Bound by Suggestion

by L.L. Bartlett

  “Jeff doesn’t need a shrink, least of all Krista Marsh. And I’m sorry. I have been a bastard lately.”

  “A behavior you’re going to stop, right?”

  Richard took her in his arms. “Yes. Now, can we kiss and make up?”

  “Well, okay.” She gave him a quick kiss. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. And again. Coming up for air, she pushed him away. “I’ve got to finish this cake.”

  Brenda turned back to the counter and picked up a pastry bag, plopping a blob of pink tinted frosting into it. She twisted it until it leaked from the other end. “I wish Maggie was doing this. She does beautiful work.”

  “That was her on the phone a few minutes ago. She wants me to check on Jeff.”

  “Good idea.” Brenda squirted icing on a square of waxed paper, turned it, squirted, turned it again and again until a limp mass formed that might have been a rose. “Drag him over here, will you? I don’t like the idea of him lying around up there all alone and depressed.”

  “All right. But, couldn’t I have one more kiss?”

  Brenda sighed. “A woman’s work is never done.” She set the pastry bag aside and turned. “Pucker up, baby.”

  Do it do it do it do it do it do it do it!

  Hands clamped over my ears, I willed the waves of self-destructive forces bubbling through me to go away.

  Leave me alone.

  Get the hell away from me!

  The force cranked up the volume.

  I jumped up from the couch, pacing the floor. I needed something.

  I needed someone.

  Maggie!

  Brenda!

  Richard!

  No one would come. No one could know, feel the icy fingers picking at my will, urging me to—

  I marched past the dining table, heading for the bathroom, and tripped over Herschel.

  The black cat turned glowing eyes on me, hissing, his back arched like some kind of Halloween cliché.

  He knew. And he couldn’t stop me.

  I made it to the bathroom and flipped on the light switch. The cabinet door was ajar, just as I’d left it. I took out the first bottle of pills and struggled to remove the child-proof cap. Why couldn’t I find the strength to dump them down the toilet?

  The pills spilled into my palm. Pink ones. Eight left. I remembered the time I’d lost count and took six in one morning—how sick I’d been.

  I shoved them in my mouth, struggling to swallow. No good. As I filled the plastic tumbler with water, I crunched a few of them to bitter powder, then drank until it all went down.

  The second bottle had four tablets. I dumped them in my mouth, drank again, and swallowed them whole.

  I lost count of the pills and ran out of water by the time I got to the last vial.

  The misery that had filled me for so long was suddenly, wrenchingly gone, leaving me an empty husk. Even the pesky voice in my head ceased its chatter.

  I closed the medicine cabinet door. A haggard stranger looked back at me from the mirror. Drawn face, red vacant eyes, stubbled chin.

  I looked away.

  Someone banged on the door. Herschel flew across the hardwood floor to my bedroom.

  “Jeff? It’s Richard. Open up.”

  I stood frozen. A dribble of water ran down my chin.

  “Jeff!” he called again.

  Absently, I wiped at my mouth.

  I heard the door jerk open. He had a key, too.

  “Jeff! Where the hell are you?” Richard yelled, sounding panicked.

  “In the bathroom.”

  “Hurry up,” he said, this time sounding more calm. “I want to talk.”

  I ran the tap, enough to fill the glass an inch, and choked down the last of the pills. With great care, I set the tumbler on the side of the sink.

  I walked out of the bathroom, only slightly unsteady on my feet, feeling like a drunk under a cop’s scrutiny. I made it to the couch, flopped down, trying to give the impression of fatigue, which didn’t take phenomenal acting skills.

  Lecture time, and Richard looked psyched to give one.

  “Maggie called a few minutes ago.”

  My head jerked up.

  “She was frantic,” Richard continued. “You said you were in trouble.”

  How could she know? Oh, God, did she still care?

  Oh, fuck—it was already too late.

  I looked away. “I’m okay.”

  “Jeff, what the hell is going on with you?”

  I looked up at him, feeling like a bad little boy. Yeah, I was that. His penetrating gaze bore into me, causing the guilt to swell. “Nothing. I’m . . . just a nothing.”

  The birthday card stood at attention on the end table. I reached to turn it over, didn’t want him to see it. My throat tightened with emotion. I didn’t—couldn’t—look at my brother. Regret, angst—you name it. Right about then, I was feeling just about every negative emotion known to man.

  “What’s with you lately?” Richard pressed.

  “Nothing that very little time won’t cure.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. And that stunt you pulled last night, walking home in the rain—”

  “I couldn’t stay any more. But I won’t put you in that position again.”

  Richard paced up and down in front of me, filled with nervous energy, which wasn’t like him. “Come on, you can come up with something better than that, can’t you? How about what’s really eating you?”

  “Okay, I’ll level with you.” I took a breath, feeling shaky. I didn’t realize it would hit me this fast. “I’m tired of it—all of it. I can’t take these visions anymore. Can’t take knowing how everybody else feels when nobody knows—or cares—how I feel.”

  “Don’t give me that, I’ve spent the last year trying to convince you to get some help—to investigate the problem. You’ve got no other choice but to learn to live with it.”

  “I have a choice,” I muttered. Taking a breath, I spoke deliberately. “And I’m taking it.”

  Richard frowned. “I know you’ve been depressed since Maggie left, but you’ve got to get past it. She wouldn’t want you tearing yourself apart like this. I want to help, Jeff. Let me.”

  “You can’t bail me out with your checkbook this time.” I couldn’t look him in the eye. This wasn’t Richard’s fault. None of it was his fault and I was damned if the last thing I ever did was to lay a guilt trip on him. He’d feel bad enough.

  Shit. I hadn’t thought this whole thing out—hadn’t remembered to leave a note. He’d always wonder. And Herschel—who’d take care of him? Dammit . . . why hadn’t I thought this through?

  A wave of giddiness came over me. I had to say something while I still had time—while I could still think.

  “Rich—”

  The room took a nosedive. Gasping, I fell back against the couch. “Oh . . . hell.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t . . . feel so good.”

  He crouched before me, cupped my chin, and looked me in the eye. “How much have you had to drink today?”

  “Nothin’,” I said, my words already beginning to slur. “Prob’ly all those pills.”

  Sudden terror filled his eyes. “What did you say?”

  “Not your fault.” I tried to pat his shoulder, but missed. “‘s okay, Rich . . . it’ll be okay.”

  Richard straightened, stalked off for the bathroom. I thought about all those empty vials standing on the back of the sink. Then he was back, his eyes wide with fury.

  “Jesus, Jeff—what the hell did you do?” He grabbed me by the yoke of my shirt, hauling me to my feet. “How much did you take?”

  His grasp kept me from reeling. “All of it.”

  Richard yanked me across the living room, knocking over a lamp, the pottery base shattering in a hundred pieces.

  He dragged me to the kitchen sink, shoved his finger down my throat, pressed hard on the back of my tongue.

  My guts heaved. />
  He held me over the basin. Cold water splashed my face, jolting me. Choking, gasping—I couldn’t catch my breath. I struggled from his grasp but, weak as a kitten, tumbled to the floor, still barfing over myself and the cabinet doors.

  He grabbed me by the waistband, of my sweatpants and hauled me onto my knees. Vomit soaked my knees, the stench setting off another spasm of retching.

  “Why the hell did you do this?” His voice split my skull. “Why?”

  Gasping for breath, I sank to the cold tile floor. I heard him talking—on the phone? He must’ve plugged it back in.

  “Get over here with the ipecac! Jeff’s ingested half his medicine cabinet. Hurry!”

  Richard slammed the phone down in its cradle and was back, pushing me against the cabinet door, forcing me to sit. He grabbed my chin again, making me to look into his wide blue eyes.

  “When did you take the stuff?”

  Groggy, I struggled to pull away. He slapped me, hard, across the cheek.

  “When? When did you take it?”

  “Before . . . jus’ before you got here.”

  Brenda came crashing through the door. “Did you call 911?”

  “I made him vomit. There wasn’t time for much to get in his system. I think he’s drunk.”

  “You think? For God’s sake, Richard, call an ambulance!”

  “No! We’ll handle this. Help me get him into the bathroom. We’ve got to make sure his stomach’s empty.”

  They each took one of my arms, hauled me up on wobbly legs—dragged me into the bathroom. I came over all cold, though sweat poured off of me. They let me sit, slumped in front of the shower, then Richard forced some vile-tasting stuff down my throat, holding my mouth shut, making me swallow it.

  He held a tumbler of water. “Drink this.”

  “Will you lower your voice,” Brenda grated at him. “Come on, Jeffy. Drink it down.” She placed my fingers around the glass, guided it to my mouth.

  “Drink it,” Richard ordered. “All of it.”

  I did as I was told.

  My hands were shaking as Brenda took the glass away. Richard turned on the water, angled the showerhead so it sprayed the corner away from me.

  My lungs couldn’t get enough air. I began to hyperventilate.

  I twisted away from Brenda as the retching began again. Richard braced himself against the wall, his other arm encircling my waist, holding me over the drain while Brenda held my head, wiped my mouth with a damp washcloth.

  “Jeffy, why’d you do this?” she pleaded.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped between heaves. “Sorry . . . .”

  But I wasn’t.

  Only sorry they’d stopped me.

  The water kept running. Spent, I sank against the shower wall, shivering, but Richard wouldn’t let me rest. “Come on. You’re going to walk.”

  “Le’me alone.” I tried to pull away, but he was bigger and stronger than me.

  He was always better than me.

  “Brenda, get him a blanket.”

  So tired . . . all I wanted to do was sleep, but he kept marching me up and down the living room. Six steps, turn. Six steps, turn. A blanket was thrown over my shoulders. Richard kept talking—anger gushing from him.

  “How could you do this to yourself? Why did you let things go this far? Why didn’t you come to us?”

  “Rich, why are you so upset? I should be upset. You ruined everything.”

  “You go out of your way to be miserable, you know that? You don’t want to be happy!”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Is it?”

  Back and forth—back and forth. My slippered feet shuffled across the hardwood floor.

  I lost track of time.

  After a while, we paused in our march. Richard sat me on one of the wing chairs, and Brenda wrapped my hands around a warm cup. “Drink it down, Jeffy.”

  Our eyes met, Fear had tightened her face. I couldn’t bear to see the pain I’d caused her. I looked away, took a sip and winced at the bitter, black coffee. “I can’t—”

  “Yes you can. Drink it,” Richard ordered.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Richard crouched before me, his face contorted with anger. “Don’t you get it? Because I love you! What did you think?”

  Tears brimmed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  It was an honest answer. At that moment, I truly did not know.

  I took another sip of coffee, my hands shaking. Sweat trickled down my temple. I set the cup on the cocktail table and pushed the blanket from my shoulder, wishing they’d open a window.

  “What the hell?” Richard grabbed my hand and extended my arm, exposing the bruises at the crook of my elbow. “Those are needle marks. What the hell are you into?” he demanded, new rage filling his voice.

  I yanked my arm back. “Nothing!”

  “Then where did you get them?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Brenda knelt before me. “Let me see.”

  I surrendered my arm to her gentle touch.

  Her thumb brushed the tender skin. “They’re days old.” She looked up at Richard, who towered above us. “They’re on his right arm.”

  Richard just blinked.

  “He’s right handed,” she stressed. “Jeffy didn’t do this.”

  “Then who’s helping you shoot up?”

  “No one!”

  “When was the first time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you first notice the bruises?”

  Unable to think—unwilling to speculate—my gaze shifted to the floor. The holes in my memory, the feelings that had been haunting me welled up, threatening to engulf me. I blotted them out of my mind, didn’t want to confront them, because if I did—

  “What’s Krista been giving you?” Richard demanded.

  I shook my head, wouldn’t look at him.

  “Jeff, what have you been doing?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  I didn’t know.

  Chapter 18

  “You’ve only been back five minutes, and that’s the third time you’ve checked his pulse,” Brenda said, leaning against the doorjamb of Jeff’s bedroom. “He’s over the hump, now.”

  Taking a step back, Richard replaced the sleeping Jeff’s wrist on the bed. “I know, but he breathes so damned shallowly, it’s hard to tell he’s still alive.”

  Brenda moved to stand beside him. “You’ll be a nervous wreck when the baby comes.”

  She was right.

  “What story did you tell Fred when you gave him Jeff’s blood and urine samples?”

  Richard and Fred Schmitt, the hospital lab’s manager, went way back. Long enough to call in a favor.

  “Overdose. Prominent citizen. No publicity.”

  “Then you slipped him a hundred.”

  “Brenda!”

  She’d known him too long—saw right through him.

  “He wouldn’t take any money,” Richard admitted.

  Brenda pursed her lips, her face filled with disapproval. “But he’ll call with the results.”

  “It isn’t the first time he’s done this for a staff member.” Richard stared down at Jeff, who lay curled on his side. What if he hadn’t listened to Sophie and Maggie? What if he’d kept making phone calls? What if?

  “I guess it’s easier on my conscience to think of Jeff as a patient than my brother,” Richard admitted, and glanced at his wife, looking for compassion. Instead, a muscle twitched along her jaw.

  “I made a pot of tea. Come have a cup,” she said, and left the room.

  Tea was the last thing Richard wanted. A nice, neat scotch would do about now. But he couldn’t afford to dull his senses, to indulge his own desires when someone else needed him more.

  Richard switched off the lamp, but hesitated, straining to hear Jeff’s quiet, regular breathing. What was it he felt more? Guilt, or anger?

  He was no longer sure.

  Brenda sat at the dining
table. A delicate bone china tea set—minuscule, purple pansies dotting a stark, white background—sat before her. She poured.

  “Maggie bought this,” Brenda said, answering his unasked question. “She wanted him to have pretty things, too.”

  Just another reminder of that failed relationship. But then just about everything in the apartment had Maggie’s stamp on it. Jeff hadn’t changed a thing.

  “She’ll be back,” Sophie had said.

  Not if he kills himself first, Richard thought.

  A quick glance around the room told him order had been restored. Thanks to Brenda’s efforts, the kitchen gleamed, the broken lamp was in the trash, the blanket neatly folded on the couch, belying the chaos earlier when, just to be certain, they’d torn the apartment apart looking for drugs. Richard poured all Jeff’s photo chemicals down the sink, emptied every drawer—even checked the toilet tank. He didn’t find anything. Neither did Brenda.

  “How long do you plan to baby-sit him?”

  Richard took a sip. He didn’t like Brenda’s tone. “He can move back in with us for a few weeks. Until I’m sure—”

  “What? That you can trust him again?”

  Richard stared into his cup. He never really liked the stuff.

  Brenda’s dark eyes met his. “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know.” Richard rubbed his eyes. “How could I have so badly underestimated the depth of his depression? For him to try this—”

  “Are you kidding? He was ripe for it.” She leaned forward. “Since he lost his career, he’s practically been in social isolation. He’s had continual health problems since the mugging, and he just broke up with Maggie.”

  “But he’s already in another relationship,” Richard countered.

  “You’re confusing sex with love. Krista doesn’t mean a thing to him. He thought of Maggie as his soul mate.”

  Sophie had said the same thing.

  Richard shook his head. “Maggie told me she still loves him.”

  “She does. But she had doubts. He couldn’t accept that.” Brenda paused. “And Maggie’s too proud to admit she isn’t happy with Doug.”

  “What a waste.”

  “Jeffy’s a complicated man with a lot of problems—both physical and emotional.”

  Brenda was right about that.