Convergence

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I reach for the briefcase and pull out the phone to glance at the screen. I type in my security code and then open my texts and see I’ve received something from an unfamiliar number. When I open it, the text includes just one letter: D.

  Before I can turn off the volume, another text arrives: I

  No. Please, no…

  Then comes the third, and what I know will be the final letter: E.

  As the phone crashes to the floor, I reach out and grip the edge of the table, rattling the projector.

  When I look up, all eyes are on me.

  February 21, 2017

  I hug the pillow tight to my chest. “It’s starting all over. How can it all be happening again?” I sob.

  Heather gets up from her seat, grabs a box of tissues, and comes and sits next to me on the sofa. She hands me the box, then rests her hand on my shoulder.

  I take a few tissues and wipe my eyes. “I can’t do this again. I can’t!”

  “I’m sorry, Deni. I am so sorry.”

  Heather lets me cry, and I realize it’s the first time since the accident that I’ve allowed myself to fully feel the impact of what’s happening. At home I felt the need to remain strong, to keep my fear to myself. At work I had to remain focused. But here I can let go of all I’ve held inside and trust Heather not only to handle it but to help me work through the feelings. Still, we both know there are no easy answers.

  She gently pats my shoulder, then goes back and sits across from me. “Do you want to tell me what’s happened?”

  Though we exchanged messages after the accident, I didn’t schedule an additional appointment to see Heather. The doctor advised me not to drive for several days—to give my neck and shoulder time to begin healing. Then there was the issue of having to secure a rental car while waiting to find out if my SUV was repairable or declared a total loss. And I knew I’d have my hands full once I returned to work.

  I share the details of the accident and the myriad emotions it evoked. “Until Wednesday I thought there was a chance it was a fluke—that rather than someone targeting me, it was a case of road rage. That I was just the person in the way.” I wipe my eyes again.

  What I don’t say, what I can’t bring myself to say out loud is that because of where the accident, or attack as I now see it, took place, on the road to my home, I’m certain that whoever is doing this knows where I live. Should that surprise me? No. But I’d clung to the hope that Mathison, who was sentenced before I purchased the property and home, wouldn’t know where I lived now.

  I’ve felt safe in my home, a rare gift. It’s become my refuge. But now…

  “What happened Wednesday?” Heather’s question pulls me back to the moment.

  “I… received three texts while I was teaching. The sender used a smartphone app that generates untraceable numbers. Each text included just one… letter.” I bend at the waist and sob again. “I can’t do this again. I can’t.”

  “Take your time, Deni. You’re okay. You’re safe here.”

  When I’ve caught my breath again, Heather continues. “I suppose I don’t need to guess the letters.”

  “D-I-E.”

  “Oh Deni… What have the police said?”

  “Bradley Mathison is still incarcerated. Parole hearing scheduled the first week of June. Nothing’s changed.”

  “So…?”

  “Who knows?” I shrug. “I was told it’s possible he hired someone, or… maybe there’s someone else. Which I can’t even begin to process.”

  “Were the details of the bracelet and charms ever released publicly?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “And the vehicle that ran into you?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing so far. They haven’t located it.” I lean back into the soft down of the sofa. “All these years I’ve never felt like it was over. Like… I couldn’t get over it because it wasn’t over, even though it appeared, when Mathison was sentenced, that it was over. But that sense of peace I’d waited for never came. Now, if nothing else, I feel less crazy. Though that’s a very small consolation.”

  “You’re not crazy,” Heather says quietly. “I know you’ve felt that way, but you’re one of the strongest, healthiest women I know. Are you still struggling? Yes, but not without reason. The recurring PTSD symptoms may make more sense now. You were right—this isn’t over. But you will get through this. You will.”

  I want to believe, Heather, I do, but I can’t claim that assurance for myself yet. “You’ll have to keep believing that for me.”

  “I will, Deni. I will.”

  Before I left Heather’s office, we discussed things I might do to help myself feel safe—at work, at home, and everywhere else. Though I can’t ensure my safety, it helped to discuss a few concrete choices I can make.

  A simple choice is to remind myself that I’m not in this alone. Not only am I surrounded by family and friends who will support me emotionally, and physically if I need them, but I also have law enforcement behind me working on my case.

  As Heather suggested, it’s time I have a few conversations and put some plans into place. I press a button on the steering wheel and speak, “Call Jay.” The voice-activated system dials her number, and within moments her voice fills the inside of the rental.

  “Hey, I was just thinkin’ about you. How you doin’?”

  “Honestly?”

  “That’s the only kind of conversation I want, you know that.”

  “I was counting on that. I’m okay but not great. I just left Heather’s.”

  “How was your session?”

  Fatigue, like an anchor, threatens to pull me under. I shift in the driver’s seat. “Exhausting but helpful. I’ve done the equivalent of holding my breath since those texts on Wednesday. It was good to exhale and get all the emotion out, at least for the moment. We also came up with some plans. Have a few minutes for me to run something by you?”

  “I got all the time in the world. Gabe’s workin’. He’ll want to hear whatever you have to say too, you know. But I’ll fill him in.”

  “Thank you. I decided it would help me to know I have a place to go on the spur of the moment if necessary. If”—I take a deep breath—“something’s going on at home. If I don’t feel it’s safe for us there for some reason and we need to get away quickly. I know it’s a lot to ask, but how would you and Gabe feel about making your place available? We wouldn’t stay more than a night or two, but your home has always been a safe place—”

  “Don’t say nothin’ more. I’ll talk to Gabe, and then I imagine we’ll have a key made for you. And what’s this about not staying more than a night or two? You think anyone’s goin’ to come after you here? They better think twice before they go up against Gabe.”

  “Thank you. I can’t imagine that happening, but I realized…” I falter.

  “What? What’d you realize? Spit it out.”

  I have to say it. I have to face it. “Whoever this is knows… where I live. Most likely, anyway. I just… I’d just feel better having a place to go, if… You know.”

  “You’ve got it. We’ve got your back, sister, you know that. We’ll do everything we can. Gabe is all over those guys workin’ your case too. Of course. We’re here for whatever you need.”

  “Thanks, Jay.”

  “But listen, that’s not all. I’m here for you. You need to talk through something, you need to cry or yell or scream, you know who to call. Unless I’m with a client, I’m available. Don’t forget that. I’m prayin’ for you too, and I know that may not be what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

  After talking with Jay, I call Ryan and get his voice mail. I leave a message asking if he can have coffee or lunch tomorrow on campus, and explain it’s a personal matter rather than professional.

  Finally, I make the most important call.

  One I should have made after the accident, but I realize now that talking to him would have it made it all too real.

  But he has to know.
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br />   When I hear his voice, a lump lodges in my throat and the road ahead swims. I swipe at my tears as I find my voice, “Hi, it’s me…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Denilyn

  February 22, 2017

  Ryan jabs a piece of chicken with his fork and lifts it from the salad he’s eating. “So, what’s up? You said it was personal? You okay? How’s your neck?” He takes the bite and chews.

  I reach for my neck and knead it. “It’s okay—healing, I think.” I stir my soup, steam rising. “I know we’ve both had a lot going on, so I wanted to catch up and ask a favor.” I set my spoon down and lean back in the chair. The cafeteria bustles with activity, and I trust our conversation will be lost to the surrounding noise. “Last week, during my early class…” I take a deep breath.

  “What? What happened?”

  I recount receiving the texts. His reaction is what I expected.

  “What? Are you kidding me?” He sets down his fork. “Who’s working your case? Is Gabe involved? It has to be Mathison, doesn’t it? Who else would know to send those exact texts? He’s still locked up, right? Isn’t that what they told you?”

  I smile, though it takes effort. “Which question would you like me to answer first?”

  The lines in his forehead deepen. “How about all of them?”

  I lean forward. “No, I’m not kidding, a couple of very capable, I assume, detectives are working my case with Gabe checking every detail, and yes, I was notified that Bradley Mathison is still serving his term. Satisfied?”

  “No. Are you?”

  I sigh. “No, I’m not. But I do believe—I have to believe—that the sheriff’s department is doing everything they can to find out who is threatening me. The texts, if nothing else, confirm that the accident was anything but accidental. It was intentional, just as it seemed. I’d hoped otherwise. But, it is what it is.” I say all of this to Ryan with little emotion. I can’t let myself feel this. Not here.

  “Yeah, okay. So what’s the favor? By the way, my answer is ‘yes,’ whatever it is. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, I do know. Thank you. I need someone here, on campus, I can call if anything happens or if I suspect anything may happen. I know I don’t need to ask that of you. But I wanted to ask. Also, just… keep your eyes open. If you notice anything—”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. And the next time you offer to walk me to my car, I may take you up on it. My pride has to take a back seat to my safety.”

  “Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. What else can I do?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve been reluctant to depend on my friends again. It feels like asking a lot, but I realize now that I need to surround myself with those who will support me until all of this is over.” I push the soup away. “If it’s ever over.”

  As we cross the campus from the cafeteria to the psychology and science building, Ryan pulls up the collar of his coat against the chill in the air. “Hey, the other day, that thing with Jon at the Bean, and then later?”

  He slows his pace, and I turn to look at him.

  “I owe you an apology. If you’re seeing him, that’s your business.”

  “Thank you, but an apology isn’t necessary. I was serious when I said that Jon and I are just friends.” I stop on the pathway. “Ryan, I can’t get involved with anyone right now. Can you imagine? With all I have going on personally? More importantly, I don’t want to confuse…” I shake my head. “You know. We’ve been over this many times.” I wrap my arms around myself. “Let’s get inside.”

  “Yeah, okay.” As we begin walking again, at a fast clip this time, Ryan continues. “Well, for what it’s worth, I am sorry. Oh, by the way, I don’t know what you found out about Willow, but I did receive notification that she’s dropped my class—her TA position.”

  “She did?” We climb the steps to the building. When we’ve reached the doors, I pause. “She told me she’d made some changes to her schedule, that she was feeling overwhelmed. But I’m surprised she’d leave you without a TA.”

  “I’ll get by.”

  Again, something about Willow’s actions leave me unsettled.

  February 24, 2017

  After my morning class, I leave the classroom with the intent of returning to my office to grade papers, but just before I reach the stairs, I see Willow heading for the doors to leave the building. “Willow…”

  She turns, sees me, and pauses.

  “Do you have a few minutes to catch up?”

  “Um, sure. I don’t have another class until this afternoon.”

  “Great. Want to follow me to my office?”

  She looks toward the stairs and seems to hesitate. “I was going to the Bean for coffee. Could we go there?”

  She has dark semicircles under her eyes, and the pack on her back seems to weigh her down. I want to provide an opportunity for her to talk if she chooses to do so. “Sure, I can always drink another cup of coffee.”

  As we cross the campus, we talk about events at the university—the spring choral production, the theater department’s production of Oklahoma, and the new dorm building due for completion next fall. Small talk.

  When we enter the Bean, there’s only one table available. “Why don’t you grab the table and I’ll order our coffee. What would you like?”

  She reaches into her backpack and pulls out her wallet. “Just a small, black.”

  I smile. “Put your money away. My treat. Would you like something to eat too?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m good.”

  I order our coffees and then take them to the table, where Willow stares at the screen of her phone. I set the cups on the table, and she looks up. “Thanks. I mean, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I’m paying it forward.” I sit down across from Willow and take in her appearance. “Willow, are you taking care of yourself? Are you eating and getting enough sleep?”

  She lifts one thin shoulder. “Sort of.”

  “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

  “I’m just stressed, I guess, so I’m not eating as much. But it’s not like I have an eating disorder or anything like that. Really.”

  “I believe you. I’m just concerned.”

  “Thanks, there’s just stuff going on.” She reaches for a packet of sugar. “Um, remember when you asked if I was talking to anyone?”

  “I do.”

  “Could you, maybe, give me the name of someone I could… see?” She looks down at her coffee as she speaks. “My sister might help pay for someone. I talked to her a little, and she and her husband could help, at least for a few appointments.”

  “That’s a positive step, Willow. I’m happy to refer you to someone. In fact, when I was practicing, I had a partner I shared an office with. She’s a wonderful therapist. I also have names of other therapists I recommend. You can call and chat with a couple of them if you’d like, and see if they feel like a good fit. Sometimes it takes a few appointments before you’re comfortable with someone; other times you click right away. How does that sound?”

  “If I see one of them, will they… tell you…?” She bites her bottom lip.

  I give her a moment to finish her question. When she doesn’t, I help her along. “Are you wondering about confidentiality?”

  Her fair complexion colors as she nods.

  “A therapist will protect your privacy. What you talk about will remain confidential.”

  Willow doesn’t share anything more, but she doesn’t need to. I agree to email Jaylan’s contact information to her, along with the names of a couple other therapists I recommend. I am grateful she’ll see someone. If she does choose Jay, I’m hopeful she’ll feel at ease with her. If anyone can put a new client at ease, it’s Jay.

  After we part ways, I make my way back across campus and consider our conversation. What was it exactly Willow had asked—or not asked? “If I see one of them, will they tell you…?” Was it me specifically she wondered if a thera
pist would share information with? Or did she intend her question to be more general in nature? Maybe she just referenced me because I know the therapists.

  It doesn’t matter, of course. Willow has every right to privacy.

  But still, I wonder.

  “Will they tell you…?”

  Will they tell me what?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Denilyn

  January 2010

  Several days after I’d taken the photo and Keith and I had argued—or not argued; I wasn’t sure what had happened—I once again arrived home to an empty house. Daily I was more thankful that we’d installed an alarm. I’d also purchased timers for several lights, upstairs and downstairs, so I no longer walked into a dark house when I returned home alone.

  I came in from the garage, deactivated the alarm, and then went upstairs to change my clothes.

  Keith and I had spoken little since that night, so when I heard the garage door open shortly after I came in, I hoped we could spend some time together working through things.

  When Keith came into the house, the door slammed behind him. “Deni? Where are you?” It was clear by his tone that he was angry, which was an emotion I’d rarely seen him exhibit. But lately he’d become someone I didn’t know.

  “I’ll be right down.” As a therapist, I understood anger, but I’d never grown comfortable with it personally. I finished changing as quickly as I could and made my way downstairs, where Keith was pacing between the kitchen and family room. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why’d that detective show up at my office this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know. What did he say?”

  “He wanted to ask me more questions about Seattle—what I did there, where I’d gone.” Keith grew ugly in his anger. “You name it, he asked it. All questions he’d already asked me. He couldn’t have called or sent an email to set a time for that conversation? Instead, he embarrasses me by showing up at my place of work? Just in case you’re not clear on this, I did not send that charm!”