Subject responding well to extra-high dose of Restoril. Increase dosage next time by half to see if hallucinations set in.
Subject obeyed directive to return to old condo. Minutes spent counseling: 5.
Subject left condo. Responding to outside stimulus that is not within control. Must disrupt.
That fucker is dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
NATALIE
My phone rings and it’s the downstairs lobby. “Hi, Chris. If that’s Jake, just let him up.”
“No, it’s Dr. Terrance.”
“Oh, okay, he can come up too.”
I have everything packed and ready to go. I read an email from Daphne’s boss, who informs me that Daphne is taking a leave of absence, and she wonders if I had any preference for a new editor out of a short list she attaches. That’s depressing in so many ways.
I shoot back a reply.
I don’t know any of these folks.
She must be refreshing her emails constantly, because my inbox receives a reply almost immediately.
We can set up appointments for you to meet with them. Brook Myles has a whole stable of really wonderful editors and they would all love to work with you.
I’m not sure what I want to do with my manuscript. I guess it’s time to get an agent. I hadn’t had one before because Daphne bought all the rights for the three books. I had Oliver’s agent look at the contract, who shrugged and said it looked standard. After the option sold, I got a film agent, but I don’t have a publishing agent. Maybe if I’d had one, this debacle with Daphne would never have happened.
Without Daphne around, though, there are hundreds of emails to answer. She’s not filtering them so I start the task of responding to each of them. As I make my way through the first ten, I wonder why I had her doing this in the first place. The emails are so wonderful and encouraging. I could have used these when I was struggling with writing or just struggling in general.
I frown, wondering how much Daphne has hidden from me over the years and why I let her do it.
A knock on the door jolts me and for a moment I freeze. Then I force myself to relax—it’s Dr. Terrance. The video feed that is still working confirms that. I manage to go to the door, ten steps and then five more. I open it and allow him in. The door closes behind him and I lock it for good measure.
“Look at you.” He beams. “Opening the door. The Restoril did its job, didn’t it?”
“It helped,” I admit, but eye the white bag in his hand.
He spots my suitcase immediately. “What’s this?”
“I’m moving back to Jake’s. What are you doing here?”
He shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over my kitchen chair. “Natalie, I told you I would return in a week, and here I am, a week later. We’re restarting your therapy. After learning about Daphne, I’ve decided to change your prescriptions and try a couple of new coping techniques. Her betrayal must be cutting you deeply. I imagine that you are going to be suffering a setback shortly and I want to minimize its effects.”
He picks up the suitcase and carries it into the bedroom. “Let’s start by unpacking. You aren’t going back to that townhouse.”
I stare at him, refusing to follow. “I’m not unpacking. Why would I? I can see you at Jake’s place as easily as I can here.”
He heaves a huge sigh. “Natalie, you are unwell. You aren’t in any position to make decisions.”
“I’m not unwell. I’m improving. I—”
His mocking laugh interrupts me. I stand in shock because I’ve never, ever heard him denigrate me like this.
“You’re so foolish. You think one week of good sleep and you can conquer your crippling anxiety. Look at you.” He waves a hand over my figure. “You can’t even open the door to your own condo most of the time. Listen to me. You count opening a door, something normal people do countless times a day, as a victory.”
I flush hot with anger and humiliation. “I don’t think I’m cured or recovered. I just want to live with Jake. I’ll get better every day. I’ll take my medication and I’ll do therapy. Heck, I’ll even do group therapy. Whatever it takes, I’m going to do it.”
“You’ll never make it,” he taunts. “You step outside that door and you’ll be puking and passing out in less than five minutes. In fact, let’s time it.” He unlatches his watch and waves it in the air.
“Dr. Terrance, I think you should leave.” I put on a brave face, but he’s not wrong. He’s describing everything that happened to me the other day when I tried to go to Jake’s. I didn’t make it more than four blocks before vomiting on the sidewalk. The cop thought I was a drug-addled homeless person.
My palms feel slick as I rub them together. A chill settles into my bones and starts to make me shake. I lock my knees together, but the shaking is too violent for Dr. Terrance not to notice. He laughs with a low, menacing sound. He reaches inside the pocket of his coat and pulls out a big black metal handgun. “Out there, the world is a scary place.” He advances on me, and I back up until my calves hit the sofa cushion and I fall. I scramble backward without taking my eyes off the weapon. “There are madmen with guns who’ll hurt you. There are people who will attack you in the subway for fun. There are people who will pretend to be your friend and stalk and harass you. There’s no one for you to trust. There is no safe place.”
He shoots and I scream, covering my face. Frantically I pat myself but I feel no injury. Then I see the hole in the wall that separates the living room from my bedroom.
“You are pathetic. Look at you, huddled in the corner. I am nearly forty years older than you, but you, a girl in your prime, are too afraid to defend yourself.” He marches to the door of my apartment and wrenches it open. He tosses the gun on the threshold. “See. You could get the gun and get me to leave, but you’re too paralyzed by your own fear.” He sits down in his chair and takes out a recorder. “Subject is cowering in the corner. She is crying, not silently, though. I hear small snivels. She has showered today, likely after coitus with her lover. He is not present. Make inquiry into whether he has abandoned her.” He continues to dictate, and I stare at the gun.
The door. Get to the door, I tell myself.
I unlock my cramped legs and stand. I shut everything out and start counting. It’s fourteen steps into the kitchen. I pause. My breathing sounds unnaturally loud in my ears. Every sense is heightened. Ten steps to the entryway.
“Fifteen minutes have passed. Subject has moved from sofa to kitchen. Still shaking. Still crying.”
I swipe my hand across my face and it comes away wet. I didn’t realize I was still crying.
The gun. The door. The gun. The door.
Ten steps.
I take one step and then another until I am standing in the open doorway. Sweat is drenching me, and the bile in my stomach swirls like a tornado.