of bizarre stalker, but why?
Maybe he’s just a weirdo. I mean, he grew his hair out for a reenactment costume he wears every day; he could simply be way hard core into that kind of thing. Like the old men who spend all their spare time building model trains or painting Civil War miniatures. Or this guy in my old school who was really into theater and would dress and talk like his character all day, every day whenever he was cast in a new part. It would be about three steps beyond “quirky,” but not unheard of. In fact, that might be the best explanation—for my safety, at least.
But Mr. Ponytail did try to get me to come out last night. Why would he do that? If he were so into his reenactment life, it seems like he would approach me during the day and introduce himself with some kind of overdone wave of his hat or something similarly dramatic.
And that flicker when the woman walked away … Just one more bullet point on my list of topics I really don’t want to think about.
When I arrive at the PT center, a glance in the passenger-side mirror of a random car in the parking lot shows me my injured forehead. There’s a scrape with a little line of dirt on one side. I lick my finger and try to clear the smudge away. The raw skin stings each time I touch it, but I ignore that and scrub until the grayish streak is gone. I adjust my short bangs over the shallow cut and try to convince myself no one will notice.
I’m about to head in when my phone rings. “Elizabeth?” I whisper to myself. It’s not like she never calls—she used to check up on me somewhat regularly. But it’s been a while. “Hey, Elizabeth,” I say.
“Got a second?” she asks cheerily, but I’m totally nervous anyway.
“A few,” I say, glancing at the PT center.
I hear her draw in a breath, then hesitate. “I spoke with your uncle this morning. He said you were up very early. Two o’clock early.”
My mouth drops in surprise. “Jay?” Traitor, I think, and kick the tire of the car I’m standing by.
“Don’t blame him,” Elizabeth says. “He just thought it might be important.”
Like that makes everything okay. “Well, it isn’t. I had a nightmare. That’s all.”
“About the crash?”
“Didn’t Jay tell you?” I sound petulant but can’t bring myself to care. I already feel like I’m living my life in a fishbowl; I don’t need further confirmation.
Elizabeth says nothing, but the truth is, she doesn’t have to speak; I know the words intrinsically. Tavia, you’re avoiding the issue.
“No,” I finally answer, one hand fisted on my hip. “It didn’t have anything to do with the crash—that’s why it’s not important.”
“You know, just because the dream didn’t have a plane in it doesn’t mean it isn’t related to your mind trying to deal with the crash. Many dreams—most, really—aren’t literal.”
She lets the conversation hang, waiting for me to direct it. I know her tricks.
But that doesn’t mean they don’t work.
“I was drowning,” I say, turning my back to the physical therapy center, as though someone inside could hear me. “A stereotypical dream. The kind normal people have,” I add, emphasizing the word normal and clearly leaving myself out of that category.
“Would you mind sharing?” Elizabeth asks.
I don’t want to talk about the water. Even thinking about it makes me shiver all over. So I give her as fast a version as I can, skimming over the way it made me feel.
“Were you able to get back to sleep or did this dream continue to bother you?” She uses the word dream instead of nightmare. I suspect it’s to make it sound more neutral, but I wish she’d call it what it was. Dreams don’t terrify you until you stop breathing. “I went downstairs and had a snack, and that calmed me down.”
Then silence. Elizabeth knows there’s more and she waits. Just waits. She does this in her office, too—it’s maddening.
But it works.
Almost against my will, I start to speak. “There’s …” I know that once I tell her, there’s no going back. I can hardly believe I’m doing this. My shrink. I’m taking my guy troubles to my shrink. But who else can I take them to? Not Reese or Jay. Just … no.
And Benson already told me what he thinks I should do. I think I need to talk to another woman. Maybe the romantic chromosome we all seem to have will help her understand this weird feeling.
“There’s a—a guy. I just saw him for the first time. Actually, like the third time and—” I force myself to stop and calm my nerves. I have to start from the beginning. “Yesterday, after our session, I was in the car while Reese was getting milk.”
She listens without comment—though she breathes a soft, “Oh, Tave,” when I get to the part about him being in the backyard at two A.M.—until I wrap up with the incident at the realty office. Though I fudge the details a teeny bit to make it sound like I’m not seeing fake alleys or flickering women.
“And he was just gone?” Elizabeth asks when I finish.
“Gone,” I say, and that weird sad feeling swirls in my chest again. “Benson says I should call the police,” I add when the silence makes me nervous. “But I don’t think this guy’s dangerous. And if … if I call the police, he’ll—” I cut off my own words. I don’t even want to say it.
“He’ll leave?” Elizabeth asks, and anguish drowns me, filling me so completely I can’t speak. I only make a vague noise of agreement. Part of me hates the way this guy makes me feel—it’s overwhelming and awakens emotions I don’t recognize. It’s different than the way I feel about Benson—he’s a soft, steady light, while this guy is like a firecracker—blindingly bright, but here and then gone in an instant.
But those brief moments are like liquid joy pouring over my head. That part, I like.
“You seem to be feeling some very strong emotions here.”
“I guess.” I brace myself for her to tell me that this is a side effect of my grief, or that I’m projecting unrequited love on an inappropriate target, or that it’s the brain damage talking.
I’m irrationally relieved when she doesn’t. I want to see him again, even though every shred of logic within me is shouting that it’s a bad idea.
I can’t help but wonder if this is a sign that I’m getting better or that I’m truly broken.
“Tave, I really want to make sure we talk about this more tomorrow when we can discuss it face-to-face. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure, I guess,” I say, almost hating that I told her at all now that the panic has passed. But she’s my psychiatrist—this is the kind of crazy stuff I’m supposed to tell her. Still, I feel like I just spilled someone else’s secret rather than sharing my own thoughts.
The silence stretches again, but I’m in no mood to deal with it anymore. “I gotta go,” I mumble, looking for an excuse to hang up. “I have a physical therapy appointment.” I force a sharp bark of laughter. “You know, my other therapist.”
Elizabeth chuckles and then says, “Okay. Go in and … stretch. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly, and hang up. I walk toward the center, trying to sort through my conflicted feelings.
She didn’t tell me not to see him again. But I feel like it was too easy. Mentally, I know Benson’s reaction made more sense. Perhaps part of me wanted Elizabeth to confirm that I really should stay away from him.
But she didn’t. And I can’t help but wonder why.