Entangled (26 page)

“Did you eat lunch, Billie? You look as if
you’re losing weight and you don’t have any to spare.”

I laughed. “Was that a backhanded compliment?
A couple months ago you were telling me I needed to watch what I
eat.”

She shook her head and took the bar of
chocolate from my hand. “Yes, watch the junk food. You need to eat
healthier. Being busy doesn’t negate the need for a well-balanced
diet.”

“Then why’d you buy that? You know I can’t
resist temptation. It calls to me in the night.” I tried to snatch
it out of her hand but she was faster than I.

“Oh no you don’t! This is a bribe.”

“You’re bribing me with chocolate? What am I,
a child?” I went to the window over the sink and looked out as Sean
Parker made a pass on the riding mower. The engine noise rattled
the pane of glass and grass clippings fluttered in the air, but the
man remained stoic, staring straight ahead.

“You may not like what I’ve done, but I did
it for you.”

I ‘d heard those words before. Always in the
name of unselfish sacrifice, Mother declared causing me pain was
for my own good. Examples: braces, summer camp, iodine on open
wounds. I turned to face her and crossed my arms, a feeble
barricade against what was sure to come.

“What have you done, Mother?”

“Joan and I were talking -“

“Joan?”

Mother nodded and slipped into a chair at the
table, her glance darting safely away from mine. “The woman who did
my nails this morning,” she said, tapping them softly against the
tabletop. They were now a lovely shade of mauve that matched her
top. “Her niece suffered from recurring nightmares and thoughts of
suicide after a horrible car accident where her younger brother was
killed and she walked away unscathed.”

I cleared my throat, and tried to remain
calm. “That’s terrible, but what does it have to do with me?”

Mother reached in the pocket of her gray
slacks and pulled out a pale blue business card. “She gave me the
number to a local therapist. Joan swears she’s the best; has
credentials galore. She said the woman literally saved her niece’s
life.” Mother met my furious stare and licked her lips nervously.
“I made an appointment for you tomorrow.”

Taught at an early age not to raise my voice
to my mother, I had to literally clench my teeth to keep from
screaming. I also shut my eyes like a child having a temper
tantrum, wishing myself far from the kitchen. To Mother’s credit,
she didn’t say a word but waited silently as I vented internally.
Finally, after relaxing my jaw, I released a pent-up breath. My
frustration mostly dissipated through the simple action, a trick
I’d learned in my teenage years, I could now speak almost
calmly.

My words were clear and succinct, as if
measuring them twice before using. “I told you — I don’t need
professional help. I can get through this on my own. And I
certainly don’t need you discussing my mental state with perfect
strangers around town.”

Mother’s eyes glistened and her lower lip
trembled. She shook her head slowly. “You’re wrong, Billie. You do
need help.” She held the card toward me and when I didn’t respond,
set it on the table. “Please — go see her tomorrow.”

When my mother turned and walked out of the
room without another word I knew I was beaten. I picked up the
card. The therapist’s name was Elizabeth Berger.

*****

“I have a two o’clock appointment,” I told
the woman at the reception desk.

“Have a seat. Dr. Lizzy will be right with
you,” she said, indicating the waiting area behind me.

Dr. Lizzy. Another therapist’s lame attempt
to give patients the illusion that they’re talking to a friend
rather than an over-paid quack, who probably doesn’t know the
difference between depression and the feeling you get when you
realize you’re out of toilet paper.

Comfortable looking chairs and an
over-stuffed couch took up much of the room, along with two end
tables spilling over with dozens of popular magazines. The walls
were adorned with images of smiling people. Whether they were
satisfied patients of the therapist or random photos of happy
people, the result was the same. A lot of exposed teeth. Which
could actually be fearful to many of Ms. Berger’s potential
patients. I sat down and picked up a magazine, graced with the
anorexic image of a movie star, and wondered once again why I’d let
my mother talk me into this charade.

How many times had I sworn never to set foot
in such a place again? I did my time, went through the stages of
healing, blah, blah, blah. Apparently, they couldn’t fix me then,
why did Mother think it would be any different now?

The room was air-conditioned yet I felt sweat
trickle beneath my arms and down my sides. Time passes so slowly in
a waiting room, as if all the wasted minutes of your life have been
recycled and you are forced to endure them over again. I flipped
through the magazine, words and photos blurring together in my
mind, simply waiting for the call of my name, the moment I
dreaded.

“Wilhelmina? Dr. Lizzy can see you now.” The
smiling receptionist stood at the open door of Elizabeth Berger’s
office waiting to see me safely inside. The use of my full name
made me feel a bit smug as I entered the therapist’s domain.

A petite, blonde-haired woman stepped out
from behind a modern glass and chrome desk to greet me. Her smile
added curves to cheeks already plump and round. The grip of her
hand was surprisingly strong but brief before she waved me toward a
set of overstuffed, cushioned chairs. She sat in one and I in the
other and we looked at one another.

“Tell me why you’re here,” she began, her
voice chirpy and light like the early morning chatter of Robins in
the yard outside my window. “Not why your mother called and set an
appointment, but why you came.”

I couldn’t help but feel as if I was meeting
with a sorority sister, although I’d never joined a sorority and
had no idea what we’d talk about. She crossed her legs and leaned
slightly forward in her seat, her attention rapt upon my face, as
though eager to hear what I’d been up to since graduation.

I cleared my throat. “I came because my
mother and the woman who does her nails think I need help. I guess
you could say it was a salon intervention that got me here.”

Dr. Berger’s pleasant expression erupted into
hearty laughter, her round cheeks so like the Cheshire cat that I
also smiled. “That Joan! I can always count on her for referrals.
I’ll probably never have to solicit new clients as long as she’s in
business.”

I frowned. “You know Joan?” I asked.

“Well, certainly. Her niece was a client of
mine.” She smoothed a wrinkle from the lap of her skirt. “She’s a
very nice lady, but probably not the real reason you’re here.”

“Why do you call your patients, clients?” I
asked, curiosity overriding my earlier intentions not to be sucked
into another therapist’s alternate world of reality.

She brushed at an imaginary piece of lint on
the arm of her silk suit jacket as she spoke. “They pay for
services as any client does and most aren’t very patient about
getting their money’s worth. So it seems rather silly to call them
patients. I try to help them as quickly as I can, and if I feel
they would be better off with someone else - ” She waved a hand
toward the door. “I say, good luck and God bless. I’m not in this
business for the money. I know that sounds corny and insincere, but
it’s true. There are a lot of hurting people in this world, and I
just want to help as many as I can.”

She was right. A therapist saying she wasn’t
in it for the money was either lying or crazy. Either way, she
probably wouldn’t be much help to me. I nodded as though I’d heard
it all before. “Of course. You want to help me. Well, why didn’t
you just say so? Give me a prescription for insomnia, and I’ll be
on my way.”

“Insomnia? Is that really what you came here
for?” She tilted her head to the side, watching me in a thoughtful
squint. “Or do you want to deal with the reasons behind why you
can’t sleep? Drugs may mask the problem for a time, but even they
can’t keep the demons at bay forever.”

I expelled an exasperated breath and stood
up. “I’m sure my mother already went through this with you,” I
said. “I was just trying to shorten the preliminaries and get to
the end result.”

She didn’t appear flustered by my attitude
but merely sat back in her chair and nodded. “Your mother did say
you were having nightmares that were keeping you both awake.
Perhaps I should give her a prescription, also.”

I blew a soft laugh through my nose and
looked away. The woman was quick, I had to give her that. I bit at
my bottom lip a moment and then sat back down. “All right. Let’s
talk.”

She folded her hands in her lap and smiled,
the creases in her round cheeks curving mischievously. “You go
first.”

Thirty minutes later I realized I’d rehashed
Paul’s attack on me, my father’s dismissive attitude, my mother’s
over-protectiveness, and my recurring nightmares. Lizzy asked what
triggered the dream’s return and I shook my head.

“I don’t know.” I’d kicked my shoes off
earlier, at Lizzy’s insistence, and now had my feet on the edge of
the chair with my knees drawn up to my chin. The overstuffed chair
seemed to poof around me like a giant marshmallow. “Maybe the
stress of coming here, learning a new business, meeting people from
my past. It is strange to return to a place you once knew so well
yet have only vague memories of.”

Her eyes lit with excitement at my innocent
admission; I let myself hope that she would now speak the magic
words, and I would be healed. Or at least sleep peacefully without
dreaming. But she didn’t have any magic, just more questions. I
answered them to the best of my ability and then sat back and
waited for her to pronounce sentence.

“What sort of relationship did you have with
your father prior to the date rape?” she asked instead. Her
pantyhose made a swishing sound as she uncrossed her legs and
leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “Were you close or was
he always a distant parent?”

I released a weary breath and glanced at my
watch. The session had run longer than an hour. Didn’t she have
other individuals waiting for their turn in the inquisition?

“You don’t need to worry about time. Unless
you have a pressing appointment. I have all afternoon open,” she
assured me.

Time seemed to be all I thought about
anymore. Forgotten time, wasted time, and now interminable time.
I’d already counted the slats in the window blinds and the
pinstripes in the fabric of the chairs. “No, he wasn’t always
distant,” I said. Images of time spent with my father suddenly
flooded my mind: playing catch, shooting baskets, tossing
horseshoes. He taught me to swim, and how to put a wriggly worm on
a fishhook. He took our family to church each Sunday and let me
snuggle against his side as the sermon lengthened and my eyes
drooped. He read bible stories to Adam and me at bedtime, and then
both Mom and he would kiss our foreheads and tuck our blankets to
our chins, before turning out the light. How could all of that be
negated by the last few weeks of his life?

“Your father died less than two months after
the incident?”

Lizzy’s soft voice brought me out of the fog
of memories I was sinking into. I must have spoken aloud and didn’t
realize. “What — ?” I cleared my throat and shifted in the chair.
“Yes, my father died of a massive heart attack after playing a
round of golf on a Saturday afternoon.”

“When did the nightmares start?” she asked. A
question already asked and answered an hour or more ago. I wondered
if she played this game with all her patients, trying to slip them
up and force them to admit they really weren’t crazy at all, just
lonely people that wanted someone to talk to.

I stood up and stretched; then walked to the
window and looked out at the street below. “You already asked me
that.” My voice was weary as were my emotions. I didn’t want to
speak of the past anymore, see my father lying there in the coffin,
hear those words of tribute spoken at the service, while I sat
staring unblinkingly at the cross at the front of the church, anger
and bitterness tearing at my insides while forgiveness hunkered
down in the corner of my heart and cried.

She watched me a moment, not saying anything.
“Did you have a nightmare the very next night after Paul’s attack
on you?”

I turned from the window and shook my head.
“I don’t think so. I can’t remember the exact day and hour, Doctor.
Maybe you should ask my mother. She probably penciled it in her
calendar. Billie had breakdown between ten and ten fifteen last
night.”

“I think your answer will suffice,” she said.
She stood up and crossed the room to her desk. So far she hadn’t
written anything down, but now she picked up a tablet and pencil as
she faced me, leaning her hip against the desktop. “Do you think
the first nightmare occurred before or after your father’s
death?”

The question startled me, but I wasn’t sure
why. I pressed two fingers to my throbbing temple. “All of this
happened when I was fifteen years old. I can hardly remember the
day I graduated from law school, let alone what day I started
having nightmares.” That wasn’t entirely true. I did remember the
day I graduated. What I remembered was how much I missed having my
father there to see it.

“If you had to guess,” she said, leaving the
question hanging in mid-air.

I threw my hands up in surrender. “Okay!
Backed into a memory corner, I would say after, but I won’t swear
to it.”

“You’re a lawyer all right.” Lizzy continued
to write, scratching away at the tablet as though I had given a
full confession and she didn’t want to miss a word.

“What are you writing?” I asked, curiosity
overpowering me once again. I sidled close and peered over her
shoulder.