Chapter 1
PRESENT DAY
“Is he … dead?”
I knew the answer, but I needed to be certain.
The cop placed his hand on top of mine. My hospital room was frigid, but his hand was as warm as the summer sun.
His eyes answered before his words confirmed. “Yes.”
He clasped my hand; it was more professionally acceptable than a hug.
I didn’t know how to digest it then, and I still don’t. He’s dead, and it’s my fault.
A rap on my window startles me from my thoughts. It’s Todd. He frowns and taps on his watch. His expression says, “Typical Janelle, late again.”
I turn off the engine and exit the car. Then I follow my soon-to-be ex-husband into a brick building labeled “Schumer & Reed, PA.” He scurries down a hallway to Conference Room C, and never bothers to check if I’m still with him.
I join Todd at a long table inappropriately proportioned given there’s only three of us.
Mr. Schumer offers me a cup of coffee and I politely accept. The pot is almost empty. They’ve been waiting for me longer than I realized. He replaces the carafe and returns to the table, then hands me a packet of papers. I notice his Rolex first, and then his suit, which is much nicer than any of Todd’s. The self-proclaimed “best divorce attorney in the tri-county area” clearly isn’t starving for work.
He sails off on a dissertation regarding the divorce papers that sit in front of us. I’ve heard it all; we’ve been hashing out these details for months. His voice fades into white noise, as my mind once again enters the dangerous territory of my memories.
Images flash like slides in a projector, as I return to the horrors of that day.
There was so much blood. It pooled in the grass and dripped down my clothes. I had never seen anything like it.
I killed him.
“Janelle, are you listening?” Todd returns me to reality.
“Yes, of course,” I lie. I have no interest in being here. My life is unraveling and my divorce from Todd Holcomb has little to do with it.
I take a sip of the stale coffee in a maroon Harvard Law School mug. I’m not sure if Mr. Schumer attended, or if he’s just a fan.
He shuffles the papers in front of me. “Now, Mrs. Holcomb…”
“Ms. Dixon,” I correct him.
“Fine, Ms. Dixon,” he continues. He thinks I don’t notice his eyes roll. “If you’ll sign here, and here, and initial here, and here, then your divorce from Mr. Holcomb will be final.”
He hands me an elegant silver pen from his shirt pocket. Across the table, Todd takes a drink from his mug with a loud slurp like he always does. It’s annoying, but at this moment I feel I may miss it. His coffee slurps have been with me for the better part of a decade.
The pen hovers over the signature line as I reminisce about how Todd and I met. We attended the same college. I was in a sorority and he was in a fraternity. During the annual fall mixer in my junior year, he approached me and told me I was the most beautiful girl in the room. Sheesh, what a line. We finished out our college days and wed with an extravagant affair. My signature on these papers was the period at the end of that chapter.
I sign my married name, not yet legally able to use my maiden name, and then stare at the blank spot next to the word “date.” Oh, I know what day it is, how could I forget?
My hand holding the pen begins to tremble. I’m not afraid to end my marriage to Todd. I wanted this as much as him. My fear stems from the horrific images of this day 14 years ago as they flash through my head once again.
Todd clears his throat and shoots a glance at his watch. “Janelle, if we could wrap this up, that’d be great. I have a meeting in a half hour.”
Another meeting. No surprise there. Todd Holcomb’s whole life consisted of meetings. That I knew I wouldn’t miss. No more cold dinners and embarrassing no-shows at restaurants. Even though meetings are a necessity for someone with senatorial aspirations, Todd had more than normal. I’m pretty sure he’s just been fucking the new girl at his office. I peek over at him, and I swear I can see a faint hint of lipstick on his collar, but maybe it’s only my paranoia.
I scribble today’s date in the provided space and shudder. How is it that my divorce would be finalized on this date as well? Coincidence? I think not. Bad things in life have a way of stacking up on one another. I’m not superstitious, but there is nothing about April 12th that brings me joy.
I sign the divorce settlement and scoot the pages across the table to the well-to-do lawyer. “Are we done here?”
“Yes, Mrs. Holco — I mean, Ms. Dixon. That is all we need for now.”
Todd shakes my hand as if we just closed a business deal that would make him a lot of money. He wears the shit-eating grin to match. “I wish you the best of luck, Janelle, I really do.”
I tip my head. There’s nothing left to say. Then I retract my hand from his politician’s grip. I take one last gaze at Todd Holcomb, knowing I will probably never see him again, other than in his campaign ads.
The divorce was relatively straightforward. His wealth acquired much of our belongings and nabbed him a better attorney, so he ended up with most of it. I get to keep my clothes, some dishes, and my car. I also insisted on keeping the crystal punch bowl set his Aunt Gerty gave us at our wedding. I’m sure I will never use it, but god damn is it gorgeous.
We don’t have any kids. That was Todd’s choice. He insisted they would derail his career. I just don’t think he likes children. My sister asked him to hold her 5-month-old daughter once while she located a pack of wipes. Todd held the baby out like a sack of trash. Granted, she had filled her pants moments before, so I don’t blame him. And that’s the closest we ever got to having kids. It makes the divorce easier though.
Mr. Fancy Suit hands me my copy of the settlement, and without another word, I step out of Conference Room C. The door closes behind me and I take a deep breath. As I linger by the doorway, I overhear my ex and his lawyer talking. It’s faint but distinguishable.
“Boy Todd, it’s a good thing you got this settled before you run for Senate. That girl is a total nut job,” Mr. Schumer remarks.
Todd chuckles. “She hasn’t been in her right mind for a while now. I’m ready to move on with my life and focus on my campaign.”
I wonder what he means by that. I felt fine until today. My brain is just a little scattered. It’s the first time I’ve been alone for the anniversary of the horrible events of 14 years ago. Right after high school, I went on to college where my sorority sisters would throw me an extravagant party to help me forget. Then I met Todd, and he found a way to make this day bearable. This time, I’m all alone. That’s why I can’t stop thinking about it.
So much blood.
As the exchange between Todd and his lawyer falls into irrelevant banter, I shuffle down the hall and out of the building. I climb into the driver’s seat of my fuel-efficient Ford Focus. My purse and the divorce papers land in the passenger seat on top of a pile of junk mail I’ve been neglecting.
I stare at the steering wheel. Where do I go from here?
“Is he … dead?”
I knew the answer, but I needed to be certain.
The cop placed his hand on top of mine. My hospital room was frigid, but his hand was as warm as the summer sun.
His eyes answered before his words confirmed. “Yes.”
He clasped my hand; it was more professionally acceptable than a hug.
I didn’t know how to digest it then, and I still don’t. He’s dead, and it’s my fault.
A rap on my window startles me from my thoughts. It’s Todd. He frowns and taps on his watch. His expression says, “Typical Janelle, late again.”
I turn off the engine and exit the car. Then I follow my soon-to-be ex-husband into a brick building labeled “Schumer & Reed, PA.” He scurries down a hallway to Conference Room C, and never bothers to check if I’m still with him.
I join Todd at a long table inappropriately proportioned given there’s only three of us.
Mr. Schumer offers me a cup of coffee and I politely accept. The pot is almost empty. They’ve been waiting for me longer than I realized. He replaces the carafe and returns to the table, then hands me a packet of papers. I notice his Rolex first, and then his suit, which is much nicer than any of Todd’s. The self-proclaimed “best divorce attorney in the tri-county area” clearly isn’t starving for work.
He sails off on a dissertation regarding the divorce papers that sit in front of us. I’ve heard it all; we’ve been hashing out these details for months. His voice fades into white noise, as my mind once again enters the dangerous territory of my memories.
Images flash like slides in a projector, as I return to the horrors of that day.
There was so much blood. It pooled in the grass and dripped down my clothes. I had never seen anything like it.
I killed him.
“Janelle, are you listening?” Todd returns me to reality.
“Yes, of course,” I lie. I have no interest in being here. My life is unraveling and my divorce from Todd Holcomb has little to do with it.
I take a sip of the stale coffee in a maroon Harvard Law School mug. I’m not sure if Mr. Schumer attended, or if he’s just a fan.
He shuffles the papers in front of me. “Now, Mrs. Holcomb…”
“Ms. Dixon,” I correct him.
“Fine, Ms. Dixon,” he continues. He thinks I don’t notice his eyes roll. “If you’ll sign here, and here, and initial here, and here, then your divorce from Mr. Holcomb will be final.”
He hands me an elegant silver pen from his shirt pocket. Across the table, Todd takes a drink from his mug with a loud slurp like he always does. It’s annoying, but at this moment I feel I may miss it. His coffee slurps have been with me for the better part of a decade.
The pen hovers over the signature line as I reminisce about how Todd and I met. We attended the same college. I was in a sorority and he was in a fraternity. During the annual fall mixer in my junior year, he approached me and told me I was the most beautiful girl in the room. Sheesh, what a line. We finished out our college days and wed with an extravagant affair. My signature on these papers was the period at the end of that chapter.
I sign my married name, not yet legally able to use my maiden name, and then stare at the blank spot next to the word “date.” Oh, I know what day it is, how could I forget?
My hand holding the pen begins to tremble. I’m not afraid to end my marriage to Todd. I wanted this as much as him. My fear stems from the horrific images of this day 14 years ago as they flash through my head once again.
Todd clears his throat and shoots a glance at his watch. “Janelle, if we could wrap this up, that’d be great. I have a meeting in a half hour.”
Another meeting. No surprise there. Todd Holcomb’s whole life consisted of meetings. That I knew I wouldn’t miss. No more cold dinners and embarrassing no-shows at restaurants. Even though meetings are a necessity for someone with senatorial aspirations, Todd had more than normal. I’m pretty sure he’s just been fucking the new girl at his office. I peek over at him, and I swear I can see a faint hint of lipstick on his collar, but maybe it’s only my paranoia.
I scribble today’s date in the provided space and shudder. How is it that my divorce would be finalized on this date as well? Coincidence? I think not. Bad things in life have a way of stacking up on one another. I’m not superstitious, but there is nothing about April 12th that brings me joy.
I sign the divorce settlement and scoot the pages across the table to the well-to-do lawyer. “Are we done here?”
“Yes, Mrs. Holco — I mean, Ms. Dixon. That is all we need for now.”
Todd shakes my hand as if we just closed a business deal that would make him a lot of money. He wears the shit-eating grin to match. “I wish you the best of luck, Janelle, I really do.”
I tip my head. There’s nothing left to say. Then I retract my hand from his politician’s grip. I take one last gaze at Todd Holcomb, knowing I will probably never see him again, other than in his campaign ads.
The divorce was relatively straightforward. His wealth acquired much of our belongings and nabbed him a better attorney, so he ended up with most of it. I get to keep my clothes, some dishes, and my car. I also insisted on keeping the crystal punch bowl set his Aunt Gerty gave us at our wedding. I’m sure I will never use it, but god damn is it gorgeous.
We don’t have any kids. That was Todd’s choice. He insisted they would derail his career. I just don’t think he likes children. My sister asked him to hold her 5-month-old daughter once while she located a pack of wipes. Todd held the baby out like a sack of trash. Granted, she had filled her pants moments before, so I don’t blame him. And that’s the closest we ever got to having kids. It makes the divorce easier though.
Mr. Fancy Suit hands me my copy of the settlement, and without another word, I step out of Conference Room C. The door closes behind me and I take a deep breath. As I linger by the doorway, I overhear my ex and his lawyer talking. It’s faint but distinguishable.
“Boy Todd, it’s a good thing you got this settled before you run for Senate. That girl is a total nut job,” Mr. Schumer remarks.
Todd chuckles. “She hasn’t been in her right mind for a while now. I’m ready to move on with my life and focus on my campaign.”
I wonder what he means by that. I felt fine until today. My brain is just a little scattered. It’s the first time I’ve been alone for the anniversary of the horrible events of 14 years ago. Right after high school, I went on to college where my sorority sisters would throw me an extravagant party to help me forget. Then I met Todd, and he found a way to make this day bearable. This time, I’m all alone. That’s why I can’t stop thinking about it.
So much blood.
As the exchange between Todd and his lawyer falls into irrelevant banter, I shuffle down the hall and out of the building. I climb into the driver’s seat of my fuel-efficient Ford Focus. My purse and the divorce papers land in the passenger seat on top of a pile of junk mail I’ve been neglecting.
I stare at the steering wheel. Where do I go from here?
Chapter 2
I unlock my apartment door and step inside. I don’t remember driving here.
The moving boxes are still scattered around the room; some of them overturned and pouring out their contents onto the floor. It’s been a week since I moved in, but I lack the motivation or desire to put anything away. I am content to live out of boxes and sleep on the futon that came from the guest bedroom in the townhouse I shared with Todd. I let him keep the queen bed from the master bedroom. It’s tainted with memories of our marriage.
I sit down on the futon, which is in couch mode and placed arbitrarily at an awkward angle in the middle of the living room. My hands are unsteady, and my mind unhinged.
The blood.
Why do I keep thinking about it? Why can’t I think about anything else?
My stomach growls, trying in vain to derail my disturbed thoughts. I ignore it. I’ve gone hungry before — like when Todd ordered tofu sliders for us and all I wanted was a damn cheeseburger.
I consider the bottle of vodka I have stashed in the cupboard, but that will only mask the pain. I would wake up tomorrow in the same mental state, only I’d have a pounding headache to match. “No thanks,” I say out loud to no one.
I need a better solution — something to repair my broken mind. I need…
I jump up, scurry across the room, and hunt for what I need. I tip the boxes and search their handwritten labels until I find the one marked “memorabilia.” I peel it open and from a load of photo albums and artifacts from my life, I extract a red shoe box. It used to sit in the back of my closet, full of memories best left in the past.
My jittery hand pries off the lid and scours through forgotten treasures from my senior year in high school. Yes, it was that year, the one with all the blood. As I excavate, my fingers brush across a trinket I don’t remember keeping. It sends a chill down my spine and I drop the box to the floor as my past spills out and taunts me.
I’m terrified, but I kneel to the floor and gather the charm bracelet in my palm. It’s the one he gave me. I trace my fingers along the beads and charms. Tears form as I tremble. It’s been 14 years.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the object I seek — a business card from an old friend. I trade the bracelet for the card and sit back on the futon far away from the spilled box of dark memories.
I stare at the card. “Dr. Erin Trudelle, Psychologist” it reads, followed by a phone number. I wonder if she’s even still practicing in Westwood Falls?
That’s where I grew up, but I haven’t set foot in that town since my graduation day. I was quick to put the horrors behind me, never looking back. I’ll risk going back there to see Erin. If anyone knows how to help me, it’s her.
I ponder what Westwood Falls is like now after all these years. It used to be the kind of town where nothing ever happened. It was small, secluded, and safe enough to leave your doors unlocked at night. The residents were friendly, but gossip spread quick. The jobs were scarce, leading many to commute to nearby communities for work. The low cost of living and cozy neighborhoods made it an attractive place to live. Who knows what it’s like now. The unfortunate events that spring shook the entire community, not only me. My hometown may be just as broken as I am.
I cease my speculation and grab my cell phone. After I take in a calming breath, I dial the number on the business card in my shaky hand.
“Hello, Dr. Trudelle’s office,” a pleasant voice answers after two rings.
“Um, yes, hello,” I’m surprised how much my voice quivers. I clear my throat and attempt to regain my composure. “I was wondering if… if I could see Dr. Trudelle.”
“Are you a patient of hers?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Name please?”
“Janelle Holc — sorry Janelle Dixon.” After years of using my married name, it was first to come out.
“Hold please.”
I listen to the unbearable silence on the other end. My leg bounces, and my hands still shake. Pick up the phone, please pick up.
The receptionist comes back on the line, with her unfitting cheerful voice. “Ms. Dixon? Dr. Trudelle has an opening next week, she can see you on Tuesday morning at 9:15.”
“No,” I protest. “I need to see her today.”
“I’m sorry dear, she is all booked for today and the rest of the week I’m afraid.”
My knee bobbles as I chew my bottom lip.
“Ms. Dixon? Are you there? Would you like me to set up the appointment?”
“Will you please tell her I called? I’m an old friend.”
“I will tell her.”
I rattle off my phone number, and after some formalities, hang up. My unsettled legs spring me up and I pace. I stop and stare at my phone, willing it to ring. When I realize it won’t ring on command, I resume pacing.
I don’t know what to do. I have nothing to occupy my mind, and no one to talk to. I can’t stop thinking about Ian Edwards.
Fourteen years have passed, but I can still see him. His messy brown hair, scrawny physique, and of course his signature ensemble — a hoodie and headphones. I also remember the way he looked the last time I saw him. I will never forget that.
The phone rings and draws me back to the present. I dash over to it and answer with an anxious, “Hello?”
“Janelle, how are you? It’s Erin,” a calm voice on the other end greets me.
I let out a relieved sigh and relax onto the futon. “I’ve been better,” I admit.
“I know you wouldn’t have called unless it was important. Why don’t you come to my office after my last appointment at 6:15? We can catch up, and you can tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Yes, I will be there.”
We say goodbye like ordinary people as if we don’t have a lifetime’s worth of history and a disturbing event connecting us.
I hang up. My hands have regained their steadiness. I need someone to talk to and Erin will listen. She will know what to do. She will help me.
My reprieve is short-lived as it dawns on me that I will be back in Westwood Falls tonight. I check my watch; it’s only half past noon. I make my rounds all over the floor again, as I try in vain to settle my thoughts. I decide to put my nervous energy to use and begin unpacking boxes of dishes in the kitchen.
I avoid the mess of the upended memorabilia box.
The moving boxes are still scattered around the room; some of them overturned and pouring out their contents onto the floor. It’s been a week since I moved in, but I lack the motivation or desire to put anything away. I am content to live out of boxes and sleep on the futon that came from the guest bedroom in the townhouse I shared with Todd. I let him keep the queen bed from the master bedroom. It’s tainted with memories of our marriage.
I sit down on the futon, which is in couch mode and placed arbitrarily at an awkward angle in the middle of the living room. My hands are unsteady, and my mind unhinged.
The blood.
Why do I keep thinking about it? Why can’t I think about anything else?
My stomach growls, trying in vain to derail my disturbed thoughts. I ignore it. I’ve gone hungry before — like when Todd ordered tofu sliders for us and all I wanted was a damn cheeseburger.
I consider the bottle of vodka I have stashed in the cupboard, but that will only mask the pain. I would wake up tomorrow in the same mental state, only I’d have a pounding headache to match. “No thanks,” I say out loud to no one.
I need a better solution — something to repair my broken mind. I need…
I jump up, scurry across the room, and hunt for what I need. I tip the boxes and search their handwritten labels until I find the one marked “memorabilia.” I peel it open and from a load of photo albums and artifacts from my life, I extract a red shoe box. It used to sit in the back of my closet, full of memories best left in the past.
My jittery hand pries off the lid and scours through forgotten treasures from my senior year in high school. Yes, it was that year, the one with all the blood. As I excavate, my fingers brush across a trinket I don’t remember keeping. It sends a chill down my spine and I drop the box to the floor as my past spills out and taunts me.
I’m terrified, but I kneel to the floor and gather the charm bracelet in my palm. It’s the one he gave me. I trace my fingers along the beads and charms. Tears form as I tremble. It’s been 14 years.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the object I seek — a business card from an old friend. I trade the bracelet for the card and sit back on the futon far away from the spilled box of dark memories.
I stare at the card. “Dr. Erin Trudelle, Psychologist” it reads, followed by a phone number. I wonder if she’s even still practicing in Westwood Falls?
That’s where I grew up, but I haven’t set foot in that town since my graduation day. I was quick to put the horrors behind me, never looking back. I’ll risk going back there to see Erin. If anyone knows how to help me, it’s her.
I ponder what Westwood Falls is like now after all these years. It used to be the kind of town where nothing ever happened. It was small, secluded, and safe enough to leave your doors unlocked at night. The residents were friendly, but gossip spread quick. The jobs were scarce, leading many to commute to nearby communities for work. The low cost of living and cozy neighborhoods made it an attractive place to live. Who knows what it’s like now. The unfortunate events that spring shook the entire community, not only me. My hometown may be just as broken as I am.
I cease my speculation and grab my cell phone. After I take in a calming breath, I dial the number on the business card in my shaky hand.
“Hello, Dr. Trudelle’s office,” a pleasant voice answers after two rings.
“Um, yes, hello,” I’m surprised how much my voice quivers. I clear my throat and attempt to regain my composure. “I was wondering if… if I could see Dr. Trudelle.”
“Are you a patient of hers?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Name please?”
“Janelle Holc — sorry Janelle Dixon.” After years of using my married name, it was first to come out.
“Hold please.”
I listen to the unbearable silence on the other end. My leg bounces, and my hands still shake. Pick up the phone, please pick up.
The receptionist comes back on the line, with her unfitting cheerful voice. “Ms. Dixon? Dr. Trudelle has an opening next week, she can see you on Tuesday morning at 9:15.”
“No,” I protest. “I need to see her today.”
“I’m sorry dear, she is all booked for today and the rest of the week I’m afraid.”
My knee bobbles as I chew my bottom lip.
“Ms. Dixon? Are you there? Would you like me to set up the appointment?”
“Will you please tell her I called? I’m an old friend.”
“I will tell her.”
I rattle off my phone number, and after some formalities, hang up. My unsettled legs spring me up and I pace. I stop and stare at my phone, willing it to ring. When I realize it won’t ring on command, I resume pacing.
I don’t know what to do. I have nothing to occupy my mind, and no one to talk to. I can’t stop thinking about Ian Edwards.
Fourteen years have passed, but I can still see him. His messy brown hair, scrawny physique, and of course his signature ensemble — a hoodie and headphones. I also remember the way he looked the last time I saw him. I will never forget that.
The phone rings and draws me back to the present. I dash over to it and answer with an anxious, “Hello?”
“Janelle, how are you? It’s Erin,” a calm voice on the other end greets me.
I let out a relieved sigh and relax onto the futon. “I’ve been better,” I admit.
“I know you wouldn’t have called unless it was important. Why don’t you come to my office after my last appointment at 6:15? We can catch up, and you can tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Yes, I will be there.”
We say goodbye like ordinary people as if we don’t have a lifetime’s worth of history and a disturbing event connecting us.
I hang up. My hands have regained their steadiness. I need someone to talk to and Erin will listen. She will know what to do. She will help me.
My reprieve is short-lived as it dawns on me that I will be back in Westwood Falls tonight. I check my watch; it’s only half past noon. I make my rounds all over the floor again, as I try in vain to settle my thoughts. I decide to put my nervous energy to use and begin unpacking boxes of dishes in the kitchen.
I avoid the mess of the upended memorabilia box.
Chapter 3
With only 10 minutes to spare, I arrive in Westwood Falls. Every minute I’m here will be excruciating. I hate to drag it out any longer than necessary.
As I pull into town, I keep my eyes on the road to avoid the memories surrounding me. I cannot dwell on them now, I need to get to Erin.
I park my Focus on the curb in front of a small brown building on Main Street. The door reads “Dr. Erin Trudelle, Psychologist” in peeling white letters. Her office is dark; everyone’s gone home.
The brisk air strikes me as I step out of my car. It’s colder than it was that day. My sneakers clap the chilled pavement, as I approach the door. I raise my hand to knock, but the door pulls inward, revealing my old friend.
Erin hauls me into an embrace. “It’s so good to see you.”
I’m uncomfortable, but I appreciate the sentiment and give her a light squeeze. It’s been far too long for such affection. Then again, some friendships are timeless.
I began taking piano lessons from her at age four. It didn’t take me long to become her star student. I excelled at the piano. Many would agree I had a gift. The love of music bonded us, and our student-teacher relationship blossomed into friendship.
“It’s good to see you too, Erin.”
“Come on in. I’ve still got some coffee on. Would you care for a cup?” Erin is beaming and joyous at our reunion. I wish I felt the same.
I step all the way inside and shut the door behind me. “No thanks. I just need to talk.”
Erin’s smile fades. She replaces her old friend hat with her psychologist hat. The difference in her demeanor is palpable. “Certainly, right this way.”
She leads me behind the reception area and into the room where she sees her patients. She motions for me to sit in a worn leather armchair, one of three that resides in the space. I comply, as I examine my surroundings.
This is a first for me. When my marriage faltered, I considered asking Todd to join me in marriage counseling, but I knew his ego was too big for that. Now I truly need the help of a shrink. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The tranquility and coziness of the room is ill-suited to my current mental state. The outdated floral curtains draped over the window remind me of my Grandma Dorothy’s house. There’s also a canvas portrait of a serene wheat field on the opposite wall that begs me to be calm. On the desk, a dolphin perpetually swings on a pendulum ring. It pleads with me — be happy it says because I’m a happy fucking dolphin.
Erin rolls an executive chair from behind her desk and positions it in front of me. With a notebook and pen at the ready, she asks, “What can I do for you, Janelle?”
I shuffle my feet and study the floor. “I’m not sure how this sort of thing works.”
Erin places a hand on my shoulder. I pull my gaze from the floor to meet her eyes. I’m scared, and she knows it.
“I knew you would come eventually.” She smirks, but it’s that sort of smirk you give when you feel sorry for someone. She should feel sorry for me after what happened. “Let’s not focus on the technicalities of a psychiatric evaluation. You said you wanted to talk, so let’s talk. I’m an old friend, here to listen.”
I bite my lip. I want to talk to her. It’s the whole reason I’m here, back in my hometown. I don’t know what to say. Where do I even start? The visions of blood I’ve been having all day? The nightmares that have been waking me for the past 14 years? The ever-present pit in my stomach whenever I think of him?
Erin sees I’m clammed up. “Why don’t we try an ice breaker first? I hear you’re married now?”
“Recently divorced, actually.” I don’t bother to explain that it was final as of this morning. Funny, that part now seems irrelevant.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why you are here to see me?”
I shake my head.
There’s silence as Erin attempts to read me. She’s been a psychologist as long as I’ve known her. From what I hear, she’s great at her job.
“Are you here to talk about Ian Edwards?”
His name sends a shiver through me, and my leg begins its anxious bounce. Yes, that’s why I’m here, but I can’t seem to get the words out.
“Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened, Janelle?”
I trace through all the people in my life. My parents, my sisters, my sorority sisters, my now ex-husband, and countless other acquaintances and friends. “No.”
“I think you need to talk about it. This is a safe place, and I’m here to listen.” Her voice is calm and inviting like she wants to take me for a stroll in the warm air of the tranquil wheat field tacked up on her wall.
She’s right, it’s why I’m here. It’s time. My knee steadies. “It was 14 years ago today.” It comes out less dramatic than I had intended when I rehearsed this line in the car on the drive over. Instead, it sounded like a casual mention.
“Why don’t you tell me about that day?”
Images of blood filled grass swirl through my head, and I shudder. I can’t, not yet.
Before I retreat into a fortress of fear that renders me silent forever, Erin shifts her approach. “Why don’t we try something else? Start at the beginning.”
As I pull into town, I keep my eyes on the road to avoid the memories surrounding me. I cannot dwell on them now, I need to get to Erin.
I park my Focus on the curb in front of a small brown building on Main Street. The door reads “Dr. Erin Trudelle, Psychologist” in peeling white letters. Her office is dark; everyone’s gone home.
The brisk air strikes me as I step out of my car. It’s colder than it was that day. My sneakers clap the chilled pavement, as I approach the door. I raise my hand to knock, but the door pulls inward, revealing my old friend.
Erin hauls me into an embrace. “It’s so good to see you.”
I’m uncomfortable, but I appreciate the sentiment and give her a light squeeze. It’s been far too long for such affection. Then again, some friendships are timeless.
I began taking piano lessons from her at age four. It didn’t take me long to become her star student. I excelled at the piano. Many would agree I had a gift. The love of music bonded us, and our student-teacher relationship blossomed into friendship.
“It’s good to see you too, Erin.”
“Come on in. I’ve still got some coffee on. Would you care for a cup?” Erin is beaming and joyous at our reunion. I wish I felt the same.
I step all the way inside and shut the door behind me. “No thanks. I just need to talk.”
Erin’s smile fades. She replaces her old friend hat with her psychologist hat. The difference in her demeanor is palpable. “Certainly, right this way.”
She leads me behind the reception area and into the room where she sees her patients. She motions for me to sit in a worn leather armchair, one of three that resides in the space. I comply, as I examine my surroundings.
This is a first for me. When my marriage faltered, I considered asking Todd to join me in marriage counseling, but I knew his ego was too big for that. Now I truly need the help of a shrink. I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The tranquility and coziness of the room is ill-suited to my current mental state. The outdated floral curtains draped over the window remind me of my Grandma Dorothy’s house. There’s also a canvas portrait of a serene wheat field on the opposite wall that begs me to be calm. On the desk, a dolphin perpetually swings on a pendulum ring. It pleads with me — be happy it says because I’m a happy fucking dolphin.
Erin rolls an executive chair from behind her desk and positions it in front of me. With a notebook and pen at the ready, she asks, “What can I do for you, Janelle?”
I shuffle my feet and study the floor. “I’m not sure how this sort of thing works.”
Erin places a hand on my shoulder. I pull my gaze from the floor to meet her eyes. I’m scared, and she knows it.
“I knew you would come eventually.” She smirks, but it’s that sort of smirk you give when you feel sorry for someone. She should feel sorry for me after what happened. “Let’s not focus on the technicalities of a psychiatric evaluation. You said you wanted to talk, so let’s talk. I’m an old friend, here to listen.”
I bite my lip. I want to talk to her. It’s the whole reason I’m here, back in my hometown. I don’t know what to say. Where do I even start? The visions of blood I’ve been having all day? The nightmares that have been waking me for the past 14 years? The ever-present pit in my stomach whenever I think of him?
Erin sees I’m clammed up. “Why don’t we try an ice breaker first? I hear you’re married now?”
“Recently divorced, actually.” I don’t bother to explain that it was final as of this morning. Funny, that part now seems irrelevant.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why you are here to see me?”
I shake my head.
There’s silence as Erin attempts to read me. She’s been a psychologist as long as I’ve known her. From what I hear, she’s great at her job.
“Are you here to talk about Ian Edwards?”
His name sends a shiver through me, and my leg begins its anxious bounce. Yes, that’s why I’m here, but I can’t seem to get the words out.
“Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened, Janelle?”
I trace through all the people in my life. My parents, my sisters, my sorority sisters, my now ex-husband, and countless other acquaintances and friends. “No.”
“I think you need to talk about it. This is a safe place, and I’m here to listen.” Her voice is calm and inviting like she wants to take me for a stroll in the warm air of the tranquil wheat field tacked up on her wall.
She’s right, it’s why I’m here. It’s time. My knee steadies. “It was 14 years ago today.” It comes out less dramatic than I had intended when I rehearsed this line in the car on the drive over. Instead, it sounded like a casual mention.
“Why don’t you tell me about that day?”
Images of blood filled grass swirl through my head, and I shudder. I can’t, not yet.
Before I retreat into a fortress of fear that renders me silent forever, Erin shifts her approach. “Why don’t we try something else? Start at the beginning.”
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