Authors: Laurie Plissner
Louder Than Words (25 page)
The next day I was released from the hospital, still feeling a little foggy, but grateful to be away from the fluorescent lights and that horrible smell, and to sleep in my own bed. It was hard to believe Dr. O’Rourke was actually dead. As crazy as it sounded, I kind of missed her, at least the Dr. O’Rourke that I knew before Jules and I started doing the detective thing.
“How can you miss her? She killed your family. She stonewalled your recovery for the past four years. And—just a minor detail—she tried to poison you.” Ben flicked the side of my head as we cuddled on a chaise longue on the patio behind my house.
“I know, I’m an idiot. I guess I miss the idea of her. She made me feel safe after the accident, even if everything she said to me was bullshit.”
When Ben and I were alone, my voice rang loud and clear. At least I hadn’t lost that.
“Maybe the drugs aren’t totally out of your system yet, or maybe you’re just a head case. Talk about Stockholm Syndrome.”
“Maybe she couldn’t help it. She was clearly out of her mind.” Why was I so intent on defending her? If Ben had come to pick me up an hour later that evening, I probably would have been dead. “I just wish I knew what really happened.”
“I’m afraid you’ll never know,” Ben said.
“If I’d handled it better, maybe I would have gotten to the truth, and maybe Dr. O. wouldn’t have splattered her brains all over her antique Chippendale desk.”
Ben groaned. “Have you found another therapist yet? Besides coping with your old problem, I think you need someone to help you get over your old therapist. Sympathizing with your would-be killer isn’t particularly normal.”
My life was so far from being normal, I would probably need more than one psychiatrist to get me on track.
“Charlotte’s working on it. She and Stuart are compiling dossiers on a few shrinks. They’re being extra careful this time. They feel guilty, like they should have figured out who Dr. O. really was, like they could have protected me better,” I said.
“They love you and don’t want you to get hurt … just like me. And I’m the one with the sixth sense. I should have seen who she was immediately. But I totally missed it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Like you said, she had to be some kind of sociopath.” I sighed. “You can’t protect me from everything.”
“But I can try. Maybe we should think about that. Do you have any idea where you might want to go to college? Some schools let guys and girls room together, you know.”
“I read about that. But are we compatible? Are you an early riser? Are you messy or neat? Do you sleep with the window open or closed?”
He wanted to go to school with me, live with me? We could sleep in each other’s arms every night? Charlotte would never go for it, but it was fun to dream.
“I’m easy. You choose. We might be able to convince Charlotte, if we spun it that I was more watchdog than sex fiend,” he said.
“She’s pretty clueless when it comes to stuff like that, but I think even she would see through that smokescreen.” I imagined Ben with a studded leather collar around his neck, tied up in the corner of my bedroom.
“You’re into that? I never thought of you as the dominatrix type. Now I know what to get you for your birthday.” He cracked an imaginary whip.
“Ew. I was just imagining you as a dog. I haven’t even gotten to the S&M chapter in Dr. Reuben’s book yet. But I’ll let you know.”
“I look forward to it.” Ben turned toward the house. “Your aunt and uncle are home. They’re worried about you.”
“They worry too much.” I sat up, checking my buttons and zippers.
“That’s what happens when people love you. And you look perfectly respectable. Not a hair out of place,” he said as he tucked a lock behind my ear.
“I don’t want them to think all we do is mess around. It’s embarrassing,” I said as I patted his untamable curls.
“Get used to it. I plan on embarrassing you for a very long time.” Ben pinned me on the chaise and kissed me like no one was there, even as Charlotte and Stuart stood watching through the window.
Early Sunday morning, just as the sun was pushing up over the horizon, I slipped out of the house. Dr. O. was gone, but I wasn’t quite ready for it to be over. The roads were deserted, so I reached my destination in minutes, and as I pulled off the asphalt, I could already see it—a fresh bunch of white tulips propped against the tree trunk, the blue paper peeking out of the top. My psychiatrist even in death, she knew I needed the closure only she could provide.
Dear Sasha
,
You have spent the last four years trying to remember. I have spent the last thirty trying to forget
.
When I moved to Shoreland, I ran into your father—at church of all places—and all the memories I had managed to suppress for decades were reawakened. We reminisced about our days together at St. Matthew’s Prep. I met your mother. It was all very civilized
.
But there is so much more to the story. Your father and I were more than just friends. We loved each other. We made a baby together. (Are you shocked? Perhaps you don’t really want to know, but as your therapist, I think you need to.) I was afraid he would leave me if he found out, so I never told anyone. I just took care of it. But he left me anyway. The summer after we graduated he met your mother, and he never spoke to me again. For thirty years, I buried that pain deep inside me, where it couldn’t hurt anyone. But seeing him again made me feel like it had just happened. I killed my baby, our baby, because I loved him, and he didn’t love me back
.
Revenge is so cliché, but that’s all it was. He took a life, and I took his. That’s how karma works. The rest of you were just victims of a tragedy that took place long before you were born. When you survived the crash, I knew that God was telling me to take care of you, to make you whole again, to make up for my lost baby. You were my second chance. But when you came to my office and asked me about that night, I realized there are no second chances. You and I could no longer go on. So this is how it ends. After all these years, my secret no longer belongs to me. I hope that by writing these words, I may help you speak yours
.
Sincerely
,
Dr. O
.
So now I knew the truth. Ben had been right that day at the beach. It didn’t change anything. Mom and Dad and Liz were still skeletons in a graveyard. But something was different. My mind was clear, as if I’d finally gotten around to organizing the closet inside my head. When I thought about my family, I could remember the days at the beach, the vacations at Silver Lake in New Hampshire, my mother’s famous Friday night dinner parties. And, like Jules said, I was still standing. They were gone, but knowing that I could visit them in my memories of the life we had shared was enough. It had to be. After more than four years, I had found the path out of the forest, and whether or not I ever spoke out loud to anyone but Ben for the rest of my life, I was going to be okay, as long as I didn’t run out of batteries.
Leaving the bouquet of flowers at the base of the tree, I took the tear-stained paper and carefully folded it into a tiny blue rectangle. It seemed important to preserve this record of my tragedy, this final confession from the woman who had been a pivotal figure in my life for so long. Standing in front of the tree, running my finger along the gnarled ridge where the car had slammed into it, I rested my forehead against the rough trunk and closed my eyes. I saw the headlights, heard the din of annihilation, felt my world come to a screeching halt as the tree absorbed our momentum, and finally, I smelled the fragrance of spring mixed in with the stink of death. As I stepped away from the tree, I felt as if I’d somehow transferred the weight of those painful memories to the century-old oak, which, though scarred, continued to flourish. If I put my mind to it, that could be me.
It was time to go home. The sun was up and a few cars sped along, some slowing down as they passed by. I waved goodbye to my tree—it had given up all its secrets, and taken on a few of mine.
When I opened the front door, Charlotte and Stuart were already deep into their Sunday morning routine: coffee, bagels, and the
New York Times
crossword puzzle.
“We thought you were still asleep. Where have you been? Are you all right?” Charlotte asked, her worry wrinkles furrowing her brow.
I had left my Hawkie Talkie in my room, so I nodded and smiled. And then, I said, “I’m fine. Everything’s great.” I laughed out loud and walked into their arms.
Copyright © 2012 by Laurie Plissner
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