Sharon rose from the carpet and took a chair in Anna’s room. She gazed at the child, feeling an unusual stirring of maternal instinct. She hated to admit it, but she would love to have a daughter, even in this silent, impassive condition. She knew that her relationship with Anna and Su Ling was already well beyond professional interest.
Sharon was not one to live in denial, especially in psychological matters. She prided herself on being a realist in every part of her life. Her loneliness, therefore, was not something she could hide from.
Her professional accolades and considerable income would never fill the profound void she felt. There’d not been a man in her life for a decade. It had been a brief marriage, and not a great one, for he was jealous of her prestige and the time she was forced to commit to her work. The marriage broke up after six months, and there had been no rebound. At first, Sharon was happy with that—it freed up time for patients and work—but now, years of solitude later, she pined for companionship, if not exactly for love.
She wondered whether it was this need that made her think twice when Su Ling barged into her office, her silent child clasped in her hand, no appointment, pleading for help. Their need was obvious, their sincerity a given.
Sharon felt a connection with them from the outset. They were alone, desperate; in need of a friend as much as a psychiatrist. Sharon decided that she would do everything in her power to help them both during that first meeting.
And to help herself at the same time.
The timing was fortuitous. Sharon had just signed a lease for a new flat at the Exeter. There was something intriguing about Cantrell’s vision for the place—the idea of transforming something ugly into something beautiful—that corresponded to her professional ethics and passion.
It took most of the intervening months for Sharon to convince Su Ling to consider joining her at the Exeter. Sharon had professional reasons for the idea—the proximity would make their increasingly frequent visits much easier—as well as her personal investment. Sharon was eager for a new start, but she didn’t want it to be entirely solo. She would love moving into the Exeter much more if a friend were to join her.
At first, Su Ling resisted. She lived in a modest house in an aging, tired suburb, but was reluctant to leave her first home. It was full of memories for her, some good, some very bad. What finally convinced her was Sharon’s argument that the change in scenery might have a beneficial impact on Anna.
Besides, Su Ling had been fortunate in at least one way—she had the life insurance settlement, which made the move possible.
The gaining twilight outside Anna’s bedroom window reminded Sharon of the time. She approached the girl, looked into her vacant eyes, and smiled. “It was so good to visit with you, sweetheart. You’re doing so well, and we’re all very proud of you.”
She planted a kiss on the girl’s jet black hair and left the room. The psychiatrist did not notice that upon her exit, Anna immediately picked up her tablet and began to scribble.
Sharon joined Su Ling on the sofa in the living room.
“How’d it go?”
Sharon leaned back on the couch and sighed. “It’s hard to tell, Su. I wish I had an easy answer for you. There are times when talking to her is like talking to the wall. Other times, like today, I could swear she was listening to every word… not just listening; understanding. I’m not giving up on a breakthrough.”
Su Ling nodded. A tear began to form in the corner of one eye.
“We can never lose hope, Su. Things like this are very unpredictable. They change in their own good time. You have to remember that it’s only been a year—in post-traumatic terms, mere seconds—and you can’t forget the trauma itself.”
Su Ling’s tears began to flow. “How could I forget?”
Sharon covered Su Ling’s hand with her own. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was what Anna had to go through… ”
The day on which Quan—Su Ling’s husband and Anna’s father—died, he’d insisted on taking his daughter to the ball game. It was a beautiful Sunday, almost exactly a year ago. The circumstances of the accident itself were simple: Quan was apparently distracted, had no time to react. A car had swerved directly in front of theirs. His only instinct was to lean over Anna, to protect her with his arm.
It took him five minutes to die. Trapped beside him, but unhurt, his daughter held his mangled hand the whole time, calling his name. That was the last time she’d ever spoken.
“Listen Su, you’ve been living a nightmare. You lost your husband and your daughter too. I can’t bring Quan back—we know that—but we’ve got a chance for Anna. Please don’t lose faith.”
Su Ling dried her tears with a handkerchief and feigned a smile.
“I know you’re right,” she replied. “And I haven’t lost faith. That’s why I’m here, Sharon. That’s why I followed you to this place. If you say that Anna is hearing you, that she might understand your words, I believe you. And don’t worry if I cry now and then. Part of me just doesn’t want to let go.”
There was a long silence.
Su Ling smiled at last, this time for real. “So, you really like what I’ve done here?” She gazed at the modest but neat surroundings.
“I love it,” Sharon said. “I really do. I can tell you and Anna are at home here.”
She paused and squeezed Su Ling’s hand. “Speaking of home, I should be heading for mine.”
“Thank you so much, Sharon,” Su Ling rose with her. “You’ve been a great friend.”
“So have you.”
The soft lights that illuminated the hallway came on just as Sharon entered it. There was no one else around. She could hear music coming from one of the flats, the muted sound of a television from another. She suddenly felt very tired and longed for the solitude of her own place.
When she opened the door, the blast of hot air struck her face like a slap.
Her first fear was fire, but there was no smell of smoke. She ran to the thermostat, but there was no heat on. In panic, she ran to the kitchen.
The oven was on full, set for 450. She immediately turned it off and opened a window, breathing in the cool that rushed into the room.
How in the hell… ? Then she remembered:
She’d turned on the oven this morning, before she left for the office, intending to quickly bake a batch of frozen cookies. It was an old custom; one that endeared her to her patients.
She’d forgotten about it, plain and simple. The roll of frozen cookies lay unopened and thawed on the counter, the baking sheet clean and naked beside it, the oven door yawning open.
How could she possibly forget?
And then the old fear crept in, snaking through her belly and resting there.
Was she starting to lose it? Was this how it started?
Sharon tried to shake it off. “Anybody could forget something so ordinary,” she said aloud. “It doesn’t prove a damn thing. People do it all the time.”
But the fear was stubborn; it clung to her. The oven wasn’t the only thing she’d forgotten lately. Her last credit card bill was a month late. The tuna steak she’d planned for dinner had spoiled in the refrigerator. Last week, she had totally forgotten to refill a patient’s prescription.
She had seen dozens, if not hundreds, of cases just like this. They always started out banally—lights left on, keys left in the front door lock, a stove left on—and then grew progressively worse. Pieces of memory would start to fall like leaves in autumn, until there was nothing left but a blank smile and a meaningless stare.
“Come on, get over it,” she told herself, pulling a bottle of wine from the cupboard and pouring herself a small glass.