Chapter 48
“She was really, really helpful,” I tell Topher a few days later, as we prepare dinner on his day off.
We are making venison stew, using meat that Topher and Julian had hunted.
I slice carrots, onion, and mushrooms, while Topher handles the meat.
I’m not a vegetarian, but I feel slightly sickened, watching him slice the flesh, so deep red it’s almost purple.
It doesn’t help that I despise the source.
“Really. Already?” Topher looks me squarely in the eye and sets down the chef’s knife. Using his clean hand, he picks up a can of beer and takes a long pull.
He was adamant I see a psychiatrist. I agreed reluctantly, not because I think it will do any good but because I’m worried about what will happen if I don’t.
Would Topher want to move? It would mean forfeiting the house, but he might consider it.
Or would he insist I get a job so that I focus on something else? I don’t want either of those.
“Yeah. I mean, we are only just getting started but I can tell she’s going to be really helpful. She led me through a mindfulness session and then we started to dig in on what purpose I think the nightmares are playing, how my subconscious is using the nightmares to protect me.”
It’s a lie. The session was a total waste of time.
Dr. Prescott is a stone-faced woman with chapped lips and a strange habit of not looking me in the eye.
She spent the majority of the time checking my previous medications and the rest assessing if I am a risk to myself or others.
Upon determining I am not, she seemed happy to shoo me out the door, telling me to schedule a follow-up in a month.
“Does she think you should be on medication?”
“No. Just talk therapy for now.” Another lie.
He stares at me, almost as if he’s waiting for me to blink. “Okay. Well, I’m glad you are doing this. For the record, I do not think you are crazy.”
I take a drink of water. “Yes. Me too. Thank you for scheduling the appointment.”
“Okay, let’s rest on the couch while the stew cooks,” says Topher. “No offense, but you look dead.”
I try not to flinch at the poor choice of words, and don’t even bother checking a mirror to see if I can refute him.
My skin is sallow, and I look haggard. That’s what weeks upon weeks of poor sleep does to a person.
My mind flits, momentarily, to Madeline, with her luminous skin, her fiery hair, her raw femininity.
We lie on the couch as the stew bubbles.
“I found a good local security camera system,” Topher says. “It’s probably easiest if you manage it, given my schedule. I’ll text you the info.”
“Thanks,” I say, though it doesn’t really make me feel better. Ghosts don’t show up on security cameras.