Trigger (18 page)

Nina shrugged. “I guess that’s okay if it’s normal. Thanks for trying to help me.”

“My pleasure. Though, you should know I’m not doing it only because I’m such a great guy. I want to get to the bottom of all of this as much as you do. Find out why I scared you like that.” I grinned at her. “Maybe
I’m
the crazy one, putting strange spells on women. If that’s the case, I’d rather find out sooner than later.” The grin was replaced with a sober expression. “You will let me know if this seems to be the case, right?”

“Sure, but I think that’s very unlikely.”

I kissed the tip of her nose. “You never know.”

Nina

I parked my old Toyota on the street in front of the yellow ranch-style house. It had taken me an hour and a half to get to Encino where Leslie Parkinson’s office and home was located, and for once I hadn’t minded the heavy traffic so typical of the highways in Southern California. I remained in the car seat, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles got all white and closed my eyes.
This was not a good idea. I should just tell Ms. Parkinson I wasn’t feeling well. We should reschedule, or better, forget ever having decided to do this.

Not even in the moments before going on stage did I feel this miserable. Why was I feeling so bad? All I was supposed to do was talk to a psychiatrist, for Christ’s sake! No big deal, right? Wrong. Apparently, it
was
a big deal. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. It absolutely was… If this doctor was as good as Dylan had assured me she was, what might she uncover today?

That I was in fact crazy and had murdered Emma at the Blue Moon?

A wave of nausea surged through me suddenly. With the utmost effort, I pushed open the car door right in time for the vomit that rushed up my throat to land on the dusty asphalt. The Chef Salad I’d eaten for lunch splashed on the ground next to my car. I stared at the disgusting mess I’d made.
Goddammit.
How would I explain
that
to Ms. Parkinson, not to mention Dylan? There was no time to drive over to some drugstore to buy a gallon of water to rinse it away. I imagined a grouchy Ms. Parkinson, an elderly woman with steel-gray hair and eyeglasses so thick her eyes were humongous, calling Dylan after we were done and complaining about what a pig he’d asked her to treat.
Oh, God
. It was beyond embarrassing. Well, there was nothing left to do but to go over and see Ms. Parkinson, explain to her that I’d thrown up on the street right in front of her house. Saying nothing about it wasn’t right.

I found a package of napkins in the glove compartment and wiped my mouth. Fortunately, there were a couple of mouthfuls of water left in my water bottle. I took a sip to rinse my mouth and used the rest on a napkin to clean my hands. I checked my face in the rearview mirror, wiped off the sweat pearls that had formed around my hairline. Then I took a deep breath and left the car, careful not to step in my vomit.

I rang the doorbell, a picture of that elderly woman with the thick glasses dressed in baggy clothes on my retina again. But the woman who opened the door looked nothing like my mental image. She was more like a Latina bombshell in her early to mid-forties than a half-blind senior citizen with a non-existing fashion sense. I wondered if maybe she wasn’t actually a light-skinned African-American, however. That would explain why her name wasn’t more Hispanic-sounding.

She smiled wide at me and extended an elegant hand with red-painted nails. “Hello. You must be Dylan’s friend, Nina. I’m Leslie Parkinson.”

We shook hands, me trying my best to keep my distance so this striking woman wouldn’t be repulsed by the vomit smell I was sure lingered around me. I’d better get to a bathroom to clean up some more before we started the session.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Parkinson,” I said and walked into the hallway through the door that Ms. Parkinson held open.

“Likewise. Please call me Leslie. Let’s go to my office.”

After the hallway, we entered an airy living room furnished in whites and beiges and bamboo. There were huge potted plants in the corners and big paintings without frames on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books took up one side of the room and before us was a black Steinway.

“My office is over there,” Leslie said and nodded toward a half-open door in a hallway next to the living room. “Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Soda? A bottle of water?”

“Um, sure. Some iced tea would be nice.”

“Okay. Why don’t you go into the office and make yourself comfortable on the couch there while I go get it?”

“Can I please use the restroom first?”

“Of course. There’s one opposite the office.” With those words, Leslie disappeared into a kitchen, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room. I was pretty sure this commanding woman would never let me back out of the session, so I might as well go through with it since I was already inside the house. Leslie was probably used to people coming up with all kinds of strange excuses not to go through with therapy. Razor-sharp intelligence had come out of her chocolate eyes, the kind that would see right through me.

I walked into the bathroom and rinsed my mouth thoroughly with water only since there was no toothpaste anywhere. When I entered the office, Leslie was already sitting on a burgundy leather armchair there.

Unlike the airy living room, this space was small and painted in a warm apricot color. Opposite Leslie was a comfy-looking couch loaded with throw pillows that instantly made me at ease. I figured this wasn’t a coincidence. A single window faced a garden full of colorful flowers, adding to the soothing atmosphere.

“Please have a seat.” With a sweeping motion of her hand, Leslie indicated the plush wine-colored couch with all the pillows. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s your iced tea.” She pointed to a tall glass filled with amber-colored liquid and ice on a side table. Beside the glass lay a long silver spoon and packages of sugar and sweeteners and lemon slices. “I wasn’t sure if you like it sweetened or not.”

“Unsweetened is fine, thanks.” I sat on the edge of the couch.

Leslie leaned back in her chair. “How are you today, Nina?”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“You look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I managed a smile. “I guess I’ve been better. To tell you the truth, I really didn’t feel like coming here today.”

“Ah.” Leslie offered me a warm smile. “Stage fever. That’s not unusual. A lot of people find digging in to their psyches terrifying. Dylan told me you weren’t a big believer in therapy. You should know that everything you tell me in this room will stay between us.”

“It’s okay if you tell him what we talk about. I’ll sign the consent you mentioned. After all, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be able to see you. So you’re free to tell him everything I say.” I thought about this. “Well, unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Got it. You mind me asking why you don’t believe in psychotherapy? Or used to not believe?”

I thought about Leslie’s question for a while before answering. “I guess I think it’s for finicky, weak people. I mean, everyone has problems. And, most of the time, it’s a matter of just snapping out of them. Pulling yourself together. Besides, if you feel that bad, you can always talk to your friends and family. Using a shrink seems a bit… indulgent.”

Leslie pursed her full lips and nodded slowly. “Interesting. I suppose seeing a therapist
is
a bit indulgent… What do you consider acceptable indulgences?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that question.”

“What do you consider an acceptable way of spoiling yourself?”

“You should never spoil yourself.”

Leslie raised a well-plucked eyebrow. “Never? Why not?”

“Because it makes you lazy.”

“What about taking a vacation?”

“I think only old people need a vacation. You know, people who’ve been working for years and years and years. Someone like me does not need a vacation.”

“Did you ever have a vacation?”

I thought about that question, too, before answering, mostly because I couldn’t remember if I’d actually ever had a proper vacation. “It depends on what you mean by vacation. When I was a kid, my mom and I and my brother and stepdad drove around for a couple weeks in an RV. We did that a couple of times. I guess that would constitute vacation.” I smirked at the memory. How I’d hated that damn thing! Just thinking about that smelly RV had the power to make me feel like a total loser. Mega loser. Who the hell went on road trips in a friggin’ RV anyway? Only hicks, that’s who. A shiver went through me and I shook myself to get rid of the disconcerting vision of me in that pathetic vehicle.

“…Nina?”

I looked up at Ms. Parkinson and gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I was lost in my own world there.”

“Can you tell me what went through your mind?”

I shrugged. “Sure.” But getting the words out of my mouth wasn’t as easy as I had first thought. In fact, I found myself suddenly tongue-tied.

“Did you like going on road trips in the RV?” Leslie said.

“Not really, no.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because no one else went on stupid road trips in old RVs. And people always looked at us like we were a bunch of hicks.”

“Which people?”

“The ones we met on the road. You know, at the rest stops and when we drove through cities.”

Leslie nodded. “When was the last time you went on a road trip in the RV?”

“When I was about fourteen.”

“Did you ever go on a vacation after that?”

“No. My mother got divorced and we couldn’t afford it. I always worked during my

breaks. You know, to help her out. She didn’t make much money and I have a much younger brother. My mom’s a waitress.”

Leslie gave a pearly white smile. “That’s nice of you to help your mother. She must think you’re pretty great.”

“We get along well. She needs a lot of help. She’s not a very strong person.” I rolled my eyes. “Always falling for the wrong guy.”

“You said stepdad. When did she and your dad split up?”

“He left us when I was five.” I scoffed. “A
total
deadbeat.”

“Wow. That must have been hard for you. Did you get along with your stepdad?”

“Stepdad
s
. My mom remarried twice after my dad.”

Leslie pursed her mouth again and nodded. “So she divorced the last one when you were how old?”

“Fifteen.”

“And after that you were helping her support the family while still being in school?”

“Yes.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noted via the one window in the office that a bunch of clouds had appeared in the sky. I remembered then that it was supposed to rain later. If I was lucky, maybe the rain would take care of the puke. I had barely finished the thought when it did in fact start raining. Hard.
Thank God.

“Did your schoolwork suffer from having to do that?” Leslie asked. “Your grades? How were they affected?”

“They weren’t affected so much because of me having to work as they were because of

other factors.”

“Oh. And what were some of those factors?”

My stomach roiled.
Crap
. I didn’t want to discuss the bullying. Not so soon. Maybe not ever. Why hadn’t I just said, yes, having to work so hard to help my mom was the only reason my grades were affected. But there didn’t seem to be any way out of it. Leslie was not about to let me get off the hook, that much was clear judging from the way she was looking at me with those laser-like eyes. It wouldn’t surprise me if she could somehow detect the thoughts swirling around in my head.

“Nina. What were some of those factors?”

Dylan

I was sitting in my office, trying to read a never-ending legal document I needed to get through before the end of the day. I had low hopes I’d accomplish this. Knowing Leslie Parkinson would call me in an hour or so and tell me how her first visit with Nina had gone was far too distracting. Not that I thought anything ground-breaking would come out of it—ground-breaking as in Nina remembering what she had done after she passed out at the club. Her lack of memory in that department had never seemed like it had anything to do with Nina subconsciously blocking out an uncomfortable memory as much as it did her having an alcohol-induced blackout.

I did think Leslie might uncover what had made Nina so scared of me, though. From what I knew about Leslie Parkinson, she was great at getting to the meat of the problem very soon. In the two-hour introductory session she and Nina were having today, she might have already gotten to it. And I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hear the truth, find out that I, too, had a problem. Like that I was obsessed with a girl who was perhaps irreparably damaged.

It was no mistaking it—Nina had gotten so far under my skin, she would stay there, whether I wanted her to or not.

I had lied to Nina when I’d suggested that maybe I was the crazy one, having somehow elicited her strange reactions. I didn’t really believe that. She was definitely the one with the mental issues. But I was crazy enough about her to be willing to pay all her therapy fees in an attempt to cure her—I’d definitely refuse to take Nina’s money when or if she tried to repay me. Leslie Parkinson wasn’t a friend of the family; she was just a doctor who had once used my firm’s legal services and who I knew was among the best in California, specializing in childhood trauma. When contacting Leslie, I’d explained the situation and asked her to play along. She’d agreed, hesitant only when I’d also asked her if she could give me an evaluation of the progress. She finally said she could give me a perfunctory overview, if Nina signed a consent.

I was convinced something really bad had happened to Nina that she was in denial about. Most likely, she had been sexually abused by a man in her family, but her brain refused to deal with it.

It was the healing part of this abuse I was now worried about. Hearing Leslie tell me Nina was too far gone to fully recover. That she was a danger to the men she was dating. I didn’t doubt Leslie would go into detail about that last part. As a therapist, she had a legal responsibility to inform the people her patient might hurt.