Ethan held on to his answer until he was inside the older psychiatrist’s office. “Long enough to see the show. Little anger management session?”
Claussen laughed and shook his head. “Yes. The patient I called you about.”
Ethan turned back toward the door, a smile on his lips. “That was Asia Burdette?”
“In all her glory.” Claussen lowered himself into the deep leather of the chair behind his desk. He waved Ethan into the smaller seat across from him. “You read the file I sent you?”
Ethan placed a manila folder on the desk. The file had been short on details, but full of emotional impact. His amusement vanished. “That’s a lot of pain to carry. This was, what—three years ago?”
“You must have read about it in the papers.”
Ethan shook his head. He avoided the news whenever possible, and he’d had his own problems to deal with three years ago.
“Your intake interview mentioned an investigation.” He thought back over the file. “Faulty wiring caused the fire; the deaths were all due to smoke inhalation. It was an accident.”
“Yes, well. Asia blames herself, nonetheless. Her husband’s since divorced her. She joined my loss group last January.”
“I take it that hasn’t gone so well.”
Claussen winced. “It’s been a spectacular failure. Asia doesn’t have much patience, and she’s not afraid to speak her mind. Not that I can blame her—some of those patients are, shall we say, extremely difficult? She finally lost her temper in last night’s session. Probably set therapy for some of the others back a year.”
Ethan arched an eyebrow. “And she’s still angry this afternoon?”
“I told her I can’t keep her in the group. Though I’m not sure what she’s upset about. It’s not doing her any good anyway.” He blew out a breath. “That’s why I thought of you.”
“Is she even open to therapy at this point? What does she hope to get out of it?”
Claussen’s hands spread before him on the desk. “A good night’s sleep? She’s a borderline alcoholic. She’s obsessed with three hours of ‘lost time’ from the night of the fire. She’s perfect for you.”
“She believes she was Taken?”
“No, she doesn’t seem to have any theories about what happened. Still, I suspect she’s hiding something. And I thought it would be interesting to see if our methods worked on a patient who has no preconceived notions.”
Ethan studied the man who had been his mentor for more than ten years, noted the heavier jowls, the shock of gray hair now turning white. The steel-gray eyes were as sharp as ever, though, and it would be a mistake to think the old man had lost a step. He was used to taking on Claussen’s odd cases, the “alien abductees” in particular. Now, for the first time in their long association, the old man struck him as more than just professionally interested in a case. He found the hint of calculation in the doctor’s expression disturbing. Or was he just allowing the glimpse he’d had of Asia Burdette to affect him more than was appropriate?
He got to his feet and paced to the window. Below, the Institute’s parking lot was framed in spring-leafed trees and washed in Tennessee sunlight, but all he could see was a house—a life—consumed by orange flame.
“So what do you think, my boy?” Claussen rose from his chair to clap a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Can you help her?”
He nodded, not at all sure. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“Good.” Claussen smiled and showed him to the office door. “I gave her your card, but it may take her a while to make the call.”
Ethan remembered the way she’d looked at something in her hand and started to throw it away. His card. His lips ticked upward. “Whenever she’s ready.”
An endless rocky plain under a roiling purple sky. A choking haze of yellow smoke. What kind of place is this?
A shuffling, jostling fight to stay upright in a sea of bodies. Who are these others?
A room of cold stainless steel. Freezing metal against bare skin. No! Get away from me!
Hunger. Dark. And pain. Limitless, unrelieved pain.
The scream woke me. My voice, echoing in my ears. I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest, gasping for breath. I fought the fear, as I fought it every night. Still, it reached down and squeezed my heart until the blood running through my veins was ice cold.
I was on the floor. The phone was ringing. It took me a minute to realize what the sound was, another three rings to find the phone.
“Hello?” The sound of my voice was like gravel poured in a plastic cup.
“Jesus, Asia, are you all right? You sound like death warmed over.”
“Rita. Yeah, I’m . . . I’m okay, I guess. Why are you calling me?” I couldn’t find the clock. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway; my eyes refused to focus. The significant amount of alcohol in my system wasn’t helping.
“Because it’s 9:30 on Wednesday morning, and you’re not at work. That’s why I’m calling you. Are you sick?”
“Shit. Yeah.” My stomach lurched as my heart responded to the adrenaline surge, giving me a plausible excuse. “Been up all night with a stomach virus. Sorry. I meant to call in. Guess I didn’t hear the alarm.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, darlin’. You go on back to bed. There’s nothing going on here that we can’t handle. Take tomorrow off, too, if you need to. Lord knows you got enough sick days saved up. You want me to bring you some soup or something?”
Feeling like an asshole of the lowest order, I stuck with the lie. “No, thanks, Rita. Wouldn’t want you to catch this thing. I’m sure it’s just a 24-hour bug. I’ll be back in tomorrow. See you then.”
“Okay, hon. Hope you feel better.”
I hung up the phone and curled into a miserable ball there on the living room floor, surrounded by the evidence of my attempts to keep the nightmares at bay—the glass and an almost-empty bottle of Stoli, the last of my tiny stash of killer weed. No matter what I did—no matter how late I stayed up, no matter how much I drank or smoked—I couldn’t drive the images from my mind. And I couldn’t keep them from coming back, night after night.
I had long ago stopped reliving the true nightmare of my life in my sleep. A dream of consuming fire and the faces of my lost children would have been understandable, even expected. God knows I’d had enough of them in the years just after the fire—tortured, guilt-ridden, explainable creations of my psyche. But this nightmare of unseen terror had no rational explanation, yet it left me witless with fear every night.
My life was becoming a sinkhole with ever-steeper sides. I was no longer sure I could even maintain a grip on the edge, much less find a way to scramble to higher ground. The loneliness, the guilt, and now the dreams were sucking me down.
The tears I’d been holding back for weeks burst through in a flood. I was lost beyond any hope of finding my own way out. And I was so tired of wandering, alone in that wilderness of pain.
It took a while, but I cried myself out, sobbing until there was nothing left but the question of what the hell I was going to do. I got up and staggered into the kitchen to find my purse. I dumped the bag out on the counter and stood staring dully at the choices the universe had given me.
I had to think for a moment to remember just why my gun—a next-to-new Glock 27, carefully tended and fully loaded—came tumbling out of my purse. I shouldn’t have had to work that hard, really. The reason was still circulating in my bloodstream, slowing my thought processes. My preferred liquor store was in a bad part of town; I’d needed a refill late. I’d been packing when I went shopping.
Now, the Glock was a matter of choice. Use it and end all this shit. Or put it away and live with the pain.
I stood frozen, trembling like a rabbit in an open field, the hawk circling lazily above. Death was close, as close as the brush of wings, the rush of air, and no more under my control than that rabbit’s. I waited, wondering what Death would do, what I would do. An impulse, a twitch of nerves, traveled down my arm and int
o my hands. I picked up the gun.
But I didn’t use it. Instead, I pressed the release to let the magazine drop into my open palm. Then I ejected the cartridge from the chamber and, hands shaking, put the gun down again. I sank onto the closest stool at the counter, struggling to suck in air around the horror that was still clutching my throat. First the dreams. Now this. God help me. God, help me.
On the counter was the other choice I’d been given this bright, dangerous morning: a business card, crumpled and torn, the card that Claussen had given me. I wiped a sleeve across my face, took a deep breath, and made the call.
CHAPTER TWO
A week later I was pulling up in front of Dr. Ethan Roberts’ dark brick two-story on a narrow street overlooking Belmont Avenue. I got past the broad front porch and inside the hallway. Then I froze, not sure whether I was going to bolt. Why should this therapist be any different from the others?
The doors to the doctor’s office, in the former living room of the house, stood open, though there was no immediate sign of him. The big windows in the room let in the morning sunshine and a view of the overgrown garden lining the front sidewalk. He’d hung cut glass in the windows, filched from old chandeliers, to scatter the light into rainbows across the far wall. But that was the extent of his decorating talents. The heavy desk and lumbering, lumpy couch that served as furnishings for Roberts’ professional environment were obvious deserters from the Salvation Army.
A cramped office on the other side of the broad entryway belonged to Cindy, the doctor’s round, rosy-cheeked receptionist. I’d made my appointment with her. She waved at me, busy on the phone. I hesitated, wondering if I should take one of the chairs in front of Cindy’s desk.
Dr. Roberts himself emerged from a door at the back of the hallway—the rest of the house was apparently his home—to rescue me from my indecision. So, okay, the setting wasn’t overly impressive. The good doctor was a different matter entirely.
Ethan Roberts was the deluxe edition—his dark blond hair a little too long to be fashionable, his deep-set gray-blue eyes examining me with what seemed like X-ray vision, his strong jaw skimmed by the barest shading of beard, highlighting the cleft in his chin. He was a gypsy, a pirate, a swashbuckling hero in a loose sweater and tight-fitting jeans. Ethan Roberts was the one Mama warned you about. And he was supposed to be my therapist?
“You must be Ms. Burdette.” He held out a bear-paw of a hand; the handshake it offered was warm and enfolding, protective, comforting. Somewhere between my shoulder blades, muscles relaxed in response. The feeling was vaguely alarming, as if I’d already started spilling my secrets without opening my mouth. “Call me Ethan.”
“Asia,” I allowed in return.
“Welcome.” He smiled, revealing tiny laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “I see Cindy’s still tied up.” Cindy was murmuring with patient understanding to the phone, but her face showed exasperation. “We can deal with the paperwork later.”
He turned to lead the way into his office. I followed him, trying hard not to notice how those worn jeans seemed molded by long practice to his narrow hips, how that silky sweater clung to his broad shoulders. Oh, hell yeah. I was in trouble.
He waved me toward the couch and claimed the threadbare armchair beside it for himself. The couch was more comfortable than it looked, and was angled so he and I both had a view out the windows. The arrangement made me want to curl up with a book and a long afternoon. Or maybe with Ethan Roberts and a long afternoon.
“So, how long were you with Dr. Claussen?”
Small talk. He probably knew all the ugly details of my breakup with Claussen, but I figured I’d play along.
“Weekly sessions for about four months, plus the group. He was all right, I guess, but the group was a waste.”
Ethan laughed, a deep, intimate sound that made it seem as if we’d been friends for years. “Arthur indicated you didn’t have a lot in common with the other members of the group.”
“There was more to it than that.”
“Oh?”
I felt a flush of red creep up my neck. He was going to make me admit it.
“I said some things that weren’t very nice at the last group session. I guess I’d lost patience with the process.” I put little air quotes around the last two words.
Ethan tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “It’s possible your needs didn’t mesh well with those of others in the group. It happens.”
“Uh-huh.” I hoped we were finished with that subject. “What else did Dr. Claussen tell you about me?”
Ethan met the challenge without a flinch. “He said you’d had some significant trauma in your life and had built up quite a shell around it. That’s not so unusual. It’s not even particularly unhealthy. If that had been all there was to your case, Arthur would probably have kept at it for a while longer.”
“I doubt it.” I offered up a rueful smile. “I think my grand performance in group was the last straw. We weren’t getting anywhere.”
“Where is it you want to go?” All trace of smartass banter was gone from Ethan’s voice. The train of our conversation had suddenly switched tracks.
“Go?”
“Yes. Where do you want therapy to take you?” He waited, his gaze holding mine, finding a way in deep where I would have sworn he could see everything.
My mouth closed on the answer I was about to toss off, something along the lines of how I needed someone to talk to, blah, blah, blah. The real answer fluttered in my chest, but I refused to let it out. Ethan’s deep-sea eyes were warm and caring; his smile and his humor were disarming. But it was too early for me to trust him with everything. I didn’t know yet whether I could trust him with anything.
“I know about the fire, Asia,” he said after a moment. “I know about your children, and I’m so sorry.”
He moved closer, and I began to shake. “You suffered a horrible loss. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t still feel the pain of it. But you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who would lean too long on others—especially not on strangers. I think you would have taken this hit and found a way to keep going, with or without professional help. There’s something more to it, something that’s keeping you from moving on. Tell me why you’re really here.”
Unexpected tears started in my eyes, and my chest tightened around my breath. I studied the stirring of the breeze in the greenery outside the window. What was it I wanted to tell him? What was it that was eating away at the new shoots of my life now, three years after the forest fire that had burned it to the ground in the first place?
I didn’t know how to tell him everything. So, in the end, I simply told him the first thing.
“I was only going to be gone a little while.” My voice was husky with unshed tears. “I hadn’t been out—”
“You feel guilty for taking a night out for yourself?” He looked as if he wanted to lecture me about that. No—as if he wanted to defend me.
I hesitated. “Yes. No. I mean, that’s not it.”
“Take your time, Asia.” God, that voice was like a warm blanket for my naked nerves.
I shook my head, started over. “That Holiday Inn is 15 minutes from my house. I know because it’s next to the grocery store where I used to do my shopping. I’d made that trip a hundred times, and it only took 15 minutes. But this time . . .” I stopped again, shivering so hard I thought my bones might break. “This time something happened. And I’ve tried over and over to explain it, and I just can’t.”
I looked up and found him watching me, his face open, accepting. His patience gave me courage. I took a breath and went on.
“I lost three hours of my life that night. I can’t account for them. They’re just gone. And in those three hours I lost everything. My children, my home, my whole life.” I met his eyes, hope struggling to emerge through the weight of my doubt. “I want to know where those hours went, Ethan. I’ll never be able to move on until I know what happened to those three hours.”
“I think I can help you,” he said.
For no reason I can think of, I believed him.
I went in to work the next day feeling better than I’d felt in weeks. The dreams had left me alone that night—and I had something new to think about.
Rita noticed the change, of course. “Well, aren’t we chipper this morning? What happened, you get lucky last night?”
“Not hardly.” I laughed. “I did get a new psychiatrist, though. Maybe he’s doing me some good.”
Now, don’t ask me why I said that. I should’ve known Rita would jump on it like the information was a fat mouse and she was a hungry housecat.
“A psychiatrist? You’re drooling over some old professor with a goatee? Girl, you’re more desperate than I thought.”
“There’s no law that says your therapist has to look like Sigmund Freud.”
Rita’s eyebrows reached for her hairline. “Oh? So what does he look like?”
I shrugged. “Tall, blue eyes, good-looking in a scruffy kinda way.” Looks real good in faded jeans and a sweater.
“Uh-huh.” Rita studied me closely. “Isn’t it against the rules to be so interested in your doctor?”
“What do you mean, interested?”
“You know what I mean. And if he’s interested back, you’re either going to have to get a new doctor or he’s going to have to find a new job.”
“Jeez, Rita, it’s not like we’re making out in his office.” I got busy refilling the office coffee pot. “He’s very professional. I just think he’s easy on the eyes, that’s all.”
“Right.” Rita stood, considering me, her arms folded over her ample chest. “Is there any other reason you’re seeing this new guy? What was wrong with the old one?”
“You could say I’d worn out my welcome at Dr. Claussen’s therapy group.” My face flushed. “He recommended Dr. Roberts. Said he specializes in these kinds of cases.”
Unchained Memory (The Interstellar Rescue Series Book 1) Page 2
