by Anise Eden
I was no use to my boss, no use to my clients, and no use to my friends it seemed. Simone would never admit it, but rather than a true friend, I was becoming the shut-in whom she visited out of the goodness of her heart. Even Sid had said that he was beginning to worry about me.
And then there was Ben. I didn’t know what to think about him anymore. Was I just a trick pony to the MacGregors, someone who conveniently fit all of their program needs and checked all of their weird, superstitious boxes? I was still so furious with Ben for lying to me—not to mention threatening me with hospitalization and handcuffs—that as far as I was concerned, Rockville wasn’t nearly far enough away.
In spite of my outrage, though, I couldn’t quite convince myself that the feelings between us weren’t real. All I had to do was picture the look on his face when he had seen me nearly dying, or remember how it felt earlier that day when I was in his office, backed up against the bookshelf, and the portal between us had opened…
Disappointment hung like a millstone around my neck, and I knew that I only had myself to blame. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I had allowed myself to hope for a few moments that someone could actually fix whatever was wrong with me and I could have a normal life, maybe even a normal relationship. The final verdict was in: happiness and contentment were for other people, people who weren’t weak, broken, and freakish.
My mood was scraping bottom. I thought about writing some more practice suicide notes; that had proven oddly soothing in the past. But having Ben read one of them back to me made me realize what an unhealthy and macabre coping mechanism that was. I decided to act as my own therapist for once and try some of the self-care techniques I had recommended to my clients.
I tried unsuccessfully to distract myself by reading. Then I tried watching TV. Then I fixed myself my favorite dinner of steak and cheese, since I no longer felt any obligation to stick to the program’s vegetarian requirements, or any of their other rules for that matter. I enjoyed the meal for as long as it lasted, but once I finished, my misery reasserted itself.
If the techniques I usually recommended weren’t working, it occurred to me that I should try some more conventional means of numbing emotional pain. They might not be healthy, but at that point I didn’t much care as long as they were effective.
Alcohol? No. I had tried that before, so I knew it didn’t work unless I drank a lot—and if I had more than two or three drinks, I would wake up hung over and feeling worse than ever.
Drugs? Thanks to some of my clients, I knew where to get them. But thanks to the same clients, I knew that drugs bought off the street could be laced with anything from rat poison to cyanide. I didn’t have any prescription drugs other than the pills Dr. Nelson had given me, and while they put a damper on my anxiety, they didn’t lift my mood.
There was always my usual go-to: ice cream. But the steak and cheese had more than filled me up, and my stomach felt like lead. I didn’t think I could eat more if I tried.
“Argh!” I yelled in frustration, not even caring whether the neighbors heard. I felt like I was going to climb out of my skin. I decided a hot bath might help. I made it scorching hot and threw in some vanilla-scented bubbles. I lowered myself in like a lobster into a pot. The sensory overload distracted me, giving me some relief—that was, until the water grew tepid.
I dried myself off and wiped the steam off of the bathroom mirror—then jumped, thinking for a moment that I’d seen my mother’s ghost. Then I realized that I was just coming to resemble her more and more as time went on.
I opened the mirror to examine the contents of the medicine cabinet, thinking that I might give myself some kind of spa treatment. But there, next to the assorted samples of mud masks and cucumber peels, I saw it—my suicide kit. The two bottles of over-the-counter pills my Internet research had told me would do me in, especially when combined with the pint of rum I had stashed in the kitchen.
The pill bottles just sat there—unopened, seemingly benign. But what are they doing there? I forced myself to consider the question. They weren’t medications I needed. I remembered tossing them into my cart during my last two a.m. grocery store run, but I couldn’t pinpoint the thought process behind that decision. It was one thing to research suicide online, but quite another to actually go about procuring the means.
Maybe Ben was right. Maybe I had been deceiving myself, thinking that those suicide notes were just for practice. Maybe my mother’s spirit was right, too, and I was actually at risk of following in her footsteps.
Maybe I did need help, after all.
Feeling vaguely nauseous, I double-timed it down the stairs and sat on the couch, wanting to put as much space as I could between myself and those pill bottles. I felt like I should call someone—but who? Certainly not Ben—not after what had happened that morning. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, even if I did call him, he’d probably tell Pete to hogtie me and throw me in the back of the pickup truck until he got back from Rockville.
I could call Simone, but it was Thursday afternoon, which meant that she was leading back-to-back groups—and she was doing it solo, thanks to the fact that I was too pathetic to work. I called her cell anyway, knowing it would go straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message because I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t worry her, but it helped a little to hear her voice.
There was only one other person I could think of to call. I got Sid’s voicemail, too, so I decided to try texting him.
me: hey sid
Proving to me that there was in fact a God, Sid replied immediately.
sid: hey sexy
me: whatcha doin
sid: inventory, yawn
me: sorry…can you take a break to talk?
There was a long pause, and for a moment, I was afraid the connection had been dropped. Then, a reply:
sid: would you rather i come over? it would be a good excuse for me to get out of counting rugs. i could say i have a friend in crisis…
A strangled laugh escaped my throat.
me: you kind of do
The next thing I knew, my phone was ringing. The second I answered, Sid asked, “What’s wrong, Cate?”
“Hello to you, too.” I swallowed hard. “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just…I don’t know. That program I started isn’t really working out.”
“You don’t sound good,” he said, his voice low and intense. “It’ll take me an hour to get there. Will you be okay until then?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Still have that card deck?”
In spite of everything, I smiled. “Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way. Now everyone thinks I’m a perv.”
“As well they should.” I could tell he was trying to make me laugh, but worry had sucked the humor out of his voice. “Just stay put. I’ll be there in no time.”
I went up to my room just long enough to put on my bathrobe and slippers. Then I lay on the couch and tried to meditate, focused on holding body and soul together until Sid arrived.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As soon as I opened the door, Sid was inside, shutting it quickly behind him. He looked me over like he was examining his car after a fender-bender and didn’t like what he saw. Then he pulled me into a tight embrace and placed a decidedly platonic kiss on the top of my head. “Hey, sexy,” he said with about as much erotic charge as I would have expected if he were visiting me in the hospital. “You had me worried.”
“Sorry,” I said as I slipped my arms around him and squeezed back. Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, he was more casually dressed than I’d ever seen him—inventory-taking clothes, I guessed.
After a few more moments, Sid walked over to the bay window, separated the blinds with his fingers, and peered outside.
“What is it?” I asked. “Are they ticketing cars?”
“No, no.” He waved me over and pointed out the window. “But I think that cowboy might be stalking you.”
“What?” I leapt to the window and pul
led the blinds open. Sure enough, there was Pete’s truck, steer horns and all, parked on the corner of the cross street at the end of my block. I could just make out the shadowy shape in the cab: a tall, thin figure wearing a cowboy hat.
“Goddammit!” I yelled.
Sid straightened up and squared his shoulders as if preparing to go into battle. “I’ll go have a word with him.”
“No!” I grabbed him by the arm. “Thank you, Sid. I mean it. But there’s no need. He’s not stalking me.” I nearly spat out the words: “He’s babysitting me.”
“What? Why?”
My hands fisted. “Because Ben—the manager of that program I was going to—told him to, evidently.”
“Hmm.” Sid studied me as he ran a finger up and down the bridge of his nose. “And why would he do that?”
“Why does it matter?” I flung my arms into the air. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, of course.” He came over and took my hands. “Yours, always. But first you call and tell me you’re in crisis. One look at you tells me that is clearly the case. Then I find out that the people who are supposed to be taking care of you are concerned enough that they’ve put you under some kind of surveillance.” His eyes narrowed. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
The defensive part of me wanted to be angry at Sid, but I couldn’t quite manage it. After all, he had just dropped everything and driven an hour to check on me—and he’d offered to go confront a man he knew nothing about on my behalf. I interlaced my fingers with his and squeezed. “Yes,” I said. “I do want to tell you. But there is no way I’m going to be able to talk about anything until I get rid of that goddamned cowboy!”
Sid frowned. “You sure you don’t want any help?”
“No, thank you. I prefer to deal with this myself.” I scanned the room for a weapon, finally settling on the broken umbrella hanging from the coat rack.
“Uh, Cate,” Sid ventured, “you do realize that you’re wearing—”
But I was already out the door. Sid stepped out behind me.
“Okay, bathrobe it is!” he called.
“Back in a minute,” I shouted over my shoulder. I stalked down the street, swinging the umbrella. Pete must have seen me coming, because he climbed out of the truck and was closing the door when I arrived.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat at me.
I smacked the umbrella repeatedly against my palm like a teacher with a ruler. “Don’t give me that crap!” I shouted. “Ben told me he told you to keep your distance!”
Pete wore the wounded expression of the falsely accused. “I’m all the way at the end of the block! I can’t watch you from any further away. What do you want from me?”
“I want you out of here!” I whacked the umbrella on the truck’s bumper—which just further injured the umbrella.
Pete rubbed his chin. “I was wondering what you were plannin’ on doin’ with that.”
“Go! Away!” I pointed the umbrella at him, opening and closing it rapidly like I was trying to scare away a flock of pigeons.
Pete jumped and backed up toward the driver’s side door. “You know I can’t do that,” he said, holding his hands up defensively. “Ben told me to keep an eye on you!”
I twisted around and pointed at Sid, who was standing on my stoop watching the whole spectacle. “Well, as you can see, I have someone else to keep an eye on me now, so you are off the hook!”
Pete frowned in Sid’s direction. Then he pushed his hat up and rubbed his hairline.
“No, Pete,” I barked, “you do not get to think about this! This is not your decision!” I slapped the umbrella against my palm again. “If you don’t get out of here right now, I swear to God I’m going to call the police and tell them I have a stalker. That’ll put you at the station for a few hours at least. You won’t be able to keep any eye on anything from there!”
Pete spoke in a soothing singsong voice, the same one I imagined he used on nervous horses. “Now, Cate, come on—”
“I’m serious!” I took a step toward him and poked him in the chest with my finger. “You go back to the church and you tell Ben I said to stay the hell away from me, do you hear me?”
His eyes narrowed to slits as he looked up again at where Sid stood. “All right, sis.” Pete pushed his hat back into place. “Long as you got somebody here with you. Just take care of yourself. You know if anything bad happens, Ben’ll blame me.”
My anger ebbed slightly. Pete and I had sort of become friends over the past few days, and after all, he wasn’t the one I was really mad at. I reached over and opened the door of the truck. “I’ll be fine, Pete. I promise.”
He looked down at my umbrella. “Remind me to get you a can of mace.”
I gave him my best death glare. “Go!”
He tipped his hat to me again before climbing into the truck. I stepped back onto the sidewalk as his diesel engine rumbled to life and he disappeared down the street.
My task accomplished, I suddenly became self-conscious about the fact that I was standing outside on a clear day, wearing a white fuzzy robe and slippers and carrying an umbrella. I’d been so caught up in my showdown with Pete that I hadn’t noticed if there were any witnesses. I made a point of not looking into any of my neighbors’ windows as I padded back up the street, resembling nothing more than a gigantic, red-faced, poorly armed marshmallow.
Sid was smiling proudly as I walked up to the house. “I’m impressed,” he said, opening the door for me with a flourish. “I had no idea you were so lethal with an umbrella.”
I used the embattled weapon to smack him lightly on the leg, then put it back on the coat stand. I knew I should have felt some satisfaction at having got rid of Pete, but my earlier gloom began to overtake me again. I flopped down in the middle of the couch.
Sid’s playful expression quickly disappeared. He sat next to me, then invited me to lie down and rest my head in his lap. “Come, my dear. Talk to me.”
Even though that was why I’d called him in the first place, I hesitated. I hadn’t yet confided in Sid about the severity of the problems I’d been having since my mother’s death, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to burden our relationship with such heaviness. I also wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell him about the program. Maybe it was the caring in his voice or the way he looked at me, but in spite of my reservations, something loosened the hold I had been keeping on my misery and the words began to pour out.
Sid stroked my hair as I told him about the anxiety and depression I’d been fighting and confessed that I’d become a virtual recluse. I told him about some of the mind-blowing experiences I’d had at the program—minus the more bizarre details—and how they made sense to me and confused me, all at the same time. Pushing through my embarrassment, I even shared what I’d learned about empaths and catalysts, and how that might apply to Sid and me. I figured he had a right to know.
Then I told him about Ben. Sid listened in silence as I described how Ben and I argued frequently but still had feelings for each other—even though we hadn’t acted on them yet. I shared how devastated I’d felt that morning when I learned that Ben and the others had lied to me, and that I was being forced to leave my job and my clients. I explained how that conversation had ended badly, which was probably why Ben had asked Pete to keep an eye on me.
Sid’s hand stopped in mid-hair stroke. “What was he afraid might happen?”
“I don’t know,” I lied, not wanting to worry him even more. Besides, the point seemed moot. Being with Sid seemed to have chased away my dark mood and morbid thoughts—temporarily, at least. Maybe his catalyst energy was working its magic. Or maybe it was just the everyday magic of actually breaking down and confiding in someone who cared about me.
“I see.” I could tell from his tone that Sid knew I was keeping something from him, but he opted not to press me further. “That’s quite a tale, my dear. Fortunately, you happen to be talking to someone who is remarkably open-minde
d. Still, I had no idea that your life was so full of drama and intrigue—outside of our entanglement, that is.”
“It wasn’t…not until recently.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that.” He winked. “I’m just glad that you finally told me what’s going on. You’ve certainly been holding your cards close to the vest.”
I nestled in closer to him. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“What worries me is when I can tell something’s wrong but you’re not talking about it—and make no mistake, I can always tell.”
“Okay. From now on, I promise to tell you if something’s wrong.” I smiled up at him.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He brushed a piece of hair away from my face. “How are you feeling now?”
“Much better, thanks to you.”
“Glad to hear it.” He squeezed my shoulder. “There is still one thing that concerns me, though.”
“What’s that?”
“It has to do with matters of the heart,” he said gently. “You and I have been carrying on for several years now, and in spite of the fact that talking is not how we spend the bulk of our time, I like to think that I know you pretty well. After all, I am your…catamaran? Catastrophe? What am I again?”
“Catalyst.” I batted him on the arm, then felt another pang of guilt as I realized what conclusions he might have reached. “You know you’re much more than that, right?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, looking darkly amused. “Your body tells me frequently and in convincing detail.”
My face flushed with heat. Sid placed his hand on my forehead for a few seconds as though checking for fever. “As I was saying, as your catalyst, I probably know you better than most people do. My point is that it sounds to me as though this Ben person cares about you quite a bit. I mean, he must, if he sent this cowboy to watch over you.”
