Summer Session (10 page)

When she finally fell asleep from his drug-laden elixir, he realized he’d had it in the back of his mind to kill her all along. Prepared for it. Lined the passenger seat with plastic. Brought equipment. So his conscious mind was moving slower than the rest of it. Fascinating. His mind knew things before he did. He chuckled at that and thought about the waitress slumped next to him. From watching her in the coffee shop, he knew a lot about her: how she moved; how she smelled; how her little nose scrunched up in a pout she undoubtedly thought was cute; how she repeated the same insipid stupid sing-song comments to customers all day long, day after day; how she primped at her reflection in the window when she thought no one was looking. He knew, too, that she would have resisted when he tried to fuck her, hoping to pressure him into more than a one-time hook-up. And the idea of her resisting him – that made him mad. By the time they got to the lake, he was so angry and actually bored with her that he didn’t even want to nail her anymore.

Instead, he undertook a more ambitious project.

A while later, woozy and confused, Chelsea forced an eye open. Saw darkness. Wait – where was she? Crickets were chirping. In a car? The college boy – his car. She blinked, swallowed. Drank something warm. Blood? What? Her mouth felt swollen; she moved her tongue, felt a loose tooth. What had happened? An accident? No, the car was parked, surrounded by trees. And the dark, hazy sky. She couldn’t get air, choked on the razor sharp pain across her throat. Oh God. She tried to move but couldn’t; opened her mouth to cry out, but made only bubbling, gurgling noises. Where was the college boy? He could help her – take her to the hospital. She tried to look for him, but couldn’t turn her head. Had no strength.

When the car door opened, Chelsea Johnson was barely conscious. If her throat hadn’t been cut, she might have screamed as her date gathered her in plastic and hoisted her over his shoulder. If she hadn’t been tied so tightly, she might have clawed at him as he dumped her in the woods. But unable to scream or to claw, Chelsea fell to the ground beside the lake, dying silent and alone.

‘Did you have your lemon with you? Did you bite it?’

Leslie’s red hair glowed in the lamplight, and her brown eyes held steady, as if nothing in the world were as important as what Harper had to say. In Leslie’s comfy office, together on a pillow-laden green sofa, they sipped tea with honey, and Harper talked about her day, working a twisted narrative backwards. She started with an explanation of her wounds and an assurance that she was really OK; ended with a description of the flashbacks that followed Graham’s suicide. It was the flashbacks that Leslie wanted to discuss first.

‘No lemon. But I had a pencil, and I pressed the point into my hand until it just about impaled it.’

‘But pain didn’t help.’

No. ‘Leslie, this wasn’t an ordinary flashback. It was like –’ Good Lord, what had it been like? ‘– like channel surfing in my head. One show changing to another every few seconds. Only they weren’t shows. They were real. Sniper fire. Hank falling. Graham falling. Marvin blowing up. Bam bam bam.’ Harper held her head.

Leslie reached out, gently touched Harper’s arm.

In the few months Harper had been off-and-on seeing her, she had come to trust Leslie, thought of her as not just a therapist but also a friend. The friendship, she knew, existed only within the walls of Leslie’s candle-scented, plant-filled office. Even so, Harper relied on it. In some ways, she’d been more open with Leslie than with anyone ever, including Hank.

Leslie’s voice was soft, validating. ‘So, with the channels abruptly changing, you must have become disoriented. You couldn’t possibly anticipate what would come next.’

‘Well, yes, except—’

‘Except that you knew how each episode would end?’

‘Exactly.’

Leslie leaned close, watching Harper’s eyes. ‘So tell me how you felt.’

‘How I felt?’ What? Were there even words to describe it? ‘I don’t know. Frantic? Powerless? I couldn’t change what I knew was coming. Couldn’t help anyone.’ But those words didn’t even touch how she’d felt. Didn’t address the urgency or the danger. Didn’t include the tangibility – the sounds, the smells.

‘It sounds terrifying.’ Leslie released Harper’s arm, sat back.

Terrifying? Yes, Harper supposed it had been. But that word didn’t touch it, either. ‘So what do I do, Leslie? Is this how I’m going to be? Is this my new normal?’

‘You know I don’t use that word, Harper.’ A big, generous grin reminded Harper that they both knew there was no such thing as ‘normal’ in a complex, ever-changing world. ‘But that type of multi-tiered flashback hasn’t been typical for you. So, for you, no, I wouldn’t consider it “normal”.’

Leslie let Harper absorb the comment before continuing.

‘Let’s think about what set it off. The suicide of your student. An unthinkably violent and unexpected event. Completely out of nowhere. Maybe your reaction to something so atypical was similarly atypical?’

Harper smiled. Of course. Leave it to Leslie to make sense of what had happened: her mind had responded to sudden violence with its own sudden violence. It seemed obvious now; the morning’s flashbacks were an aberration, a one-time deal. Her shoulders released some tension. ‘So I’m not necessarily getting worse?’

Leslie shook her head, no. But she shifted positions, sitting face to face with Harper. ‘I don’t like “better” or “worse” any more than I like “normal”.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Because PTSD isn’t about good or bad or sick or well.’

‘I know.’ Harper had heard this speech before. Many times. She continued it for Leslie, hoping to shorten it. ‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is not a disease to be cured; it’s a condition to be managed. And I’ll probably have to live with it forever.’

Leslie nodded. ‘Sadly, that’s true. For now, the best we can do is manage it. Has the Effexor helped you?’

Harper shrugged. ‘I haven’t been taking them lately.’ In fact, she’d stopped taking the pills weeks ago when her flashbacks had seemed to ease.

‘Are you sleeping?’

Harper never slept through the night. Hadn’t in years, not since Iraq. ‘Same as usual.’

Leslie sipped tea, pressed her lips together, thinking. ‘OK. Let’s go back to this morning. You pressed on a pencil point to cause pain. But that didn’t ground you.’

‘Right.’

‘Did you use any other techniques?’

Harper knew what Leslie was asking. The theory was that PTSD symptoms might be minimized or interrupted if, at the start of a flashback, sufferers grounded themselves in the present moment. Which meant sharply stimulating their senses. Leslie had recommended biting into a lemon, smelling intense scents like mint or cloves, clutching an ice cube (or, in a pinch, the point of a pencil), listening to music or even counting the number of chairs in a room or trees in a park. So far, Harper hadn’t tried many of these techniques.

Leslie waited. ‘You said you didn’t have a lemon with you. How about your scents?’

‘No. I carry drops in my bag, but it was up in the classroom, and I was outside.’

‘So they were no good.’

‘Leslie, if I’d eaten an entire lemon, it wouldn’t have helped. This was powerful. I was in no condition to concentrate on smelling salts or counting by threes.’

‘I get it.’

They were both silent. Leslie frowned.

‘It wasn’t your fault, you know.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘Any of it. The mugging. The suicide—’

Sudden tears blurred Harper’s vision. ‘Leslie, I was holding his arms. He fell out of my—’

‘It’s not your fault. Nor is what happened to Marvin and the others in Iraq. Nor is your father’s fraud or your parents’ divorce or Hank’s fall. None of it’s your fault. None of it.’

Now, Harper was angry. ‘So? If none of it’s my fault, why bring it all up?’ She tensed, almost got to her feet. ‘What’s your point, Leslie? That things keep happening to me? That I’m some kind of perpetual helpless victim?’

‘Yes, in a way—’

‘What?’ Harper stood, her face red, eyes bulging. ‘Seriously? Me? A victim?’

‘Yes. A victim.’ Leslie remained unperturbed. ‘But no more than anyone else. Harper, none of us – no matter how many push-ups we can do or how accurately we fire a rifle – none of us can control everyone and everything all the time. Once in a while, everyone – even the toughest of us – becomes a victim. Nobody can protect everyone—’

‘And I don’t expect to. But today – it was my job to run that recitation. Which implies to protect it. And, since you brought it up, I was in charge of the patrol, too. It was my job to take Marvin’s back and secure that area—’

‘Harper, you could not foresee what happened to Marvin.’

Harper didn’t answer. She remained rigid, hands on hips. Leslie was trying to soothe her, and that was infuriating.

‘Nobody could have prevented what happened to Marvin except the bombers.’

‘You weren’t there. You don’t know.’

‘I think I do, Harper, because I know you. If anything could have been done, you’d have done it. You weren’t at fault. Not then. Not now.’

‘No? Well, that’s good news. I guess everything’s just fine, then.’

Leslie scowled. ‘Do you want it to be your fault, Harper? Is feeling guilty preferable to feeling powerless?’

Harper fumed. She pushed a hand through her hair, sat again. Drank more tea. Didn’t look at Leslie. How had the conversation turned to fault, anyhow? She’d never meant to discuss blame. People were gone. What did it matter whose fault it was? Marvin was gone. So were Sameh and the boy. And nine other soldiers, and seventeen civilians. And her father. And Graham. Even Hank was gone, in a way. Fault wasn’t the issue, was it?

‘Harper. Do you think you’re still in danger?’

In danger? Of another flashback? ‘Not really.’

‘Because that mugging didn’t seem random.’

Oh, the mugging. Leslie had changed the subject. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

Leslie put her mug on the coffee table. She met Harper’s eyes. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Harper, I’m concerned. The guy knew you and was specifically following you; he wasn’t just coasting along until he saw a book bag he liked and decided to grab it. Am I right?’

She was.

‘So what did he want? Six hundred dollars? A gun? A few pills?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Harper, whoever attacked you is impulsive, violent. Willing to take risks, even in broad daylight. Look, I’m not a cop. But it’s clear to me that you were targeted because somebody wanted something you had. If that something was in the bag, fine. He got it. Game over. But what if it wasn’t?’

‘Then he’ll be back.’ Harper hadn’t articulated that possibility; she’d merely reacted to it, becoming super-watchful, alert, braced for an attack. ‘And, next time, I won’t be surprised. Next time, I’ll break his effing neck.’

Leslie said nothing. Harper checked her watch. The hour was up. She gulped the last of her tea, set the mug down, stood to go.

‘Hang on a second.’ Leslie went to the tiny refrigerator in the corner. ‘I can’t help you fight off muggers, but at least I can give you this. Keep it handy.’ She pressed a plump lemon into Harper’s hand. ‘You start to feel detached or fuzzy, chomp away.’

‘Yum.’ Harper stuck the lemon in her bag and gave Leslie a hug. ‘This was good, Leslie. Thank you.’

‘Be careful, Harper.’

Harper stepped into the hall, looked both ways, then paused to look back through the window of Leslie’s office. Leslie was still standing there, brown eyes fixed on her as she walked away.

Harper strapped her bag on to the Ninja and took a long way home. The air was heavy, buggy, humid, but the motorcycle tore through it, carving its way down the road.

Home was on Hanshaw Street, about a mile north-west of campus. Harper parked her bike in the driveway, grabbed her bag, stopped on the front porch to look around. The grass was knee-high; the gazebo surrounded by weeds. Her flower garden overgrown, untended. Neglected. Sighing, she went into her empty, half-renovated house. Glanced into the dining room covered with drop cloths. Dropped her bag in the hall, headed for the kitchen. And heard her cell phone ring.

For half a nanosecond, she thought: maybe it’s Hank. But then she remembered; of course it wasn’t Hank. When would she accept reality? Hank wouldn’t be calling any more; he couldn’t call. Couldn’t talk. Hank had Broca’s aphasia. When would that sink in?

Reaching into her leather bag, Harper found her phone. Caller ID said CAYUGA NEUROLOGICAL. Wow, maybe it was Hank, after all? She answered, breathless.

‘Harper?’

No, it wasn’t Hank. Harper’s eyes darted around the foyer, the walls stripped of paper. She smoothed her hair.

‘Are you busy? Is this a bad time?’

‘No. No. I – it’s fine.’ Why was Ron calling? Oh God, had something happened to Hank?

Hesitation. ‘I enjoyed our coffee today.’

Harper bit her lip. Why was she so damned awkward? Ron was just being polite. Then again, his voice was muted, hushed. Why was he talking so softly? Never mind. It didn’t matter. ‘So did I.’ She tried to sound chirpy.

He paused. Harper waited.

‘So I said I’d call when I had news about that pill.’

Of course. That was why he was calling: the pill. She thought of Detective Rivers, what she’d said about the other deaths. ‘You found out what it is?’

Another pause. ‘The short answer is yes. But it’s a long, rather complicated story—’

‘So? Start.’

‘Harper. Is something wrong? You sound – I don’t know. Short?’

Short? She stood up straighter. ‘I’m just tired. Tell me about the pill.’

‘No, you’ve had a rough day. If you’re tired, it can wait—’

‘I’m fine. Tell me.’

He exhaled. ‘It’s a new drug, still experimental, but in final trials. About to be approved by the FDA. It has amazing properties; it stimulates parts of the frontal lobe, improves learning, enhances mental acuity and short-term memory. Its potential applications are boundless—’