by Merry Jones
Dinner? With him? My mouth opened. No words came out.
“Come on.” His eyes held onto mine. Not giving up. “I’d—Elle, I’d really like to spend some time with you. To get to know you. Quite honestly, you’ve been on my mind since I first saw you that night at Jeremy’s. And then, when Charlie died and I saw you at the viewing, I realized you were his wife. Sorry. I mean his widow. Well, I told myself to forget it. The timing was wrong. You wouldn’t, you know, be interested—I mean, having just lost your husband. But now, here you are, and I’m talking way too much. Look, just say, ‘yes.’” He smelled fresh like the forest. Like autumn.
But no. What was I thinking? I’d just buried Charlie. I couldn’t go to dinner with him. No way.
“Eight o’clock? I’ll come by for you. How’s Rembrandt’s?”
And then I was walking away, heading for Dr. Schroeder’s office. Crossing Washington Square, watching the sky through colored leaves. Feeling the light filtering through. Recalling Joel’s strong jaw, playful eyes. Wondering how he’d known Charlie. Reminding myself to ask him that at dinner.
I was in a daze the whole way to Dr. Schroeder’s office. In shock. A man—a very attractive—no, let’s face it—a very hot, sexy man had just asked me to dinner.
I was going on a date. I’d been asked out. Technically, I hadn’t accepted. I hadn’t said anything at all. But my silence hadn’t fazed him. He was like Charlie that way. Simply assuming that he’d get what he wanted. Not allowing for the possibility of “no.”
And so, we were going to dinner, Joel and I. I arrived at Dr. Schroeder’s office a few minutes early, sat in the colorless waiting room, preoccupied. Lord. Who’d have thought I’d ever see Joel again? Or imagined that he was interested in me? “You’ve been on my mind since I first saw you at Jeremy’s.” Wow. I’d been on the mind of a guy who did magic tricks to make sad strangers smile. I replayed bumping into him on the street, realizing who he was. The shock of his hug, his cheek brushing mine. His voice thickening as he told me I’d been on his mind. His shoulders—
Lord. I was getting carried away. Needed to put reins on my mind. It was, after all, just dinner.
Except, what was I thinking? For me, there was no thing as just dinner. I wasn’t some normal woman reentering the singles scene. I was a recent widow. Whose husband had been murdered just ten days ago. And who was still a suspect.
I could hear Susan screeching, Are you crazy, Elle? How do you think this looks to the police, to the press? Who is this man? What do you even know about him?
Maybe I shouldn’t go. I could call and cancel. If I’d taken his number. Which I hadn’t.
Or I could go and simply not tell anyone about it.
Dr. Schroeder opened the door, beckoned me into his inner office. He didn’t usually have Saturday hours, had come in just for me, to jump-start my therapy. I sat on the neutral-toned sofa. Accepted warm spiced tea, still debating what I should do.
He sat opposite me in his bland, well-worn easy chair.
I realized I shouldn’t go. I should meet him and explain that I couldn’t, at least not now. Not for a while.
“Have you thought about our last session, Elle?”
Wait. Our last session? “Of course. Yes.”
“And?” Dr. Schroeder watched me, tilted his head.
And? My mind clicked and whirred, shifting gears, trying to remember the session, to figure out what he was talking about. Oh, of course: The holes in my memory. We’d talked about how I’d killed Somerset Bradley but couldn’t remember it.
“Any new thoughts about your amnesia?”
I shook my head, no. Sipped tea. “But I talk with Charlie. I have conversations with him.” I blurted that out, impulsively. Without thought.
He nodded, unsurprised. “Perfectly understandable, and probably healthy.”
Was it also healthy that Charlie talked back?
“You’re working out your loss. Talking to him can help.”
Really. “And my dreams—I have nightmares.” Like the one about a heap of naked writhing children. “They’re very detailed. There’s one about stabbing Charlie.”
“And you’re afraid that the stabbing dream is a memory. Am I right?”
Was he? How could it be a memory? How could I dream about events I don’t even remember? I shrugged, didn’t have an answer.
He put his fingertips together. He wore a wedding ring. White gold. Colorless like his hair, his skin. His clothes. Was his wife color-blind, too? Why didn’t she help dress him—at least a red tie or green sweater.
More silence. Patient, watchful eyes.
I thought of the night Charlie died. I’d been at Jeremy’s, alone, awkward. I’d felt a physical jolt when I first saw Joel. Powerful, sexual. Almost like fear. I was off guard, unsure of myself. Surprised by the magic and the rose. But not troubled, not guilty or sad. Not at all aware that Charlie was dead.
At least, not consciously.
So maybe I was aware subconsciously? Which meant I could dream about it?
“How do I know the same thing didn’t happen with Charlie that happened with Somerset Bradley? I don’t remember stabbing Somerset Bradley either, but I know I did. So how do I know I didn’t kill them both?”
“How do you know?” Dr. Schroeder let out a breath. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Tell me, Elle. Do you think you’d be capable of killing your husband?”
No, of course not. But I’d never have been able to kill Somerset Bradley, either. Or anyone else. And then, there was the child pornography. If I’d seen it, if I’d had reason to believe Charlie had participated in it—if my temper had erupted and we’d fought—And he’d escalated the fight with barbs and taunts—
Well. That was the question, wasn’t it.
I didn’t answer.
Dr. Schroeder went on. “Here’s what I’d like to do, Elle. I’d like us to become a little aggressive with your disorder. Not because I think you killed your husband. But for two reasons: First, because there’s a police investigation going on and it would be good if they could rule you out. And, second, because you don’t want to have to spend your life worrying and wondering about whether you killed him.”
Both good reasons. “Aggressive. How?”
“First, I want you to begin a regimen of antianxiety medications. These should relieve some of your depersonalization tendencies. But they also might help you relax in general. Which might—or might not—help you recall specific incidents that have caused major anxiety or even trauma.”
Would I remember killing Somerset Bradley?
Did I want to?
“Along with the meds, I want to try hypnosis. If we can take you back to the times when trauma occurred, maybe we can help you reexperience some degree of what happened, enhancing your memories.”
“But you said I don’t know because my mind didn’t record it.”
“Your conscious mind.”
Oh.
“So, what do you think?”
Fine. It was fine. Except that acid roiled in my abdomen, burning my organs.
“Why don’t we begin. Relax, Elle.”
Relax? Seriously?
“Lean back against the cushions. Sink into them.”
I saw myself on the sofa, sitting in the neutral office, across from a man who couldn’t see colors. I tried to sink, felt the upholstery supporting my weight.
“Let the tension out of your scalp.”
My scalp? Was there tension in my scalp? I focused on it, tried to loosen it. The top of my head, the crown felt lighter. The upholstery held me up, hugged me.
“Now your neck, your shoulders, your back.”
Was he kidding? Nothing—not hours of massage could get the tension out of my neck and back. Did he think that his mere suggestion would? His voice was monotonous, toneless, steady. Did he really think he could hypnotize me?
“Your hips, your thighs, your calves.”
His voice was gentle, patient. Not hurried at all. But it wasn
’t working. I was hearing everything, totally aware, not in a trance.
“Let go of any troubling thoughts. Let go of thinking altogether. Let your mind float to a place where you’re completely relaxed. Safe. Carefree. Completely at ease.”
Where would that be? Where had that ever been? The womb? I pictured my mother, rest her soul, sitting on the side of my bed, reading to me. Was childhood a place? Did it count? I saw my mother, her hair pulled back in a loose dark bun. Saw her show me the pictures on the page, “There once was a beautiful doll, Dears, the prettiest doll in the world. Her cheeks were so red and so white, Dears—”
I heard Dr. Schroeder’s voice and opened my eyes. Somehow, my nose was stuffed, my cheeks wet. I’d been crying? I was still on the sofa. Dr. Schroeder watched intently, still sitting in the armchair. He handed me the tissue box.
“Why am I crying?”
“You’ll remember everything we talked about. If you want to. You did very well.”
“Tell me.” I blew my nose. “What happened? I thought I remembered everything but I don’t.”
“You were quite easy to hypnotize, Elle. You went under right away.”
I did? “Did I say anything? About the murder? About Charlie?”
“Like I said, you’ll recall whatever you want to. Don’t you remember anything?”
Not a thing.
“You talked about your classroom. About your second graders. About wanting to get back to work.”
I did? I had no memory of it. But I missed my kids. Benjy. Audrey. Lily. Aiden. William.
“Mostly, though, you talked about Charlie and your marriage.”
About Charlie. Our marriage. What had I said? Why couldn’t I remember? Was the hypnosis session another memory hole? More localized amnesia? Had I uncovered another trauma? I had a million questions. But, oddly, I didn’t feel like asking them.
I was too relaxed. Almost at peace. Almost optimistic.
Dr. Schroeder glanced at his watch. It was 4:49. He stood, made our next appointment, and gave me a prescription as he walked me to the door.
I was outside before I realized that, damn, once again, I hadn’t told him about the pedophiles.
“A date? Tonight? You do? With who?” Becky screamed into the phone.
So much for not telling anyone. I hadn’t planned to tell her. But it slipped out when she called to tell me how my students missed me, how the substitute was bumbling and pathetic, how Romeo and Juliet, the hamsters, might be expecting babies, how the art teacher was cheating on his partner with the music teacher. And, almost as an afterthought, how Sherry McBride had shown up at school.
“She what?”
“I’m sure it was her. I mean, I wasn’t there. I personally didn’t see her—”
“She came to school?” Good God. “Why?”
“You’re not going to like it. I mean I wasn’t even going to tell you. But then I decided you should know.”
“Duh, yes. I should know.” I ran a hand through my hair. Sherry McBride had gone to my school?
According to Becky, Sherry McBride—or someone Becky assumed was Sherry McBride because “who else could it have been?” had been at the school, looking for me. Had wandered through the hall, pretending to be a parent, asking Jack, a janitor, where my classroom was. Telling Jack that she had a child there. That he’d forgotten his lunch. Jack thought it odd that the woman didn’t know where her own son’s classroom was, so he asked her name.
“And that’s when she got weird.” Becky stopped.
“Weird?” Weird how?
I could hear Becky breathing. Considering how to phrase things. What to leave out. “Dammit, Becky, just tell me.”
“Okay, Elle. But don’t pay it any mind. I mean nobody believes any of it.”
“Any of what?” My voice was shrill, impatient.
Another hesitation. A big inhale. And then Becky let it out. “She told Jack that you’d had an affair with her husband. That you were unfit to teach. That you would corrupt the children. She called you names. I don’t have to repeat them, do I?”
No, she didn’t. Oh God. I slumped onto the bed. Leaned over my knees. The whole school must be buzzing about this.
“Jack—you know how he is, won’t take any shit from anybody—well, he finally escorted her out of the building and told her to stay off school property. And he told the office about her. So now we have tightened security. She won’t get in again.”
I tried to make sense of the incident. “Did she actually go into my classroom?”
“She never went in, no. Jack realized she wasn’t really a parent before she could get inside.”
Well, at least she hadn’t disturbed the kids. But why would Sherry McBride want to go to my classroom? What had she planned to do? Was she dangerous? My stomach burned. I wondered if I had an ulcer.
“Listen, Elle. You should get a restraining order against that woman. She’s psycho.”
Probably I should. Yes. I’d talk to Susan about it. Stalking me was bad. But going to my classroom? No. That was too much. Way beyond too much.
“Sorry, Elle. But I had to tell you—”
“Don’t be sorry. Yes, you had to.”
Silence. “So. How are you doing?”
How was I doing? I meant simply to say, “Fine,” or “Not bad,” but when I opened my mouth, what came out was, “I have a dinner date.”
And Becky screeched. “A date? Tonight? You do? Who is he?”
And, for the moment, the conversation shifted from Sherry McBride.
I could almost hear her mouth drop.
“His name is Joel.”
“But where—when did you meet him?”
I told her I’d met him the night we’d gone to Jeremy’s.
“But no—you left early. And alone—and you never said anything about meeting somebody.”
I reminded her that Charlie died that night. Meeting somebody hadn’t been on my mind.
“So what’s he like?”
I sat up in bed and told Becky a little about Joel. Not about the rush I felt when I was with him. Or the jolt of physical contact. But about his magic tricks. How he’d given me the rose.
Becky gave advice. “Okay. This is your first date. Whatever you do, don’t talk about your marriage or your separation. And, oh God, don’t mention Charlie’s murder. Or that you’re a suspect—keep it light. Talk movies, music. You know. Ask him his job. His opinions. Make him do the talking—but then, do NOT pull an Elle. Pay attention to him.”
Becky went on, an expert on first dates. She’d had hundreds, maybe thousands of them.
“And wear some makeup, Elle. Give yourself an edge.”
An edge? Like in a competition?
“And don’t forget our deal. Call me the minute you get home. The minute he leaves. Don’t make me worry that you’ve gone out with Joel the Ripper.”
She kept on giving advice, imparting wisdom as if I’d never been on a date before. As if I were her kid sister or child.
But I let her talk, knowing she meant well, was trying to ease my way back into the singles world.
Two minutes after we hung up, before I’d even left the bedroom, Jen called.
“You have a date? You didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you call?” She went on, barraging me. “Where are you going? What are you wearing? Make sure you put on mascara. And eye shadow. Highlight your features. Why don’t I come over and help you get ready?”
It wasn’t the prom, I told her. It was just dinner. Down the street at Rembrandt’s.
“Rembrandt’s? Kind of pricey for a casual date.” Jen always noted price tags. “Becky said he works in Center City. What does he do? And has he been married? Any kids? Be careful, Elle. For all you know, the guy’s an FCA.” Fucking Con Artist. “Or he has a wife and kids and is stepping out.”
“Thanks, Jen. I appreciate your confidence in my judgment.”
“I’m just saying. You don’t know who he is, so be careful. Ask questions. Find stuff out.”<
br />
I told her I wasn’t marrying him; I was having a meal.
“You never know, Elle. Keep your eyes and your options open.”
I said it was my first date ever, since Charlie. I wasn’t thinking ahead. Had no long-range goals.
Jen backed off. But only momentarily. “Well, whatever you do, don’t sleep with him. Not tonight. Not even next time. Make him work for it.”
Really? Work for it?
She continued warning me about the pitfalls of sexual relations in a postmarriage world. She’d heard horror stories. Men our age were no better than boys in high school. My phone beeped; I was getting another call. The screen said: Susan Cummings.
Becky must have told her. Oh dear. I braced myself, took a deep breath.
And told Jen I had to take the call.
“I was just about to call you.” I was ready with an agenda, hoping to avoid getting scolded about my date by distracting her, telling her about Sherry McBride, asking her to get a restraining order. But I didn’t have a chance to tell or ask her anything. Susan got right to business, didn’t even bother to say hello.
“How was the shrink?”
The shrink? She wasn’t calling about Joel?
“Good. Fine.”
“What does ‘good, fine’ mean?”
Apparently, Becky hadn’t called her. Susan didn’t seem to know about my date.
“It means we’re working on my issues.”
“But are you making progress? And don’t tell me it takes time. I know that.”
What did she expect? An instant cure? I left the bedroom, walked downstairs to the table in the hall where I’d left my bag. “He prescribed some pills that might help.” I took the vial out, opened it. Took out an oblong white tablet. Swallowed it without water. Thought for a nanosecond. Swallowed another. Jump-starting the effects.
“Pills? What kind of pills?”
“The antianxiety kind.” Why did she need to know the name?
“And they’re supposed to bring back your memory?”
“I don’t know, Susan.” Lord, she could be abrasive. I walked back upstairs. “He’s also hypnotizing me. He’s doing everything he can to help me remember things.” Went into my bedroom. “But it’s been just two days. Not enough time.”
