Anger, guilt and fear weren’t giving up that easily.
The psychiatrist took a seat in an overstuffed leather chair and nodded to the adjacent couch.
She studied it, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
Do I lie down on it? Sit next to him, in the middle, at the far end?
“This is where you sit,” he said, patting the corner next to him.
Sit, not lie down. Good.
If Elaina lied down, the exhaustion might win out and rather than get help, she might get some sleep.
“My first appointment is at 7:30, so we don’t have much time,” Harry said, his voice becoming heavy with regret.
“I’m sorry for just showing up, but I needed to see you.” She spoke to her folded hands. Harry’s cologne battled against her sweat, dirt and car exhaust perfume. “About the Rententamine.”
“I don’t mind you showing up unannounced. I guess I just hoped it was for me, and not my work.”
She could hear the smile in his words. At another time, she could’ve countered that she was interested in him. But any attempted spark only whirred with the slur of a dying car battery.
“Trust me, you’ll run in the other direction after you hear what I have to say.” Elaina took a deep breath and looked at her watch. Twenty-five minutes. She had to get it out and get his advice in twenty-five minutes. Now or never. “You said there’s a trigger. You’re right. And it’s happened more than once.” She paused and her eyes focused on his bookshelf behind his desk, but that wasn’t what she saw.
Rather, what she saw was what she’d never seen. A baby picture of herself. Connie wasn’t always the sentimental type, so there were few pictures around the house.
“Elaina?” Harry pitched forward. “You’re starting to worry me.”
She blinked back into his office and flashed a weak, but well-meaning smile. “I’m okay, I just—Anyway, a few weeks ago, I got really close to a tornado and something happened. I blacked out, I think, or something.” The words struggled to come out, as if they didn’t believe themselves. “Instead of being there, I was somewhere else. Maybe even someone else.” A shiver flashed through her body even though his office was warm and stuffy.
Harry remained quiet beside her; he didn’t ask questions or encourage her to go on. He recessed into the chair, as if he’d become chocolate brown leather himself.
“In my head, I was small, three or four, and it was dark outside—nighttime maybe—even though that funnel was in the middle of the afternoon. Rain bounced off something over my head and I was cold, wet and alone.” Elaina closed her eyes and straightened her back. There it was. She was back there. “I heard voices and I wanted to scream for them, but every time I tried, I’d get water in my throat and choke. And then, something above me lifted and there was a man. I didn’t know him but I knew he would help me.” She let the memory end, but the emotions lingered.
She was safe, but the fear was rooted so deep inside, it overpowered anything else. Even now, sitting on the soft leather couch, fear pulsed with each beat of her heart.
“That was the first.” Elaina cleared her throat. “There was another one; I was in a hospital, sitting on the floor, trying to hide behind my bed. In that one, it was the lights I remember most. This unnatural brightness that burned. I remember feeling there was nowhere I could hide because of those lights.”
The final memory was queued up, like a photo ready to click onto the screen, but she couldn’t push the mental button.
The feeling in this one was joyful, safe. Love. It would lighten the weight in the room, but it felt as if she’d betray something, someone, to share this memory.
“Is that it?” Harry thumbed his lower lip.
Elaina nodded. “I went to ask my mom about it, but—” The words were stubborn. How could she explain she’d caused her mother to have a stroke? Would Harry feel that the same would happen to him?
“She was no help.”
“You could say that.”
They sat in silence while she watched the time tick down.
When eight minutes was left before his appointment, the handsome Brit pushed himself off the couch and looked out the window. “Why are you here?”
“I told you, I need your help. There’s something locked away in my head that wants to come out. I feel like I’m looking through a dirty window. Help me brush aside the dirt so I can see what it is.”
“The brain is fascinating,” he spoke to glass panes. “But, we’re only just beginning to understand how it works, especially in regards to repressed memories. They act as a sort of circuit breaker, to protect you from getting overloaded.”
“I get that, but I didn’t repress the memories. Someone did it for me.”
Harry turned and looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Do you know that for a fact?”
Elaina joined him at the window. The coffee was wearing off, leaving only the exposed nerve of her desperation. If he didn’t help her, what would she be left with? Forcing memories with every tornado warning across the country?
She’d do it. If that’s the only way, she’d gladly walk into the line of a twister.
“Well, no, but when you mentioned the drug, it felt right.”
“Just because something feels right doesn’t mean it is.” His voice was soft and low, and his eyes were filled with sadness.
It was written all over his face. However right she’d felt to him before she’d arrived, it turned wrong. This was the kind of man her mom would approve of, but like everything else she’s touched lately, it’d turned septic.
“Okay, forget that. Forget that anything was done to wipe away my mind and my past. You mentioned repressed memories, people use hypnosis to remember them, right?”
Harry sighed and faced her. “Elaina, don’t.” His expression was soft and pleading. “You’re a beautiful, smart, vibrant woman. You’re clever and witty, and someone I’d like to spend more time with. Please don’t mess with your mind. It’s who you are.”
“Who I am? That’s what I’m trying to figure out. How am I to know who I am with these images bleeding through? How can you say you want to spend more time with me when I may not really be who you think I am?”
“Who you are is who you always were. Who cares if you can’t recall your first steps? Very few people can remember the first years of their lives anyway.”
“It’s more than that. It’s not what I forgot,” Elaina gasped.
There it was. The anemic Christmas tree and dirty apartment.
It was never about the what.
Her body shook with the force of an EF5 bearing down on her.
“It’s the who. I want to remember who I forgot.”
26
Pawnshops sit at the junction of one person’s past and another’s future. Tuck always marveled at what caused one to sell something as mundane as a toaster. Were they just that down on their luck they couldn’t even afford bread? Did the four dollars they get in return buy them a hot meal, or cheap wine?
Most importantly, how much more in debt would he have to fall before selling his toaster?
He couldn’t even fathom what the do-dad he’d swiped from the university was used for. It didn’t matter. Its value made it worth the risk of being caught by Elaina.
Elaina.
His feelings toward her pulled at his gut. She was establishment. The straight and narrow. To her, rules were made to be followed. A world that only saw things in blue skies and thrashing thunderstorms, no gray, overcast days. Her world had thrown him out, like storm debris.
Yet some internal compass tugged at him, pointing toward her as if she were true north. That wavy black hair made him face something scarier than an EF5 barreling down on him.
His chest squeezed like rising barometric pressure when he’d met her dark green eyes. Twice, a protective wave had slammed into him at the sight of her, prompting him to warn her about the turning storm, and forcing him to stare down that TV reporter.
A stran
ge magnetism had pulled at him when he saw Maddux’s hands at Elaina’s waist. It’d been a long time since he’d wanted to punch a man simply for the fact that he existed.
Tuck pulled at the cigar box under his sink. One edge of the warped lid popped up, offering a peek-a-boo into the secrets it held inside.
He didn’t come to this box often. Once, he’d visited it daily, flipping through the odds and ends of his past, trying to hold on to who he was.
Longer chunks of time passed between visits, and when he did peek inside, it felt foreign, as if the artifacts belonged to someone else.
In a sense, they did.
Tuck closed his eyes and imagined the contents as they were the last time he’d seen them. The old coins, his grandfather’s money clip, a modest diamond ring and a simple gold band that belonged to a different time.
A different man.
The cigar box joined two old textbooks, a clock radio and an electric toothbrush, a step above selling a toaster, but still grazing the bottom.
A temperate breeze blew through the open garage doors and into his tiny living quarters. The air wasn’t warm with a lick of moisture, nor was it cool with a slice of dryness.
It was fine, which meant if a storm system didn’t break out in the next few days, he wouldn’t be fine. Jimbo would come collecting and the box of bric-a-brac sitting on the kitchen counter wouldn’t come close to appeasing him.
Tuck gripped the edges of the box. The science guys had shunned him and made predictions from behind computers, he’d been reduced to selling old books and an electric toothbrush to pay off his loan shark.
His forearms tensed and the desire to throw it across the room pulsed in his veins like a drug. His heart beat a rhythmic “do it.”
Do it. Do it. Do it.
Junk. That was what it was. What he really was. He’d tried to climb the survival ladder like everyone else, but the rungs were slippery. This junk gave him just a little bit of traction.
Tuck passed three pawnshops on his way to the outskirts of town. He’d been to each of them enough times to know they were run by good, honest men. Men who kissed their wives every day before work and were home in time for dinner. Men who asked all the important questions and whose eyes could see directly into someone’s soul.
Today wasn’t a day for a good man.
Today, he needed someone who lived by the credo, “Honor among thieves.”
A dust devil spun up as he pulled into Dee’s parking lot. Tuck smirked.
Good sign.
The chimes above the door crashed together. His boots thudded against the dusty hardwood floor as he passed crap no one in their right mind would buy; a doll with all but one tuft of hair ripped out, a taxidermy monkey, a set of dentures. He paused at the full prosthetic leg.
Now that S.O.B. must have been really low.
There was no doubt Dee was one fucked up dude. He was just the man Tuck needed to see.
He made it all the way to the back of the store, but no Dee. It was entirely possible he’d missed him, which the man always used to his full advantage. “Dee,” Tuck called. “You here, man?”
“Robert Tucker,” the high, nasally voice came from his left. “Didn’t I tell you to never come back here?”
He flashed his smile, almost willing his teeth to gleam. “You didn’t mean that. I liven the place up.”
A sound somewhere between a cackle and a cough came from around the back side of a shelving unit.
After years of coming here, the sight of Dee still gave him a shudder. The man was short. Not in a dwarf sense, but in a way that made Tuck contemplate if Dee simply stopped growing when he was ten years old.
It wasn’t just his short stature; everything about the man was stunted. His face was soft and smooth, without the gristle of a beard. His arms and legs were thin and gangly, never having a chance to come into their full potential. Hidden beneath his uniform of a black turtleneck was a missing Adam’s Apple.
Tuck always swallowed the many questions on the tip of his tongue. Had Dee really stopped growing at ten? Or, was he a vampire? How was his sex life? What kind of girls were into a forty-year-old ten year old?
Had the guy ever thought about getting his testosterone checked?
“Make it quick, Tuck,” Dee said with impatience snapping at the end of words. “As you can see, I’m busy.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the empty pawnshop filled with crap that hadn’t moved in years. Tuck sat the box on the counter and Dee scooted a step ladder in front of him and leaned over the goods.
“Garbage, crap,” he mumbled as his fingers touched his possessions. The diminutive man flicked open one of the textbooks, squinting and bringing the book nearly to his nose. “This book was published in 1987. Why should I buy something this outdated?”
Tuck sucked in a big gulp of air, hoping the extra oxygen could fuel a good line of bullshit. “Well, you know how hipsters are always making new shit out of old shit.”
Dee ignored him and moved on to the cigar box. “What’s in here?”
“Some old coins, gold band, money clip and a diamond ring.” The words fled his mouth faster than usual. “I’ll sell you that whole cigar box and everything in it for a hundred.” His fingers reached inside the pocket of his windbreaker looking for some change to jingle as his gaze bounced around the eclectic shop, looking for anything other than that box to focus on.
Instead of coins, Tuck’s fingers found the gadget he’d swiped from the university’s lab. He wasn’t keen on shooting his silver bullet this early, but he needed something to keep Dee from opening that box. “Oh, I nearly forgot about this.” He pulled the tiny circuit board from his pocket, turning on his five-hundred-dollar smile. At least, he hoped that thing could pull in that much.
“What is it?”
“What does it look like? A computer thing-ma-bob.” He shrugged. “It’s got to be worth at least five hundred dollars.”
The man grabbed the instrument and studied it from various angles before handing it back. “Twenty-five.”
Tuck snorted. “Twenty-five? That’s an insult, man. Four-fifty.”
No expression crossed Dee’s face as he continued to rummage around the box. “They mass-produce those in China. Twenty-five is being generous.”
A flush of sweat broke out on his temple. What else could he sell to get the money he needed for Jim? Plasma? Sperm? Although he couldn’t imagine a happy, yet reproductively-challenged couple picking him from a catalog.
What about things he had two of? He could live off one kidney. Perhaps he could talk Dee into selling him that prosthetic leg cheap, and he could sell his other.
“Dee, man, look.” Tuck leaned an elbow on the glass case and lowered his voice. “I can sell you this whole lot,” he waved his arm over the box. “For five hundred dollars.”
The pawnbroker rubbed his chin and pursed his lips. “Three hundred.”
Desperation pooled around his feet, threatening to claw its way up his leg and wrap a tight fist around his throat. He swallowed, pushing that feeling away.
Desperation was like blood, and pawnbrokers could smell it like sharks.
“Four seventy-five.”
“Three hundred.”
“Four-fifty.” Tuck reached into his pocket, trying to grasp anything that would give him hope, but found his pockets completely empty.
Dee looked up from the box and cocked his head to one side and then the other. Gray eyes narrowed as if studying him like a piece of art hanging on a wall. “Ah, so that’s your magic number. You owe someone five hundred dollars.”
Shit. He caught a whiff of blood.
“Just some business investments I need to make.” Tuck tried to keep his words light, nonchalant, he even added in a back stretch to make it seem as casual as getting out of bed.
“Go to the bank for a loan, then.” The tiny man started putting his junk back into the box.
“Would you loan me five hundred dollars?”
A lopsided smile crossed Dee’s face. “I wouldn’t loan you a Kleenex.” He hitched his hands on his hips.
Tuck could see a decision in process, the weighing of options, considering the pluses and the minuses. He cheered on whatever side tilted in his favor.
“You remind me of my uncle.”
Ah, there we go.
“Sounds like a great fella. What’s the resemblance, my charm or rugged good looks?”
“My uncle was a miserable bastard who could never do anything right. Everything he touched turned to shit.”
He licked his lips. His ego wanted to scream and kick and deny and shout ‘nuh-uh.’ Reality quietly said, ‘sounds about right.’ Ego pushed back, saying he was better than that, and this was slander, but Tuck swiftly kicked his ego in the teeth.
His ego had gotten him into this mess to begin with.
“Well, yeah, I guess you could say I’ve had a patch of rough luck.”
“My uncle used to say that, too.” Dee stepped off the ladder and reached over to the register. “Four-fifty, but I get the entire box, that thing, and you promise to never come back here again.”
Tuck shook his head. “Scout’s honor.” He crossed his heart and held up two fingers. It seemed like a scout honory thing to do.
Dee handed Tuck a stack of bills without counting them out. Oldest trick in the book. Short change someone a twenty and call him a liar when he comes back for it.
He wasn’t going anywhere until they counted it all out.
“Who are they?” the guy asked, interrupting Tuck at two-sixty.
“Who’s who?” He looked up and saw the flat rectangle covering Dee’s entire palm. He tried to pull his gaze away, but a searing pain froze his body in place. The money felt hot in his hands. A droplet of sweat burned like lava flowing down his face.
Tuck finally tore his attention back to the money, but not before ivory skin, raven-colored hair and chubby baby legs ripped open the scars he kept hidden away.
“No ones.” He shoved the money in his pocket and turned to leave. It didn’t matter if Dee had shorted him a full hundred—that dusty, smelly pawnshop was closing in on him.
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