Every Time I Love You

by Graham, Heather

  But Gayle was showing the signs of strain. There were shadows beneath her eyes and her face had grown slimmer.

  Tonight, Geoff noticed the wear on Brent too. His usual deep bronze complexion seemed faded and the tiny lines about his eyes seemed deeper.

  He seemed happy that night, though. He told Geoff about the horses and how he planned to do a series using the mares. “Maybe I'll use Gayle in it too.” He smiled at her wickedly. “A Lady-Godiva-type pose.”

  They ordered champagne and everything from soup to nuts; Brent was in a celebrating mood. But Geoff noticed that Gayle still appeared worried and drawn. She was quiet, while Brent was animated.

  It was over coffee that she finally expressed herself, and Geoff wondered if she was even aware that he was there then.

  “Brent, if they can't find anything wrong with you, then what is going on?”

  “What?” He paused, his spoon halfway to his coffee cup, and frowned.

  “You went through a whole series of tests. They don't show anything wrong. So—what is wrong?”

  He slipped his hand over hers and squeezed it. “Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I must have been having dreams too, and you must have overreacted to them.”

  “Oh?”

  “That's what Shaffer suggested. Of course he's suggested that I come and spend a few more hours with him.”

  “And?”

  He sighed. “I agreed, Gayle. All right? I agreed.”

  She nodded at him slowly. He grinned encouragingly, then turned his attention back to Geoff.

  They parted on the street. Back in the Mustang with Brent, Gayle still felt a little worried about Shaffer's diagnosis. She pressed Brent again.

  “You told him everything that happened? Everything?”

  He glanced her way quickly. “I told him everything that you told me happened. I didn't remember it myself, you know that.”

  “Hmmph.” Gayle muttered. So Brent was fine—she was the crazy one. Why was it working out that way?

  “Oh, stop it with your humphing,” Brent laughed, ruffling her hair. Then she started because he drove off the road and parked the car. He took her into his arms and kissed her, and his eyes were bright with excitement and filled with the old self-assurance. “Everything is fine, Mrs. McCauley. And it's all going to be fine. I love you, you know. Till death do us part.”

  “What?”

  He looked at her strangely and laughed. “Till death do us part. I love you.”

  She squeezed his hand. She still felt uneasy. But he was determined to charm her that night. When they reached home, they went for a long walk around the property, checking the newly planted flowerbeds and stopping by the stable to see the mares, Sheba and Satima. There was a light on in the old spinning house where the new foreman for the property, Hank Gleason, was being lodged. They stopped by briefly to see him, then went back to the house. Brent put on a recording of soft Viennese waltzes, and they went upstairs with more champagne to sit in the Jacuzzi. It was a good night; he was so happy and so relieved, and although Gayle didn't feel the same way she didn't let him know it. She teased with him and laughed with him and loved him every bit as tenderly as he did her. But when he lay peacefully sleeping, she was still awake, staring at the ceiling.

  Maybe that was why she dreamed that night.

  She never knew what she dreamed; she knew only that she was in terror. And she never knew where the dream began or where it ended. She knew that she was fighting, that she was struggling and fighting to defend herself; and in her heart she knew she was right. She saw Brent again, and it was Brent and it wasn't Brent, and he was furiously angry with her, throwing things. “That was it!” He shouted. “That was it! Oh, my God! You bought my freedom. My God, I could strangle you. I could tear you to pieces...”

  She could hear herself denying the charges, denying the things she couldn't even comprehend. But he kept saying things to her, dreadful things, and she didn't want him near her. She was afraid of him, deathly afraid. Then she knew that it was cold and that he was chasing her and that, in the end, he caught her and he held her.

  “Gayle! Dammit, please, Gayle! It's me! Gayle, stop, listen!”

  She started as a clean slap landed against her cheek. A thousand stars seemed to burst before her, and she suddenly realized that she was standing out on the lawn. Her feet were damp; she could feel the grass. Brent—in his briefs—was standing before her, staring at her with terrible alarm in his eyes. He had just wrapped a robe around her shoulders. She was naked beneath it. Naked, out on the lawn, in the middle of the night. And she'd no idea of how she'd gotten out there.

  There was blood dripping down his cheek and long scratches marred his chest. She gasped, then reached out to touch him. She was trembling, shaking so that she could barely reach him.

  “Brent?”

  “Come on, let's get back in the house,” he said grimly.

  She tried to walk; she stumbled and fell. He picked her up and carried her quickly into the house. He paused by the kitchen for a bottle of brandy, then came back out into the passage and carried her on up the stairs. He set her down on the bed, wrapping the blankets around her because she was so cold. As cold as death.

  “Brent!”

  She reached out to touch him again. He smiled and caught her fingers. “You've got to trim those nails, lady. I'll be back. Just let me rinse these off.”

  She sat there shivering while he went into the bathroom to rinse away the blood. When he came back, the scratches still looked ugly and sore.

  “Oh, God!” Gayle gasped miserably.

  “It's all right.”

  “It's not all right!”

  “What were you dreaming? That I was an ogre?” He tried to laugh. “That I was attacking you again? I swear, Mrs. McCauley, I've been a perfect gentleman.”

  “Oh, Brent, don't, don't! I don't remember anything. This is awful. My God, Brent, something horrible is happening to us, and I can't remember anything.”

  He poured out some brandy, taking a sip himself, then situating himself behind her and bringing the glass to her lips. Gayle sipped it and coughed. “Brent, how did I get out there? What did I do?”

  He sighed, leaning back. “You had another nightmare. You woke up screaming. I tried to comfort you. You slugged me in the jaw. You've got one hell of a punch, by the way.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Sweetheart, I'm teasing.”

  “You can't! You can't tease! This is too serious.”

  “Maybe we're taking it too seriously,” he said stubbornly.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “That was the truth. You slugged me and took off. I grabbed my underwear and your robe and tore after you. They were the closest things that I could find.”

  “Brent—”

  “It could have been worse. I could have grabbed your underwear and my robe.”

  “Brent!”

  “Gayle, it's all right!”

  “It's not all right. I hit you, I clawed you to pieces and you're telling me—”

  “I'll live.”

  “Brent, oh please! This is getting worse!”

  He slid off the bed, and she could see that he was far more tense than he wanted her to know. He ran his fingers through his hair and then paused to snatch the brandy from her, finishing it. He sat down again. “Gayle, I don't know what to do. I went to Shaffer, and you've been going to the man for weeks now.” He put an arm around her and pulled her close again. “Maybe the man is no good.”

  “I don't think that's it,” Gayle said dully. “I have an appointment with him tomorrow.”

  “Are you going to keep it?”

  “Yes. I'm going to tell him that I ran out of my house in the middle of the night, naked, and that I clawed up my husband's face and chest, and I don't even know why.”

  “Sweetheart—”

  “Oh, Brent!”

  “Gayle,” he asked her, suddenly very serious. “What about Thane?”

  “Thane?”

/>   “Thane. The boy you lived with in Paris. The one who—killed himself. You told me why you left him. Do you think that you dream and then fight me, thinking that it's him?”

  She shook her head, looking at him pensively. “Brent, it was so long ago! And I never felt for him what I feel for you.”

  “I believe that, Gayle. I know that. But”—he hesitated—”tonight you were wild. You were terrified of me and you hated me. You kept screaming...I'm just looking for answers. Talk to Shaffer about it. See what he says.”

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  “Brent, how would that explain—you?”

  He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair again. The scratch on his cheek was starting to bleed again. “Oh, Brent,” she whispered, touching it.

  She started to cry; she felt wretched. He couldn't soothe her and he couldn't make her stop. He just held her. And when she had quieted at last, he swung her around to meet his eyes.

  “It's going to be all right. It will be all right, Gayle, because I love you. No matter what happens I love you, and I will love you to my dying day.”

  He stroked her cheek and she kissed him, and at last she laid her head against his chest and slept. She didn't have any more dreams that night.

  * * *

  Gayle never could lie down in Dr. Shaffer's office. Dr. Shaffer didn't mind. He always said that his patients should sit down, lie down, stand straight or even on their heads—whatever made them comfortable.

  That day she sat in the wing chair in front of the fireplace and sipped tea. She told him what had happened the night before and he listened, and then he began to question her. It was always Do you think...? Do you think that your husband would hurt you? Do you think that you're harboring jealousies? Do you think that your marriage might have been a mistake? No, no, and no. She told him what Brent had suggested about Thane, that she wanted to make Thane pay; therefore she was trying to make Brent pay. Brent thought she should take some time and really explore this avenue.

  Gayle was certain that she wasn't trying to make Thane pay for anything. He was dead. He'd paid enough.

  Then Shaffer asked her if she worried at all that Brent might be trying to make her appear mad or going crazy. There was something in his voice that really irritated her—she had this odd feeling that he was convinced there was nothing at all wrong with Brent, except for his choice of a mate for a lifetime.

  She had always liked Shaffer, even if she had believed her sessions with him were worthless, but that day she hated him. In the end, when he kept at her—telling her that he couldn't help her until she chose to help herself—she burst into tears and raced out of the office. Then she got mad again and slammed back in to face him.

  “I didn't hate my mother and I had no strange fixations on my father. My folks were great people. I'm sure that I did refuse to eat my peas somewhere along the line, and I'm equally sure that I was furious with them at some point for grounding me. I lost them and, yes, it hurt; it hurt damned badly, but I coped with it very well, thank you. As for Thane, yes, hell, I felt guilty. But I was never stupid, Dr. Shaffer. I know that he was self-destructive; I know that there was nothing that I could have done. I am still friends with the man's family, for God's sake. Dr. Shaffer, we have a real problem. I want help; I'm lost. But if you can't help me, please don't make me really crazy on top of everything else!”

  He looked at her and he smiled, and then he looked down at his notes. “Sit down, Mrs. McCauley, please.” He spread out his hands with a shrug, undisturbed by her tirade. Gayle hesitated. “Please,” he repeated, and she sat down once again. He folded his hands over his notes and leaned toward her.

  “I don't think that you are crazy, Mrs. McCauley. Neither is your husband. In fact, for his profession, and especially considering his success, he seems to be an exceptionally well-balanced man, with a wide perspective on the world. I find you to be very bright, and I believe that the two of you are very much in love with each other, and it should be very nice altogether.”

  Gayle stared at him blankly.

  “Of course,” he continued, smiling, “there are always things within the human mind and the human heart which are kept secret from others. I could continue to see you and I could continue to see your husband. Something may come out. But quite honestly, Mrs. McCauley, I don't think that I can help either of you.”

  “You can't?” He was so matter-of-fact.

  “I'd like to suggest another approach.”

  Gayle leaned forward, anxious. “And that is?”

  “A parapsychologist.”

  “A what!”

  Shaffer repeated himself. Gayle just stared at him. Then she blurted out, “You're talking about a fortune teller! A medium, a Tarot card reader—”

  He shook his head. “I'm talking about a parapsychologist. Not a witch doctor.”

  “Oh, my God! You think that we're possessed!”

  Shaffer started to laugh. “I didn't say that at all.” He sighed, looked down at his notes, and started to read, quoting her from their last session. “'He acted as if I had done something to him, something terrible. He kept calling me Katrina. I thought he hated me, but that wasn't it, not entirely. He wanted revenge, but even that wasn't it. He said that he loved me—or Katrina—or whoever he was talking to, but it was so strange, and so awful. Can you hate someone so deeply and love that same person at the same time?'“

  Gayle looked down at her lap, fiddling with her purse.

  “He called you by another name, Mrs. McCauley. There's something going on here. And your husband is not schizophrenic; I'd stake my career on it.”

  Gayle exhaled slowly. “You can't believe in any of that type of thing, Doctor; you're a man of science—”

  “Many a gastroenterologist would dispute that,” he told her with a grin. “I'm a man of the mind. Let's put it that way, shall we? The main thing I learn as I go along is that seeming impossibilities do occur, and life itself is very mysterious.” He pulled a pad of paper toward him and began to write on it. “This is the name of a friend of mine. She's associated with the university. She has a medical degree too—she's a psychiatrist, but she doesn't practice psychiatry, per se, anymore. Give her a call. I have a great deal of confidence in her.”

  Still not quite believing what he had suggested, Gayle realized that she was being dismissed. She stood up and offered him her hand, and he stood too. They shook hands and he smiled. “Mrs. McCauley, now you're staring at me as if I need some analysis. I probably do. We're supposed to be a crazy lot ourselves, you know.” He didn't believe it one bit; she could tell by the tone of his voice. “Call Marsha. I think that you'll like her. She's fascinating.”

  Gayle had the little slip of paper in her hand. She thanked Dr. Shaffer, and told him goodbye.

  She was tempted to toss the paper into the trash on the way out. She didn't, though. She stuffed it into her purse.

  She expected to find Brent when she came out on the street. He wasn't there waiting for her. Instead, she found Geoff.

  He was sitting on the hood of his Ferrari, arms crossed over his chest, waiting. He grinned at her startled frown.

  “Brent got held up. He was working and by the time he realized how late it was, he knew that he'd never make it in on time. He caught me in the office and so I promised to meet you and drive you home.” He stopped smiling, watching her. “What's wrong?”

  “Oh, Geoff!” she murmured miserably. She stepped up and kissed his cheek, then hurried into the car. She thanked him distractedly for coming for her; then, as he pulled out into the traffic, she blurted to him, “He has to be a quack, Geoff! He has to be! He's telling me that I need a—a medium, or something!”

  Geoff didn't respond. She had expected him to laugh, to denounce Shaffer dramatically. He didn't do anything of the kind. He looked ahead at the road, and then he shrugged.

  “Maybe you do need—something else.”

  Gayle gasped. “Geoff! Oh, please! I know that you d
on't believe in—in ghosts.”

  “I don't believe in ghosts,” he told her flatly.

  “Oh! You think that we're—oh, please! We are not possessed, or—”

  “Gayle, Gayle!” Absently he patted her knee, trying to calm her down while he wound through the rush-hour tangle. “No, I'm not thinking exorcist, Linda Blair, green pea soup all over the place. But...” He hesitated again. “Gayle, considering the things you say are happening, it wouldn't hurt to explore a new avenue, would it?”

  She thought about that for several moments. “I don't know,” she said glumly. “I—I had a bad enough time getting Brent to see Shaffer. He'll never see a medium or a parapsychologist, or whatever this woman is.”

  “Who is she?”

  “What?”

  Geoff repeated the question and Gayle dug into her purse for the name. “Marsha Clark. Dr. Marsha Clark.”

  Geoff nodded as he drove. “I've met her. She's not what you fear she is.”

  “You've met her?”

  “Yes. At a benefit for the opera. She was telling me about her field of study and I was very impressed. Gayle, face it, there are things that cannot easily be explained. And according to Marsha, they should all be explored.”

  “'Marsha'?” Gayle repeated skeptically. “Geoff, this lady isn't another Boobs, is she?”

  Geoff made an impatient sound. “No, she isn't. And Boobs' name was Madelaine. It still is.”

  “How is Tina? Have you two made up yet?”

  “We've a date for tomorrow night.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Umm. You might want to call Marsha. If only because she's interesting.”

  Gayle was silent for several seconds. “Maybe I should just get a priest to bless the house.”

  She thought that he would laugh. “Maybe you should,” he told her. “But I don't think that would help.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Well, it seems to me that this all started long ago.”