Precise (17 page)

The problem of sucking in air climaxes. I gasp faster.

Is it possible to die right in front of a doctor? I, and only I, could do that.

I lap up the air, gulping madly: harder and faster. My head bops back and forward in a last dash effort to draw in the oxygen. The whole time I think this isn’t happening to me.
It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t
. . . I gasp again and wave my hands madly at my throat, managing to slip in a few words between.

“Air—breathe—need . . . ”

Dr. Adam, the trained professional, steps in. “It’s okay, calm down and take deep breaths,” he starts, aiding my weight off the chair when I can’t move. His directions come through swiftly, yet he delivers himself with smoothness, flipping my back to the floor and feet atop the chair I was in.

My gasps keep hitting a brick wall and my head pounds harder, yelling for oxygen. Each breath becomes less successful than the last.

“Deep breaths, now,” he reminds me in a soft, smooth tone, “and raise your legs up on here for me, please.” He goes on to execute the action for me, and I’m grateful for his collected authority, that his words are more there as a caption so I know what he’s doing.

“I can’t,” I cry, still gawping. My brain is mush and doesn’t react well to directions.

“Trust me. One long breath. Just do it,” he says, spelling out.

I stop for a moment because I’m going to pass out if I don’t take a chance and trust him. I slow down to the point where I can smell the fresh breeze with the aroma from the roses outside his window, and long enough to appreciate the pretty cartoon stickers on the ceiling of his office.

At last, the air whooshes in. It isn’t enough. I open my lungs again and again. After a while, I become conscious of how I’m lying ridiculously sprawled over the carpet. No dignity.

I bring Dr. Leena Madison’s name up in discussion with Adam later. He’s proud that I’ve done my homework (I’ll thank Liam later for the suggestion). Dr. Leena Madison is a psychologist specializing in personal trauma recovery. Adam suggests a few readings that will help me to better understand my condition, and to prepare me for my upcoming sessions.

He tells me that the status of my case is urgent enough to push through the usual client waitlist backlog. He also seems astounded how long I have gone untreated.

Dr. Adam sends me out with a shopping list of books that I clutch in a fist as I meet Nancy.

• • •

W
hen I try my first light-hearted-slash-I’ve-fucked-up social chat, my past, my pride, is harder to get over than I gave credit for.

You can’t spill your guilt and hope it’ll solve your problems
, Molten Man says.
You know that.

Nancy . . . I need to speak to her . . . she came here today because she cares.

Yes. She does care. Are you going to let her die, too?

My finger is stuck in a clump of my hair, and I realize when it’s too late. For a few minutes, I twist and tug until the last strand is free. I resolve to be aware of my bodily actions before things like this occur again. Maybe I’ll start with my hair twisting habit and work up from there. Unconsciously, my breathing slows.

Maybe what happened in Adam’s room has taught me something. If I can get over one of my panic attacks, I can do this.

At first I check my handbag, am aware of everyone walking around me. Once I see the coffee shop Nancy and I are to meet at, I stride over. It’s been so long since we both last came here that I can only remember one previous event.

Nancy had pointed to a mug, bowl and plate set and squealed. “Katie! It’s perfect. Lachlan will love this for our new house.”

“Yep,” I said, because I was more focused on a backward-stepping child heading toward her.

“Thank God,” she said. “I was starting to worry my house would remain black, white and stainless steel.”

The boy still back-stepped, stomping deliberately because he seemed thrilled with his talent. I had figured out what might happen by this stage but Nancy babbled too fast for me to warn her.

“ . . . and you know I love red,” she said, gushing.

The boy counted. “Six, seven.”

“What do you think?”

“Eight, nine.”

“Uh, Nance—” I cut in.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so pessimistic.”

“Timmy!” The boy’s mother cried, looking up from her phone.

Nance said, “Huh—”

Then came the crash. Her bum to the floor, a shower of broken china chiming in, and her heels higher than her head.

Okay, I shouldn’t have laughed, but I clutched my tummy anyway and cackled like a green, fairy tale witch. It seemed like a full minute, though it might have only been seconds, before I picked her up, and patted her down with comforting words and apologized profusely.

When I sit by Nancy at the café and she has a caramel latte at the seat next to her, I’m still cackling. I must have tears in my eyes, too.

“Kates, are you all right?”

“No . . . I mean,” cackle, breath, “fine.” One last breath. “I’m good. Do you remember that homewares falling incident?”

She pushes my drink forward and shuffles closer. “Uh, yeah?”

“That boy’s face. Absolutely no color.”

“Yep.”

“You couldn’t wear heels for a week. An ugly—I’m sorry—swollen ankle.”

She looks like she just got the punch line to the joke, when she smirks and says, “I know. I hobbled out on your shoulder.”

I cup my drink and let the warmth heat up my hands. “I took a long time to pick you up but I came, didn’t I? My shoulders hurt, too, but I stayed with you, Nance.”

She doesn’t respond, just sips at her cappuccino.

“I wouldn’t have left you there on the ground, you know.”

Silence. Then she says, “I’m glad you let me take you today.”

“You won’t be after this. I’ve been given a gazillion books to read and I’m buying them today. You’re coming.”

She smiles like I’ve read her mind. “Perfect.”

B
y the next night, Thursday, I’ve stuffed my mind full of information. Also, I got a call for a cancellation and was I free to come in tomorrow morning? Pressured, I agreed when an excuse didn’t come fast enough.

It was after that call I noticed the change. For a whole day I’ve obsessed over food, starting with imagining a variety of sweet and savory dishes. For days all I’ve been is a woman craving food. I haven’t been hungry in months. After hours of going through this confusing change, I settle that the only way to get through this weird obsession is to cook (not reheat). For dinner, Ella and I are making risotto.

We sprinkle herbs, Ella grinds cheese against the grater like someone’s paying her to do it, and I let the risotto simmer until it thickens to a mush with some type of consistency. We eat it all and she helps me clean the dishes, skipping from the sink to the cupboards the whole time. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a six-year-old daughter who
wants
to clean. Then again, she gaped at me in awe the whole time, so I’m not altogether convinced she did it for the cleanliness.

When we’re done, the air feels cleaner and the area gives us space to breathe, and think. There’s nothing to get in the way.

“Ella,” I call, as she goes upstairs to her room as per normal routine, “I’ve got a new princess coloring book.” She loved her new Elly, and I’ve gained an addiction to seeing her delighted ever since.

Ella skips back to the kitchen and climbs on a stool. Her grin makes a banana seem short.

I flip open to a random page and point to the princess. “You see, I’m not quite sure what color to make her dress.”

She doesn’t seem aware of her slack jaw when she says, “Baby pink. Duh!”

“Well, how lucky I asked you. Or else I would have made it blue.”

“Ugh. Princesses aren’t blue!” She has one eyebrow raised, but her facade is broken by her trying to hide a smile. “Here, guess I’ll show you, Mommy.”

I pull out another animal coloring book from a shopping bag and we sit down at the coffee table in the living room. I line up her crayon and marker collections from a drawer under the table.

“You hid them!” she says, squealing.

“No, you just didn’t know where they were.”

“My old felt tips are all wasted.”

I shake my head sorrowfully, and point to both collections.

“The crayons, please. I don’t like felt tips anymore. They waste.”

So we color. I use the browns, yellows, and greens, thus, my princess looks more like a goblin than anything radiating beauty. Hers has a purple bonnet, a long, baby-pink dress and is surrounded by orange daises.

I put down my crayon and point to Ella’s page opposite mine. “She looks beautiful, Ella.”

“I got out the line too much.”

“You’ve done a great job!”

Her chin drops. “I always stuff it up.”

“Here.” I take a skin-colored crayon and slide it between her fingers. I open my hand and match her grip over the crayon. Her skin is soft like silk. She shuffles in closer before we start. The sofa behind us leaves enough space if we want to spread ourselves but I prefer her close where I can hold her hand with a better grip.

She flinches when I squeeze her close; I think she recognizes, also, that this hasn’t been done for too long.

I dab her hands between the thin lines. At first her hand is stiff when I try to maneuver it, but then, as our hands assimilate, I learn how to work the angle and she lets her muscles relax.

By the time we’re done, the princess’s face is bright and, best of all, her skin and hair don’t leak outside the black lines.

“That’s how I do it!” Ella says. “Now you have to show me how to do this butterfly. He’s so small. And I’ll get my ABC book!” She stands to leave. “I can’t do ‘B’ properly.”

“Down you get.” I tug at her hand. “Hush, we’ll have plenty of time for that book after.”

W
hen I reach my hatchback, I turn the key in the ignition with apprehension. My hands tremble so badly that I pick my keys up from the wiry carpet and hold on to them firmly as I try a second time.

There’s no going back
, I force myself to think,
no going back
. Dr. Leena will help me understand.
I need this
.

As it happens, I do go back. I run inside and fortify myself with a drink. My edges are smooth, nerves almost burnt out. Then I go straight back to my car and wiggle into a comfortable position in the seat. A voice blares through my stereo. I can hardly hear myself think. Perfect.

I kill the engine in a private parking lot exclusively for the clinic’s clients and staff. As I approach a set of sliding doors, an illuminated sign greets me. It reads: Madison Care Clinic. I drag my feet through the entrance once the tinted sliding doors open. My nerves aren’t quite sticking, more like knocking inside me saying,
What on earth are you about to do?

“Ms. Anselin,” I say, checking in with a woman behind a laminated desk. She peers over the edge of her glasses. This receptionist pulls it off well. Her smoky eyes suit the thick frame, and the green shirt complements her hazel irises. I rarely dare that shade of green clothing.

“Is this for your ten-fifty with Dr. Leena Madison?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Thanks, she will come to greet you in a few. Please take a seat.”

I sit in a waiting chair and my vision is sharpening, my mind processing thoughts at a faster rate. The drinks don’t take to me the same as they used to. I curse myself for not fixing myself another. The area is deserted, bar one other man hunched over in his chair.

“Feel free to make a beverage or read one of the magazines on the stand over there,” the receptionist calls.

I thank her, and pour some water, feeling like I have to, now. Surely she can’t
see
my thoughts. No, I’m pathetic; of course she can see that I’m sweating, drenched already. And, my long face is my kryptonite, if she
does
happen to miss everything else.

I take gulps of the water, even though I’m already bloated.

A woman calls me after a couple of minutes. I stand to follow her. She has dirty blonde hair slicked back behind her ears, and a hanging blue lanyard with a mini picture of her smiling face. There’s writing beneath the miniature-size photo of her but I already know it reads Dr. Leena Madison.

Her presence makes my nerves pulsate so strongly that the secretary and Hunchback are both sure to feel the buzz. Not a good start to meeting the woman who is about to pick my brains.

She directs me to her consulting room. It’s warm and bright, studded with designer furniture. I sit down and we take turns in some introductions.

I lose count of the years she has studied for, although those trying years have treated her well. I wonder what I’ll look like when I’m her age, which probably won’t be my early-thirties, as she does.

“This first session is the intake. Don’t worry too much about getting caught up in any gibberish, high-tech terms. We’ll just chat. Feel free to talk about everything that will help me specify your diagnosis and to plan your treatment. I’ll prompt you if I need you to clarify something or answer anything that will help our sessions,” she says.

“Um, okay.”

Randomly, she asks, “Have you seen the movie,
Freaky Friday
?”

“No, sorry.”

“Well it’s quite a comedy, and because of all the wrong reasons.” She laughs. “It stars Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis.”

Nancy begged me to watch it years ago. I couldn’t bear to sit through an hour and a half of it just to keep her company because it is a) named
Freaky Friday
, b) stars Lindsay Lohan, and c) is a soppy love story. I wonder why Dr. Madison cares, or brings it up.

“My friend Nancy loved that one. I know it.”

“Well I mention that movie because it creates a false stereotypical image of the client-therapist relationship. In the movies, breaking confidentiality is high entertainment, if not a little overdone, but I want to assure you I’m not going to draw unicorns and love hearts on my notepad, or anything else of the sort. I won’t be scratching at my notepad while you wonder if the top of my head has dandruff. I see importance in face-to-face contact. I’ll write more notes than usual today to add to your file, but I’ll be writing less in future sessions.”

“All right.”

I twist my hair further around my finger as I try nodding without ripping the lot out of my head.
Urgh, mess
. Dr. Madison has her ankles crossed, her hands resting in her lap and sits in her couch with a straight back.

Pick the shrink.

She offers me juice, cordial, or soft drink and tells me I don’t have to pick water out of courtesy because there is carpet in her room. We both settle on tropical cordial and she sets one glass by my end table and the other by hers. She puts the pad and pen in her lap, then covers it with her hands.

“Can you describe your day yesterday?”

“Er, Dr. Madison, I don’t quite know what to, you know, say.” Oh, God.
Good one, Katie
. I have already stuttered and this woman is probably trained to tell if I have kids just by my body language.

Get a grip
.

“Oh, Katie, please call me Leena. Dr. Madison makes me sound like a fifty-year-old doctor from an outdated TV show. How about you show me how your day is affected by your issues. I’ll listen. Talk however makes you most comfortable—to me, to your lap, to the wall. How do the things on your mind affect your mornings?”

“Do you mean what is it like when I wake up?” I think about Molten Man, Marco, the scenes that replay to me, and how I wake up in bed after these episodes that feel real. By the time I find my words I know she could have helped me along, but she hasn’t. She waits.

“They aren’t mornings for a start. They’re continuations of the night before. I’m either lethargic because I’ve had hours of broken sleep. But I don’t remember falling asleep in the first place. I just see, smell and hear things. Or, I’m lethargic because . . . ”

I have to be careful. It’s easier to report facts to someone I don’t know, who makes me feel welcome, but lying is still simpler than admitting I rely on pills or alcohol. That’s not true anyway; I don’t use them that much.

“ . . . because I had a different—better—sleep,” I say, in a lower voice. I go on to explain the fragmented bits I can remember when I woke up in that bed.

She glances down at the small amount of scribble she notes on her pad, then up to meet my eyes.

“From then on, I’m avoiding things I can, wondering how not to choke or freeze up about what I can’t avoid in relation to Paul’s death. The, er, rape too. I feel like I’m choking and frozen up and splitting apart at the same time. And let’s face it, I have a daughter to look after, a house to clean, a life to live. I’d be in bed for whole days otherwise.”

My slurps are much too loud as I gulp my cordial. As I put my glass down, the clink on the coaster resonates throughout the room. Leena still seems like she’s in listening mode with her head slightly tilted. It isn’t until I realize I have more to say that it occurs to me she knew I wasn’t finished much earlier than I did.

I clench my fists. The visible space between the sofa arm and my leg is thin but her perception so far is as accurate as a sniper’s, so I can’t discount her missing this.
Shit.
“If I don’t remember . . . ” I have to sift through the chunky mess in and around Paul’s mouth, the throbs as my wrists immobilize. “ . . . then I can cope.”

She pushes the pad out of her writing distance. “It seems like the triggers you avoid are linked to your sleep disturbances.”

“Yes,” I answer, trying not to appear too hesitant.

“Can you tell me how these events affect you and your environment?”

Although I’m anxious around this topic, I’ve said more than ever before. I had a plan when I was coming here. Try not to roll my eyes and run off a factual list without the bone-crunching urge to screech out bloody murder and throw my fists at things or people. I started well, and surprised myself, but if I delve deeper, I know I’m not just sharing facts, I’m learning how to cope, and through all that’s happened, survival is all I’ve ever wanted.

I just didn’t think it would happen.

How on earth has she achieved this?