Dr. Wheeler’s office was located in the corner of a retail shopping center, down at the forgotten edge of town. It was once a medical plaza, but when the hospital opened up fifteen miles from town, most of the doctors had abandoned their office suites and sought employment in the new two-story brick building next to it. Rachel didn’t mind the strip center. Dr. Wheeler was new in town and wasn’t yet familiar with Rachel’s circle of professionals. In fact, she didn’t know Rachel was a doctor of medicine. Rachel liked it that way.
Dr. Wheeler’s office had one wall that was entirely a window. A front window to the sidewalk, where shoppers walked by holding their bags and squinting to see what was on the other side of the silver tinting. Dr. Wheeler masked most of it by large drapery. The ornate rod that held them was mounted from the edges of the drop-down ceiling.
The curtains she chose were more suitable for a four-star hotel room than a shrink’s office. But Rachel busied herself during sessions with counting the women on the toile piece of fabric. She’d usually make it to twenty before her therapist would glance toward the window to see what Rachel was looking so intently at.
Rachel sat in her car that early afternoon, watching the people stroll past the door to the psychiatry office. She envied the simplicity of their lives, imagining them on brainless shopping trips, carrying their heavy-looking bags. Perhaps some of them held four different types of shower gels, because it was a buy three, get one sale at Bath and Body. The large red sign hung predominately in the window, two doors down. Or maybe there were candles in them. Candles that the woman, in the red fur-lined coat walking somberly down the walk, couldn’t decide whether to buy the wreath-scented one or the cinnamon one, so she bought both. And now she was looking for her car to drop the package off to do more shopping.
Rachel used to be one of those women. Not on the weekdays, of course, but on the weekends. She remembered the mindless task of meandering throughout a store, picking something she didn’t need and putting it in her closet when she got home. She’d take it out a few days later and either take off the price tag, or take it back because her buyer’s remorse always got the best of her.
Rachel put on her best sane face, smiled some sincerity into her cheekbones, and sat down in front of her least favorite person to play nice with, Dr. Wheeler. Perhaps the good doctor could cure her today. Make all the bad things in her mind go away. Give her the magical anecdote to move forward in life. Yeah, she doubted it.
“How are you today, Rachel?”
“I’m fine. And you?”
Dr. Wheeler crossed her legs and smiled. Today she wore a blue blouse. Like every therapy day, Rachel wondered on the way there what color blouse it would be that day. She must only own one navy blue pant suit, so Susan Wheeler must have purchased twenty different colored blouses to wear with it. Rachel had the privilege of having seen six of them. She especially liked the yellow one. It wasn’t like sunshine; instead, it reminded Rachel of mustard. Which, in turn, made Rachel think of hot dogs. She bought one for her and Gus on the way home from that session. To Rachel, that was the most productive session by far.
“I’m doing well. Thank you for asking. My electricity came back on early this morning.”
“You’re lucky. Mine is still out.” Rachel ran her finger along the piping of the maroon, velvety sofa, another four-star hotel touch. Dental cleaning would be more endurable. And possibly advisable. She could feel the tartar building up as the seconds clicked by. One day she’d care enough to call and make the appointment with Dr. Himsly. She missed the smell of his minty breath coming through the mask as he looked at her through dental spectacles, wielding a hook and mirror in his hands.
“You look different today.” She said it as if quietly checking off a list in her head. Haircut, new clothes? “Has something changed since we last met?” She flipped a page in the book she had resting on her lap. It was one of those black ones that held a legal size pad of paper. Papers of her previous patient’s notes had probably already been ripped off and filed. “Let’s see, that was two weeks ago.”
“I met someone today.” Crap, why did she go and say something like that? Something that would induce further therapy. “Actually, he’s just a repair guy. He came to the house to let me know the transformer had blown.” She spun the snap on the front of her jacket. “You know, on second thought, I guess it’s the jeans. I don’t usually wear jeans, but I thought what the hey. Go crazy and put some jeans on today.” Her words were fast and rambling. If only she’d taken a swig of the vodka before coming in.
Damn it, the woman jotted something down in her book. Rachel tried to interpret the scrawl of her pen strokes. When would she learn to give one-worded answers? One-worded, sane answers that would one day pay off and get her an out-of-jail card to this over-decorated, overly lilac-smelling office. It was coming winter—why didn’t it smell like pine needles and warm apple pie? Lilac? The candle store was three doors down on the left—she couldn’t miss it.
“Did you enjoy talking with him?”
“Who?” Rachel played stupid.
“The man you met today.”
Rachel studied the doctor’s face, wondering what answer was the right answer. It was hard not to see her eyes and nose as characters on a stage, with her long, dark hair serving as the side curtains. It was parted down the middle. Straight down the middle. Showing a white line to her scalp. A disturbing, distracting white line. Rachel’s eyes roamed up and down it like a train ride from the crown all the way to her forehead.
“It was all right. He’s an electrician, you know? Nothing else.” She stabbed her hand into the crack of her crossed legs.
The woman checked her book and started again. “The last time you were here, you mentioned that you felt like you were coming into the acceptance stage of grief. You must have had a breakthrough about remembering the accident. Have you remembered anything about it? Can you take me back to the night it happened? Tell me what you remember.”
She was fishing. Put Dr. Wheeler in a boater’s hat and hang a rod and reel in her hand. This woman knew nothing of subtle tactics. Rachel refused to go there four weeks ago during that session and she refused to go there today. “I’m fine with not remembering what happened. You said, yourself, that something traumatic happened that made me lose my memory, so why would I want to know it? Maybe the mind knows best about what the body can tolerate. Mine is saying leave it alone.”
“I think you would better heal if you tried to recall the events that led up to the wreck. It might unlock the last year you spent with your husband. Have you had any episodes since we last talked? Has anything jogged your memory of that time with him?”
“No.”
“Have you re-considered and thought about asking your friends about it? Who did you hang out with mostly? Were they mutual friends of you and Scott? Was it a best friend of yours?”
Rachel took a deep breath. Was her time almost up? With this kind of therapy, she might regress to stage two: anger.
“Dane is who we spent most of our time with. He was Scott’s best friend before he was my partner. But I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”
“Why is that so? I thought you said you returned to work?”
Oops, she did attest to that last session, didn’t she? It was only to boost her sanity points. Return to work, get two sessions taken away. Crap, now she’d have to think of another lie to cover that one.
“I say we haven’t spoken in a while, but what I meant to say is that we haven’t spoken about the accident in a while.” Wow, that was a close one.
“Would he be willing to talk about that time of your life? How things were in your relationship with Scott, leading up to the accident? It could prove to help you out tremendously.”
Rachel leaned in closer on her knees to get the attention of Dr. Wheeler. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s over. Scott’s gone. It took me almost a year to get here, but I’m getting the facts straight. I’m fine and I’ve adjusted to
my new status of widowhood. It’s not really a choice you’re given.”
“Would you consider having your stomach pumped of sleeping pills adjusting?” She placed her book beside her on the couch and leaned forward to match her patient’s position. “Rachel, I get that you don’t want to come here. And I get that every time we meet, you look for ways to avoid my questions, but you’re only hurting yourself by not talking about it. You can’t move forward without finding what’s holding you back.”
Rachel’s feet began to perspire. She should’ve worn the fur-lined crocs and not the boots. Ventilation is what she needed. Not this woman with a million different colored blouses, touching on areas that were none of her business. She didn’t want to go back to the accident. Ignorance was bliss in this case. Damn it, she was at stage five and she was proud of it.
A tear settled at the corner of Rachel’s eye. She prayed it wouldn’t roll out. “I killed my husband and I live with it every second of every day. Forgive me if I couldn’t cope that one time. That one shitty night when all I could do was see his face in my mind. Seeing his eyes looking back at me. Imagining the last thoughts he had. It wouldn’t go away.” She felt the tear slip out, creeping down her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her hand. “I wish it was me who died that night instead of him. Maybe he could handle your sessions better.”
Rachel’s eyes stared at the door, hoping she could teleport past it. Past these hour-long torture meetings. If only Peggy hadn’t found her that evening. If only she had taken the pills an hour earlier. Two hours earlier.
Dane was there when she woke up.
“Hey, sleepyhead. You feeling all right?”
She looked around. This wasn’t her bedroom; this wasn’t her bed, her blankets, her IV running from her arm to the machine. What happened?
He read her mind. “You took too many pills, Rach. They had to pump your stomach. What’s going on?”
His sandy-blond hair was tussled. Probably from raking it with worry. He always felt as though he had to worry about her. She still didn’t understand why he was the one who stayed every night on the chair when she was recovering from the initial accident she had with Scott.
She went to say something but her throat felt like cotton swabs with razor blades rubbing against it. She reached for the cup of water on the rolling table. Her arm was heavier than she remembered.
“I don’t know. What did they say?” She wanted to get a feel whether they were calling ahead for her to have a bed on the fifth-floor crazy ward for the attempt on her life, or whether they were deeming it an accidental overdose. She was a doctor; the latter seemed a little too lofty.
“They said they got about twenty pills out of your stomach.” He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. The dark circles under his translucent blue eyes aged him ten years.
She pulled away. She didn’t want anyone to touch her. She didn’t deserve touch. She just wanted to fade away and everyone to keep their stomach pumps and touches of sympathy to themselves.
She began counting the women again on the drapes of her psychiatrist’s office.
“You mentioned you couldn’t take looking at him and imagining the last thoughts he had. Do you feel guilty about something? Rachel, you didn’t kill him—he died.” She stared at Rachel with intensity. “What do you think Scott’s last thoughts were?”
The question echoed in Rachel’s mind. She looked away, trying her best to imagine she wasn’t here for therapy. That Dr. Wheeler was the one with the problem. Her eyes transfixed on the books the good doctor had decorating the shelves behind her desk. Probably books that had never been read. Only purchased to make it look impressive, just like the curtains. She looked back at the window. There was a slight opening where she could see the sky; it was still overcast.
The excitement she felt earlier about meeting John was gone. She was back to full-fledged repression. So much for therapy doing you good. “I don’t know what her thoughts were.”
“Her?” The doctor seemed confused.
“What?” asked Rachel.
“You said that you didn’t know what her thoughts were.”
Rachel shrugged. “I’m not sure why I said that.”
Dr. Wheeler wrote something down on her book, without moving her eyes from Rachel’s. “Go ahead, then. What do you think he was thinking?”
Rachel stared at Dr. Wheeler. Like you’d stare at the sky while you’re still able to drive. Something had taken her attention off the topic. She was trying to put it back on track.
“I feel they were bad thoughts. Someone doesn’t generally get drunk and drive for a good reason. He was more responsible than that. I was more responsible than that. I don’t know why I didn’t stop him.”
“So you think there was more to it than him simply not knowing he was too drunk to drive? You feel there was something else to it?”
“His alcohol level was twice what was legal. He’s not the type who would have driven in that shape, especially with me in the car. I’m sure if it was nothing, I wouldn’t have blocked out a year of my life with him, do you?”
Rachel pulled her hand from the sheath of her legs. It was wrinkled with markings of her jeans. The doctor was still looking at her through her curtain-drawn hair. Rachel imagined she went home every night, poured herself a giant glass of wine, and told her husband the drama she’d heard all day from patients. He’d listen half-heartedly as he sawed his steak, and the doctor figured it to be healthy conversation for her own drowning marriage.
“I can’t say why you can’t recall any of that time, but if you focus more on it, you might be able to shed more light.”
“I’m actually not feeling well. Do you think we could save this until next time?” Rachel only suggested it to be nice. She picked up her bag from the ground and began to stand, not waiting for the doctor’s response.
“Of course, but I think we need to schedule you for next week. Two-week intervals don’t seem like they’re doing a great deal of help. We need to keep a momentum going.” She stood with her book in hand. “Talk to my secretary about fitting you in.”
Before she could say anything else, Rachel was at the door. “Sure. Have a good day.”
Rachel waved at the secretary on her way out. When she made it to the confines of her car, she jammed her key in the ignition and sped away.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ten Items or Less
As she drove back home, Rachel realized she didn’t have anything to fix for dinner, let alone a microwave for cooking. Surely she would have to go to the dreaded grocery store to replenish her cabinets and buy a few more boxes of Little Debbie cakes, a couple bags of mini doughnuts (the powdered sugar, not chocolate), and some potato chips for when her taste buds demanded salt from the sugar overload.
She pulled into the parking lot. There wasn’t an empty spot to be found. Even all the handicap spaces were taken. Probably by law un-abiding citizens in search of toilet paper and water, no doubt. She suddenly wavered on going inside. There was little hope someone she knew wouldn’t spot her and approach to talk. Still, she knew there was nothing in her kitchen, and the last time she went to that little dump of a gas station by her house, they sold her expired chips and cookies. She still ate them and luckily suffered no long-term ill effects.
Rachel slid through the automatic doors and scanned the multitude of faces, and grabbed an arm basket. She had never purchased more than ten items, no matter what state of emergency it was. She passed the deli and produce and moved right to the area of already prepared food. Whole golden, juicy chickens were rotating in ovens on their metal rods and smelled like heaven. Knowing she would never be able to eat an entire bird by herself, she settled on a two-piece bag of fried chicken under the heat lamp. It was lightweight as she dumped it in her basket. Even if it tasted like shoe leather, it was better than anything else at the moment. She then strolled to the wine and beer section—the place that kept her a loyal patron of the store.
After sele
cting a perfect pairing of alcohol for her dried breast and wing, she wrapped up her visit with a trip to the junk food aisle. For Rachel, it was where chocolate met preservatives and they lived happily for one week or less on her counter. She threw in three boxes of what looked like cakes and brownies, along with an economy-sized bag of miniature candy bars for her midnight snacking ritual. It was on the half price off, Halloween shelf. Had she bought it four days ago, she wouldn’t have had to turn off her living room lights to deter the trick-or-treaters. She didn’t have kids—what made her think she could remember it was October 31st? Then it dawned on her about all the spooky movies that were playing that week leading up to Halloween. Oh well. A few of the angry little monsters actually yelled into the crack of her door, “We see you in there.” She ran off to the bedroom and waited until after eleven to return to the perch of her sofa.
She bobbed in between the more serious shoppers with their bulging carts of dry goods, paper products, fruits, and cold cuts, trying to make it to the checkout. She used to be one of them. Making new recipes her mother would send, via Facebook. Every Sunday she’d cook a new dish and have to grocery shop for the ingredients on Saturday.
She’d spend her day in the kitchen while Scott pounded the coffee table, yelling at football coaches on television for stupid plays. Dane came over once in a while. It made it easier to cook for more than two people. And with those two guys, there was no fear of leftovers.
Now Rachel found it wasn’t handy having to push one of those monster buggies through the store. But her arm was getting serious bruising from the two bottles of wine in her arm-held food cart. My, how time had changed things.
Rachel managed to dodge a few people she had ignored for the past year. The ones who were relentless at first to be someone she could lean on, and then soon disappeared when she stopped returning their calls. It was okay; they never knew what to say when they got around her anyway. How many times can you tell someone you’re doing fine? She had become a professional answering machine: “I’m doing fine, and you?”
The Secret He Keeps Page 4
