Imola

by RICHARD SATTERLIE

  He pulled the door handle, but froze. “So, are you? Religious?”

  A slight smile escaped from her bowed head. “I believe in a supreme being.”

  “But you’re not religious?”

  “Religions were invented by man to give hope for a sometimes hopeless existence. They were formed to give a moral framework to human societies. Most modern religions have pushed those tenets to the back of their priority lists. Look at most of the wars throughout history. See if religions were involved. I choose faith over religion.”

  “Did Harry’s problems alter your beliefs?”

  She looked over, scowling. “Do you think microcephaly was punishment from God for my mother’s drinking?”

  The rapidity of her response, and its forcefulness, surprised him. He watched her eyes, but they didn’t say a word. “No. If there is a supreme being, he or she probably doesn’t intervene in our daily lives. It’d be too big of a job. I think we’re judged on a lifelong balance of actions. I don’t think a deathbed repentance can erase a lifetime of sinning or a single behavioral trait can damn us.”

  Her look intensified. “But, from a medical standpoint, alcohol can cause problems during embryonic development.”

  “I wouldn’t dwell on that. There are too many things that can go wrong: genetics, developmental mistakes.”

  “And it could be hereditary.”

  “There’s always a chance. Is that why you don’t want to have kids?”

  “Please, go. I have to get this wine to the locker.”

  Jason slid out of the seat and leaned back into the car. His head throbbed with his change in posture. “There’s always a chance. For everyone. But the odds are incredibly small.” Her watering eyes shook him.

  Her words flew at him. “The one thing in this life a man can’t handle is the thought that he produced a defective offspring. I don’t want to watch another man slam the front door for good. I don’t want to die lonely like my mother. Now, let me go.”

  Jason turned and walked to his car like he was balancing a stack of books on his head. Despite the headache, he decided to take the longer, scenic route home—his thinking route.

  April’s words kept him driving. Psychiatrists were like everyone else. They had their own personal baggage to carry through life. And April’s interest in wine seemed intertwined with that baggage. Did she enjoy a few glasses of wine each evening because it validated the sidestep of her biological urges?

  The afternoon was eye-opening for him; it gave hima window that looked deep inside her. And it drew him to her. But it still wasn’t like the feeling he had with his ex-fiancée, Eugenia. That whole mess had changed him and his views on women. But, recently, something else had changed in him as well. And that’s where he felt a common ground with April. Despite their different interests, they both seemed to take the same approach to life. Their age? Was that it?

  He passed his turnoff and headed for Belletini’s. It had to be age. Once the twenties passed from windshield to rearview mirror, romantic adventures seemed to take on a different tone. One with more immediacy. And he wrestled with it. He still believed in a certain kind of love despite the innate tendency to compromise. He knew both he and April no longer toed up to the fountain of youth and flipped in pennies. They chucked quarters from a distance. But the goal was still the same. At least it was for him.

  And where did Agnes fit into all this? Why did she pop into his mind every time he thought about his relationship with April, every time he was with her? There was no way anything could happen between him and Agnes. It was impossible. Then why did the thought of her keep forcing its way in? Why was she able to make him forget about Eugenia, when April couldn’t? Maybe this was his subconscious way of holding back from anything serious with April. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with Agnes. Maybe this was just another one of Eugenia’s long tentacles.

  He parked the car and stood leaning on the open door. The fluorescent lights of Belletini’s were already on, competing with the sun as it dipped into a layer of molasses that coated the horizon.

  His feelings for April were comfortable. But were they enough to take away his scars? Or to take away April’s scars?

  CHAPTER 12

  The quiet of the Imola Day Room no longer soothed Agnes’s desire for solitude. The silence was a threat. Instead of staring at the shadows of the outside world, cast on the wall opposite the windows, she sat with the wall to her back, where she could see the entire room. Relaxing and being on guard were on opposite extremes of her behavioral continuum, and it distressed her because she wanted to do both.

  It felt like her life in Imola was degenerating, falling apart. And it was all Stuart’s fault. He’d cracked her globe of security. Without it intact, serenity no longer existed.

  Stuart hadn’t been transferred as everyone had said he would. He still lived down the men’s hall. Still came into the Day Room. But he didn’t bother any of the girls anymore. No more fondling, anyway. No morehunched shuffles to his room. He still spent time in his room, but he half stomped, half limped down the hall in his walking cast. Each trip, his door slam reverberated throughout the wing. It shook the television on the overhead wall bracket.

  In the Day Room, he stared. He sat and stared all day, his eyes nearly closed to slits. They flicked like the eyes of a nervous ferret, from one girl to the next.

  Agnes shuddered. Mostly, Stuart’s eyes found her. If she moved, flinched, breathed deeper than a sigh, his stare pierced her. And his middle finger would go up. It was seldom still, jabbing the air at anyone or anything that moved. He wouldn’t say a word. He’d just thrust the finger in the air and sneer.

  Agnes stayed in the Day Room as long as she could. But the comfort she craved didn’t show. The room had never felt drafty before. Now there was a constant chill. The kind a sweater couldn’t tame.

  She stood and stretched. The nervousness of the night had triggered a series of eye-closing yawns, each making her lightheaded for an agonizing instant. She backed up against the wall and looked around the Day Room. The sun touched the horizon, stretching the branch shadows across the ceiling. Giving them a pink tint.

  Something didn’t seem right.

  A noise from the men’s hall startled her. She leaned back against the wall, spreading her fingers out on thecold, smooth plaster. She had to cross the hallway entrance to get to the women’s hallway. A door creaked. She couldn’t tell where. The outside light ratcheted down with an abrupt flicker and turned orange. The branch shadows seemed to pulsate.

  A shoe squeaked on tile. This time, she caught the direction. The men’s hall. She had a choice: circle around the entire Day Room or dash across the opening of the men’s hall. She froze.

  Go across.

  A shuffling sound echoed in the hallway. Distant? All went quiet.

  Agnes sidestepped to the edge of the hall, her back pressed against the wall. She leaned, then straightened. The quick glimpse was useless. The hall was dark.

  You hurt him before. You can hurt him again.

  She slid her hand around the edge of the right-angled wall joint. She peeked again as her eyes adjusted to the failing light. The hall didn’t seem so dark: she could see down half of its length. It was empty. She slid one foot into the opening. Her leg, her hip.

  You’re ready. Hurt him.

  Agnes pivoted into the hall opening, facing the long dark corridor. She crouched, hands held out, fingers ready to jab and gouge. There was nothing there. No movement.

  She slithered to the other side of the hall openingand stopped. Another squeak. A hinge? A door closed. No attempt to silence it. She sprinted for the women’s hall but skidded to a stop at the hall entrance. The light was better on this side. She peeked around the corner. Nothing was visible well past her room, but the end of the hall was obscured by the shadows of distance. She swung her head back toward the other hall. No movement.

  Don’t go. Wait for him. Set a trap. Hurt him.

  Agnes hesitated. P
eeked again. The hall was clear. She turned the corner and pranced on the balls of her feet. Past three closed doors. Her doorknob slipped in her hand, and she banged her shoulder into the wood. Was there a noise behind her?

  She fumbled with the knob, and it turned with a clunk. The door gave. She slipped in and slammed it behind her.

  The room was dark, and her breathing seemed to fill that darkness, pulsing against her. She smelled something strange. The smell of a person.

  She hit the wall, searching for the light switch, and found it on the third whack. The sterile light flooded her eyes. She squinted.

  The room was empty. She could still smell him. She looked at the bed, the narrow space between the box springs and the floor. “Get out!” She backed against the door.

  He’s ours. We can take him out. We have cause.

  Agnes bent down. She could see halfway under the bed. Nothing. She bent farther, put her hands flat on the floor, and leaned until her cheek felt the cold of the tile. Nothing there. No one in the room. But the smell …

  She stood and rubbed her face with her palms. Her hands were cold against her moist forehead. Someone had been in her room. But why?

  She sat hard on the bed and bounced once. Her dog fell against her hip. She pulled it into a hug. Swiveling her feet onto the bed, she leaned back against the pillow and snuggled the dog into her neck.

  Her scream hit full pitch before she reached a sitting position. The puppy. Where was the puppy?

  CHAPTER 13

  Agnes peered out of the conference room window. Stuart stared in. He thrust his middle finger in the air.

  April Leahy wrote in the tablet that balanced on her knee. “Did they find your puppy?”

  Agnes turned her head back to Dr. Leahy. “No. They tore Stuart’s room apart, but they didn’t find it. They searched Milo’s room, too. There’s no trace of it.”

  “I’m sorry. Does Jason know?”

  “I don’t think so. Please don’t tell him. He might go after Stuart. That’ll make everything worse.”

  April took a deep breath. “You could confront Stuart. You need to stand up for yourself.”

  Listen to the bitch.

  “What good would it do? I already hurt him once. It just made him meaner.”

  “Sometimes you have to act, or continue to act. Even if it doesn’t seem logical.”

  Agnes looked back at Stuart. He raised his finger again. “What do you suggest I do?”

  April glanced out the window. “Right now, raise your finger back at him.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “It would show him you can play his game. He’s trying to intimidate you. Show him you won’t be intimidated.”

  He can be intimidated. It’s easy.

  Agnes looked down at her hands. She tried to raise the middle finger on her right hand, but it pulled the adjacent fingers with it. She forced the other two down with her other hand, but the middle one curled down with them. She looked up at April.

  “Like this.” April made a claw with her fingers, and then curled them all down tight. She slowly raised the middle finger, wrapping her thumb over the others to keep them curled.

  Agnes repeated the moves. Her middle finger straightened. She looked up at April, who smiled. Holding her hand in position, she looked out the conference door window. Stuart raised his middle finger and sneered.

  Do it.

  “Do it,” April said.

  Agnes raised her hand.

  Stuart sat upright. He held both middle fingers up, reaching them toward the window, then bolted from his seat and hobbled off toward the men’s hall.

  Agnes lowered her hand and turned to April. “What do I do now?”

  Hurt him.

  April wrote in her tablet, then looked up at Agnes. “Remember what you did today. If you get in a situation that makes you nervous, confront it, like you just did with Stuart.”

  “But what if it makes him meaner?”

  “Then you do the same. Get mad. Let your emotions loose. Confront your fears.”

  Yeah. Hurt him.

  Agnes leaned back in her chair. “Is it all right to hurt someone on purpose?”

  Oh, yeah.

  “You don’t have to hurt anyone. You can confront without getting physical. But it’s all right to defend yourself against anyone who tries to hurt you. You need to keep control of the situation. It isn’t all right to hurt someone for no reason. Or for fun.”

  Bullshit. It’s all right to hurt men. Men hurt women.

  “I don’t know.”

  April put her pencil down. “Didn’t it just work with Stuart? People like him who try to intimidate are easily intimidated themselves. It takes a little inner strength, but you have it. You have a lot of good in you. Stand upfor that good.”

  Agnes smiled. “I have a confession. I didn’t feel bad after I hurt Stuart’s foot. It made me feel kind of good.”

  Good girl.

  April picked up her pencil and wrote.

  “And I had a new dream that night,” Agnes said.

  April stopped writing. “What kind of dream?”

  “Seagulls were flying around the cliffs over the ocean. They didn’t beat their wings. They just rode the air currents, dipping and gliding. They circled and dipped, like they were on a roller coaster. And I was with them. Flying. Floating. Dipping and looping. I was smiling, and they smiled back.”

  “How did it make you feel?”

  “I felt good. Peaceful.”

  “Have you had the dream more than once?”

  Agnes’s eyes drifted upward, toward the ceiling. “No. Just once. But it was so vivid. I remember every second of it. It makes me feel good to remember it. It was so … relaxing.”

  April wrote. “Why did it feel relaxing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it a feeling of relief?”

  “Maybe, but it felt like something else.”

  April put her pencil down again. “Freedom? Was it a feeling of freedom?”

  Agnes frowned at the ceiling. “Freedom. That maybe it. But not from this place. From something else.”

  April put both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Freedom from Lilin?”

  Freedom from Stuart the Stud.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  April reached for her attaché and slid the tablet and pencil inside. She pushed her chair back and smiled. “Agnes, I think you’re in the process of a major breakthrough. You’re starting to realize that you can handle stressful situations. You’re starting to show some real emotion. And your dream underlines it all. Freedom is the key. Freedom from your past. Freedom for your future. I’m so proud of you.” She stood. “I can’t wait for next week’s session.”

  Agnes remained seated. Her smile pushed at her ears. “Thank you, Dr. Leahy. I feel better today than I have in a long time.”

  April tip-tapped out of the conference room and across the Day Room. The door closed slowly behind her.

  Agnes stood and walked to the conference room door. She walked out and closed it behind her. In the window, she saw her reflection and she liked what she saw. Her eyes were bright, her mouth turned upward at the corners. She didn’t see the scared look of the past several days. She didn’t see the nearly constant quivering of her lower lip. She didn’t see Stuart coming.

  She barely turned her head before a hand pushed onit, crashing it into the window. The glass shattered, but the safety film kept if from showering the floor. Stuart pulled her head back and shoved it into the glass again. The window bowed inward, and a few shards fell into the conference room. A warm trickle heated Agnes’s forehead. Stuart raised his knee and thrust it into her lower back. She half collapsed and grabbed the doorknob to stop the fall.

  Her head spun as the room light spiraled down. She heard screams. Someone pulled Stuart away, and she collapsed against the door. She turned the knob and crawled in, pushing the door closed behind her. Shutting out the commotion. Shutting out the hurt.


  The room lights ramped up to an unbearable glare. And then the pain came.

  Pick it up. Put it in your pocket.

  She was No One.

  CHAPTER 14

  April opened the refrigerator and grabbed the half-full bottle of Pinot Noir by the neck. She yanked the cork from the bottle, and the pop echoed in the quiet condo. This Pinot was one of her prizes, or was it? Just what did she have in her refrigerated storage locker across town? A collection of favorite wines or a collection of carefully selected excuses? She tipped the neck of the bottle toward the goblet but stopped.

  Circular behavior. She’d used that very phrase with a patient the previous afternoon.

  She cocked her arm, the bottle still grasped by the neck, and turned toward the breakfast nook. She wanted to throw it, to smash it against the off-white walls and earth-tone ceramic tiles. Make them bleed red. The religious tie between blood and wine came to her, and she chuckled. Maybe that was what she needed: a good old-fashioned bloodletting.

  She turned back, lowered the bottle mouth to the goblet, and glugged it full. The bottle clinked on the marble countertop. The cork remained on the counter.

  She pulled the goblet to her mouth so fast the wine nearly spilled. A large mouthful rimmed her upper lip and filled her mouth, but she didn’t swallow. The wine swished through her gritted teeth, bulging one cheek, then the other. She spat it in the sink.

  She tipped the goblet forward and let loose the stem. The goblet fell into the sink, and a large, smile-shaped piece broke free, setting off a treble beep from the security system glass-break detector. Good thing the system wasn’t armed. On the other hand, maybe that would have been appropriate. The injured goblet bled the sink red.

  A shove, and the bottle followed the goblet into the sink. It didn’t shatter on the porcelain, but it finished off the goblet with another treble beep.

  April jogged down the hall to the powder room and simultaneously hit the light and fan switches. The bright glare, desirable for doctoring a morning face, always hassled a morning-after face with a bad case of the realities. Today the glare made her look ugly. And the drone of the fan seemed more like a fighter jet coming in for a strafing run. Even the vanilla-tinged potpourri seemed a bit too strong.