The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  “Ah, I see.” That’s what I get for being nosy, but he was listening—I like that.

  He opens the door and steps aside. My purse brushes against him as I walk past. No surprise, his office is plain, sedate. Opposite the door is a large window with the desert brown shade pulled down. Bookshelves line the wall behind his desk, an exact replica of the one out front. Everything is the same dark wood laminate. There are two, tufted brown vinyl chairs with high backs. One is in front of his desk and the other behind it. It’s like an office furniture closeout exploded in here. There’s another wall of bookshelves across the room and one of those black leather and chrome gravity loungers. Very shrink chic. Strange thing, though—there’s no clock.

  “Please, Mrs. Troy, have a seat.” He pulls the chair out in front of his desk.

  When I sit down, air rushes out the sides, making a hiss sound. “Nice,” I whisper. “Thank you,” I say out loud, as Dr. Light walks around. He sits down behind his desk and pulls out a new file with papers in it. He takes a pen from his shirt pocket and begins writing things down.

  “Dr. Light, I’d like to pay on my credit card, rather than bill through my insurance. Will that work for you?”

  “That’d be fine, Mrs. Troy, but please. Call me Tom.”

  “Thank you, Tom. Please, call me Stacy.”

  He stretches his arm across the desk palm up. “Would it be all right if I run your card? Then I’ll have it on file and won’t need to ask again.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” I reach into my purse, then hand him the card.

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  When he gets up to leave, I turn around and watch him walk. He has an awkward gait. His body hunches slightly forward, and each foot seems to lift then pause, like a toddler learning how to walk. The door closes behind him.

  My eyes hone in on the chaise. It doesn’t intimidate like a dentist’s chair or a surgical table. It looks comfortable—a newer version of the couch. As I start to read book titles on the shelves, Dr. Light comes back and hands me my card. I notice his fingers shaking a little. He almost seems more nervous than me. I hope we’ll both be able to relax enough to make this work.

  “I apologize for these minor inconveniences.” He takes his seat behind the desk. “I prefer to get them out of the way before we begin.”

  “No problem, really.”

  “Good.” He picks up his pen. “Stacy, have you ever had asthma?”

  “No.”

  He makes a checkmark, jots a few words down here and there, and this is how we spend the next ten minutes or so. Such a waste of time. I should be telling him about all the crazy things happening. Then he could write volumes. I check my watch a lot and fidget in the vinyl chair making squeaky noises. He looks up often, but he doesn’t get the hint.

  “Dr. Light.”

  He raises his head from the folder.

  “Sorry. Tom, I mean. I’ve always been healthy. I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever been sick. When I was young, my mom used to say I was invincible.”

  “That’s very interesting, Stacy,” he says with a grin. “I’m done with the paperwork, though. Would you like to lie down over there?” He leans to the right and looks over at the chaise.

  I nod.

  “You go over and make yourself comfortable, while I grab my notebook.”

  I’m up and heading for it before he turns around. The chair is extremely comfortable. My eyelids are starting to feel heavy when I notice Dr. Light coming toward me, carrying the vinyl chair from behind his desk. He puts it down gently then sits, opens up his notebook, and readies his pen.

  Watching him bungle around has me anxious again. “Should I close my eyes?”

  “If you like.”

  They’ve been closed for half a minute now, and he hasn’t said a word. This is what the fine print in the back of the phonebook gets me—self-service psychiatry. “How should I begin?”

  “Tell me why you’re here today, why you feel you needed to see a psychiatrist.”

  “I’ve been having nightmares since the beginning of summer, but they’re not normal. Each nightmare is part of a whole story. I’ve had them in perfect sequence from beginning to end.”

  “What happens in the beginning?”

  “The end of the world, and then I think I go crazy, and I…I…”

  “Please, continue.”

  “I cut up everybody in my neighborhood enclave, including my family, and then set them on fire.”

  “Does anything happen after the fire?”

  “No. The story ends with the fire. It took about a month from start to finish. Since then, the same nightmares occur but out of sequence.”

  “What else can you tell me about them?”

  “Some of the things that happen in my nightmares come true.”

  “Please, explain.”

  “Like, if I see a book in my nightmare and I do something to the book when I’m awake, in my nightmare, whatever I did affects the book. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes. It does. You feel you can alter your nightmares.”

  “Yes.”

  “That may be useful,” he says.

  “How?”

  “Tell me about something in your nightmare that doesn’t exist when you’re awake.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It could be anything. What do you use to cut up your neighbors?”

  “All kinds of things.”

  “Something you don’t have, but you use in your dreams.”

  “An axe. I know we don’t have an axe, but I use one a lot in the nightmares.”

  “Very good. Stacy, there’s an exercise I’d like you to try tonight before you go to sleep. I’d like you to sit up in bed and relax. Flex all the muscles in your body, then loosen them, starting from your head down to your toes.”

  I take in a deep breath and try it a little now. “Okay.”

  “And while you’re relaxing, try to think of one of your nightmares. In your mind, change an outcome that you already know happens. At any point when you’re having them, are you cognizant it’s merely a bad dream?”

  “No. It’s all real. Vivid. Everything happens in real time. Sometimes though, I wish it were just a nightmare—in my nightmare. Isn’t that crazy? That’s why I need psychiatric help.”

  “Crazy isn’t really a term we psychiatrists like to use.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re not crazy. I promise. We’ll find their origin.”

  “I hope so.”

  “But for now, our time is up.”

  “Already?” I sit up and open my eyes.

  “I know. It goes by fast, but like I told you over the phone, my schedule is currently very flexible. Normally, I’d see you every day, or every other, at least until we got some resolution. Then gradually, we could decrease the visits.”

  “The lunch I had scheduled tomorrow cancelled. I could come in then, and we could set up some kind of appointment schedule. Would that work?”

  “I’m available.”

  “Same time as today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I swing my legs around and stand up. “Whoa.” Dizzy.

  He steps up and takes my hand. “Be careful. Take your time getting up. Your body needs to adjust from lying to standing. It is called orthostatic hypotension.” He says this as if he were a med student who just learned a new term he’s excited about.

  I stagger forward and trip. My face hits his chest. He smells like cotton candy. I lean back against the chaise to keep steady. “Sorry.”

  “I’m going to write you a prescription for a muscle relaxant. Take one before you start the exercises. It should help.”

  “Thanks.” My hand is still in his. He pulls me forward and helps me walk to the door but more like leads. His palm feels a little cool and clammy—kind of gross.

  “Here’s the script.” Pinched between his shaking fingers is a piece of paper with scribbles on it. “G
et it filled today. And I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”

  I snag the paper from him. “Kay. Bye. Thanks”

  He seems hurried to get rid of me now. I hope the whole hand holding thing didn’t make him uncomfortable. I certainly didn’t feel weird about it, aside from the uneasy bit of moisture. I’m sure he was just nervous. He seems nice. I like him and his approach. This just might work.

  Maybe he rushed me out because he has another appointment. He could actually be busy, and I could have him and his fledgling practice all wrong.

  I grab the handle and push the exit door open. My palm feels tacky against the metal. When I get out into the sun, I look down and notice an iridescent glistening in my hand—the one he shook—oh, yuck. I rub it briskly on my pant leg until it’s all gone.

  My watch shows eleven o’clock—unbelievable. The only car in the parking lot is mine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The prescription flutters against my purse on the passenger’s seat. Dr. Light’s handwriting is illegible. I’m not so sure I want to get this prescription filled in Summerlin. I usually go to the pharmacist counter inside my local grocery store, and that place is always teeming with friends and acquaintances.

  I veer off at the last Henderson exit heading west. Brakes squeal and horns honk behind me. There’s a shopping area I saw from the highway. It’s like a parallel universe on the opposite side of the valley. The stores are all the same but slightly off in their appearance or the way they are set up inside.

  I pass my prescription through the pharmacy window to a young woman who then disappears with it. A moment later, she returns and asks, “Have you filled a prescription with us before?”

  “Yes, but on the other side of town.”

  “You should be in our system then. It’s going to be about twenty minutes.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll shop and come back.”

  “Pick-up is on the other side.”

  “Thanks.”

  This store is laid out identical to the one where I shop, but everything is inverse, which makes it even more confusing. It’s going to be fun trying to find something for dinner. I can’t believe Jon told Patrick he could have pizza tonight. Pizza is not one of my favorite foods, particularly the carnivore kind that Patrick likes, so I grab a bag of salad and get some fish. Every now and then, something sparkles past the ends of the aisles, but I ignore it. The last thing I need is for something weird to happen while I’m trying to get a prescription filled for a controlled substance.

  I head back to the pharmacy after check-out. Standing there at the pick-up window in all of his sparkling glory is none other than—Elvis. An elderly woman waits in line behind him and I queue up after her. Only in Vegas is it normal to see clowns and famous dead people—probably not the best community for the mentally unstable.

  Elvis steps back and salutes the pharmacist. Then he turns around with his little white pharmacy bag and can’t leave without saying, “Thank you. Thank you very much.” He blows a kiss.

  The withered old lady in front of me swipes at the air to move him along. She’s obviously been waiting a while and is in no mood for Elvis—dead or alive. When the pharmacist gets through with her, I step up and tell him my name.

  “One moment please, ma’am.” He thumbs through stapled bags on the counter. He is gray, balding, and keeps a thick set of bifocals resting on the top of his shiny head. He finds my little white bag then pulls his eyeglasses down. The pads come to rest on the bridge of his nose where his skin is red and sunken into kidney bean shapes. “Have you had Valium before?” he asks really loud.

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s very addictive,” he says even louder. “Take it as prescribed. There’s a hotline number to call on the back if you think you’re getting addicted to it.” He peers over his glasses at me then looks back down at the bag. “Your insurance denied payment. How would you like to pay for this?”

  “Cash.”

  “It’ll be twenty-seven, eighty, and I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”

  I palm everything through the opening under the window. A minute later, he slides back my license, some change, and the white bag of addiction. I turn around to leave, and everyone in line is staring at me. There isn’t a familiar face among them. They casually look away when I make eye contact.

  Humiliating as the ordeal was, coming here was still a good decision.

  * * *

  “Patrick! Let’s go.”

  He rushes down the stairs, skipping two and three at a time.

  “You keep that up in those knee-high soccer socks, and one of these days, you’re going to slip and fall and probably break something.

  “Gross, Mom, the house smells like fish.”

  “Funny. I think it smells more like the delivery meat pizza you ordered. Grab your stuff, and let’s head out.”

  I step into the garage and see Patrick in the passenger seat. He’s left the trunk wide open—again. I point at him to get out and shut it. “You can’t keep leaving the hatch up after you put your backpack in,” I say. “I’ve already crashed into the garage once, and that was enough.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “You should’ve said something, though. Did you get some water?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Pat.” I pull two waters from the refrigerator and hand them to him.

  * * *

  Gail’s Beemer is the only other car in the lot when we get to practice. Cally hasn’t shown up yet and neither has Coach. Patrick takes his extra gear out to the field and starts setting up nets with Justin. I see Gail sitting next to the tree, so I walk over.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask. “Coach didn’t call you to cancel, did he?”

  “No. He didn’t call. Maybe they got caught in traffic.” Gail looks down at her watch. “Speaking of traffic…” She looks up at me with a wry smile. “This morning, I saw you heading west on the 215 out near Henderson. Where on earth did you have to go so early?”

  “Oh. I had to approve invitations for the fundraiser.”

  “Doesn’t Jordan usually do that?”

  “Yeah, she does. They had some urgent questions and needed to meet with me.”

  “Ah.” She looks away smug.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I had an appointment.”

  “Oh, is Dr. Goodwin’s office in Henderson?”

  “No. Are you kidding? I don’t care how good he’s supposed to be, I’d never commit to driving out there for any doctor.”

  “Oh.”

  My phone buzzes. “It’s a text from Coach. Practice is cancelled.”

  “Great.” Gail gets up and gathers her things.

  My phone buzzes again. “Now it’s Cally. She texts that practice is cancelled, too. How is it that she found out before us? She always seems to be the first to know.”

  “I doubt that.” Gail whips her blanket out. “I think that she thinks she’s the first to know.”

  “We should stop the boys before they put up the other goal.”

  Gail nods in agreement. Then together, we head for the field. She really seems to have it out for Cally lately, but she was coming after me this time, too—digging for a piece of someone else’s calamity to deter the breakdown of her own marriage. I don’t blame her for being bitchy, but she’s headed in the wrong direction.

  Out on the field, we help the boys take down what they’ve set up. Repack then reload everything. Gail doesn’t say much while we’re all working and neither does Justin.

  * * *

  Before stepping into the shower, I take one of the tiny blue pills and leave the plastic container out on the bathroom counter.

  Jon comes in. “Lisa Fenway came in today to have her third facelift.”

  “Really, what happened the first two times?”

  He steps in and out of the closet, talks while he undresses. “She wasn’t happy with the results.”

  “She doesn’t look like herself any
more.” My jaw aches as if it were hard work to speak.

  “Hey,” Jon says. “Did you take one of these?”

  I look through the glass and see him standing there naked, reading the Valium label.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sweet.” He puts the bottle down. “How’d the appointment go?”

  “Good.”

  “Did you tell him I was a doc? Maybe he’ll extend you a professional courtesy.”

  “No. And I’m not working my shrink for a discount.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s not like a regular doctor.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. How many of these does your shrink have you taking a day?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Humor me.”

  “Just one at night, to relax me for stretching exercises.”

  “Stretching exercises before bed? I like this guy already.”

  I turn off the water then step out.

  “Sure you’re done? I was just coming in,” he says with a deep sexy voice.

  “I’m going to do my exercises.”

  “Don’t finish before I get there.”

  It takes me a moment longer to respond. “Funny.”

  Jon steps into the shower and looks back at me with an impish smirk.

  I put on my nightshirt then brush my teeth. Strange, I feel the same, but with less of an edge. When I get to bed, I pour myself between the sheets. Everything ripples like cool liquid against my skin. I lie still and close my eyes after the muscle relaxation exercise. The images of finding Patrick in my nightmares comes to mind, so, I concentrate on not finding him at all. I imagine opening his door and seeing an empty room.

  Languor settles in, and a warm wave curls over me—it’s Jon. His naked body soft and hard against me, I subside to the Valium undertow. His tongue is a flame licking the rim of my ear. My neck melts in his open mouth, spilling out into red fan waves. My breasts mold to his palms, his nimble thumbs teasing my nipples to peaks of ember. Every move he makes is another wave washing me down. Between my legs his mouth is a hot bath, water lapping against my folds. The laps come faster and faster until I seize and become liquid again. The weight of his body on mine anchors me down. His fire in my water—I am undulating in deep red hues.