Occult Suspense for Mothers Boxset: The Nostalgia Effect by EJ Valson and Mother's by Michelle Read (2 ebooks for one price) (24 page)

She was right. Joe was a man of little words when it came to raw emotion. Trying to discuss anything deep with him was extremely aggravating for me. Words came so easily to me, and emotions did too. Joe internalized everything and would sit in silence for minutes until he could form one sentence to express his emotions. I couldn’t handle it. I felt alone in our marriage. He also had a tendency to leave and go hiking instead of facing our issues.

The last time he left I told him not to come back because Olivia deserved better than a dad who always walked away when people were hurt or angry. Shortly after that I ended up moving out and went to live with my mom until I found a job and my own place to live.

Apparently in this past life I had somehow made amends with Joe afterwards and I guess I now know why. It was easier to go back to life with him then live alone with Olivia -- and apparently panic attacks. Though in my memory I don’t remember life ever being so difficult that I wanted to go back to him.

“You’re right, Mom,” I say to her, managing a smile. “I need a safe place that I can talk to someone who won’t judge me.”

She comes around her kitchen island to hug me again and I take it all in -- her embrace, her smell, her maternal love and protection. We are interrupted by the sound of keys in the door and then I hear her future husband’s voice from the entrance.

“Hey, Jen!” he says as he enters the room. I’m so grateful to see Richard. I am happy to see that they still found each other in this version of my life. At least
someone’s
life is still intact.

CHAPTER 9

Today is no different from yesterday. I wake up in the same place as I did the day before, go through the same routine to prepare myself for a job at a place I love, even though I am in a position I don’t like.

Joe makes his coffee and leaves early. Olivia eats her new healthy breakfast and we leave the house with ease. She is a happy girl when I drop her off at preschool. When I arrive at work, I manage to give a quick hello to Stacy as I walk by my future office and make my way to my current one.

“Another day in Paradise,” I sarcastically whisper to myself as I slump into my chair. This sucks. Our wing of the building is quiet and gray. I periodically hear laughter and group conversation going on from within the Marketing area and
I’m jealous. Now I know how other people “on the outside” at my work feel. I see how one could become resentful towards Marketing for having a good time -- while the rest of the building keeps their heads and voices down as they complete their tasks. If I ever get back to the future, I will have to work on extending our friendly circle to other departments.

The day is passing quickly. I forego heading to my mom’s at lunch again because I need the quiet time. I also have my counseling appointment this afternoon. It will be interesting to get a recap on what “past Jen’s” problems are, as “future Jen” is not aware of them.

At 3:15 I remind Ruth that I have to leave for an appointment for the rest of the day and she nods agreeably. I can tell that she thinks I’m a slacker. But she is a snide middle-aged woman who I know will later prove to be a sorry excuse for a manager and get fired. I will tolerate her for now.

I enjoy the drive through the quiet downtown streets. The town is peaceful in its still-summer beauty. All of the college students are gone, and that allows for the “real” residents to enjoy their charming city. The town is much smaller than it will be in the coming years. Stark buildings are placed around a quaint city center, just waiting to be filled with new restaurants, pubs and lively hometown microbreweries.

The riverfront area is sparse, but development has already started. In a few short years it will be home to a lovely sprawling and beautifully landscaped river walk that ends at a set of large fountains children play in on days like these. I love this town. It still feels like home, even if it is not yet what it will be in the future.

I make my way up to the office suite nested atop the main coffee and boutique building downtown. Coincidentally, this is the same building Michael and I went to when we tried marriage counseling as our relationship began to show signs of wear. I follow the directions to the suite door. I freeze. It is the same office as Michael and my counselor’s. I shake off the “twilight zone” feeling that runs through me like a chill before I knock.

A sweet looking, middle-aged brunette woman dressed in a long colorful summer dress opens the door.
I extend my hand to shake hers.

“Hi, Doctor Fetter...” I say, trying to get her name right.

“A little formal for our weekly meetings,” she says, chuckling and grasping my hand softly with both of her hands. I find it oddly comforting. But I also deflate at the fact that she said “weekly.” Why am I coming so often?

She invitingly gestures to what I assume is my spot on a dark rose-colored velvet couch. As I sit down, I immediately feel cozy. I could sleep on this couch, it is so plush and worn in. I wonder if she does that sometimes. She makes her way back to a suede butterfly-style chair and clears her throat, then puts on a pair of spectacles hanging from a chain around her neck. She grabs a notepad and reviews whatever is on the paper. I assume it is my patient file. We are both quiet and I wait quietly for her to begin talking.

She looks up and gives me a warm smile. I don’t know how anyone could avoid spilling their guts to this woman. She has
“welcome, tell me anything”
written all over her face.

“So, Jenni, how has your week been?” she asks.

I look down at my hands and think for a minute, hesitating. Where do I start?

“Well,” I begin, “I have felt a little....out of sorts this week,” I reply. She nods her head and keeps her eyes locked on me, waiting for more. I realize I need to elaborate.

“I just...I woke up this weekend and I wondered why I am living the life I am. Why am I still married to Joe? Why didn’t I stay away when I left before?” I say in a rush.

“Umm hmm,” she murmurs thoughtfully. “So you are at an impasse again,” she concludes.

I nod. I guess that is where I am.

“Well, Jenni, last week, it seemed like things were moving along positively,” she continues. “You mentioned that you and Joe had a breakthrough and were communicating better. Has that changed?” she asks.

Apparently so, Doc!
I think. If we have had a breakthrough I sure wouldn’t be able to tell, because our nightly routine the past two days seems similar to what we
always
had. I was not happy with that ten years ago so I can’t imagine this version of me is happy with it now!
 

I collect myself before responding to her, so as not to
give her a view of my surprise. “I believe it has,” I answer calmly. “I think it was temporary. I’m not sure if we just had one good night, or whatever, but things seem the same as usual,” I conclude.

She seems to accept this and nods in agreement. “Well, what would you like to see changed?” she inquires.

Seriously, Lady, this is your question?
I say in my mind, trying to keep my thoughts off my face.
If I have been coming here for this long, why don’t you know already?
But of course, that is not my reply.

“I don’t know,” I simply say, and it is it the truth.

She smiles swe
etly. “Well, to be honest with you,” she begins. I sit up alertly, sensing her smile is not genuine. Please, someone be honest! She continues, “I think you are at a plateau, not just with your marriage, but with therapy.” Now I’m intrigued. “You have been coming here off and on for years and more steadily in the last six months and I’m not seeing the personal improvement I would have hoped for you,” she calmly states.

This is my chance!
“Dr. Fetter,” I begin, “Can you please tell me a timeline of when you saw these changes, any certain milestones or events in which you noticed areas of change?”

I’m eagerly waiting for something that will give me a clue as to why I am here. I need to know. She thinks to herself for a moment. I have seen very few counselors in my life, but I know that their practice typically isn’t to do the talking. It is to get you to talk and come to your own conclusions about why your life or situation is the way it is. If they thought they had all the answers, they would be advice columnists -- not therapists. I’m hoping she will break the stereotypical mold.

“OK, I can try and do that,” she smiles
again. I feel a tiny sense of hope budding inside me. “Well, we started therapy after you had your first panic attack a couple of years ago. You were scared because the feeling was so awful you thought you were going to die. This appeared to be set off by you leaving your husband, trying to be a single parent and live a life completely different from what you had with him. You were overwhelmed.”

My ears perk up. I want her to continue. She can tell by my body language though, and she proceeds with caution. “We started you on the antidepressants, and you were doing better, but then those seemed to cause you to be a little, well....less inhibited,” she says shrugging it off.

I am curious as to what she means, but I ignore the impulse to quiz her on that and instead nod in agreement.
Keep going,
I think.

“Once we got those sorted out to a lower dose, you seemed to have had a good balance and the attacks stop
ped,” she continues. “And your progress was improving. But I think when you decided to get back together with Joe, the anxiety level increased slightly. Still, you wanted this for your child. As your therapist I have to help you learn the tools to maneuver your situation, whatever that may be. And so here we are. We have been doing this for a couple years and there haven’t been many breakthroughs until recently, but from what I gather now it seems that may not be the case,” she finishes with a tone of regret and sits back in her chair.

OK, that was not as informative as I had hoped, but at least it gives me a better timeline. However, I still have no idea why
I’m here in this “time warp,” what set it off, and if I’m losing my mind. The more days that pass, the more I start to believe it is the latter.

I prepare to ask her a question that could potentially make her think
I’m further back in whatever progress 2005 Jenni has made. I begin with caution.

“Is there such a thing as temporary amnesia?” I ask her.

She furrows her brow in confusion, an
d looks stumped by my question. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she says. “Can you elaborate?”

I could, but I shouldn’t. I have quickly lost confidence in this woman. She is not who I need to sort out this issue. She has told me nothing that I pretty much didn’t already know, thanks to my mom, with the exception of the antidepressants that I didn’t know I was on and haven’t been taking since I arrived here. Is that my problem?

I look at the clock. I have about forty five more minutes. I might as well make
this last visit worth my while.

“Can we address my medications?” I ask her changing the subject.

She quickly lo
oks through my chart notes, reading, then looks up at me. “Well, you are only on a low dose of Pantil. How is that going?”

“Son of a bitch,” I say out loud unintentionally, slapping my hand to my forehead. This display causes the doctor to freeze, staring at me in alarm at my outburst. I cannot believe that past me is still taking one of the worst drugs I have ever taken.

I remember the time I stopped taking antidepressants in my other life. I was living alone with Olivia and had decided I didn’t need to be on antidepressants anymore. This I DO remember -- the panic attacks, no.

When I was finally clear of the medication, I remember standing in my apartment feeling like I had just woken up from sleeping to find myself in a new life of just Olivia and me. All the emotion of ending my marriage hit me at once. I remember a close friend telling me that she was glad to finally see me grieving, because I had been so unemotional about leaving Joe.

Could that have been the moment when I spun out of control? Could I have snapped and in some weird way created another imaginary life with Michael as a coping mechanism? Have I really been living this life all along? Maybe I have literally been dreaming through these years of my life because of this damn medication. Maybe I forgot to take it and then woke up to this life -- my real life. Maybe I had some weird
hallucination-like withdrawal.

I ask, “Do you know if that drug can cause temporary amnesia?”

She laughs off my question a little, then
composes herself to be polite. “Oh, no, I have never heard of someone having any kind of memory loss due to it,” she assures me.

“I haven’t taken it for three days,” I say flatly.

She is quiet for a moment. “Well, as wonderful as it is to not require medication, I would really caution you to not stop abruptly,” she says in a clinical tone. “Are you having any side effects -- like dizziness, or depression?” she inquires.

If I tell her that my side effect appears to be waking up in a past life that I don’t recall, I don’t think she’ll take it lightly. Instead I opt to shake my head
“no.”

“Well, that is encouraging” she says. “However, you might want to take a low dose for a few days and taper off for safety. But I really think we need consider putting you on something else.”

“OK,” I say compliantly, but in my mind I wonder why the hell I would do that. If I did, maybe I would return to my alter reality -- but it would simply be that. Altered and not real. For Olivia’s sake, that is a risk I’m not willing to take.

The session finally ends by me agreeing to keep up my journal writing and read some pamphlets about other possible medications. This seems to please Dr. Fetter, though I am only complying in order to get out of this office. I mentally decide to stop therapy soon after this appointment. It is pointless for me, or this version of me, to continue doing something that is not benefiting me -- as I do not know what my issues are, or were, that require her help in resolving. Whatever treatment she has been providing hasn’t prevented my current circumstance. For all I know, she might have been a catalyst.

I leave feeling even more discouraged at not having a quick answer as to why I’m here, in this reality. My only conclusion is that my memory has been affected by a medication that later will be responsible for numerous medical lawsuits. However, I’m not sure why or even when I stopped taking it
or
if it is the true cause of my problem, but I suppose it is possible.

I’m
sad again, as I get into my car. I pull down the visor in preparation of blocking the sunlight that will cause a glare on the drive home. The mirror cover flaps down, and my eyes meet my reflection. They are all I can see of my face.

It’s still you,
I think, as I gaze at my reflection.
You are still you, you are just younger.
 Maybe this is a chance to start over, maybe this IS the “what if?”

Normally when you have a “what if,” it is in reference to “the one” that got away, or the dream you didn’t pursue. For me, this “what if” is one of my biggest fears. I have had vivid dreams in my future life that I was still married to Joe, and I panicked at those dreams because I knew we didn’t belong together. I was relieved every time I woke up and found Michael next to me. This realization triggers another thought.
 What if my dreams of still being married to Joe were always the reality and waking up next to Michael was the dream?