What She Doesn't Know (2 page)

On this journey into the gray, she felt a throbbing pain in her head, an overwhelming fatigue in a body she had not felt at all for so long. She wasn’t supposed to feel pain here in the gray place. It had followed her, as did some of the other sounds from the world: blips and humming noises, voices. The others seemed gauzier than usual.
 

Except for the man. He moved through the people, his journey purposeful somehow when everyone else moved lethargically. He came to a stop in front of her. He was handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes filled with urgency and clarity. His presence infused her with warmth. Had he come to lead her onward?

She wasn’t afraid. But when he reached for her, set his hands on her shoulders, violence shattered the peace. A barrage of images flashed through her mind, so fast she couldn’t hold onto any of them. She could feel them, though, shock and pain and fear, especially fear at the end. Then she was falling, her arms flailing, a scream caught in her throat. A scream that was her name. Before she hit the ground, she felt a gust of air rush through her body.

When she came to, she hardly had a chance to register shock that she’d been in a coma for four days. And that her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in three years, had played doting mom for the first time in Rita’s life. She could hardly register the humility of being an inconvenience to everyone. She could vaguely remember the place of bad memories. There was something else, too. Something important, but she couldn’t quite remember.

“How are you doin’, honey?”

Angela Brooks stood beside Rita’s bed two days later, wringing the black knit hat with the Jersey Devils emblem on it like a washcloth. None of the hospital staff saw Rita’s mother sitting vigil as the anomaly it was. Angela had only been a mother for Rita’s first ten years of life, and barely that.

“I’m okay, Angela. Tired, achy. But okay.” Rita’s attention kept drawing back to the green Jell-O on the plate in front of her.

 
Angela’s face pinched, deepening her wrinkles. “You don’t have to call me by my name. I know your dad made you call him Charlie, the bonehead, but I’m your mama.”

Mama.
The word wanted to roll out, but Rita held it in.
 

Angela awkwardly took Rita’s hand, overly cautious of the IV still imbedded in her wrist. That motion seemed as odd as the woman’s presence, but Rita didn’t pull away. Instead, she studied the thin, wiry woman who looked so much older than her fifty years.
 

“You know what they call this place?” Angela asked conspiratorially. “Massive Genital. That’s what they told me down at the diner by my motel. That doesn’t sound too reassuring, a big private part. Maybe we should move you somewhere else.”

“It’s just a joke. Mass General is a good hospital.”
 

“If you’re sure. How’s your doctor? He okay? I can get you another one.”

“I’m fine, really.”

Angela looked around, as though searching for something else she could find at fault and fix to prove her good intentions. When she could find nothing, she went back to mangling her hat. “Honey, I know I wasn’t the best mother.” She laughed harshly. “Or even a good mother. Lord knows I made mistakes. Let me be your mama now. Let me take care of you, cook for you, make sure you’re okay. They said you have to take it real easy after you’re released.”

Rita ignored the way something inside her ached. “No.” As Angela’s hopeful—desperately hopeful–face crumpled, Rita felt obliged to add, “I don’t need help. I couldn’t…” Her words drifted off, because she couldn’t say them. The truth was, she thought she’d worked through her mother issues during her psychology training in college. That’s why she’d found Angela five years ago. But she was having trouble connecting to her, and a part of Rita couldn’t bear getting used to having her around before she left again. She’d lost her mother once, when the social worker had taken Rita away to live with her father, and again when she realized Angela wasn’t even trying to get her back. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.” She’d once believed that if she didn’t bother her mother, or Charlie, or his mother, Maura, that maybe they’d love her. Needs, wants, boo-boos and colds all fell under that category, so she’d learned to handle them herself. “I’ve been on my own for a long time now. I’ve taken care of myself—”

“I know, since you was a little girl. I dumped a lot on you.” Angela looked away in shame. “At least Charlie gave you food, clothes, a home.”

Rita swallowed the truth. “I had what I needed.” The essentials, but never a home.

“You had to know I was only thinking of your welfare when I let them take you. Even with child support, I just couldn’t make it.”
 

Rita swallowed back more words, wondering how long she could do that before they all exploded out of her. She and Angela had been here before, when Angela had apologized a thousand times for the neglect and bouts of rage that consumed her when the burden of merely surviving became too much to bear.

Rita looked up to see Marty in the doorway. “Come in!”
 

Angela moved out of the way and watched the two women hug. Rita wished she could include her in, but she didn’t know how. Wasn’t sure she wanted to start something. Allowed her to back away with the excuse of needing a smoke.

“I wasn’t interrupting, was I?” Marty asked, perching on the side of the bed, more comfortable with Rita than her own mother had been.

“Not at all.”
 

Rita and Marty had met in college during graduate school. They had both done internships at the Warner Center for Mental Health and had stayed on where their friendship had deepened. Rita tried to ignore the fact that Marty was a tall, blond beauty. They were opposite in both looks and personalities–Marty’s effervescence to Rita’s no-nonsense. It was Marty’s phobias that fueled Rita’s interest in phobic patients. Marty had shared the aspects of her childhood that led her to phobias, like being locked in a bathroom for punishment and having to use the same towel all month. Only she hadn’t told Marty the truth about a lot of her life.

“She was here every day,” Marty said.

“How did she even know?”

“I called her. I thought she should know, in case…”

“I died.” Rita had been knocked around the car hard enough to put her in a coma, but aside from a mild head injury and massive bruising, she’d had no other serious injuries.
Thank you, God,
she mentally added. “I could hear you talking to me.”

“Could you? The doctor said you might, but I wasn’t sure. You looked like you were far away. It was scary.”

“Thanks. For talking to me and for being here.”

“You couldn’t keep me away.” Marty returned the squeeze of her hand.

“Have you gotten over your hospital phobia then?”

“Yes, you cured me by extreme exposure therapy. It wasn’t easy. I’d close my eyes in the elevator and then race out as soon as the door opened. I couldn’t just keep sitting outside in my car thinking that was enough.”

They shared a smile. It felt good to latch onto something familiar.
 

Marty’s expression grew more solemn. “The officer who investigated your accident is down the hall. He was talking to your doctor about asking you some questions.”

“I don’t remember much.” The doctor had told her it was normal not to remember a lot about the time right before the accident.

A handsome man with silver hair and blue eyes knocked at her open door. “Rita Brooks?” he asked, walking in. “I’m Officer Michael Potter. I was on the scene of your accident. You up for some questions?”

Rita shifted in bed, sitting up straighter. “I have some of my own, actually. I’m afraid I don’t remember much about that night.” She introduced Marty and invited the officer to sit in the vacant chair while Marty settled on the bed.

“I was hoping you’d remember something, anything about the driver. The car that hit you was stolen. We’ve had a rash of teens taking cars for joyrides, though this is the first time there has been injury to others. We caught three kids pulling off a theft a week ago and we’re trying to tie them to some of the other thefts. Particularly the one involving your accident. The car that hit yours was wiped clean of prints.” He handed her three arrest photos. “Do you recognize any of these kids from that night?”

Rita tried hard to pull up something. Sometimes she’d get a sliver of memory. After a minute, she shook her head and handed the pictures back. “I wish I could help. These kids…how old are they?”

“Two are fifteen; one’s seventeen.”

Rita grimaced. They
were
kids.
 

“A witness saw the accident from a distance, but unfortunately he can’t ID the occupants. The other vehicle came up beside you as though he were going to pass but then slammed into the side of your car.”
 

“You don’t think the driver intentionally ran me off the road, do you?”

“Hard to determine. Drugs or alcohol or plain inexperience could be factors.” He put away the pictures. “How are you feeling?”

The car came up beside her…something niggled at that, but she couldn’t draw it close enough. “Good, thanks. It looks like I’ll survive.”

He nodded at both her and Marty. “If you remember anything, please call me at the station.” He handed her a card and left.

“The driver ran his car into me. Why?” Rita asked Marty.

“You can’t look at it as something personal. When you’re feeling better, we’ll discuss rage, helplessness, and the whims of fate.”

Rita nodded, but why did she feel this was no whim of fate?

CHAPTER 2

February 10.

Rita’s mind drifted through foggy images.

The man coming toward her. His hands on her shoulders, blue eyes urgently staring into hers. Frames of a life flashing through her mind.
 

A dark-haired boy wielding a sword. A long, silver blade flashing in the light. Blood. Rage.
 

A funeral on a bleak day. Sadness. Harsh words, “The prodigal son returns. Too bad no one wants you here.” Regret.

A black-clad figure rushing forward, green eyes glittering with anger. A gold mask concealing identity, a spray of black feathers. A falling sensation. Fear. Rita!
 

“Brian!”

“Rita?”

The nudge of her arm was definitely not in the dream, and her mind picked through the swampy darkness of half-sleep. Since her coma, waking was harder than she would admit to anyone. It was a slow process, dragging herself through the layers until she could put her surroundings together.
 

Marty smiled as Rita’s mind and vision came into full focus. Marty. “Oh, my gosh, I fell asleep at work,” she muttered, glancing at the clock. An hour had passed since she’d closed her eyes and pondered Anna’s persistent obsessive-compulsive disorder. They’d been able to vanquish her germ phobia that had her washing her hands more than eighty times a day. Her other compulsion was proving much harder to control. Rita glanced at her clock. It was after five.

“I told you it was too soon to go back to work.”

“I would have gone crazy if I’d stayed home another week. Besides, I have a light load.”

Or was she already crazy? That slideshow of images had plagued her sleep for the five weeks since she woke from her coma. The mystery of it had been a distraction from the aches and the sight of her battered body when she had looked in a mirror at least. Now her body had healed, and the images were becoming more persistent.

“It’s the weather.” Rita gestured to the window. Bleak skies expelled wet snow that made everything glisten under a coating of deadly ice.
 

Marty stretched out on the leather chaise lounge. “Who’s Brian?”
 

“I, uh…Why do you ask?”

“You said his name in your sleep.”

Damn, she’d said it aloud. Why had she said
his
name? Probably because she hovered between worrying and being mad at him. She hadn’t heard from him since her accident. She had emailed him twice from the Internet café at the hospital. He’d never called or emailed back. By the time she’d gone home, she’d been too put off to call him. Then she discovered her PC had crashed and swallowed everything. So she gave him the benefit of the doubt and sent another email last week. Still no answer.
 

She reached for the file on her desk. “I’m not sure why I said that name.” She hadn’t told anyone, even Marty, about her relationship with Brian. “Let’s talk about phobias. No repercussions on the exposure therapy of the hospital phobia?”

“I’ve had a few of my hospital dreams where I go in for an appendectomy and come out an old, Asian man. What I don’t have a problem with is avoiding answering questions. You do look a little like hell.”

Rita rested her chin on her hand. “I’m not sleeping well, that’s all.” The problem wasn’t lack of sleep; it was too much dreaming.
 

“You know how I know you’re not ready to be back at work yet?”

Rita gave her a patronizing smile. “How is that?”

“Because your pencils and pens are all mixed together. And your stack of folders isn’t precisely lined up. See, there’s an edge sticking out.”

Rita eyed the stack. “Are you trying to tell me I’m obsessively neat?”

“Of course not. You’re neurotically neat. I’ve been in your closet, remember? You are the only person I know who color-codes her clothes and shoes. My diagnosis is you need to get a life. But I’ve been saying that for years and you haven’t listened. You’re a therapist’s nightmare.”
 

Rita wrinkled her nose. She’d been close to getting a life. “I really appreciate you taking care of things for me while I was in the hospital.” She straightened her folders.

Marty tapped her chin. “And I know an evasive tactic when I see one.”

“Coffee? I could use a cup.”

“Textbook!”

They walked down to the break room.
 

Marty asked, “Heard from your mother?”

Rita poured her fourth cup of coffee, ignoring her jittery hands. “Once. We’ve left things on neutral ground for now.” She took a doughnut from the box on the counter, trying to forget that she’d already had one. “I don’t know who keeps bringing these in, but they’ve got to stop.” She sighed as a billion grams of sugar dissolved in her mouth. “I think there’s a fat person inside me screaming to get out.”