Convergence

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I am not alone.

  There is One who goes before me and with me.

  And my rage, the anger that matches that of the surging Kaweah below, is His anger. Righteous in all its fury. It is this anger that will drive me forward. That will push me beyond my own limits, leaving me fully dependent, despite the strength I’ve fought to build.

  A breeze catches the mist from the crashing water beyond the deck, and I lift my face and let it cool my burning skin, and soul, allowing it to subdue my rage. But only for the moment.

  Again, I take what I need from the river.

  As we all did.

  And as I will do again.

  One final time.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Denilyn

  January 12, 2017

  As I head west on I-80, the sun breaks through the dark gray ceiling as it dips westward, making the distant cityscape glisten. A sea of red taillights separates me from the center of downtown Sacramento, also dubbed River City, at least forty-five minutes away at this rate. As I stop and start my way down the long, straight interstate to the valley floor, my mind floods like the swollen creeks and rivers have done this week. My tempest is within, raining unanswered questions and doubt.

  I’m grateful for the counseling appointment I scheduled weeks ago. Although, I glance at the clock on my dash, I need to figure out a way to make my appointments with Heather at a different time of day. Rush hour traffic does nothing to assuage my nerves. More often than not, I’m a bundle of knots by the time I arrive at her office.

  But it isn’t just the traffic that knots my nerves this evening. My conversation with Willow highlighted what I already knew to be true. I am not moving forward the way I’d hoped. In fact, this week it feels as though I’ve taken ten steps back at least.

  Why?

  That’s the prevailing unanswered question.

  I circle the block, watching for a parking space to open near Heather’s office housed in a brightly painted, two-story Victorian home converted to office space, as many of the downtown homes have been over the years. When a car pulls away from the curb right in front of the Victorian, I exhale my relief. I’m already a few minutes late.

  I rush up the steps to the front door, enter the foyer, and then cross the living room turned waiting room. Just as I take a seat, Heather rounds the corner. “Deni, hello. Come in.”

  We chat about the holidays as we make our way down one of the hallways to her office, where I take my usual place in one corner of the overstuffed olive-green down sofa. I sink into the soft cushions and then reach for one of the throw pillows and pull it onto my lap.

  Heather takes her seat across from me and smiles. “I know I’ve said this before, but with your dark hair, warm complexion, and green eyes—it looks like that sofa was made for you.”

  “I should buy it from you.”

  “What are you willing to pay?”

  As we laugh, my shoulders relax. My appreciation for Heather has grown over the years I’ve seen her. When I knew I needed to begin processing with a therapist myself, I had a hard time finding someone in the community I hadn’t either gone to school with, taught with, or worked with in one capacity or another. I knew I needed someone who specialized in trauma recovery. It was Jaylan who finally recommended Heather. Although she hadn’t met her, she’d heard of her work through Gabe. Heather works with officers struggling with trauma encountered on the job and the accompanying PTSD symptoms.

  When Heather picks up a pen and the yellow legal pad from the table next to her chair, I know she’s ready to dive into our session.

  “What are we talking about today?”

  I sigh as reality brushes the smile from my face. “I’m… struggling.”

  Heather’s expression grows serious. “In what way?”

  “Nightmares, flashbacks… All the PTSD symptoms have started again. I’m not sure what triggered them.”

  “Monday was the anniversary, right? Was that the trigger?”

  “Maybe, but I’ve done okay previous years.” I shrug. “That, combined with the upcoming date, maybe? I’m not sure. This week has been the worst I’ve experienced since right after the attack, but… I think the symptoms began, subtly, a while back.” I twist the fringe of the pillow on my lap. “About the date… I’m fixated on the calendar. It’s becoming an issue.”

  “Have you received notification? Do you know the exact date yet?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m guessing. But it’s coming. He’s eligible for parole June 1st.” This isn’t news to Heather; we’ve discussed it many times. “But it’s more than the anniversary, or his release. I can’t pinpoint it. Maybe it’s just… me.” I swallow. “I can’t escape my own mind. There’s nowhere to go, to get away, to… make it all stop.”

  “Is it any wonder why alcoholism is prevalent among those who suffer with PTSD?”

  I nod. “Alcohol is an escape, of sorts, but it leads to more issues. I know that. Maybe for some it feels like the lesser of two evils.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t, I won’t, go that route. It’s more than just the nightmares and flashbacks though. I feel like something’s wrong with me. I’m forgetting things, losing things… On Monday I had a panic attack. I was sure someone was watching me. But there wasn’t anyone. It… it was just me, my imagination.” I shift on the sofa, wrap my arms around the pillow, and pull it tight against my chest. “I’m beginning to understand how clients felt—the ones who said they were going crazy.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “What’s wrong with me?” I whisper.

  Heather leans forward. “What would you tell those clients?” Her tone is gentle. “The ones who felt crazy?”

  “I know, I’ve thought of that. I’d tell them to pay attention to what they’re feeling. To talk through those feelings, work through them with someone. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I’ve done all that. I’m still doing it. I’m working to stay present, grounded. I’m breathing, counting, focusing on what’s in front of me—anything to keep my mind from… going back. I’m exercising to stay connected to my body. I’ve processed everything with you. With close friends. So… why? Why do I still feel so… lost?”

  “Tell me about what triggered the panic attack. You said you felt like someone was watching you?”

  “Like I said, it was just my imagination.”

  “Are you sure? You know the biological studies that support that seventh sense. Most of us have experienced it at one time or another. You feel it, then turn around, and a child behind you in line at the grocery store is staring at you.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the research. But there wasn’t anyone. It was a blustery day, and when I looked around, no one was there. Like everything else, there was nothing to substantiate my feelings.

  “Everything else?”

  I sigh. “You know what I mean.”

  Heather nods. “I do. You mentioned forgetting things and losing things. Talk to me about that.”

  I wave her suggestion away. “They’re meaningless too. Just silly things.”

  Heather is silent for a moment. Then she leans back in her seat, makes a note on her pad, and looks back to me. “Do you remember what you told me about the first year of your marriage—the issue you struggled with?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Maybe nothing. How about humoring me, doctor?” She smiles.

  “Fine. Yes, I remember.”

  “What was your primary struggle at that point?”

  I think back until the memories, clear as if they’d just occurred, come back to me. “Well, initially I was upset that Keith was discounting what I felt—wasn’t trusting what I knew both intellectually and instinctually. At least what I thought I knew once I stopped denying my feelings.”

  “What are your knowledge and instinct telling you now?”

  I stare at Heather as I consider what she’s asked.
Then I set the pillow aside and lean forward. “But what I’m feeling, or… sensing, doesn’t… fit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” I stop, heart pounding. “He—that man—is in prison. He can’t get to me.”

  Heather’s gaze is intent as she puts one hand over her heart and the other on her forehead. “Pay attention to what you know and what you feel, Deni. Pay attention.”

  I know exactly what she’s saying—what she means. I need to trust myself now the same way I wanted Keith to trust me then. Somewhere along the way I’ve begun doubting myself. But trusting the knowledge I’ve garnered through years of education, work, and personal experience, and trusting my instincts means…

  Tears prick my eyes.

  The implications are too much.

  It’s all just too much. I double over.

  “Breathe, Deni, breathe.”

  As I leave my appointment and get into my car, I pull my phone out of my purse to turn the ringer back on and notice I have two messages from a number I don’t recognize. I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder to listen to the messages as I buckle my seat belt. The first message is nothing but a hang-up. The second message is the same.

  Just a wrong number, I assure myself.

  I toss the phone back into my purse and start the SUV. Just before I pull out of the parking spot, the phone rings through the SUV’s speakers and the same number appears on my screen on the dash. After several rings, hands trembling, I answer the call.

  “Hello.” I put the car back into PARK. “Hello?”

  Though it sounds like someone is on the line, no one responds. I still and listen more closely until I’m sure of what I’m hearing through the speakers. Someone breathing.

  “Who is this?” I whisper. My hands begin to tremble. “Who are you?” I’ve raised my voice and can hear the fear in my tone. I take a deep breath to steady myself. “What do you want?”

  When there’s still no response, I end the call, and then, as quickly as my shaking fingers will move, I pull my phone back out of my purse and block the number.

  I stare out the front windshield until I stop trembling. I take a few deep, intentional breaths. It was just a wrong number. I’m overreacting.

  Pay attention, Deni. Heather’s words come back to me, along with my own unanswered question: Why?

  Why have the PTSD symptoms returned?

  Why do I feel like I’m losing my mind, myself, again?

  I look at my hands, now gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. My heartbeat still more rapid than it should be.

  Do I really believe those calls were mistakes? Wouldn’t the caller have known upon receiving my voice mail the first time that he or she had called the wrong number?

  Mouth dry, I reach for the insulated tumbler in my cup holder and take a sip of water, then force myself to take a few more sips. I set the cup back into the holder, my movements slow, intentional, as I give my mind time to accept what it seems my body already knows.

  As much as I want to believe the calls were made in error, it seems unlikely. And the pen my father gave me? While it’s possible I inadvertently carried it out of my office, it’s also unlikely. Like puzzle pieces, I turn over each event in my mind that’s felt odd or crazy-making during the last several days, trying to make it fit into a picture I can see. The missing file from my computer’s desktop, the pen showing up in my mailbox, a vehicle that followed me too close for comfort, and now a few calls.

  A couple of other odd incidents come to mind.

  Although I can’t yet see the whole picture, pieces are falling into place. What I do see—and more importantly, perhaps, what I feel—is all too familiar.

  Hauntingly familiar.

  The only question that matters now is this: will I afford myself the respect I wanted from Keith?

  I can’t allow myself to slip into denial again. The last time I did that, the consequences were devastating. In so many ways.

  I close my eyes.

  I can’t do this again. Any of it. I can’t. Neither can I deny what I feel, nor can I face the… truth.

  Truth. Is that what it is? Oh Lord… Not again. Please. I can’t go through this again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Denilyn

  November 2009

  One week after the charm bracelet appeared, I sat at my desk, laptop open, working on my second book after a client had canceled her appointment at the last minute. I was grateful for the time to focus on the manuscript and, hopefully, make some progress. Between promoting the first book, seeing clients, and taking care of a home and spending time with Keith, which I hadn’t done enough of recently, I’d had little time to write.

  The sound of voices from behind the closed door of Jaylan’s office and strains of the instrumental music we played in the waiting room drifted into my office. Outside the valley was draped in dense, cold fog, which hugged my windows and obscured the view beyond. My office was cast in the warm glow from my lamp, and I sipped a cup of steaming coffee as I lost myself in the words I wrote.

  Later I’d have a vague recollection of hearing the outer door to the offices open and close, but I hadn’t allowed it to disrupt my focus. Thirty minutes or so later, Jaylan’s office door opened and she walked her client out. I stopped writing, checked the time, and stretched. I had another hour before my next client. Time to grab lunch and, maybe, finish the draft of the first chapter.

  “Hey, I found another package for you sittin’ on the reception desk.” Jaylan came into my office and handed me a box. “Ever find out who sent that bracelet?”

  “No. I don’t know and I don’t care. If I have a secret pal or admirer who wants to send me gifts, I’ll take them.” That was the attitude I’d adopted sometime between last week and today. It felt good not to worry about it. I glanced at the box. It was wrapped in the same brown paper, and the handwriting appeared to be the same as well.

  “Okay, but if this is another anonymous gift from the same person, then that borders on weird.” She raised her hands. “Just my opinion.”

  I rolled my eyes at Jay, unwilling to allow her unsolicited opinion to douse my good mood.

  “Don’t leave me hangin’. Open it. I got work to do.”

  I picked up the box, tore the paper from its exterior, and opened the mailing box. Inside I discovered a small black velvet bag. I held it up for Jay to see. “More jewelry.”

  I opened the drawstring bag, peered inside, and then dumped the contents—a gold charm—onto my palm.

  Jaylan leaned over my desk to see it. “What is it?”

  I held out my hand. “The letter I for Isabelle, I assume.” I smiled. “The bracelet is from someone who knows my middle name.” There was comfort in that realization. “That narrows the list of suspects, I’d say.”

  “Nice.” Jaylan raised one eyebrow. “Of course, anyone could find that information online.”

  “That’s reassuring, Jay. Thanks.”

  “Anytime, sister.” She laughed. “But I’m tellin’ you, it is a little weird.” She threw the quip over her shoulder as she left my office.

  I stared at the charm a moment, and uncertainty rippled through me. No. I wouldn’t let myself overthink the gifts. I dropped the charm back into the bag and then put the bag in my desk drawer. Maybe I’d take the bracelet to a jeweler and have the charm attached and wear the bracelet—might as well enjoy it. I crumpled the paper and tossed it, along with the mailing box, into the trash.

  I decided I wouldn’t bother telling Keith about the gift this time. He was right—as a public figure, people were following me. My social media numbers and the emails flooding my inbox had attested to that since the book hit the bestseller lists.

  Maybe gifts like this just came with the territory.

  After seeing my last client of the day, I opened my laptop again. Keith had let me know he planned to work late, so I determined I’d do the same and finish at least the first chapter of the new book and hopefully make some headway
on the second chapter.

  “Later, Deni. I gotta run.” Jay swished by my office on her way out.

  I relished the quiet—it was conducive to writing. But before I settled in, I got up and went to check the front door to make sure Jay had locked it on her way out. Then I made myself a cup of decaf and got to work. The only interruptions during the first hour came when my office line rang a few times, but each time the caller hung up rather than leaving a message. Not too unusual in a counseling office. It could take time to muster the courage to leave a message for a counselor.

  But sometime during the second hour, a rustling sound drew my attention to one of the two large side-by-side windows in the office. Night had fallen, making it difficult to see outside except for the dim beam of light thrown from the streetlamp at one end of the parking lot. I glanced back to the screen and reread the last sentence I’d written when something rustled again, this time accompanied by a squeal, like something scratching glass. A branch from the bush in front of the window, maybe?

  I got up from my desk and walked to the window. The bush in front of the window shuddered as I approached, and again came the squeal. The sharp tip of a branch moved against the glass. The wind must have picked up. I cupped one hand on the window and peered out. The fog had thinned but still haloed the light from the streetlamp, which shone on a group of redwoods at that end of the parking lot. But as I watched the trees, not a bough swayed.

  When the bush below me rustled again, I stepped back from the window and quickly closed the blinds. If it wasn’t wind that shook the bush, what was it? I paced my office until I came up with a reasonable explanation—a cat or maybe even a raccoon or opossum was likely in the bush. The office complex was just a few blocks up from the American River, and it wasn’t unusual to see wildlife occasionally.

  I chided myself for my anxiety and sat back at my desk. It was then I recalled the charm in my drawer and the sound of someone coming into the office earlier in the day, not long before Jaylan found the box on the reception desk. Had someone delivered the gift again, or had it come with the mail this time? I bent and pulled my trash can out from under the desk and pulled the crumpled paper out. I checked it for a postmark, as I had after opening the first box that held the bracelet.