's going to ask.
My stomach churns with each passing second that I can't think of anything. Oh, God! Why am I such a terrible liar?
I hear footsteps coming toward the door. Peering in through the glass, I see Adam just a few feet away. What am I going to say? I only have seconds to decide because no doubt it will be the first thing he says to me. Not hello, Natalie. Not why are you using the back door. No, it will be where were you in that tone full of accusation he always uses when I don't behave the way he expects me to.
The way he's used to.
But still, even as the door begins to open in front of me, I have nothing good to use as a lie. I feel a rush of air as the door moves away from me, and then there he is facing me with that look of suspicion that matches the tone of indictment I hate.
"I came home to see you and you weren't here. Where were you?" he asks, full of accusation.
My mind still insufficient to the task of protecting me, I blurt out, "I was at one of the Preservation Society meetings."
For a moment, he stares at me and I get the sense that he's judging the truthfulness of my claim. Like some member of a jury who already has their mind set on the verdict and just needs one sliver of proof to support their prejudiced belief.
Before he has the chance to ask a follow-up question, I ask one of my own. "Why are you home in the middle of the afternoon?"
I try my hardest to sound concerned, like this change in his routine has me worried about him. The words come out perfectly, just as I wanted them to. I sound like a wife who cares instead of one who hates the man she married and is terrified about what will come next.
His response confuses me. Instead of giving me some boring excuse about needing something for work he forgot when he left this morning, he smiles at me and says, "I thought it would be nice to spend some time together."
While I work to keep my eyes from bugging out of my head in shock, he gently guides me into the house, his arm around my waist in a way that feels loving, oddly enough. He thought it would be nice to spend some time together?
A rush of pure terror races through me. He’s going to do what Alexei wouldn’t and the second killer couldn’t!
“Spend some time together?” I ask as I bristle at the touch of his hand on me.
In the six years we've been married, he's only left work early once, and that was when I fainted at the Preservation Society tea. My husband has never wanted to spend time with me during the day. Other husbands surprise their wives with unannounced visits during working hours, but those men are the same ones who give gifts for no reasons and surprise their wives with spur of the moment trips to exotic locales. Those men are not Adam Anchoff.
My eyes scan the room for anything I can use to defend myself. The lamp on the end table is heavy and could knock him out so I could escape. The letter opener on the desk could work to stab him.
This is my life now. I get to spend my time repurposing everyday items to stop my husband from ending my life.
“I thought we should talk,” he says haltingly.
“Talk? About what?” I ask, but in truth, I don’t want to know. Nothing he can say to me now will make me forgive the fact that he wants me dead.
“Why don’t we sit down, Natalie?” Adam suggests, pointing at the couch while he takes a seat in the arm chair a few feet away.
My body shakes at what will come out of his mouth next. Is he planning on asking me for a divorce? Maybe his girlfriend is already pregnant. My chest tightens at the mere thought of someone else doing what I couldn’t. I wanted to. I know that’s not enough, but I did want to give him a child.
Pressing my knees together to stop my legs from trembling, I paste a smile on my face and prepare for what’s about to happen in my life. For the first time as I wait to hear his next words, I realize that this has always been my entire existence.
Things happen to me. I don’t make them happen. Others do and I’m forced to react.
It’s all I’ve ever known. It’s all I was ever taught. My mother did things, and I reacted. My husband does things, and I react. People at the country club do things, and I react.
Never do I do anything that forces others to react. I’m always just sweet Natalie who strives to make life as easy as it can be for everyone around her.
“I feel like we’ve drifted apart recently. I mean, since your accident. I don’t want things to be that way, though.”
My accident. I don’t want to believe what Alexei told me, but how can I not?
“I never wanted them to be that way either, Adam,” I say softly, already so tired of hating him. I promised to love him forever. That may not have been as easy as I thought it w
ould be, but hating him has been far more difficult.
“Then let’s fix things. I know we can. Things don’t have to be so strained between us, do they?”
His face looks so hopeful that for a moment I think it’s possible. Then the reality of what’s happened in the past couple weeks comes rushing back, and I have to contain myself so I don’t run from this house screaming.
He wants to fix things. What kind of things? Is he hoping his first hit man will finally get around to doing his job so he can be free but not have to deal with me giving him a hard time until that moment occurs?
Narrowing my eyes, I study him for a few moments. Is it possible he knows about Alexei and me?
When I don’t continue the conversation, he says, “I know that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Claire, and I think I know why. I don’t want you to be unhappy, Natalie. If you weren’t unhappy, you’d confide in me instead of your sister.”
His mention of the one person in the world I know I can trust implicitly sets me on edge. “I don’t go to see Claire because I’m unhappy. I go to see her because she is. She’s still devastated by Lauren’s disappearance, Adam. I’d think you’d understand that. We all are.”
Well, all except my mother and Tess. Come to think of it, he doesn’t seem bothered in the least by the fact that my youngest sister went missing one night and has never been heard of since. Other than what he said to my mother when she called to tell us, I don’t think he’s mentioned Lauren’s name three times in all those months since.
“Of course. I understand, Natalie. I also understand, though, that part of grieving is moving on.”
Moving on? Why is he talking like she’s dead and we’ve given her a proper burial instead of just missing from our lives like some empty spot in our family?
“Did my mother say something to you?” I ask, wondering why the two of them seem like two peas in a pod on this issue.
I watch him shake his head a little too fast as he answers, “No, not at all. I do agree with her that living in the past isn’t healthy, though.”