by Abbi Cook
“Nobody’s living in the past, Adam. Claire misses our youngest sister. That’s it. I go see her because she’s sad and I love her and don’t want her to be sad. It’s that simple.”
“I just wonder how her husband feels about you being there so often and calling her so much.”
“How Albert feels about Claire’s family being there for her when she needs them? I think he’s fine with it. He’s that kind of husband, and he knows how sad Claire is about Lauren being gone, Adam.”
That he can’t sympathize with her feelings makes even continuing this conversation difficult. Has he always been this cold? I don’t know. Then again, I’m not sure I ever really knew him.
“I didn’t realize they were so close. Did they talk like you and Claire do? You know, share things like sisters do?”
That’s the second time he’s asked that recently. Why?
With a shrug, I answer, “I guess. Claire was more of a mother hen than just a sister with Lauren. I assume they talked as much as Claire and I do.”
“Oh. I just wondered. I know you and Lauren weren’t that close, were you?” he asks before running his hand through his hair like this entire conversation has become one big annoyance.
“Not really, but I’m a bit older than her,” I say, suddenly feeling defensive that I didn’t see whatever was bothering her that would make her want to run away.
Adam’s phone goes off, and he walks out of the room so I get a much needed reprieve from being around him. After a few minutes, I relax and let my gaze fall on a picture hanging on the opposite wall I purchased at an auction for the Preservation Society a few years ago. Done in brown tones, it's a portrait of a woman sitting in a chair looking off in the distance. Nothing terribly interesting, it wasn't the one I wanted to bid on, but Adam disapproved of my first choice, a far more abstract painting with blues and greys that would have gone perfectly with the room.
I stare at the woman looking bored in her chair, but suddenly, I see a scene my mind has created playing out in front of me. I'm on a bed, a four-poster like my mother's, and I'm naked. Adam is too, and he hovers over me with his hands placed one on each side of my head. I see him looking down at me as I stare wide-eyed up at him, seemingly terrified about what's about to happen next.
But then instead of him simply entering me, a group of men appear around the edges of the room we're in. First just five on the left side of the room, but then another five appear on the other side. I don't know who they are or why they're there at such an intimate moment between us. He doesn't seem to be bothered by their presence, but I can't help notice them.
As they stand there and watch, he plunges into my body and I open my mouth as if to let out a plaintive wail. There is no sound, but all the signs that I'm in agony are clear on my face, twisted into an expression of pure pain.
He doesn't stop, though, and the men around us don't make any effort to stop him either. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I try to push him away, but he presses my hands back against the bed, holding me down by my wrists. I turn my head to look at the men just standing there watching him do this to me and wonder why they aren't doing anything.
Each man steps forward toward the bed in turn until they are all just a foot or two away from the two of us as we have sex. They appear enthralled by what they see, but I know my crying isn't just because it physically hurts. I'm terrified by them standing there watching. I sense my fear as I watch this all play out in front of me as clearly as if I was there.
But I wasn't. I've never had sex in front of anyone like that.
I tightly squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see anything more of that hallucination. It must have been one of those because it can't be a flashback since it never happened. My mother and Adam arguing could have happened, even if I can't remember it. Adam sitting in a high-backed chair reading some papers certainly could be a manifestation of something I've seen or experienced before in our life together.
But this can't be anything remotely similar to anything I've ever seen. I know when that vision or hallucination refers to. I know because although I remember only bits and pieces of our wedding night because I had too much champagne, I can remember that I cried when I lost my virginity. The bed wasn't the same, and there weren't any men around watching us, but I cried exactly like I just saw in the scene in front of me.
When I open my eyes, I see Adam walking out the kitchen door. Left alone, I cover my face with my hands and let the tears come. They roll down my cheeks as I try to make sense of what’s going on. Dr. Trevino says I’m not crazy, but what the hell was that playing out in front of me?
I didn't want to believe what I was having were hallucinations, but that had to be one this time. It can't be a memory of something that would never happen. Adam would never let ten other men watch us have sex for the first time. I lost my virginity in a hotel room in Antigua.
It couldn't have happened. No, I don't believe it. I'd remember that.
Wouldn't I?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Natalie
I wanted to tell Dr. Trevino about the most recent event, but now as I sit in my usual chair facing him as he writes down notes to begin our third session, I feel embarrassed to describe the details of what happened that afternoon. Even the way I think about it sounds strange. That afternoon. As if it's something from the distant past and not just three days ago.
Adam never returned to the house that afternoon, and then when he came home for dinner late at close to seven, he acted like we never had a conversation about fixing things between us. As if that’s possible. We ate dinner. Made small talk. Pretended like nothing in our lives has changed.
We’re like two zombies walking through our life together. One of us wants nothing more than to escape alive but is trying desperately not to see the one person who can help her do that. The other wants nothing more than to move on to the next version of his life but doesn’t seem to know what to do with me now that all his criminal plans haven’t panned out.
Then when we went to bed, he seemed especially aloof, not even giving me a kiss goodnight like he often does before he rolled over and fell asleep. I had to force myself not to cringe when his body touched mine. That’s where we are.
All of this runs through my mind, along with the twinge of discomfort about how I'm going to explain to the therapist about that vision—okay, hallucination—I had. It's not every day a woman has to admit something like that. Well, maybe other women, but not me. Of all the women I know, definitely not me.
Dr. Trevino clears his throat and looks up from his notepad. "So how have you been, Lauren? Have you experienced anything since our last session?"
I inwardly cringe at the sound of my sister's name today. Sometimes it doesn't bother me at all when the doctor refers to me as her, but knowing what I plan to discuss with him in this session, I feel uncomfortable associating her with that.
The problem is I can't tell him the truth now. I've considered it. This is only our third session, so it isn't like I've been deceiving him for years or even months. Still, I imagine him getting a look of disappointment and judgment on his face when he hears the truth that I don't think I can handle.
So I push down the awkwardness of my sister's name being associated with the talk of sex and give Dr. Trevino the best smile I can force. "I've been good. Something did happen, though, and I've wanted to talk to you about it since it occurred."
He nods, but he narrows his eyes like he's suspicious or doesn't believe me. For a moment, I panic, sure he knows the truth of who I am. What I'll tell him and how I'll apologize races through my mind in a split second, but then he finally speaks and I realize I've read his expression all wrong.
"You don't sound like you want to tell me about it. What's going on?" he asks in a softer tone than he usually uses, probably because he thinks I need it.
I do, but not for the reason he likely believes. He probably assumes what happened was so frightening that I'm afraid to recount it.
/> "I really do want to tell you what I saw, but it's just that…" I stop for a moment as I try to find the right way to say it. "I'm a little embarrassed. That's all," I sputter out, my words sounding like they have to be pulled out of my mouth.
The doctor doesn't have to be a master at reading people to see I'm uncomfortable about what I have to say to him today. I look down after I finish speaking and see my arms are crossed over my body and I'm practically pulling my legs up off the chair. Talk about body language. Even without saying a word, I'm screaming how difficult I'm finding this.
He leans back in his chair and sets his hands on his stomach, weaving his fingers together. With a shrug, he says, "It's okay. Just tell me whatever you feel like you can. The point of therapy isn't to make you uncomfortable, so if you can't talk about it today, maybe you'll be able to talk about it in another session. I can tell you're definitely wrestling with something just by looking at you."
I lower my head and take a deep breath in. As I let it out, I let my arms fall to my side and push my legs back toward the floor and out of the semi-fetal position I've been in. A fleeting thought about how ironic it is that my body moves into that kind of position considering what I have to tell him darts through my mind, making me smile.
"Thank you, doctor. I do want to tell you about this. I'm just not used to talking about sex with anyone. I know it must sound silly, but it's simply not something I've ever discussed with anyone."
I watch for his expression to change, not that I know what I'm looking for. Is he going to look horrified that a grown woman wants to talk about sex with him, or will his horror be hearing that a grown woman has never talked about that with anyone?
His expression doesn't change, though, and a feeling of relief washes over me at the realization that he isn't horrified or anything else about my admissions. He probably hears a whole lot worse in his line of work anyway. I know I'm being silly, but I can't help feeling odd about telling any man about my sex life.
"Maybe if we start out with classifying what happened. Was it a nightmare or a waking dream?"
"Waking dream. I had one a few days ago during the afternoon."
"Okay. Good. Was anyone else around when it occurred, or were you alone?"
Shifting in my seat, I answer his question truthfully, if not fully. "My husband was there. He came home from work early."
"That's very nice of him. Does he do that often—come home from work early to see you, I mean?"
Shaking my head, I feel myself frown at the truth I have to admit. "No, he never does, in fact. Only once in the whole time we've been married has he ever left work early, and that was when I fainted a few weeks ago."
"Then I guess it was a pleasant surprise," Dr. Trevino says with a supportive smile.
"Yes. I guess it was," I lie.
Pleasant wouldn't be the word I'd use to describe anything I felt that afternoon. I don't want to tell him that, though. Not yet. I don’t know yet how I’ll explain the insanity of my life to him.
"Did you have the waking dream after he came home early or before?"
"After," I answer. Doling out the details about what happened in piecemeal fashion is frustrating me, so I decide I'm going to just tell him everything.
"My husband and I were having a conversation—things have been strained between us for a while, and he wanted to see if we could fix things—and when he got up to take a phone call, I had one of those waking dreams about the two of us having sex," I blurt out, the words tumbling out of my mouth like they've been waiting forever to escape.
The doctor's face lights up like he's happy about what came spilling out into the space between us. I'm not as embarrassed as I thought I'd be, thankfully, but that might all change when the doctor responds, so I hold my breath waiting for him to speak.
When he does, he's as casual and friendly as always, and I can't detect any hints of him putting on an act to hide how disgusted he is with what I said. "Okay. Do you want to talk about what you saw in your waking dream?"
Nodding, I try to find the right words to describe the scene, but one last shred of embarrassment clings to me. The thought of having sex in front of a group of men is more salacious than any that's ever been in my brain. I've had sex with exactly two men in my entire life. Adam was my first and only until Alexei. From what I've heard from Pilar and some of the other women at the country club, I'd say my sex life with my husband was downright boring and certainly lackluster. At least it would be to them. I have no stories of sex in cars or public places or with the use of toys and oils.
As for Alexei, I’ve been trying not to think about him at all. If I do, then I won’t be able to stay away.
In an effort I'm sure to make me more at ease so I'll be able to talk more freely about what I saw, Dr. Trevino leans forward slightly and says, "Maybe if we start with how the waking dream made you feel if you don't feel comfortable describing what you saw. Did it frighten you?"
"Yes and no," I answer, not trying to be clever but instead truthful. But now I have to tell him why it frightened me. "I saw my husband and me having sex, but there were other people standing around in the room watching us. I know I was terrified in the dream because I was crying."
The doctor picks up his pen and pad and scribbles something in his notes before looking up at me. "I think this is the first time that you've told me about these waking dreams that you know what you were feeling in the dream. Before you were a bystander watching what other people were doing, right?"
"I think so," I answer as I try to remember all the waking dreams I've experienced.
"That's something to discuss. It's new. It makes me think this was a flashback to something that happened in the past rather than a waking dream."
Instantly, I sit up straight in my chair and shake my head. That's impossible. Didn't he hear what I said?
"It can't be. There were ten other men in that room when we were having sex. It can't be a flashback because I've never done that before. My husband and I aren't like that. We don't have sex with other men in the room. It just can't be a flashback."
I sound like I'm rambling. I know. My words feel like they're racing to keep up with my heartbeat, which is racing too. What I saw can't be a flashback. It can't be because it never happened. The first time I had sex with Adam we were alone in a hotel room in Antigua on our honeymoon. I know this. That isn't a memory that's gotten lost in my addled mind in the past few months.
Dr. Trevino's expression morphs into one full of concern. Clearly, I must look like I'm coming apart at the thought that anything like what I saw happened.
"I'm not suggesting it's literally what happened, Lauren. All I meant is that it sounds like it could be an interpretation your mind is making of something that's happened in the past because you knew how you were feeling in the waking dream," he explains.
I try to process all he's saying, but I can't get my head off the idea that there were ten men watching us have sex. The problem is I know I have to tell him more about what I knew regarding the waking dream.
God, this is awkward. I lower my head and sheepishly say, "I had the feeling what I was watching was the first time my husband and I had sex. I was a virgin and when I saw myself crying, I had the surest sense it was that first night on our honeymoon." I look up and shake my head. "But we were in a hotel room in Antigua that first time. Alone."
"I don't think what you saw was literally what happened, but the human mind has ways to twist and change things to show how a person is experiencing things emotionally. Perhaps the waking dream is a reflection of how you feel about your husband? Have you been dealing with things in your relationship with him?"
How I feel about Adam is complicated, to say the least. Even admitting that to myself feels strange, though. Up until right after the attack, I would have told anyone who asked that I loved my husband. Period. There would have been nothing to add to that statement because it encompassed everything I felt about him. I loved him.
Then I was
attacked and began having the nightmares and waking dreams, and slowly over time, I've begun to wonder why he doesn't act like other husbands. Worse, the man my mind seems to have conjured up isn't anyone I recognize.
And then Alexei told me what Adam paid him to do and that second man broke into the house and wanted to kill me and now I feel little more than pure hatred for the man I promised to love, honor, and cherish.
After all this marches through my head, I say to Dr. Trevino, "Is it normal for someone who's been attacked like I was to feel differently about things afterward?"
He nods and without hesitating answers, "Absolutely, and that's not even due to the head injury. Being attacked certainly can make a person see the world differently."
I won’t lie to Dr. Trevino. I promised myself I’d tell him as much of the truth as I can or that I know how to, so I refuse to say I love Adam. "I just feel like I used to love my husband a lot more before the attack."
Merely saying those words out loud makes me feel like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Perhaps I should feel ashamed that I don't love my husband like I used to, but I don't feel that. I'm just relieved now that I've told another human being.
"Why do you think that? Has he done something to make you feel that way?"
I sigh before answering. Now would be the perfect time to unload the entire sordid story of how I’m married to a man who’s hired two men to kill me, one of whom I fight every minute of the day to stay away from because I can’t stop thinking of him and the other who died in my house from the gun of the man I’m cheating with or one of his henchmen. I think Dr. Trevino would be understanding. I am the victim in this whole thing, after all.
But I don’t tell him any of it. I’m not ready yet.
"I don't think he's been any different after the attack than he was before. In all honesty, I think I began to feel this way because of the nightmares and waking dreams. I can't put my finger on it, but something about him in them scares me."