Split (19 page)

Mak stepped out into a rainy street in downtown Vancouver and crossed to her car. She stole a look at her watch—it was almost five. If she hurried, she might still make it.

As much as she was dreading the meeting, she didn’t want to be rude considering Ann was so generously offering her valuable time. She wasn’t looking forward to discussing her recent past with anyone, not even a professional, but the time had come. Lack of sleep was affecting things with her friends and family. God, she had even used Roy to try to get over Andy and it hadn’t even come close to working!

Damn.

Makedde gave Zhora a pat, unlocked her and jumped in. She threw her model bag onto the cracked, white leather bench seat.

Driving through the city towards the Burrard Bridge, she kept asking herself the same questions.
Am
I going crazy? Do I really need a shrink? Why can’t I stop these nightmares? Why has Andy come back into my life?

She made good time across the bridge and down West 4
^th
Street. When she saw the unmistakable giant cutlery at the door of Sophie’s Cosmic Café, she slowed down, keeping one eye on the street names and declining numbers. Mak had to circle the side streets several times to find a decent sized parking spot for Zhora. After hoofing it up a small hill to get back on the main street, she steered herself towards the clinic.

DR A. MORGAN, M.D., FRCPC. Psychiatrist

Psychiatrist. I can’t believe I am doing this.

Her name was one of three doctors on the small sign. Mak pushed through the single door to the clinic and glanced at her watch as she walked up to the reception desk. It was one minute to the hour.

The reception area was clean and modern. A curved dividing wall separated the waiting area from the reception desk at hip level. Mak saw a neatly combed black ponytail shifting back and forth beyond the divider, and heard the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. When she got close, the receptionist looked up. She was a beautiful woman, mid-thirties, with flawless Japanese features enhanced by glossy lipstick and expertly applied black eyeliner.

“May I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Dr Morgan.”

“Mak-eddie Vanderwall?”

“Ma-kay-dee,” Mak corrected her.

“My apologies. Please take a seat, Makedde.” She relayed the name perfectly the second time, and went back to her typing.

Mak looked around her. There were two long leather lounges perpendicular to each other in the waiting area. A severely underweight woman sat on the far corner of one next to a potted fern, reading
People
magazine. She wore her hair in a tight bun and was dressed in a neatly pressed beige suit. Her nobby, nyloned knees protruded from beneath her hemline like two chicken drumsticks stripped of the meat. A brown and gold scarf was arranged carefully to mask her thin neck. Mak felt a twinge of sadness for the woman and then chastised herself for her unwelcomed pity. Who was Makedde to say that this woman’s visible problems were any worse than her own hidden ones?

A square table between the couches held a stack of earmarked magazines. Mak grabbed a
Time
off the top and chose the opposite corner of the lounge to wait for her appointment. She flipped through the magazine slowly, her eyes barely registering the pages. She was lost in thoughts—the “incident” in Sydney, Andy, Roy, her father and her mother.

She imagined Ann making calculations in her head. Let’s see, disastrous affair = ten sessions. Death in the family = twelve sessions. Death of a close friend = twelve sessions. Serial killer =…How many sessions is it for a serial killer, again?

The sound of movement coming from the clinic
corridor distracted her rambling thoughts. It was Ann, making her way toward the waiting area. She wore a dark, semi-casual pant suit with a cream-coloured silk blouse. She looked very smart, and a bit more formal than she had at the dinner table. Mak was nervous, but it was still a relief to see her. She had come to associate Ann with a last chance for sanity.

“Good afternoon, Mak. Nice to see you.” She shook her hand. “Would you like to come this way?” Ann led Mak down a corridor to an office behind the second of four doors.

“It’s just through here, Makedde.” She held open the door and let Mak walk in first.

The office was simple but elegant. Ann was obviously successful, and had good taste. A modest desk sat in one corner, crowned by a stack of paper in a tray. A small, silver desk clock. A Montblanc pen. A folder was open across the desk, and an unmarked pad of lined paper waited in anticipation of the psychiatrist’s notes.

“Please, have a seat.”

Ann gestured to a leather easychair near the wall, and took her place at the desk. Her own chair was already swivelled around to face the room, and Mak noticed that Dr Morgan did not turn her back to her when she sat. There were only a few feet of empty space between doctor and patient, with no desk in the way to create subconscious barriers. Mak was a fan of the set-up, but she wondered about the practicality of
barriers when it came time to open her own practice as a forensic psychologist. She might find that she wanted what little barriers she could use, depending on the patient.

Mak settled into the chair. It let air out softly under her weight.

“Are you comfortable?” Ann asked. Her tone was gentle, polite.

Mak took a moment to answer. Physically, yes. Mentally, no. She replied with, “Yes, thank you,” regardless.

“Did your shoot go well? I noticed that you weren’t late.”

Mak thought about how she practically bit the make-up artist’s head off.

“Ah, I managed to get away on time.”

“So, how can I help you?”

Ann’s body language was open and attentive, knees pointing towards her patient, arms bent in a relaxed position on her thighs. Her large brown eyes were sympathetic but direct. Her gaze didn’t waver and Mak was struck by her stillness as she waited for Mak to begin.

“I, um, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Insomnia, I guess,” she began, “and recurring nightmares. I just can’t seem to sleep at night, and when I do it is awful.”

God, Makedde, just relax.

“Would you like to tell me something about your
sleeping patterns? How much rest are you getting at the moment?” Ann asked.

“Well, actually I’ve been keeping a diary, so I can tell you precisely.” She pulled the little book out of her bag.

Ann looked impressed. “A diary is an excellent idea. I often recommend to my patients that they begin one.”

Mak opened her book and read out some of the entries: the nightmares about wearing her father’s uniform, the feeling of impotence, the devil-like creature killing her mother, the scalpel…

“Very vivid,” Ann remarked. “It’s wise that you are recording this. So you estimate that you have had on average about three to four hours of sleep per night this week?”

“Yes.”

“And always the nightmares?”

“The actual dreams are pretty consistent, and only started this year along with the insomnia, which I’ve never really had before. But the nightmares have been getting increasingly violent and the insomnia has been worsening.” Mak spoke as matter-of-factly as she could.

Now comes the hard part.

Makedde cleared her throat. “You see, there was an incident last year when I was overseas. I think that may have something to do with it.” She corrected herself. “I know it does. Actually there has been a lot going on lately. For starters, the past couple of years haven’t
exactly been great…” The words tumbled out and she closed her mouth to stop herself from saying anything more. Her big right toe was beginning to itch again. For months after the microsurgery, she had had no feeling in it at all. Now this itch.

Makedde said, “I’m sure my dad has filled you in,” as a way of ending her side of the conversation. There was a definite trace of resentment in her tone when she said it. The psychiatrist could not have missed that.

Dr Morgan smiled. “Your father told me a couple of very basic details. No specifics. I thought you could tell me at your own pace.”

I bet he told you everything.

Mak scanned the room, restless. There were degrees framed and hung on the wall. A tall bookcase held psychology books, some of which Makedde owned—
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
fourth edition,
Existential Psychotherapy
. No criminology books, though. No books about serial killers. A box of Kleenex sat on the doctor’s desk. A photo of Ann smiling with two teenagers—a boy and a girl. No man in the picture. No Sergeant Morgan.

Will my dad end up in one of those frames?

“That’s Connor and Emily,” Ann offered when she saw Mak looking at the photo. “Connor lives with his dad at the moment.” A flash of sadness passed across her features. “He’s a good kid. He could use a little of your ambition though, I think.”

Makedde smiled. She still felt agitated and nervous. Her jaw was tight and her toe was really starting to bother her. She felt like taking her shoe off and scratching it to pieces.

The coffee. You need to cut down on the coffee.

Ann was talking quite professionally now. “The way I usually begin with my patients is to ask a series of questions to establish their background and get to know them a little. Perhaps we could begin that way. Then we can explore this problem you’re having and hopefully find some sort of solution for you.”

“What kind of patients do you work with?”

The doctor’s manner changed slightly. She leaned back a touch.

“All kinds. I treat adult patients with schizophrenia, bipolar, dissociative identity disorders, mood disorders. I have worked with a number of patients with sleep disorders. I am confident I can assist you, Makedde, if you will let me. You’re a student of psychology yourself. A very good student, your father tells me. I’m sure you understand the benefits of what we can accomplish here, so long as both of us can work together towards the same goal.”

Mak looked to her hands again. She made a conscious effort to unfold her arms.

Stop stalling and get this over with.

“I’ve been struggling a bit lately,” she said. “But what really made me finally call you is…I did the stupidest thing last night.”

Dr Morgan perked up and leaned forward.

“Remember when you were at the house I got a call from a detective who was involved in the murder case back in Australia? Remember everyone was staring at me on the phone?”

“Yes. I remember.”

Mak told her about her background with Andy—the case in Sydney, their brief affair, the way their communication dropped off nearly a year ago.

“Well, he comes to town, totally out of the blue…You see, there’s a big conference going on at the moment—a conference on psychopathy.”

“I’ve heard about it.”

“Andy has been at the FBI Academy doing some training in Profiling, and suddenly now he shows up in Vancouver, attending the conference. He came with an FBI Profiler who was one of the speakers.”

Dr Morgan’s eyes narrowed as she contemplated this development.

“You sound like you are not convinced that is the real reason he is in Vancouver.”

Makedde thought about what Ann said.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just so shocked. I’m not sure what to think.”

The psychiatrist wrote a few notes on a pad of paper, and Makedde remained silent.
What do I think about his showing up?

“Do you have any interest in rekindling things with this detective?”

“No.” The response was quick. Perhaps too quick. “Which doesn’t mean I haven’t ended up…”

Mak grew quiet and crossed her arms again.
Fuck, I slept with him. I can’t believe I did that!

“And how has his presence affected you, Makedde?”

It took Mak a while to answer that one.

He totally screws me up.

“I am totally thrown. It just brings back so many memories.” She looked down. “Bad memories.” She choked on the last words, and with that, tears welled up in Makedde’s eyes.
No dammit, don’t cry! Don’t!
The tears clung to her lashes and she tilted her head back, willing them to go away. When they finally cascaded down, they stung her cheeks. But she didn’t make a sound.

Dr Morgan held out the box of Kleenex and Mak grabbed a couple. She dabbed her eyes and nose, holding her breath tight, trying to make it stop.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She had surprised herself by crying, having thought she had already done her share. She had very little tolerance for her own grief. It was always best to just get on with it.

“You have no idea how devastating it is to accept that…that you were…helpless,” Mak said. “When it really mattered…just helpless. And someone had to come along and save you.” Mak held her mouth tight and tilted her head back.

“This is a safe place for you to talk about this stuff, Makedde. You need to cry, so cry. There is no need to
apologise. You have every right to be upset about your experience.”

Dr Morgan was so calm. She seemed to give off a serene, settling kind of energy that somehow made Mak feel okay about opening up. That was part of her job, of course, and Mak had to admit she was good at it.

It took a while for her to get her composure back.

“Now I can’t believe Andy is here. It was so easy to not think of him when he was thousands of miles away, I could leave it all back in Australia. Then he shows up.”

“Yes, that’d be hard. Do you feel that it’s unfair of him to have come without warning?”

“Yes!” She wiped her nose. “It bloody pisses me off. I mean I know he left messages and I didn’t call back, but he could have let me know. He could have let me know what he was calling about.”

“Yes. That would have been the right thing for him to do,” the doctor said.

“Doesn’t he realise what his presence does to me? I mean, he saved my life! He found me naked and bleeding and helpless and he saved me, and I can’t forgive myself for that. I had to be saved. If there was any way to relive the past…I would do anything to change that. I—”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Ann said.