Blackout (7 page)

“It’s a two-way mirror, so parents can view the sessions,” he says. “Sometimes they pick up on behaviors they don’t see at home.”

“Let’s sit over there.” He gestures toward a sofa and a couple comfortable chairs. Behind him are stacks of toys.

He sets the box down, opens it, and shuffles through the papers. “You weren’t lying about the scans of your brain.”

“Do I look like I lie?” I tease, sitting down.

He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know. You look mighty suspicious. I should probably lock up my guest magazines in the waiting area.”

I like his approach. The other doctors poked and prodded me, searching my eyes and my mind for faulty neurons.

“These photos are very flattering.” He lifts one and looks at it against the light.

I laugh. “You must be into skulls.”

“The boys love them and sharks.” He wiggles his toes.

“I’ll make a copy of these and return them.” He picks up the prognosis from one of the PET-CT scans and studies it. “The doctors didn’t think you had any brain damage, except one.”

He leans over and points at a spot on one of the images. “I’m not a medical doctor, but this dark spot here in the frontal lobe is what one doctor focused on. He said it could affect your motor skills, but I’ll send this off to the neurosurgeon and let her take a look. She’s very good. Hip like me too, but don’t be surprised if she wants more pretty pictures of your head.”

“I won’t be. So what if I have brain damage. Is there anything that can be done, other than surgery?” That’s what one suggested. Will they have to cut me open and saw through my skull? I shiver at the thought.

“That’s for the other doc to determine, so let’s look at what the other psychologists think.”

He digs out a file and flips through it. “PTSD, schizophrenia, panic disorder. Geez. What don’t you have?” Dr. Grant leans back in his chair, wiggling his butt in the chair like a dog circling for the perfect comfort zone. “The last entry says, ‘you’re cured,’
voila
, and you think that’s not true or you wouldn’t have called me.” He makes eye contact, like he cares what I think. That’s a first.

Normally, I study inkblots, the doctors look in my eyes, drug me up, and tell me and Daddy I’ll be fine.

“Yesterday, I blacked out and totaled my dad’s Range Rover.”

“Other than the broken arm, you look okay. You drove because you thought you were good?”

I nod. “When I moved to Paris two years ago, I had a couple minor spells in the beginning and only one real incident.”

He leans onto his elbows and cups his chin. Instead of continuing to sit in the enormous comfy chair, he parks his butt on the coffee table to sit closer to me and the box. “And that was?”

My face heats. I try to fan my embarrassment away.

“Teal? I can call you that? You can call me Miles.”

“Okay.”

He holds out his hands, so I place mine in his. “Most doctors are afraid to show any comfort to their patients, but it’s important to the healing process, especially with children. One boy sobbed in my arms for a half hour once he told his story. It takes a long time, sometimes years, to build that trust back up after an adult has ripped that away.” Miles inhales and brushes away moisture in his eyes. “That’s another reason for the two-way. I’ll have you sign the ten-page waiver later.” He winks.

I laugh. “My dad’s a lawyer.” This isn’t what I’m used to—a compassionate therapist.

“Make that twenty pages.” He releases his grasp and slaps his knees.

“What about parents who’ve abused their kids?” I would think Miles would want the kids away from them.

“Those parents don’t usually bring their children here. Back to you. I’ve dealt with children raped at a very early age, so don’t be embarrassed. I’m here to help you get past whatever is causing the blackouts.”

I take in a slow breath, feeling the blush creep into my cheeks. It takes me a few minutes before I continue. “I was dating this boy, and he told me he loved me and we were supposed to…have sex.” I inhale another breath, my heart pounding in my chest. “I blacked out before it happened.”

“Close your eyes and focus on your breathing,” Miles says, taking both my hands again. “Nice and slow. I’ll teach you some meditative techniques before you leave today too.”

I do as he says until my heart rate drops and stops stammering. He waits until I’ve calmed before letting go.

“You’re safe here, Teal. Interesting that you had a blackout before sex. What was your boyfriend’s reaction?”

“I came to when it was over, and he didn’t even notice.” I dumped him the next day.

“Boys,” he says, sighing. He digs in my file and pulls out a folder. “I know you’ve covered this many times, but let’s start from the beginning. Take your time.”

I block images of the swamp from my mind. “Ten years ago, a search team found me in the swamp with my friend Dare.”

Miles cocks his head. “Why were they searching for you? How long had you been missing?”

“I had left early in the morning. It was dark when they found me.” I suck in another deep breath. “I don’t know why I was in the swamp that day.” I’ve told this story so many times it’s on autopilot. “I was running from something.”

“Something? How old were you again?”

A chill sweeps across my shoulders, sending bone-deep shudders into my core. The blackness searches for me. I focus on my breathing. I’m in an office. I’m not in the swamp. “Eight.”

Concern whittles away at his brow. “At that age, what did you think that something was?”

I’ve never told any of the doctors this. They already thought I was crazy. “A monster. A really scary monster and hairy.” I’ve never recalled that detail before.

He nods. “And now that you’re older, what do you think was chasing you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I just know that it was something really scary.” The shaking takes a good run through my body.

Miles waits and doesn’t push me. He doesn’t hold my hand this time. It’s like he’s teaching me to ride a bike—a gentle nudge here and there. “Take a breath and take your time. We’re in no hurry.”

I nod, closing my eyes and sink into the overstuffed chair where I’m sitting. I tuck my sandaled feet underneath me.

“What was your friend Dare doing there?” Miles knows how to steer the conversation and bring me back. I wish I’d found him years ago, but maybe I wasn’t ready then.

“He was probably fishing or gigging frogs. We played there together.”

“What does he remember?” Mile’s questions come slow and easy.

“I don’t know.” I meet his eyes. “My daddy thinks he did something awful to me and put a restraining order on him years ago.”

“It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. What do you think? Did this boy hurt you?”

I like that he’s asking. Miles makes me feel like I’m in control, even though I’m not. “I ran into Dare after the monster was chasing me.”

“I’d like to talk to him. Does he still live here?”

“Yes. He pulled me out of the swamp yesterday.”

His lips thin momentarily. “That seems rather coincidental.”

“Not really. He works at his dad’s auto shop past the swamp. It looked like he was just coming home.”

Miles gives me a knowing smile. “You wrecked yesterday in the same swamp you were found in. The refuge must be a trigger for your blackouts.”

I nod. The other doctors have said this.

After another moment or two, he says, “I think we’re dealing with possibly two separate, yet related issues—possibly a brain injury and trauma-induced psychosis, but you probably already know that. We’ll know for certain in the first few sessions and after the neurosurgeon and I read your history. Do you remember hitting your head while you were in the swamp?”

“While I was running away and not paying attention, I slammed into a tree.” I had a knot on my head for a week, maybe longer. “Dare told me I’d hit the top of my head too.”

“Okay. That probably caused the dark spot. I’d like to work on identifying your stressors and the relationships between your thoughts, feelings, and behaviors.”

“CBT.” Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is a treatment that should help me work through the triggers that set off my blackouts. I’ve gone through the motions before. “No drugs?” I don’t want to spend my life in a walking coma.

“Unless the neurologist sees a real need then no. You need to learn to cope with whatever happened in the swamp, even if you may never remember it.”

I don’t like that I may never know, but I may have bumped my head too hard. That’s what some of the doctors have said.

Two hours go by fairly quickly when he says, “I’ll peruse your files, and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“You think you can fix me?” I want to wake up in the morning and know I won’t black out. There was a really good reason why my dad snatched me up and moved me to Paris. I thought of killing myself after an incident at a party. I was so humiliated after some older kids used my body to draw on among other things I’ve blocked them from my mind.

“In the end, you will cure yourself and learn to work around this. You were fine while in Paris. You came home and passed through the swamp you were found in and probably the origin of your blackouts. You have an incident—the first in years. We’ll find all your triggers and avoid them at first, but eventually, you’ll have to face them so that you can work through your emotions. It’s all about facing your fears, and it probably won’t be easy. But I’ll be there every step of the way.”

I don’t like the sound of facing the monster, but I’d rather uncover the truth than live without it. “The other doctors could never make me remember.”

“Your mind has to be prepared to see the monster chasing you in the swamp. It’ll be frightening for both of us, but I promise, we’ll do it together. From what you’ve told me, I’m thinking the memories are in there. I’m also a really good guesser.”

“I was told by a few doctors I may never know.”

“It’s not likely, Teal. You definitely have some feeling about why you were running. In the meantime, enjoy your summer, and I’d like to see you again this week.”

How can I enjoy my summer with this looming over my head and the danger of another blackout?

Since I left the truckload of documents with him, I walk home. It’s only a few miles. The rain has ceased, and I can stop, have dinner, and pick up a new phone. As I amble down the beach side of Highway 12, a few cars honk at me and yell catcalls. I cringe from their unwanted attention and move further off the road.

When I sway my hips, which unfortunately comes naturally, the knee-length summer skirt swishes in a frothy flow. The salmon-colored tank matches the swirl of colors in the skirt. Along with the Panama hat, it’s the perfect outfit for the beach—light and airy and not at all revealing.

A toddler ahead of me plays with a beach ball by the side of the road while his mother chats on her cell phone. She should have a handhold on him, but she doesn’t.

The low rumble of a souped-up car slows behind me. I can tell by the power under the hood that it’s probably the Shelby. It’s creeping me out that he’s following me, though yesterday, he could’ve thought I was stalking him. There’s only one main drag throughout the Outer Banks, and we’re both on it.

I keep my face pointing dead ahead of me. He won’t catch me looking, not this time. I won’t give him that satisfaction. And I didn’t lie about anything.

He drives by me real slow. Up ahead of him the toddler loses his ball to a sudden gust of wind that blows it onto the road. Dare is watching me instead of the road.

I point at the child running into the road and yell, “Dare. Stop.”

He slams on the brakes, laying down black streaks of rubber. The kid toddles into the road, completely unaware. The mother is still talking on the phone. He picks up the ball and skips back to the parking lot. She finally screams and jerks the child’s arm hard, dragging him away.

With the toddler clear, Dare punches on the gas and speeds down the road. As luck would have it, he’s in the same parking lot the phone store is in.

Customers pack the store, purchasing the latest models. It doesn’t take me more than a minute to pick out the newest Samsung Galaxy that is waterproof with Gorilla glass. Given my history, I need both.

As I wander up to the register, I spot two local boys I went to high school with—the Collins twins—looking at the display of the iPhones. They’re Dare’s age. I do remember that I distinctly don’t like these two guys. They were part of the cast coloring my body on the night of the party.

They’re gangly tall—one with rust-colored hair, the other’s hair the color of swamp juice, dyed leprechaun green. Both sport short whiskers on their chins. Despite the sweltering heat, they wear jeans. Their tank tops show off spindly arms and damp armpit hair.

Tommy Collins spots me, saunters over, and flips my hair in the back. “Well, if it ain’t Teal Covington. My you sure have grown into a looker—pretty as your mama,” he whispers into my ear, sending waves of terror into me.

I’d heard they’d raped a girl my freshman year at a party. She was really drunk, and the party got out of control. Even the cops showed up. When I’d blacked out at a party over a year later, I think he was part of the crew lifting my shirt to take photos. Daddy pressed charges, but only a few of the responsible kids got off with probation.

“You spread your legs like your mama?” he continues whispering.

Sudden chills sweep over me. Why would he say that?

“Don’t talk that way about her.” She loved my daddy, I think. Maybe not. She left him.

I shove Tommy into his brother.

“Look bitch,” Tommy says.

A sales rep steps up to us. He’s short with glasses and awkwardly thin, like he’d blow away in a light breeze. Unless he calls Sheriff Tate, I don’t think he can help me. The twins would rip him to shreds.

The rep wipes sweat from his brow. “Tommy Collins, how can I help you?”

Tommy pushes him out of the way. “Step aside, boy.”

The sales rep smiles big, like he’s won a peach cobbler at the county fair. “Don’t make me call the manager because I will.”

When I attempt my escape, Tommy blocks me.