The Patient Read online

  My hands shook. My chest felt like someone with Hulk-size hands pushed against it, threatening to crush every rib. But it wasn’t until I saw it, another damn note propped up against a vase of wildflowers, that the overwhelming sound of blood rushed to my ears, that high-pitched squeal of decibels, that narrow-focus black hole of anxiety, announced a panic attack.

  I bit the inside of my cheek, welcoming the rush of pain even as I tasted blood, and I reached for the paper.

  Please God please God please God not another one.

  I was going to cry. I didn’t want to, but the tears were there, gathering until they pooled and my vision swam. I tried to shake off the fear that slowly wound its way through my veins, freezing everything in its path. I tried, but I failed.

  I opened the note.

  I can’t keep cleaning up your messes. Time is running out. Stop them before it’s too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  MONDAY, AUGUST 19

  PATIENT SESSION: TYLER

  Five long minutes had passed since Tyler first entered the room.

  Five excruciating minutes when I’d watched him walk the length and width of my small office.

  The first minute he’d muttered incessantly.

  The second minute he’d stared at his feet while he wiped his hands down his pant legs over and over.

  By the fifth minute, he was casting furtive glances my way before he hugged himself tightly.

  “Tyler, why don’t you sit down?” I suggested. Again. After the third minute, I’d stopped watching him walk around me and picked up a book, pretending to read.

  “You . . . you can see me, right?” he asked, pointing to himself. “I mean, I’m real to you, not a figment of your imagination, right?”

  Increased delusions, I scribbled.

  “Yes, I can see you. You’re not invisible.” I contemplated suggesting a walk to grab a cup of coffee down the street to prove my point.

  “I’m real.” He pounded his chest with a closed fist. “I’m real.” He held out his hands, turned them over, as if seeing his skin for the first time.

  “Tyler?” I leaned forward. “How are you feeling? Do you have a headache? Feel light-headed? Have you eaten?” I counted off a number of things that might have contributed to this.

  He waved his hands. “No, no, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  “Then”—I softened my tone—“why do you feel you’re a figment of my imagination?”

  “Because she says I am nothing.” His whole face scrunched together.

  “Did she say why? What brought this on? Did you have an argument?” Maybe, just maybe, he’d tell me more about this woman and offer stronger clarity about her hold over him.

  He shook his head, his shaggy hair flopping over his eyes before he lifted his shoulder in a shrug.

  “Not so much a fight but . . .” He swallowed hard and fidgeted, crisscrossing his legs, then planting both feet on the ground.

  Reading his body language didn’t take a professional.

  “I followed her again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she needs to be stopped.” The look on his face dumbfounded me. It was like he expected me to know this already.

  Have patience, have patience, don’t be in such a hurry . . . The children’s song my mother used to sing when I’d sit at the oven door waiting for the muffins to finish baking popped into my head.

  “Explain to me what happened.” I set my notepad down and picked up my glass of water.

  Today I’d infused the water with frozen strawberries and kiwi.

  Tyler had yet to take a sip.

  “I just want to help her, you know? Be her partner. Be a strength for her. But she doesn’t see me that way. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done for her—it will never be enough.”

  There wasn’t much about this woman I liked, not from the way he described her to me.

  “Moving here has been good for us. Things have been good. We came here to get a fresh start, a new beginning, to reimagine our life together. We were happy and partners in life. I’ve been trying really hard to find her a child to raise so we can start our family. But then . . .” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before he coughed.

  The coughing wouldn’t stop. He pitched forward, his body racked with tremors, his hands covering his throat and chest.

  I held out his glass of water, urging him to take a sip, but he couldn’t. His cough turned into a choking sound as he struggled for air.

  One moment he was choking; the next his body was straighter than a ruler. He inhaled, his chest ballooning with air.

  His gaze, frozen with fear, locked on mine, screaming words I didn’t understand, until the tension in his body receded and the air in his chest cavity released.

  He sucked in air, desperation on his face.

  “Tyler, it’s going to be okay.” My pitiful platitudes were pointless.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, the terror in his voice sending chills racing over my bare skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I think you were having a panic attack.”

  “I just . . .” He swallowed, the struggle on his face real. “You don’t understand. She likes you. She’s protecting you. But you’re not allowed to know. I’m not allowed to tell you.” He dropped his head into his hands, his body shaking as he rocked himself on my couch.

  I had so many questions. For starters, who the hell was she? Who was I being protected from? What was I not allowed to know? And how, how could she like me if I didn’t even know who she was? And then I had a thought—did I know who she was?

  Tyler had a wild look in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I won’t say any more.” His lips tightened, and his gaze felt off, like he was looking over my shoulder to someone there, and that’s when I felt a hint of warm breath on the back of my neck.

  I shivered but refused to look behind me. I’d let him lull me into a false reality, and my imagination was on full alert. A breeze must have come in through the open window, but the fear in Tyler’s voice was enough to fill my heart with ice.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, Tyler.”

  His head shook back and forth, his lips tighter than Fort Knox.

  “Why don’t you tell me how the past few days have been.” I tried a different approach, hoping to get him to start talking once again.

  He looked at the water, then at me, and I saw the question he wouldn’t ask.

  “It’s just strawberry and kiwi water. See?” I reached for my glass. “You saw me pour them both from the same jug of water, and I’m fine.” If I could help him with anything, it would be with this fear of poison.

  I didn’t even try to mask my smile when he picked up his cup and held it between his hands.

  “You mentioned earlier that you followed her. Where did she go?”

  “It was late at night, and she was just walking the streets.” He didn’t look up.

  “The downtown area or residential?”

  “Where all the nice houses are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tyler stood and headed to his favorite area in my office, in front of my window, and looked out toward the park.

  “Our . . . home . . . is small. We don’t own a lot of things, but we’re happy, you know? Or”—his shoulders dropped—“we were happy. But she’s out a lot now. She barely comes home at night, and I’m afraid of what she’s doing.”

  “Like?”

  Despair was etched on his face when he looked at me over his shoulder. He stared into my eyes before he focused his attention back out the window.

  “Do you fear she’s met someone?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Then what is it you’re afraid she’s doing?”

  I thought back to our last session, when he’d shown me a glimpse of his anger when we’d ventured onto this same subject. He’d said then that I didn’t understand, and he’d repeated it a
gain today.

  “Tyler,” I said, venturing a guess. “Tyler, what steps do you think you can take, starting today, to bring back that feeling of partnership with her?”

  “There is no partnership, Dr. Rycroft. Don’t you get it?” His eyebrows became one straight, angry line, and I clutched my pen tighter.

  “I get,” I said, my voice soft, “that you don’t feel there is one. But I’m wondering if there is a way to bring that back. Sometimes all it takes is an open dialogue. Maybe she could join you here for your session next week?” I’d asked this before, and he’d always said no. One day, the answer could change.

  I was prepared for the anger, prepared for the outburst, prepared to not show my reaction.

  But nothing could have prepared me for his response.

  “Not yet.” The conviction in his voice was unrecognizable. “She says you’re not ready to meet her. Not yet. But soon you will be.”

  A snake that had been coiled tightly in my belly attacked, and venom spread throughout my veins. Icy-cold streams of fear slid through my body until I was numb from head to toe.

  “What do you mean, Tyler?” How my voice remained steady when I was the complete opposite was beyond me.

  “You’re just not ready yet. But you will be.” He cocked his head. “I’m not allowed to say more.” He turned to me with begging eyes. “Please don’t ask.”

  “Can we discuss why you asked if you were real to me when you first arrived?” I wasn’t sure where to go with our session. There were so many paths we could take, but they all led to the same destination. To his relationship with her. Whoever she was.

  I wondered if he realized that.

  He studied me for a moment.

  “My life is wrapped up in her.” He sat, hands fisted together between his knees. “I never minded it before. She’s all I need. She was . . . is, is my life. My breath. My heart. Without her, I’m nothing, and to have her in my life . . . it gives me meaning. Without her . . . I don’t know who I am. Without her, I don’t exist. I can’t lose her. One day I’ll find the perfect child for her. She won’t need to keep searching, and she’ll realize she needs me too.”

  That last part he mumbled to himself, and I almost missed it.

  Almost.

  “How long have you been trying to adopt, Tyler?” A thought buried itself in my head that the children being orphaned might be tied into this, but I pushed it away as quickly as I could. He had to mean something else.

  Please, God, let him mean something else.

  “I just want her to be happy again, you know? The old me could do that. I always did that. Kept her happy. I knew how to. But now . . . now I . . .” He shook his head. “Now I’m no one.”

  No one? Invisible? His words bothered me. Alarm bells rang in my head that this loss of self, of his individuality, required a type of treatment that was beyond my purview.

  His needs had to come first.

  “Tyler, you’ve never told me her name.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Let’s talk about who you were before you two met.” Not knowing her name frustrated me, left me more determined than ever to figure out who she was. Especially now.

  “That’s just it. I wasn’t anyone before I met her.” His voice rang with a note of truth, similar to a church bell’s clang at the stroke of noon.

  I needed him to see that he was someone, that his identity wasn’t wrapped completely in this woman. I needed to find a way for him to not just see it but understand and grasp it.

  “What kind of music did you like? Where did you live? What about the friends you hung out with and your family? You were someone, Tyler.” My lips rose into a you-can-trust-me type of smile I hope he believed.

  It didn’t work.

  “None of that matters because I didn’t matter until she came into my life. It was like . . .” He raked his hands through his hair and puffed out a breath. “It was like I suddenly mattered when she decided I was needed. Wanted. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  “But you no longer feel that way?”

  His mouth opened, and his lips moved as if to say something, but no words, no sound, came out. Instead, he gave me this look, first of exasperation and then of realization.

  “She doesn’t need me anymore,” he whispered. “She . . . doesn’t . . . oh God, oh God, I’m too late, it’s . . . it’s too late.”

  Watching the reality of a situation hit someone was always difficult. Being a spectator to a life-changing thought could be heartbreaking. There were no words to say, no platitudes to give, no actions to take to make things easier.

  Tyler crumbled. His head bowed until his chin hit his chest, his shoulders heaved with tremors, and he rocked himself while mumbling something unintelligible.

  Up until now, he’d been afraid she didn’t need him, that she didn’t want him, that she was moving on from him. But now, now he realized that all his fears had come true.

  What happened within these next few minutes would determine his reaction. Would he dissolve altogether and become suicidal? Would he grieve and lose himself in that grief until eventually he found a way to crawl out and live? Would he allow anger to consume him?

  Most times I knew how my patients would react.

  Most times I could predict how they would respond.

  But with Tyler and his emotional and mental instability, I was blind.

  “If I”—he reached for a tissue—“if I can’t be her partner, then I have to stop her.”

  “What do you mean, stop her?” I was on the edge of my seat, literally, my pen leaving scratch marks on the paper I held on my lap. “Tyler?” I asked again.

  “I . . . I have to do this on my own. Just . . .” He stood with a look I couldn’t read. “Just be careful, okay?”

  “Tyler, what do you mean?”

  The signs of abuse were there. In the words he said, in the fear in his eyes, the way he responded to certain questions. I wasn’t sure if it was Stockholm syndrome or something else.

  He placed his hand on my shoulder.

  My body stiffened from his unwanted touch.

  His hand dropped, and his gaze was full of sadness.

  “I’ll do my best to protect you, Danielle. But I need you to promise me something.”

  The use of my first name shocked me and stole away any thought, any words I attempted to utter.

  “Don’t go searching too hard, all right? You’re safe right now, but you won’t stay that way if she thinks you’re overstepping. Just leave things be, and we’ll all be okay.”

  I tried to process his words, but before I could say anything, he walked out of my office, taking with him all my personal sense of safety.

  Either I moved too late, or he was too fast. He was gone by the time I made it to the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 20

  The clock on my phone said it was a few minutes before midnight.

  My kitchen was a disaster zone, my apron covered with splattered cream cheese, and I’d already drunk half a bottle of French wine.

  I couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts were rushing in my head—concern for Ella, the notes—so I figured I might as well stay true to my earlier promise about baking a cheesecake. Tami wouldn’t be able to find an excuse this time to not meet Sabrina.

  I knew this recipe as well as the back of my hand. At least I used to. But this was my third attempt at the cheesecake mixture, and it still didn’t look right.

  I’d added three eggs in one at a time. I’d creamed in the sugar. Didn’t use too much vanilla. Used sour cream. But the mixture was lumpy instead of creamy and tasted like shit.

  I sat at the table, sipped the wine, and thought about where I’d gone wrong. It didn’t escape my notice that the way this cheesecake was going was similar to my life.

  I should have known better than to bake at night when I had brain fog.

  I looked through all the ingredients strewn about the counter.

&nb
sp; I was down to my last cream cheese blocks. For some reason, I’d bought a bulk pack the last time I’d shopped. Then I looked inside the sugar container to see if I needed a refill and noticed something was off about the granules. It took one taste test to realize it wasn’t sugar, it was salt. For the love of . . . And the container I’d grabbed from the fridge wasn’t sour cream. It was cottage cheese.

  I poured the rest of the wine into my glass and downed it in one gulp.

  I spent the next hour cleaning my kitchen. I threw everything into the already overflowing garbage, wiped down the counters, and eyed the clock.

  The wine, along with my lack of sleep, had my eyes darting to and fro of their own accord. My head felt woozy and my steps sluggish.

  I thought maybe I could actually sleep.

  I hefted the garbage bag out of the bin and went to place it in the garbage can outside.

  “Dee? What are you doing up?”

  I screamed. The bag dropped from my hand as I stumbled, backing away from whomever was out there.

  “Dee? It’s just me.” Tami stepped toward me, her hands held outward.

  “For the love of all things holy, what the hell are you doing out here, scaring me like that?” The words rushed out of my mouth, my heart thumped so hard my chest ached, and every muscle in my body was ready to run as far as I could.

  “Sorry,” Tami said, her lips moving into a grin. “But you should see yourself right now. I swear you jumped two feet.”

  “Not even funny, Tami. Not in the slightest.” My lips pursed but not from anger. I was trying not to laugh along with her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I come by most nights when I’m on duty, Dee. Just to make sure everything is okay. That the doors are locked, you know . . .”

  I lunged forward and enveloped her in the biggest hug I could give her.

  “You have no idea how much that means to me.” It was as if I’d been drowning in quicksand and someone had just thrown me a rope. The fear that had plagued me lifted.

  “What’s going on?” She gripped my shoulders with her hands and peered close. “What haven’t you told me?”

  I thought of telling her about the notes, explaining exactly why it meant so much that she was making sure I was safe, but it was the look in her eyes—not quite fear but more alarm and concern—that stopped me.