Bound by Suggestion (17 page)

“Good-night.”

I closed the door behind her, listened to her footsteps on the stairs and the door slam shut. Her car’s engine fired up and I watched from the window as she backed down the drive. Then I headed for my sideboard and the new bottle of bourbon. A splash of soda later, I sat on the couch.

Bothered. That was the only way to describe what I was feeling. But the elusive reason for it—memory of it? —wouldn’t surface.

Herschel jumped onto my lap. He’d pulled a disappearing act while Krista was there—not easy in a four room apartment.

“
Mrrrowww
.”

“Amen.” I smoothed Herschel’s fur. In a heartbeat he was purring.

There could never be anything between Krista and me. She’d come to convince me to continue with Grace’s sessions, giving me a blow-job to placate me from quitting.

It had worked—for the time being. Yet knowing I was a means to an end still left me feeling degraded.

Why was I worrying about it anyway? She’d said either Grace or I could back out at any time. We were supposed to remember everything that went on in those sessions, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember much. And she still hadn’t given me a decent explanation of why.

Did Grace remember? Was that the source of her anger toward me?

I needed to see—talk—to her, without Krista present, to compare notes. But right then I wanted to be brain dead. To not know. To not care about anything.

Hours later
I awoke with a start. Thanks to the security lights outside, a glow edged the heavy drapes at my bedroom window. The clock on the nightstand read 3:42 a.m. I lay there, waiting expectantly, anticipation causing my fists to clench.

This was stupid, lying there staring at the phone, expecting her to—

Brrriinng!

I waited interminably long seconds for it to ring again before I snatched it.

“Hello?”

Silence.

A long silence.

“Hello?” I tried again, unable to keep the expectation out of my voice. “Maggie, that you?”

Still no answer, but I
knew
it was her.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, my hand clenched around the phone. “Maggie, why are you calling?”

There was no anger in my voice. I didn’t want her to hear anger. Possibly puzzlement, because ten days after our break-up I was still bamboozled by the whole mess. And much as I wished I could deny it, I missed her. I missed the way she touched me in the night. I missed her silly laugh. I even missed her auburn hair in my bathroom sink.

“Maggie?”

The line clicked dead.

I rolled over, hit the lamp switch and punched in the code for call return. The phone company’s automated voice spit out the number of the last caller. The exchange was right “Seven, five, four, three.”

“Maggie,” I murmured and the phone slid from my grasp.

She’d called. A thrill of hope coursed through me. She missed me. Or had she called out of guilt? Could that be all she felt for me after thirteen months of intimacy?

I still love you
, she’d said, then she’d chosen Doug over me. And here I was pining away for her.

You are stupid
.

What was that old joke about enjoying being kicked in the head because it felt so pleasant when it stopped?

Herschel jumped onto the bed, startling me. The phone was still off the hook, its annoying bleat cutting into my brain. I replaced it and a purring bundle of fur settled against my chest. My hand found his head, scratched that special place behind his left ear and the purring went into overdrive.

Eventually the cat drifted off to sleep, but I kept staring at the wall. I tried not to think about Maggie. Tried not to remember the nights we’d spent in that bed, the pleasure we’d given each other.

The sun was beginning to peek around the corners of the drapes by the time I fell back into an exhausted sleep. But instead of visions of Maggie, and the way things used to be, my dreams were filled with sickening sensations of bondage and torture, where
I
tormented a victim without a face.

“You’re going to have to tell him,” Brenda said, buttering her toast while she studied the array of jams and jellies before her on the kitchen table.

Ordinarily, Richard couldn’t abide such clutter, but since her pregnancy, Brenda had craved a variety of sweets. It was less hassle for her to sample jam from each of the jars, rather than dirty seven or eight additional containers.

Richard stared down at his own uneaten breakfast, and then back to Brenda, who’d decided on the raspberry preserves. “I know. But I’m not sure how to approach the subject. I mean, coming right out with it would be damned awkward.”

Toast still in hand, Brenda struck a theatrical pose. “How are you today, Jeffy? Fine weather we’re having. Did I mention someone’s been tampering with your medical records?” She slumped in her seat, returning her breakfast to her plate. “No, I don’t suppose that would go over well. Too bad you don’t know who did it.”

“I could find out . . . but if I do, Wally Moses is sure to suspect I’ve been in there, too, and report it. I’m hoping he’s already informed on whoever’s been messing with Jeff’s files.” Richard stared into his rapidly cooling coffee. “Jeff’s the one who needs to ask about it, and now isn’t a good time for me to bring it up.”

Brenda capped one of the jam jars. “Why are you tippy-toeing around his feelings like this? Jeffy’s no fool. He’d know you were only looking out for his welfare.”

Richard shrugged. “I keep remembering what Jared Crain said. That Wes might use dirt on my family against me.”

“How could Jeffy having insight be used against you?”

“How many in the medical community view psychic phenomenon as mental illness? Take that with our mother’s breakdown, and her alcoholism . . . .”

“I see what you mean.” Brenda sighed. “I still think honesty is the best policy.”

“I’ll be honest with him, but I have to wait for the right moment to broach it.”

Richard sipped his tepid coffee and grimaced. He got up, dumped it in the sink, poured and doctored a fresh cup.

He leaned against the counter. “The last couple of days Jeff’s seemed . . . fragile.”

“Talk to him.”

Richard shook his head. “It won’t do any good. He’s going through something he doesn’t want to share. And I can’t make him.”

“But you can be there for him.”

“He knows I am.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to remind him.”

It was time to mention the inevitable. “He might open up to you. He has in the past.”

Brenda frowned, her gaze dropping to the table. “He’s afraid to. He’s been hiding from me for months. Ever since—”

She wouldn’t voice the truth they’d all been avoiding.

Much as Richard didn’t want to admit it, it ate at him that Jeff was attracted to his wife—maybe even loved her, though he’d never allow himself the luxury of even harboring a fantasy of a life with her because he loved Maggie, too. Yet he loved Maggie differently. And, Richard knew his brother would never do anything to come between him and Brenda.

So much love and so much hurt. That was the life Jeff was stuck with.

“since December,” Brenda finished lamely.

Richard nodded, searching for the right words to get the conversation back on track.

“Jeff is so damned scared of people finding out what he can do. Telling him that what he wants kept most private has been compromised, and who knows how it could be used against him—and us . . . .” Words failed him again.

Brenda pushed her plate aside, capping the rest of the jam jars. “Putting it off is just going to make it worse.”

She was right, of course. She was always right. But the timing wasn’t right.

“I’ll tell him. Before the weekend.”

Now he just had to find a way to do it.

I could’ve
told Krista I couldn’t find a parking spot. That would’ve been a good excuse for being late. I could’ve told them both that I’d overslept. I could’ve made up any number of lies, but the truth was I just didn’t want to be there. And it was obvious Grace felt the same way.

Walking into Krista’s office was like walking into oppressive sludge, worse than drowning in quicksand. When your nose and mouth filled with liquid dirt you were guaranteed a quick end. Instead, emotional crude oil clung to me in a slimy morass, denying me that blessed oblivion. It lingered, and no matter how much I scrubbed, it didn’t wash off.

“Take a seat,” Krista said, indicating my usual chair. “We’ve already lost fifteen minutes of precious time.”

I sat, not motivated to apologize.

“We didn’t think you’d even show up,” Grace said, making no effort to keep the belligerence from her voice.

No more. Not after today. Not ever again.

I opened my mouth to give my well-rehearsed exit speech on why I’d have to leave—and wouldn’t return—but Krista interrupted.

“We talked about goals last time,” she reminded us, sitting between Grace and me as moderator.

Hunched in her wheelchair, Grace looked more gargoyle than childlike. She glared at me, her face twisted in an angry scowl, a spoiled brat coiled on the verge of a super temper tantrum.

“Have you eaten in the dining room since our last session?” Krista asked Grace.

Grace tore her gaze from my face. Our emotions were so tangled I wasn’t sure how much of the resentment I felt was hers or my own.

“I went down there,” she said, “but . . . there were so many strangers, I went back to my room and ate Twinkies.”

“You promised you’d try. You know you have to try harder if you want to reach your goal of independence.”

“I did try. Maybe you can make yourself do scary things every day of your life, but I can’t. You’re so goddamn gorgeous you can’t know what it’s like to be a toad. People turn away when they see me.”

“You’re just making excuses,” Krista said. Was it pique that colored her voice?

“You’re always pushing me to do things I know I can’t do. I feel worse since I’ve been coming here. Worse than right after the ra—the ra—” Grace couldn’t say the word and choked back a sob. “Can’t you just give me pills that’ll make me feel better—make it all go away?”

She kept up the tirade, her voice rising, a wave of almost overpowering emotions—embarrassment, frustration, and anger—spewing over me, taking my breath away, gagging me.

“Stop—” I cried, holding a hand out. “Krista, I can’t do this anymore. It’s too fucking painful!”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears and she turned on me. “Everybody quits on me. Nobody wants to help me. You’re just like all the rest!”

Her battering anger flattened me against the back of the chair, sucking the air from my lungs. She started to cry and a ragged sob constricted my throat, choking me.

“That’s enough,” Krista cried. “Wildebeest!”

Like a switch was thrown, everything went black and I fell back in my chair, my head hanging, body limp. Grace, too, was suddenly silenced, and stopped broadcasting her parade of corrosive emotions. The sudden cessation left me tingling with numbness.

Krista’s heels tapped across the hardwood floor. I heard the jangle of keys on a ring, and the sound of a bolt being thrown. Something heavy rumbled across the floor. The pocket doors to the locked room?

The footfalls approached, stopped in front of me. Krista snapped her fingers. “Sight.”

I opened my eyes and could see once again, but the heaviness in my limbs remained, the anchor weight on my will still dragging me down.

“Carry her to the room,” Krista said.

I wrenched myself to my feet, stepped over to Grace and lifted her from the wheelchair, following Krista to the room.

I knew that place, had been there before.

“On the mattress,” Krista directed, pointing.

I laid Grace down and sat beside her, lowered my gaze to the polished oak floor, feeling like a scolded child awaiting punishment.

Déjà vu.

Please, God, don’t let it happen again.

Krista stood before a metal cart, examined the contents, then picked up a plastic syringe and a vial. She drew the liquid in and then flicked the cylinder, forcing the air bubbles out.

I looked away.

Not again
, my mind screamed.

Krista turned. “Give me your arm.”

I couldn’t resist her command, and offered her the right one. She tied rubber tubing around my bicep, waited for a vein to rise, then stabbed me with the needle. I winced, looked up into her cold eyes. She didn’t seem to see me.

Krista released the rubber tubing, let my arm drop, and then went back to the cart and prepared another syringe.

I watched as she performed the same ritual on Grace.

“Why?” I breathed. “Why are you doing this?”

“You’re not supposed to talk.” She pushed me back against the mattress.