The room becomes cloaked in stony silence, and it reminds me of when you hit the 'pause' button on the television remote. Frozen in time for just a few seconds.
Let me back up here a second. I initially had no plans to return to NYC – ever. Still, the healing process has given me strength, and my stubborn nature is now fully intact. It's time. I need to deal with the dark secrets that have become a part of me. A part that I no longer need to make me feel safe.
Of course, my father is the first to speak. "That's entirely out of the question, Carson. We all decided you'll resume your studies at the college or university of your choice, as long as it's in the vicinity. It was actually your choice if you recall."
"Your father's right, honey," my mother chirps in, giving me a warm smile. "You felt it was a good decision, remember? It's better for you to be with us for the rest of the academic year to make sure you're. . ."
"Safe?" I supply. "That's what you guys really mean, isn't it? What? You think I can't be safe anywhere but here, under your watchful eyes? I'm not scared anymore, if anything, I'm emboldened."
"Carson," my brother Weston pipes up, "Why don't you consider transferring to Stanford? That way you'll be close to me and Peyton in Cali. You get along so well with Peyton. I know she'd love having you close by."
I roll my eyes. My brother is so transparent. And I love him for it. "So, then you and Peyton can keep an eye on me, is that it?"
"Mom, Daddy, Weston - I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I'm not going to let what happened to me affect the rest of my college years. Where does it stop after that, huh? I live with Mommy and Daddy the rest of my life? I don't think so. I thought long and hard about this. I need to continue with my studies at Columbia. I have a lot to make-up, and I've already contacted the registrar about the summer classes. I'm twenty years old, and unless you want to pull the funding for my tuition, I am going back."
My father starts to say something, but Mom hushes him. "Easton, let's discuss this later. For now, let's just get through the holiday weekend. We'll talk more after Memorial Day."
Typical Mom. It's almost like she's got that Scarlet O'Hara thing going on when it comes to dealing with adversity head-on.
So, be that as it may, I knew I'd be back in The Big Apple in two weeks for the elective classes I'd registered to take. My schedule for next semester had already been locked in. I needed to get back in the groove, and the sooner the better. My parents would simply have to deal with the decision I made.
Not my idea of getting back in the saddle. Yeah, I'm back in The Big Apple as planned, but with a few revisions to that plan. First off, Mom is here with me, and we're staying at the condo on Park Avenue. I'm driven to and from my classes, and my mother is hovering. Yes, you heard me, hovering as only Darcy Matthews can.
But you see, part of the thing in getting my way is by making compromises and concessions. Mom has to see for herself that I will be safe. Besides that, once the semester starts in a few weeks, I'll be back in the dorm and Mom understands that parents aren't permitted to cohabitate with their offspring there. Dorm rules. Although she's mentioned more than once she would be perfectly happy to stay on with me at the condo for as long as needed.
Explaining to her that she's not needed is, well, awkward. I don't ever want to hurt her feelings, but when I mention how it's not fair for her to spend all this time in New York and ignore Weston, I think it did the trick. I pointed out that he was going all the way across the country. It made more sense for her to help my brother and Peyton get settled since I was moving into the dorm.
That seems to have done the trick. The week before classes were due to start, Mom helped me move my stuff, including the fall, winter, and spring wardrobe she lavished on me into my dorm room.
"Well," she says looking around, "It looks like you're all set, honey."
"And then some, Mom," I tease. "I really appreciate your going out on a limb to get me a corner room the way you did." My back is to her, shoving more clothes into the closet, so she misses the eye roll that accompanies my statement.
"Well really, honey, you needed more room, and the corner rooms give you that. I'm just glad you're in a different dorm than last semester. I want you to have a fresh start."
"I know, Mom. But nothing happened to me in the dorm."
"That you recall," she points out. "You can't be too careful with so much unknown at this point."
"I understand, Mom. I don't want you worrying about me, please? I promise to keep safe."
She bites her lower lip as if contemplating to give it one more shot in convincing to go home with her, so I take the opportunity to cross the room and put my arms around her. "Thank you for making me the strong, independent woman I've become, Mom. I couldn't have gotten through this without your and Daddy's support."
Anndd . . . that should do it.
"Oh Carson," she sobs, "I am so very proud of you. I know you'll stay safe. I have every bit of faith in that, or I wouldn't leave you here."
"I know, Mom," I reply, giving her a kiss. "And I promise I'll call you more regularly than before."
"Promise?" she prods.
"Pinky promise," I reply.
7
Blast from the past
At last I'm back on campus and on my own.
My classes this semester have new professors. The only one who's a repeat is Dr. Armentrout, the Department Chair for the School of Journalism. I'm standing outside the door to his office at the moment, feeling nervous about my meeting with him.
I'm not sure why, except that he knows about my accident. That's what I'm calling it now.
I enter the door to his outer office where his assistant is at her desk, taking a phone call. Her nameplate reads Diane Forester; she waves for me to take a seat. I sit down next to her desk while she fills in a While You Were Out' message form.
"Yes, Dean Warrington. I'll make sure Dan gets the message. He's in a meeting right now, but should be free within the next hour or so."
She looks over at me, rolling her eyes. Apparently, Diane thinks taking phone messages is beneath her pay grade. I can't believe she calls Professor Armentrout by his given name. She looks to be in her early thirties. She has some raging red hair going on, which cannot be her natural color. She probably thinks Dr. Armentrout is an old fuddy-duddy at fifty-something.
I had him last semester in Communications and was eager to make sure I got into his Investigative Journalism class. He said he liked my enthusiasm and would be happy to recommend me for the class. It was a senior class, but having looked at my college transcripts to date, and with my current GPA, he said he didn't think there would be a problem. He was one of the most highly regarded journalism professors at the university.
She ends the call and sticks the pink message slip onto a pointed spindle, piercing it where it joins several others. "I'm sorry," she says, giving me a brisk smile, "You must be Carson Matthews?"
"Yes," I reply, "Is Dr. Armentrout running behind? Should I reschedule?"
"Oh no, no, he's ready for you. I just knew if I'd put that call through, the Dean would burn up most of your appointment time. Dan likes to keep to his schedule. He's really anal about that," she replies. "You can go on in," she continues, opening the lap drawer of her desk and pulling out an emery board.
"Okay, thanks Diane," I reply standing up.
"Oh, I'm not Diane," she says giggling like the joke's on me. "She's out sick for a bit. Some kind of elective surgery I guess. I'm just filling in for her. I'm Kandace Armentrout, and before you say it, no, I'm not his daughter. I'm the wife." She raises her left hand, proudly displaying the massive diamond on her wedding set as confirmation.
"Oh, okay. It's nice to meet you Mrs. Armentrout," I reply, wondering why she feels the need to share all of this with me.
"Call me Kandace," she says with a wide grin as if we'll be seeing each other again.
"Right. Kandace," I reply, heading over to Dr. Armentrout's office door and quickly disap
pearing behind it.
"Hello Ms. Matthews," the professor greets as I close the door behind me, "I'm so happy to have you back. Please, take a seat. I've got your schedule here, but before we get to that, I need to make sure you're up to the task of taking on this course. It is, you know, a senior class because there is quite a bit of non-classroom activities and work that must go into it. I recall you mentioned last semester when you applied, that you had already selected a topic. Under the circumstances, Ms. Matthews, do you wish to continue with that topic or select another?"
I squirm a bit in my seat. This is the truth or dare moment. "Well, therein lies the problem, Professor. I have no idea where my outline, notes or even the topic for my investigative project have gone. I was hoping my application to be accepted in this class wasn't contingent on the topic and outline I provided you last fall. I'm sure I can come up with a great topic and start there before our first class meets next week."
Professor Armentrout seems a bit surprised. But the fact is, when all of my belongings had arrived back in D.C. from school, there was absolutely nothing in those boxes that had pertained to my studies. Not a textbook, a folder, a journal–not even my personal laptop. I'd phoned the dorm resident who'd told me that everything in my dorm room at the time my mother had phoned campus security was packed in the presence of said campus security and shipped to the address given them.
"I see," he says, running a hand through his thick mass of salt and pepper hair. "That's probably just as well Ms. Matthews. I'm sure you'll come up with an appropriate topic. I know you've been through a lot, so you have my utmost compassion and support. I'm so happy you've recovered and are resuming your studies here at the university. So, here's the class syllabus, which includes the pre-work assignment due the first day of class. Of course, I'm happy to give you an extension if you need it."
I take the papers he hands over, and skim through them quickly. "I think I can handle it, Professor. I'll do my best. Thanks for holding my slot open. I really do appreciate you giving me the additional courtesy," I say glancing back up at him.
"I'm happy to do so. Welcome back," he replies with a smile.
"Thank you," I reply, getting up from the chair and preparing to leave. As I reach the door, he calls after me, "I'm really glad you're doing okay, Carson. You are perhaps one of the most talented students I've had in my classes over the past few years."
"Thank you, Professor," I whisper, not looking back as I leave his office. For some reason his words make me sad. I'm not sure why.
8
Somebody’s Watching Me
I remember reviewing a paper last year on Gonzo Journalism. It was by Hunter S. Thompson, an author and journalist credited for popularizing the style. Gonzo journalism totally disregards the detached, objective components of traditional journalism in favor of a more personalized, and yes, often biased style of reporting. But there's one quote from Thompson that is continuing to replay in my head like a closed-loop recording: "Paranoia is just another word for ignorance."
My first couple of weeks of classes have come and gone. I'm still here. All in one piece. No lurking shadows in the corridors; no phantom footsteps outside my door; and no mysterious packages or notes left in my dorm mail slot. But it doesn't matter, because I know somebody is watching me.
How can I know this you ask? Because I feel it each time I step outside, walk to and from a class, stop for a latte at Starbucks, or stroll the campus for some much-needed exercise. I sometimes feel the wind whip around me while walking, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. As I anticipate a stranger's hand reaching out to grab me by the shoulder, I whirl around and . . . there's nothing. Just ordinary people going about their ordinary business. College kids talking on their cell phones, strangers bicycling past me, non-descript couples walking hand in hand in front of me, and a sprinkling of faceless joggers running by with their ear-pods in, oblivious to me and the paranoia that is my most recent companion.
I'm not crazy. I'm paranoid. But I have reason to be. Somebody is indeed watching me. I can feel it instinctually. And I have no intention of ignoring my instincts. There's no way I will allow it to be my ignorance.
So, it's the weekend now. And I have plans. I had another recollection, or maybe partial recollection would be a better word for the dream I had last night. Just bits and pieces making a kaleidoscope of confettied pictures. One of those pictures has a name that, up until this time, hasn't surfaced in my conscious mind. Until last night.
Shelby Parker.
My classmate in last semester's Communication II class and a quasi-friend at the time. She was in her junior year, and she'd be a senior now. I remember the recollection dream I had while in Coma-World. This is a repeat dream, but with more clarity and detail about our trip to the Sanctuary sex club. Shelby holds some answers, I'm sure of it. But do I really want those answers?
I need to go out. The early October weather is unusually chilly, even for New York City. The sun is shining, so I decide I need some Vitamin D.
I grab a jacket, my backpack and head out, walking the five blocks to the Eclectic Cafe, my favorite place.
I love the ambiance of the E.C. Tables spread out with charging stations at each, instrumental jazz playing softly to soothe rather than distract. The smell of coffee and freshly baked goods greet me as I enter. I place my usual order: a latte and a buttered croissant with apricot jam. Then I settle into a booth by the wall.
I fire up my laptop and pull up the document to finish my summary outline for interpretive reporting in my Journalism class. My topic is The Consequences of Hypnotherapy. I decided on that topic because of my sessions with Dr. Kingsley. I want to get objective evidence by interviewing actual people who have gone through the process, to decide if the risks outweigh the outcomes. It seems like a pertinent topic for the project.
The server places my order on the table, and without looking up, I murmur a "Thank you very much."
"You're welcome, Carson," a deep male voice replies.
My head shoots up to see a familiar face, but not a campus face. It's Krew Beckett, the physical therapist who put me through weeks of torture both as an inpatient and outpatient after my accident.
"Krew!" I greet, noticing how great he looks in regular jeans and a sweater versus the blue scrubs he always wore for my therapy sessions. "I see you took time out from your torture chamber. What brings you over to this part of the city?"
"Ah, I recently took another position. The pay and hours are much better," he replies, "and as luck would have it, near campus."
He slides into the other side of the booth, and I feel like a jerk for not asking him to join me.
"Really?" I ask. "At the Eclectic Cafe? I thought physical therapy paid better than that?" I take a sip of my latte, hoping he knows I'm merely teasing.
"Actually, I went into private practice. Just a couple of blocks from here. I'm getting a lot of referrals from the Columbia Athletic Department. It's a nice chunk of business."
I break off a piece of the croissant just as the actual server brings Krew his order of a banana smoothie and a plate of fresh fruit.
"Still a health nut," I see, rolling my eyes. "But hey, congratulations on your new gig. Private practice and you're what? Like twenty-seven?"
"Twenty-eight," he corrects, forking a chunk of pineapple and popping it into his mouth. 'His sensuous mouth,' I think to myself.
Okay, so let me 'fess up. Right from the start I'd been infatuated by Krew's extraordinary looks and build. Almost to the point where I didn't want to bitch about the physical therapy exercises and personal recovery plan he developed for me. Almost being the operative word. He dubbed me the nickname 'Princess', which I hope, after these few months, he's blessedly forgotten.
"So, how about you, Princess? I'm surprised you're back in the Big Apple, after well, you know with your injuries and all."
"You should know my stubbornness better than anyone," I volley. "I'm not about to give up my pursuit of a career in
journalism as a result of my . . . accident."
His deep green eyes study me intently, and I can't help but notice the tick in his jaw after I mention my accident. "Glad to see you still have your spirit. I think that's likely what pulled you through the trauma. That's a totally non-medical assessment on my part. Are you still exercising, doing your stretches, and embracing some of the holistic yoga I recommended?"
"Um . . . yeah, sure I do. I mean when I have time. I'm carrying a pretty heavy load this semester to make up for missing most of last semester. Time is limited."
He gives me his crooked grin, showing his straight white teeth, and his dimple makes an appearance. "Like shit you are exercising, Princess," he replies with a chuckle. "How about I give you my card, stop by my clinic during my hours. I have a nice workout salon you're welcome to use. Free of charge. I'll be your P.T."
"Ohh no," I say, shaking my head but taking his card nonetheless, "I'm done with the torture of physical therapy."
He chuckles again, "No Princess, the 'P.T.' I'm referring to is as in 'Personal Trainer.' No torture, I promise. Scouts honor," he finishes, holding up two fingers.
"Yeah, as if you were ever a Boy Scout, Krew."
He gives me a hang-dog look, and I have to give up a smile. "Okay, okay, I will. But the first time something hurts, I'm outtie," I clarify.
"Deal," he says, finishing up the rest of his fruit. He grabs his plastic smoothie cup and slides out of the booth. "I promise I'm not into inflicting unnecessary pain. It was really good running into you, Princess. Now don't stand me up, or I swear, I'll come looking for you now that I know this is one of your hangouts." He gives me a wink, my heart does a bit of a pitter-patter, and then he's off.
I put his card into my backpack, knowing I won't let too much time go by before taking Krew up on his offer. It's time for me to start living again, one baby step at a time.
Wicked Love Page 3
