Frayed

by Layne Deemer

  I fidget with the sleeves of my jacket as I walk up the narrow pathway that leads to the doctors’ office building. I don’t know what to expect from seeing a psychiatrist, but my mom insisted I give it a try. “Owen, listen, you’re doing too much and I’m afraid that you’re losing yourself. Life is pulling you in so many directions with school, college applications, your social life.” She raises her eyebrows and I swallow my embarrassment remembering Sarah’s visit the night before. Clearly the walls in this house are much too thin.

  My mom is worried that I’ll become a teenage tragedy and succumb to my stress in some horrific way. She’s been voicing her concerns to my dad when she thinks I can’t hear her, but yeah, the walls really are thin. Dr. Jamie comes highly recommended by my father. “I’m telling you, O, that man has the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. If he can keep his mouth in such good shape, then I think he can help straighten you out, too.” That’s some high praise coming from a dentist.

  I glance at the directory on the wall and find Dr. Jamie in room 202. The security guard at the front desk eyes me up and down when I tell him where I’m going. He’s probably trying to guess my level of crazy. He points down the hallway. “Second door on your right.” I nod and he adds, “Let me know if you need any help.” And there it is. The unmistakable concern in his voice. He’s worried, but not for me. He’s not comfortable with a “nut job” roaming the building. If I go ape shit in here, he might have to actually get up off his ass and do his job and that’s not something he feels like doing today.

  The door to Dr. Jamie’s office is solid oak with a narrow rectangle of frosted glass on the right hand side. The swirls make it impossible to see inside except for a few shapes moving around. I push it open to reveal the most sterile waiting room I’ve ever seen. Everything is stark white—the chairs, the end tables, even the carpet. A petite middle-aged woman with black hair and ruby red lips greets me as I walk up to the counter. She’s wearing lilac scrubs with tiny clip art poodles all over them. From head to toe, she’s in direct contrast with the room. She smiles wide as she checks me in for my appointment.

  A man who looks to be in his forties is sitting crossed legged on one of the chairs. He’s wearing a white button-down dress shirt with tan pants and a matching sport coat. He’s about as vanilla as the waiting room and blends in well. I take a seat away from him and reach for a worn copy of Southern Living lying on the end table beside me. It seems out of place here. I know what that feels like.

  The door on the right side of the room opens with a creak. The woman in the poodle scrubs clears her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Hansen? The doctor will see you now.”

  It’s nearly eleven thirty by the time I see the bottom of the second bin. I’ve been on auto-pilot all morning inspecting and sorting nonstop. I’m surprised to see that I only have a few more socks left to inspect before I head out to lunch. I think I’ll see if Lydia wants to join me. I’m pretty sure I’ve been reading into this situation all wrong. After all, it’s not like we had a set-in-stone plan to meet up before work every morning. It just sort of happened. If she couldn’t wait for me today, I’m sure she had her reasons, and I doubt that they have anything to do with me.

  I grab the plastic handle of the sorting bin and dump the remaining contents onto the desktop. A few dozen socks splay out. As soon as I choose one, I feel it. The unmistakable crunch of paper in the toe of the sock. Another note.

  38

  Who holds all the power?

  The words stare back at me, daring me to react. It’s a loaded question, and my gut response is—me. I hold the power. I’m in control. But the sweat on my palms and the thudding in my chest say otherwise. If my secret admirer was trying to get my attention, mission accomplished.

  These notes seem to show up when I least expect them, each one taking me by surprise. Little slivers of orange paper meant to rattle me. This one is a lone bullet fired by a trained assassin. It hit the mark.

  Despite the way these messages threw me off balance, I thought I was still in charge. I was certain I called the shots. I see now that I was wrong, and the realization fills me with anxiety.

  I may not be in charge at the moment, but I have every intention of taking back control. If life under Sarah’s iron thumb taught me anything, I know when to strike and when to submit.

  My days of complacency are over.

  The next thing I know, I’m on my feet. My sudden movement sends my chair careening backward. It bounces off the wall of my cubicle with a thud. My brain is racing to catch up with my legs. My body seems to be propelling me toward the truth. Within seconds, I’m standing outside Lydia’s space. It takes me a moment to catch my breath as comprehension hits me. She told me she wasn’t the one sending me notes, and I believed her. I had no reason not to. But that was before I knew what she was capable of.

  Lydia lies with an ease that makes the blood drain from my fingertips. It all makes sense. She was having fun with me until I forced her hand and asked her to talk about something she wanted to avoid. The distance that she put between us is like a crater separating me from the truth.

  I’m through handing over control so easily. It’s time to put an end to the games. With a steely resolve, I walk the remaining few steps to Lydia’s desk. I’m sure she’s expecting me. She probably assumes that I’ll be surprised at first, but once the shock wears off, I’ll bend in any way she wants. She’s wrong.

  Peering into her cubicle, I find it empty. Her desktop is void of socks and paperwork and her chair is pushed in neatly as though she were never here. She’s probably in the breakroom or out to lunch. I won’t let her absence deter me. Take your time, Lydia. I foolishly let my guard down. I won’t make that mistake again.

  I decide to head to lunch and begin backing out of Lydia’s work space. “Whoa there!” A deep voice bellows from my right and nearly sends me into cardiac arrest. Gritting my teeth in an attempt to stave off the irritation, I turn my head and see Number 12. His hands grip the sides of a sorting bin overflowing with socks and on top rests several clipboards filled with eval forms. He releases his left hand, allowing the bin to rest on his knee while he reaches up to steady the paperwork.

  We hold eye contact for an excruciating few seconds before I mumble a quick apology. I start to move away from him when he calls out, “Were you looking for 15?” He pauses, but not long enough for me to answer before continuing. “Because she’s not here. Hasn’t been all morning, actually.”

  Feigning disinterest, I peer at him over my shoulder. “I was just checking on her workload. Any idea when she’ll be back?”

  He looks at me like a mouse that swiped the cheese from a trap and avoided being maimed. Something tells me this conversation will surely become fodder for office gossip. He closes the gap between us, and leans in. I can smell the smoky aroma of a Slim Jim wafting from his mouth as he speaks in a hushed tone. “Word is she had some sort of family emergency. I overheard Shelton on the phone with HR. He said she called him on Saturday night requesting a few days off. Something about needing to go home.”

  I let his words sink in and keep my face impassive. I’m afraid to speak for fear of the emotion that threatens to invade my voice.

  Number 12 has his head cocked and is studying me like I’m some sort of intense math equation he’s trying to solve. “I’ve gotta be honest, 5, the way you two have been these past few weeks—always together. I’m surprised you didn’t know about this.”

  You and me both, Stan.

  I give my head a slight shake. “We hardly know each other.”

  It’s a lie, but it’s also the truth.

  The mist from the morning has stopped and the clouds are losing their resolve as the sun peaks through every available opening. Inside my head, however, a storm is brewing. There’s a dense fog and furious dark clouds.

  Lydia couldn’t have written the note, not when she’s out of town. So if she didn’t write it, then who did? And why did she leave so suddenly, telling Mr.
Shelton, but not me? So many unanswered questions mill about in my mind.

  It’s my lunch break, but I have no appetite. I decide to walk the few blocks over to Rudy’s. I could use some words of wisdom.

  The sidewalks are packed with people making it nearly impossible to move. I keep my head down and my feet moving, avoiding eye contact at all costs. There’s a dip in the macadam ahead. I can see it glistening with water that collected during the morning rain. I try to angle my body a bit to the left in an attempt to avoid stepping into the puddle and end up slamming my shoulder into a passerby. I glance up and am met with the most startling turquoise eyes. Eyes that could only belong to one person.

  She stares back at me, the right corner of her mouth tipping up. There’s a fury of words in my head, but I can’t make any of them surface. The only thing that manages to escape is a whispered, “You.”

  The surge of the crowd keeps us moving away from each other. I crane my neck to try to keep her in view, but it’s no use. She rounds the corner and then as quickly as she appeared, she’s gone.

  “Sarah.” Her name leaves my lips like a plea. I turn and face the direction she was going and run. I’m moving against the crowd and I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle. When I finally make it to the corner where I saw her turn, I’m frantic. My neck stretches to unnatural lengths as I peer down the sidewalk and try to spot her amber hair.

  No matter how hard I try, it’s impossible to find her among the throngs of people. It’s as if she disappeared into thin air. My feet are cemented in place on the sidewalk. I’m trying to will myself to move, but the synapses in my brain are misfiring, leaving me glued to my spot. This is the second time I’ve seen Sarah. Is it still a trick in my mind? I’m not sure I know what’s real and what’s not anymore.

  39

  The bell above Rudy’s door chimes as I cross over the threshold. I take a glance around the store looking for Rudy. It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s balancing precariously on a stool that looks to be protesting his weight. I can see the thin wooden legs wobble with each small movement he makes. His arm is extended toward one of the many spotlights in the shop. The ring on his pinky gleams as his large palm makes contact with the extinguished lightbulb.

  He lets out an exaggerated groan. “God damn these LED bulbs! Supposedly, they last longer, but that’s a crock of shit. I just changed this one three weeks ago!”

  Second only to iPad gambling, Rudy is obsessed with lightbulbs, specifically ones that are burned out. If a bulb dies, he notices immediately and cannot rest until he replaces it. Aside from collecting his virtual slot machine bonus every four hours, I’ve never seen him move quicker than when a lightbulb burns out. He keeps a stockpile of bulbs in the back room for that very reason.

  I keep a careful eye on Rudy, standing a safe enough distance away where I could easily get to him if he lost his balance, yet make him believe I’m not hovering over him. The last thing he tolerates is being made to feel incapable. I learned that the hard way when I once attempted to steady him while he stocked some new books onto a high shelf. My ears still haven’t quite recovered from the harsh reprimand I received that day.

  I wait until he has both feet firmly planted on the worn wood floor before I speak. “How’ve you been, Rudy?”

  He regards me for a beat before responding. “Same shit, different day. Haven’t seen you in a while, kid. Why are you here?”

  I clear my throat in an attempt to gather my thoughts. I originally came here to clear my head. I needed a distraction, but now my mind is a jumbled mess. I’ve kept my hands jammed in my pockets to keep them from shaking.

  Rudy’s studying me, his expression serious. I realize that he’s the only person I’ve never tried to hide in front of so I just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind—the question I’m afraid to ask, but desperately need answered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  His eyes widen slightly. He recovers quickly and with a shake of his head, he answers, “Ghosts? There’s no such thing, Owen.” He says it with such finality as if there’s no other possible answer.

  Rudy moves through the stacks of books, knocking over a stray pile as he passes. He merely glances at it as he continues walking. I stop and collect the books, stacking them up into a neat pile once again and then continue following him. He’s walking to the back of the store. I’ve never been back this far before. I’m not even sure what genre of books he keeps back here.

  He comes to a stop, and I notice a shelf labeled Paranormal. The tag is worn and curls at the edges. I stare at the word and wonder why Rudy guided me here when he clearly doesn’t believe in the topic.

  I look at him and arch my eyebrow in question. He simply shrugs. Giving his nose a rough pinch, he tells me, “Listen, kid, you’re looking for answers. Anything you need to know is right here on this shelf, but just remember, it’s all dog shit. Every last word.”

  I’m so confused. “But you just said you didn’t believe any of this. Why should I even bother with these books?”

  He sighs deeply like I’m starting to annoy him. “Because you’re old enough to decide for yourself. You’re twenty-one plus. You do what you want, but don’t say I never told you anything.” He looks over to his left and exclaims, “Son of a bitch! Another God damn bulb is out.” And with that, he’s lumbering away from me muttering under his breath, “LED piece of shit.”

  Truth be told, I’m not so sure I buy into any of this supernatural crap either, but I also can’t explain why I keep running into my dead fiancée. I take a glance at the shelf in front of me. A few titles catch my eye. I decide to grab a couple. After all, research to disprove a theory is just as important as trying to validate it.

  When I leave Rudy’s, the idea of returning to work feels impossible. Between Lydia’s sudden disappearance and bumping into Sarah, I feel physically ill. I make a call to Mr. Shelton and rejoice when I get his voicemail. Up until just recently, I was a model employee. Never calling out sick much less taking a vacation. Now the idea of taking an afternoon off doesn’t faze me. I hardly recognize myself anymore.

  Clutching the bag of books, I trudge along the sidewalk, carefully avoiding every crack, every crevice. I’ve been running from the past at full speed and it’s finally caught up to me. Those splits in the pavement may look innocent, but one wrong step could send me into a tailspin. I’m afraid once I start falling, I’ll never stop. And I’m desperate to stay in control.

  Once I’m safely inside the confines of my apartment, I turn the bag upside down and let the books tumble out onto my cedar chest. The Dead Walk Among Us seems like the perfect place to start, but I’m still on edge from the morning’s events.

  Sarah. I close my eyes and see hers, piercing and raw, like she’d been keeping a secret and was finally letting me in on it. I didn’t see it coming, but then I guess I never do. The last time she made a dramatic revelation we were on a twisty road on an icy night in Connecticut. I can see the twinkling on the asphalt as we round each bend. The gleam in her eyes that night matches the one she wore this morning. I want out of these thoughts, and I give my head a swift shake.

  When I come out of my waking nightmare, I’m clutching The Dead Walk Among Us in my hands. My palms close around the binding like a vise. I relax my grip and place it back on the chest with a reverence that I don’t quite understand, yet it seems necessary.

  That book feels important for some reason, like it holds the answers or maybe it holds more questions. Either way, I’m not ready to open it yet. Before I settle in and start my research, I decide to take a quick shower to help ease the tension that’s settled into my shoulders.

  Stepping out of the shower, I wrap my towel around my waist and reach my hand out to wipe the condensation off of the mirror. I half expect to see Sarah standing behind me staring at my reflection, but all I’m met with are my own impassive eyes. I laugh. I’ve seen way too many horror movies.

  In my bedroom, I reach down and snatch a gray T-shirt off
the floor. I give it a sniff and decide it’s good enough for lounging. I pair it with navy sweatpants and leave my feet bare. Padding into the kitchen, I fill my teakettle with water, put it on the stovetop, and turn the dial to heat the burner.

  My mind drifts to Lydia. She left without so much as a “see you soon.” I want to say it’s not like her, but how would I know? I’m not even sure I really know her. But how can I when she’s withholding so much from me? I pick up my phone and don’t think. I just dial. It’s time to clear the air. It’s time for answers. She owes me that much.

  The phone rings once before voicemail picks up. It’s a generic message in a robotic voice. She hasn’t recorded an outgoing message. It makes sense. I can tell she’s been running from something so naturally she wouldn’t want to give up her identity so easily. After the beep, I take a deep breath and say the words I haven’t been able to say to her face.

  “Lydia, hi. It’s Owen.” No shit, Sherlock. I’m sure she recognized the number. Did she decline the call? Maybe that’s why it went to voicemail so quickly. Why is she avoiding me? “So, uh, where are you? You just left and I had to hear all about it from Number 12, of all people. How do you think that makes me feel?” I pause and take a deep breath, trying to keep my anger in check, but instead of cooling off, it burns hotter. “I’ll tell you. Insignificant. And I could accept that from just about everyone, Lydia, but not from you. You’re the only person I don’t want to be insignificant to. I want to mean something to you the way you mean something to me.” Yep, I just said that. There’s no turning back now. “You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to hide from me. I’m not going to run at the first sign of crazy. Hell, I thrive on crazy. Just, um, give me a call, okay? Let me know you’re all right. I’m worried about you.”