Authors: Jeff Gunhus
The party was tomorrow night. Cathy Moran couldn’t think of anything worse than if she couldn’t go. Well maybe. If she went and somehow everyone saw the dark spots covering her chest and shoulders it would be
catastrophically
uncool.
She could go and just wear a turtleneck. It was cold enough. But if she went she risked an even worse scenario. Bobby Mazingo might be there. Then, if Bobby did try something, which Cathy hoped he would, she would have to say no. While this turn of events would make her dad the happiest man in Prescott City, ‘no’ was not the word Cathy wanted to use. And she felt pretty certain that if it came to that then she could kiss Bobby Mazingo goodbye, and not in the sense she was hoping to.
Cathy stood in front of her bathroom mirror and tenderly rubbed the discolored skin, probing with her fingers for any sore spots. That was the strangest thing about it, nothing hurt. The whole area around her breasts, neck and shoulders looked like she’d been used as a punching bag. The skin between these freakish oversized pox marks was a dead gray, flaking with dry skin.
Like freezer burn on meat
. The unexpected thought made a chill pass through Cathy’s body.
She opened the cabinet under the sink. Neat piles of fresh towels filled the space, folded to exacting Martha Stewart standards. At least her dad’s new trophy wife was a good housekeeper, although Cathy would never give her that compliment to her face. Barbara, or Barbie as Cathy preferred to call her, was a regular Martha friggin’ Stewart. But with a great rack, courtesy of the best boob surgeon her dad could find.
The day of the wedding set the tone for the relationship with her new mom. The ceremony was an hour late getting started since the maid-of-honor, a position grudging offered to Cathy to begin with, showed up an hour late with a surprise for everyone. Little sixteen-year old Cathy Moran staggered down the aisle drunk as a factory worker on payday, waving happily at the assembled guests with a silly grin pasted on her face. Adding to the spectacle, her dad got to see her new jewelry for the first time as she drew nearer. A thick band of silver hung from her nose, still swollen from the piercing only hours before.
The more witty guests would later comment at the reception that the wedding was a success as it had ensured job security for the groom. His daughter alone could keep Scott Moran’s psychology practice going for years.
Cathy pushed aside the towels. Way in the back, behind the bottle of Scope and Liquid Plummer, was a small ceramic jar with a cork lid. She pulled this out. The jar felt cool in her hands. She pried open the tight fitting lid. Inside was a Zip-loc baggy. And inside that was exactly what the doctor ordered. Bud directly from Humbolt County in Northern California, or so Nikki Tomlinson had promised when she’d sold it to her. Whether Nikki was telling the truth or whether she was full of shit, it was the best weed Cathy had ever smoked. And in the last year she had become somewhat of a connoisseur.
She tipped the jar over and felt the small pipe tumble into her hand. Normally she would have stuffed the pipe and the baggy in her pocket, snuck into the forest behind her house before she lit up. But she didn’t feel like it. The dark splotches had her freaked out and she needed a hit. Her therapist, a friend of her dad’s who had been at the wedding, had explained that her behavior showed that she wanted to be caught by her father, that it was acting out, a cry for attention.
Cathy thought it was bullshit.
Anyway, she wasn’t worried about getting caught by her father anymore. What was the worst he could do? Hate her? Well, that was already pretty much the case anyway, so she figured she had nothing to lose. Besides, even the doctor treating her disease had said it would be all right to smoke if the nausea from the medicine got too bad. She didn’t think her father knew about the medical O.K. and that was fine by her. The less he knew the better.
She plucked a few buds from the baggy, breaking them up just a little by rubbing her fingers together, and packed them into the pipe. Using the lighter from the jar, she lit the pipe and sucked back the acrid smoke, holding her breath to let the pot do its magic. Soon her brain mercifully floated away and the stress dripped like wax off a candle. She looked in the mirror. The purple marks still registered in her mind as a bad thing, potentially a really bad thing, but the pot took the edge off. She knew what she had to do, what she should have done when she first noticed the marks.
Reluctantly, she packed the pipe away, sprayed half a can of Lysol into the air to cover her tracks. As she dripped Visine into her glazed eyes she made the decision to wait until after school to make the phone call. Better to do it outside the house. The last thing she wanted was for her dad to hear her on the phone and freak out like he always did. Some day he’d treat her with the respect she deserved. Until then she would sneak around behind his back.
Well, unless it turned out it was really serious, then she’d tell him. Asshole or not, he was still her dad.
Cathy grabbed her backpack from her room and headed downstairs. She just hoped she’d be able to see her doctor after school and get back home before anyone noticed. Since no one in the house seemed to care about her, the chances for success looked pretty good.
Dr. Stanley Mansfield removed his glasses and dug a thumb into the corner of each eye. He pressed hard, trying to relieve the sinus headache that had gathered momentum since he woke up that morning. Even his hair seemed to hurt. He knew he wasn’t ill. Just a bad case of nerves and stress. Maybe it was time to take a vacation. Get away and do a little fly fishing. He smiled at the ridiculous notion. It had been years since he had taken a break from his work. Then again, he thought, maybe that was why he found himself stuck.
The phone rang and killed all ideas about vacations and mountain trout. He considered ignoring it but the shrill ring was too much for his headache.
“Hi Stanley. It’s Lauren.”
Dr. Mansfield leaned back in his chair, “Lauren. How are you? How are Jack and the girls?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess.” Lauren’s voice tightened. He could tell she was trying to hold back her emotions but they were getting the better of her.
“What’s going on?”
“Still a little shaken up over everything,” Lauren replied after a long pause, her voice trembling.
“Take some time off. I’ll cover any cases you have here. Take time to be with your family.”
“I’ll probably take you up on that. I might take the kids for a trip. Get their minds off things a little, you know?”
Take the kids. He noticed she didn’t mention Jack. “Sure. Whatever you need, you know that.” There was no answer. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m sorry. You see, I…”
“Go on. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I need a psych referral. Someone good.”
“For the kids?”
“It’s not for the kids. It’s for Jack. This whole thing has really shaken him up. He’s had some hallucinations.”
Dr. Mansfield chose his words carefully. “I heard about his…uh…episode in Nate Huckley’s room. You know it’s normal for someone who’s been in a crash like this to have short term psychological effects. Post traumatic stress often occurs when the subject endures the kinds of event Jack went through. Especially when there are children involved.”
“I know all that,” she snapped. “But it’s just a little harder when it’s your husband and not some textbook study.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry,” he said.
Lauren sighed, “No, I’m sorry. I’m on edge. Jack doesn’t know I’m calling you and I’m not looking forward to the battle to get him into see someone. Do you know anyone good?”
“Yes, actually there is someone right there in Prescott City. I’ve known him a long time. He’s good and you can trust him. I’ll email you his information.”
“Thanks. Is there any way you could pull some strings and get him in today?”
“If you think it’s necessary, of course I’ll ask.”
“Please. I’d appreciate it.”
“I don’t want to intrude, but are you in any danger?
“No. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“These hallucinations haven’t led to violent behavior, have they?”
“No. Of course not.” Lauren shot back a little too quickly. She seemed to realize it, too, and paused to collect herself before continuing. “Look, thanks for the help. And I appreciate the offer for some time off. I’m going to stop in later today to check in on Felicia Rodriguez and then I’ll probably leave tomorrow for a few days, maybe a week.”
“God, I thought someone called you.”
“Called me about what?”
“Felicia Rodriguez suffered a massive coronary yesterday afternoon.”
“Damn, why didn’t someone call me? What’s her condition?”
Dr. Mansfield cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Lauren. She died.”
The room didn’t look like a typical therapist’s room. Jack based this evaluation not on any personal experience, but from scenes in countless movies and T.V. shows. They always showed puffy leather chairs, cheap wood paneling and the obligatory couch where pathetic people stretched out while they spewed their problems to a paid stranger.
There was no couch in this room, though. Besides the executive leather chair behind a sprawling antique desk, the only furniture was a pair of sturdy wooden chairs, with thick armrests, facing each other in front of a fireplace. One personal photo sat on the fireplace mantle: a picture of a teenage girl standing next to a horse. Jack stared at the photo as he sat in one of the wooden chairs waiting for the therapist to show up. Unlike the rest of the room, the photo at least had a warm feeling to it. The girl faced the camera with an ear-to-ear smile, one hand holding the reins, the other patting the horse’s forehead. Staring at the picture relaxed him a little. And that was exactly what he needed to do. Unwind the tension. Slow things down. Get a grip.
Lauren had been diplomatic in her approach to get him to this session. When he’d agreed without a fight to see the therapist, her surprise hadn’t been lost on him. It was the fear in her voice that did it. And his own fear too. He still couldn’t piece together what had happened last night. All he knew was he had ended up with a baseball bat in his hand and had come out of his trance, or whatever the hell it was, just in time to stay off the evening news as a serial murderer. So when Lauren explained that Stanley Mansfield had arranged an appointment with a shrink for him, he had agreed right away. He also agreed that Lauren should take the kids down to their friends’ house in Baltimore. Just for a while. Just until he was sure he wasn’t going crazy.
Jack stared into the fireplace and watched small flames lick at the wood. He hadn’t slept since the crazy events of last night. How could he? The whole experience was so vivid to him, as clear as any waking memory. Each time he closed his eyes the images came back to him,
that voice
.
“Hello Jack. How are you?”
Jack pushed himself up from his seat and spun toward the door. Dr. Scott Moran, dressed casually in cords and a tan button-down shirt, held his hands up, “Easy there. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He crossed the room and held out his hand, “I’m Scott Moran. Good to meet you.”
Jack smiled as he shook the doctor’s hand. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“I guess that’s why you’re here,” Moran said as he motioned Jack back to his chair. “If you want I could prescribe some sleeping pills and just call it a day. Maybe go golfing together? What do you say?”
“What?”
“Do you golf?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“So. What do you want to do? Golf or therapy?”
Jack sized up Scott Moran. The psychiatrist seemed only a little older than himself, maybe in his mid-forties. His sandy blonde hair was either expertly dyed or just hid any grey hairs the man possessed. He had a dark complexion, one of those rare blondes who tanned well. Moran had a runner’s build, lean and muscular. He carried himself with a fluid, country-club self confidence. Jack was used to this kind of easy-going arrogance, it was practically a required attitude in Southern California, but that didn’t mean he liked being around it. Besides that, he wasn’t in the mood for jokes, so he sat and waited for the psychiatrist to continue.
Moran sighed, “I guess we’ll scratch clever banter off the agenda then.” He took a poker and stirred the fire until the flames crackled and spit. He spoke without looking at Jack, “Listen, I know you’re a reluctant guest. But from talking to your wife, I think it’s a good thing you’re here.”
Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He noticed Moran study him out of the corner of his eye. Jack cleared his throat. “Thanks for making a spot for me on short notice. I appreciate it.”
Moran shrugged, “I wasn’t busy. Between you and me, I’m not a very good therapist.”
Jack gave him a thin smile. Under different circumstances he might have given Moran a break and played along with the weak comedy act but the psychiatrist’s shtick was getting on his nerves. The guy was like a golf course pro crossed with a Vegas lounge act. Not exactly a confidence inspiring combination. Still, Jack forced himself to continue. “So what did Lauren tell you?”
“That you’re crazy.” Moran waited a few beats, watching Jack’s serious expression. Finally, he said, “I’m just screwing with you, Jack. You’ve got to lighten up a little.”
Jack shook his head and started to stand up, “Maybe this--”
“Post traumatic stress disorder. That’s what’s causing these hallucinations. You’re not crazy, Jack. You’re just a little freaked out by what happened to you. Happens all the time.”
“Lauren told you--”
“No details. Just that you’ve had troubling dream-like images. Sleep walking. The works.”
Sleepwalking? I took a baseball bat and almost beat my dog to death in front of my family and she told you I was sleepwalking?
“You want to tell me the details of what you saw?” Moran asked.
Jack shifted his eyes and stared into the fire, his fingers tapping the wooden armrest.
Moran changed tack. He spoke in a lower, softer voice. “Jack, whatever you saw compelled you to walk around the house and do some things you didn’t want to do. I’m guessing there is no way you would be here right now unless whatever you saw and whatever you did scared you and your wife pretty bad. I can help you. I really can. But that only happens if you let me in on the details.”
“I haven’t even told Lauren everything.”
“Doesn’t matter. Tell it to me. What’s the worst case? That I think you’re nuts? You don’t give a damn what I think of you, right? So that’s not a big deal. Best case, we figure some stuff out, I give you some answers, and you get better. You’re a businessman. That’s a low cost of failure with a huge upside potential. Listen, I have a family too.” He pointed to the picture on the mantle. “A daughter, Cathy. I know what it’s like to be a father. The responsibility you feel. I can help you with this.”
Jack glanced at the photo of Moran’s daughter. She smiled back at him and made him feel better. Then he remembered Lauren’s look in the bedroom. She had been so scared of him. Worse, he hadn’t been able to reassure her. He didn’t know what he might have done next with the bat. He had no control over his actions. Over the hallucinations. Moran was right about one thing. He did owe it to Lauren and the kids to at least try. Without taking his eyes off the fire, Jack recounted every detail he could remember.