by Sandra Moran
“It’s me,” he said irritably. “Let me in.”
I closed the door, removed the chain, and then opened the door fully. His gaze took in my ratty track sweats, T-shirt, and bunny slippers.
“Where have you been? You realize you’ve missed class three times this week and—”
“Could you take off your shoes?” I interrupted. “They’ve been outside.”
He glanced down at his feet, sighed, and then slipped off his loafers.
“Birdie, I’m starting to get a little worried about you.” He never used my childhood nickname. “You’re missing classes. You never leave the apartment and now you’re . . .” He gestured at my outfit. “I don’t know what you’re doing.”
He walked past me into the living room where I had been lying on the couch watching hour six of a twelve-hour L.A. Law marathon on Lifetime. The coffee table was littered with Diet Coke cans, the remnants of my scrambled egg breakfast, half of a turkey sandwich, and an empty potato chip bag. I stood in the doorway, my arms crossed.
“Rebecca, talk to me. You haven’t been the same since Adelle’s—” he paused and then amended his statement “—since what happened to Adelle.”
I sniffed and wiped at my nose. “I have the flu.”
“No, you don’t,” he said sharply. “That’s a lie. You’re becoming a, I don’t know, a recluse and I think you need help.” He gestured at the television. “I mean, you’re watching Lifetime, for god’s sake. How much worse can it be?”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I snapped.
“Doesn’t it?” He tipped his head to the side. “Seriously, and be honest, how many made for television movies with Melissa Gilbert have you watched this week?”
I blushed.
“Exactly,” he said. “I think this thing with Adelle brought up a lot of suppressed issues for you. Things from when you were a kid. And rather than dealing with them, you’re, well—” he spread his arms wide “—you’re doing this.”
“I’m fine,” I said, angry that he had brought up my drunken confession.
“I don’t believe you.” He picked up the remote and turned off the television. “I’ve talked to Adelle. She said you’re up all night, that you’re skipping classes, that you’re spraying everything down with Clorox. What’s that about?”
I shrugged.
“Sweetie, you need help,” he said. “You can’t keep up like this. You look like hell warmed over and I think you need to talk to someone.”
“I don’t.”
“You do and you will. Today. I’ve made an appointment for you at the mental health center. It’s free.”
“I’m not going,” I said firmly. “Thank you, but I don’t believe in psychiatry and I don’t want to talk to anyone about this. I can handle it on my own.”
Roger crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “No. I don’t think you can. And if you don’t agree to do this, I’m going to call your mother and tell her exactly what has happened and what I think is going on. I probably should do that anyway.”
Following my parents divorce, my mother had fully come into her own. She cut and dyed her hair, began to take art lessons, and started seeing a psychologist. At first, my sister Tara and I were shocked.
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” Her tone had been defiant. “In fact, Birdie, I think you would benefit from it, too.”
“I don’t need therapy.”
“There aren’t . . . things you want to talk about?”
“I don’t want to talk about anything,” I said. “All I want to do is get on with my life.”
It had become a point of contention—so much so that I had taken to letting my mother’s calls go to the machine. Given how anxious she was to have me see someone, the last thing I needed was Roger to contact her with his concerns.
“Roger,” I said quickly. “Please don’t do that.”
“If that’s what has to happen, then I will,” he said simply. “Your choice.”
Laura, the therapist, was much younger than I had anticipated—and much more pleasant.
“I appreciate you seeing me,” I said as I settled into the seat across from her. “But I need to be honest with you. I didn’t want to come here and I don’t think I really need your help.”
“Okay.” She pushed an errant lock of dark hair behind her ear and studied my face. “So, then, why are you here?”
I sighed. “I’m here because I didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. I know that sounds defensive, but my friend kind of . . . bullied me into coming.”
“Ummm,” Laura said. “And how did your friend do that? Or maybe I should ask why did your friend do that?”
“He threatened to tell my mother about some of the things I’ve been doing that seem a little . . . weird.”
Laura nodded and pushed her glasses up on the top of her head.
“Weird, how?” she asked and then quickly added, “Not that you have to tell me, though it wouldn’t hurt anything.”
I looked at her and smiled knowingly. “I know what you’re doing.” I waved my index finger. “You’re trying to get me to talk by pretending not to care if I talk.”
Laura laughed and held up her hands. “You caught me, red-handed. Reverse psychology.”
I smiled, sincerely this time. “I didn’t expect you to give up so easily.”
Laura shrugged. “You’ve already made up your mind. I can only offer you help if you want it. If you don’t, well, then I can’t force you to talk about what’s going on. I will tell you, though, that if your friend went to these lengths to get you to come, he’s concerned. And maybe you should look at what’s going on that causes that concern. But that’s your business.”
This was not what I had expected.
“So, you can leave right now or you can stay and talk for the rest of your—” she glanced down at the gold and silver watch on her wrist “—forty-eight minutes. It’s your decision. I do have to ask you a question before you go though—and I need you to answer honestly.”
“Okay.”
“Do I or your friends have any reason to worry that you are a danger to yourself or others?”
I felt my eyes widen and I recoiled in horror. “Oh my god, no,” I said quickly. “I would never hurt anyone else. And I’m not going to kill myself or anything. I’m just . . . sad. I’m not dangerous.”
“Okay.” Laura scribbled something on the piece of paper in front of her. “Not knowing anything about you, I have to take you at your word.”
She slid the paper into the file on her lap and then placed the folder on the small table to her right. With a smile, she leaned back in her chair expectantly. “So, what would you like to do with your remaining—” she glanced again at her watch “—forty-six minutes?”
“Get out of here,” Grace’s voice whispered. The command was like a tickle at the back of my brain and it took everything I had to resist the urge to get up and run out of the room. Laura knew what to look for. She could—and would—sense that something was wrong with me if I spent too much time here.
“I probably should go home,” I said. “I don’t want to waste your time.”
Laura laughed. “It’s not a waste of my time. I have someone coming in after you, so I have to be here regardless. I have to tell you, though, I admire you for coming in today. I have a friend who is agoraphobic and she has to force herself to leave the house. She’s a certified recluse. If I want to see her, I have to go there.”
I wrinkled my face.
“I’m not agoraphobic. I just don’t like leaving my house. I had some things happen when I was a kid . . . a friend of mine was murdered. And then my friend Adelle was just raped on campus and it just . . . brought up some issues, you know? That’s all. But that’s normal. That’s not agoraphobia.”
Laura smiled kindly. “The world can be a scary place. There are a lot of people out there who aren’t so nice. How old were you when your friend was murdered?” She must have seen something
on my face because she held up her hands in a defenseless gesture. “Not for the file. You’ve made it clear you don’t want therapy.”
“I was eleven,” I said. I felt Grace’s anxiety but continued. “She was one of my two best friends.”
Laura shook her head. “Poor girl. Did they ever catch the man who did it?”
“No,” I said. “They had a couple of suspects, but no one they could ever pin it on.”
“That has got to be kind of scary for you,” Laura said. “To know that this man is still out there and then after what happened to your friend on campus—I can understand being apprehensive about going out. As women, we have to be extra cautious.”
I nodded. “Adelle is taking a self-defense class.”
“That’s your friend who was attacked.”
“My roommate, yeah. They still haven’t caught the guy who did that either. I mean, he could be anyone. He could be the guy sitting next to me in class. He could be the guy who checked me in today. He could be . . . anyone.”
Laura nodded.
“Is that what scares you—that the men who did these things to your friends are out there running around free? Looking for other victims?”
“Partially.” I looked past her at the bookshelves, then said, “But it’s more than that. I’m scared, yes. But, I’m also, I don’t know what it is. And I’m not sure I could survive something like that. Grace didn’t.”
Laura leaned forward. “And Grace was your childhood friend?”
I felt the tingle of Grace shifting her energy. As much as she wanted me to leave before I said too much, I could tell she was also interested in the conversation.
“Of course, you know Grace was just a girl,” Laura continued. “Her attacker was a lot stronger than she was. You’re a grown woman. There are things you can do to defend yourself.”
“I know. I just . . .” I fell silent and Laura sat, watching me, waiting for whatever I was going to say next. Grace too, was waiting. “Don’t do it,” she warned. “She will think you’re crazy.”
Despite her concerns, or perhaps because of them, I swallowed, took several calming breaths, and forced myself to speak. “I found her. I found Grace. At our tree house. In the woods. I found her body.”
“Oh, Rebecca.” Laura’s voice was kind. “It makes perfect sense, then, why what happened to Adelle has affected you to this extent. Did you, after you found Grace, did you go see anyone? A professional?”
I shook my head. “My mother wanted to take me to see someone, but my father thought it was a waste of money. He thought psychiatry was a load of crap that only fools buy into.” I glanced up. “Sorry.”
Laura grinned. “A lot of people from his generation think that—especially Midwesterners with their ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ frame of mind. My family still thinks I’m crazy for going into the profession.” She studied me for a few moments, as if debating whether or not to say something. “So, who have you talked to about it? Friends? Family members?”
“No one,” I said, rather more abruptly than I had intended.
Laura blinked. “No one? At all?”
“No.”
“Okay. What about some other kind of outlet? For example, do you write, maybe in a journal, or do some kind of art? A lot of people who have suffered traumatic childhood events work through it by painting or sculpting.”
I thought back to the day of Grace’s murder and how I had lied so I could sneak away to the Nest and draw. Since then, even the thought of drawing anything made my throat tighten. I shook my head. “I’m not artistic. I’m a business major. I don’t really like to write.”
“Okay, what about exercise? Do you work out? The university has a nice fitness center that’s free to students. You could take an aerobics class. Or maybe weight lifting. It might help with the anxiety.”
I felt myself recoil at the thought of touching the dirty, sweaty gym equipment and shook my head dismissively.
We sat in silence. The clock on her desk loudly ticked off the passing seconds.
“Well, I guess I should go,” I said finally and stood up. “Thank you and I’m sorry this was a waste of your time.”
“I can help you,” Laura blurted out. “I mean, I think I could help you if you wanted. Through therapy. And there are some medications that you could take for your anxiety and depression.”
“I’m not depressed.” The words came out more forcefully than I had intended. “I’m not depressed and I’m not agoraphobic and I’m not—I don’t need your help.”
Laura stood up and positioned herself between me and the door.
“I understand this is frightening,” she said. “But you’re not Grace. And you’re not Adelle. You’re Rebecca and you’re strong in your own way. We can work together to help you realize that.”
My scalp tingled with Grace’s energy. I cleared my throat and tried to nod as if I appreciated her offer.
“Thank you,” I said. “But I tend to agree with my father. I only came because I had no choice.” I paused and Laura waited for me to continue. “Look, I think you’re a nice woman, but I don’t need your help. I’m fine. I just need a little time to work through what happened to Adelle.”
Laura nodded and stepped aside. “Okay, but if you change your mind, I’m here. You don’t have to do this by yourself. And seriously, think about finding some sort of creative outlet for your anxiety. Even if it’s just, I don’t know, finger painting.”
She laughed and I forced my lips into a thin, polite smile. All I wanted to do was leave. “It was nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” Laura said. “Take care of yourself and—”
“I know,” I said as I walked toward the door. “I appreciate it. But I really think this is something I can handle on my own.”
Later that night as I lay in bed, I thought about my conversation with Laura. She seemed like a nice person and it was clear she wanted to help. But help with what? Or, perhaps better to ask, help with which issue? My fear of germs? How increasingly uncomfortable I was leaving the house? The fact that a dead girl seemed to be living within me? What would she have done if I had shared that little fact?
Grace laughed softly. I closed my eyes and tried to shut her out. Whereas in the past, her presence had been gentle and benevolent, as she became stronger, she also had become angrier and more cynical. I could tell she didn’t trust Roger. I had felt it before, but it was especially obvious when I came out of my appointment with Laura.
To ensure that I actually went, Roger had driven me to the appointment. As I stepped outside, I scanned the parking lot. His white Ford Escort was still in the ten-minute parking even though I had been inside much longer. I walked over and pulled open the passenger-side door. Roger had reclined the seat back and was listening to NPR. He jerked in surprise.
“So?” He released the seatback to its upright position.
“So?” I mimicked as I climbed in and buckled my seatbelt.
“What did you talk about? How was it?”
I shrugged. “We talked about what’s going on and she agreed that I am simply dealing with what happened to Adelle in the best way I can. She didn’t seem to think I needed therapy or anything. Just rest.”
Roger studied me suspiciously. “Really. So, you’re handling this like anyone would, huh?”
“That’s pretty much what she said. She said that if I ever wanted to talk about anything or had a real problem, that I could come back.”
“Hmm.” Roger started the car. “What would you say if I told you that I don’t believe you?”
“I would say that I appreciate your concern, but it’s none of your business. And, I would tell you that you’re wrong. I’m fine and Laura even said so.”
But as I lay awake that night, my chest tight and my heart racing with the familiar anxiety, I considered the possibility that I was going crazy. I knew Grace would reassure me that I wasn’t, but if she was a manifestation of the insanity, of course that’s what she would sa
y. I thought about my freshman psychology class. Did crazy people even know they were crazy? I ticked off my list of fears. Rape. Murder. Romantic intimacy. Germs. Leaving the apartment.
The thoughts swirled in my head even as I dozed—words superimposed with images. Faceless men stepped from the shadows. I was powerless. And then, as so often happened in my nightmares, I was back on the path that led to the Nest. The woods were eerily silent. The humidity was cloying. I felt as if I were drowning. I walked down the path and stood at the base of the small hill that led to the clearing. I knew what I was going to find. It was always the same.
Her back was to me, a white-blue ice sculpture. She did not yet have the swells of adulthood, although the angle at which she lay gave her a violin-like shape. It was Grace. I already knew that. The shock of the victim’s identity had worn off after years of having the same dream. Still, my heartbeat thundered in my ears. My hands tingled and grew numb. I felt sick. I felt weak, as if my legs were going to give out.
As had happened when I was eleven, I stepped closer. She was on her side, one leg pulled up, one leg extended. Her arms were hugged to her chest. On the foot of the leg that was extended was the only piece of clothing left on her body—that damned sock only partially on her foot.
I circled the body. There was blood everywhere—much more than I remembered. I looked at her face, which was mostly covered by her hair. One eye was visible and it stared glassily at nothing. It was deep green with thick lashes. Its gaze was unwavering. I stared back, reacting only when the ant crawled across her eyeball. I stepped back. And then, unlike in any of my previous nightmares, Grace blinked.
“Oh my god, you’re alive,” I said breathlessly, amazed at this new development. “I thought you were dead, but you’re . . . you’re alive. Oh, Grace!”
In one smooth move, she sat up and brushed the hair from her face. “I’m not alive, Birdie.” She picked a leaf from her hair. “I’m dead. I was murdered when we were eleven. You know that.”
