Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
I started slow. As anyone should when trying to help someone like Emery. When we weren’t together, I assigned him some mental games and even brought him a few puzzles to get his brain working, to give him something else to think about other than the past.
“Every time you think about something negative, anything at all, try to observe it as an outsider looking in,” I explained. “Then replace the negative thought with something more positive, like when you think you're going to have a bad day and think ‘today is going to be awful,’ instead say, ‘today will be difficult, but I’m strong and I will get through it.’ Got it?”
“I’ll try,” he said.
“And when you have a nightmare, or bad thought, or see things, observe them and write how they make you feel in your journal,” I continued, earning myself a groan.
That week, I dedicated to fostering his dark thoughts, focusing on his mental state and using behavioral therapy exercises to give him the means to restructure his mind. I brought in my laptop and started to play music, finding what he liked and what calmed him—anything from ambient to noisy and hardcore. A little Ave Maria here and a little Mr. Bungle there. All depending on his mood.
We would meditate together just for a few minutes. And then, when that got boring, we’d watch funny videos; I’d let him pick as long as it wasn’t anything too obscene. He favored cat videos, laughing till he cried when they did something especially stupid or when they attacked their owner.
At the end of each session, he told me the thoughts that were bothering him, and together we would try to find ways to make them positive. He would tell me about some dreams and every so often he mentioned the smiling woman visiting him, crooked and bent in the corner of his room.
“Does she respond to you if you tell her to go away?” I asked.
“No, never. She just grins at me,” he said. “Although…sometimes she does whisper things to me in the dark.”
Hallucinations can fill the senses in many ways. “What does she say?”
“It’s inaudible. But when she gets loud, I hear mean things. Calling me names like a little cunt. A loser. Sometimes, she tells me to kill myself or to kill others. She’s a real bitch.”
“Maybe next time she visits you, tell her she isn’t real, that she doesn’t scare you. Insult her back, tell her she is nothing. Confront her each time even if it gives you anxiety.”
“Oh, trust me I’ve insulted her too,” he said. “She just grins at me.”
“Then smile back,” I said. “Put her down. Laugh in her face. Make her feel small. Imagine her wearing a funny dress or looking ridiculous and tripping over herself, falling off the wall. When you realize she can’t hurt you in any way, she’ll be less stressful to encounter. When she comes around again, distract yourself with something that takes a great deal of focus. One of your puzzles. Hum a tune.”
He tilted his head back as if tired. “I’ll try.”
He didn’t sound too confident, but I knew he would try anyway.
“She isn’t…she doesn’t come to our sessions, does she?”
He tipped his head forward to look at me. “No.”
I chewed my bottom lip, then asked, “Sometimes…it looks like someone is whispering to you when we talk. You tilt your head as if you are listening. Is that…is someone else there too?”
He tilted his head to one side, then straightened as if realizing what he was doing. “It’s…no one.”
He was keeping something from me. “Emery…”
His gaze drifted to his hands, unable to look at me.
I considered whether or not to press him on it. When I decided not to, he answered, “It’s my sister.”
“Your sister…She visits you too?”
His eyes flicked up to me. “She likes to watch our sessions sometimes and give me advice. I only see her at the corner of my eye. Sometimes she sounds far away and other times she’s right at my ear.”
“And she tells you what to say sometimes?” I ask.
“Sometimes. Or she’ll just make comments.” His eyes narrowed, and his gaze darkened. “She’s innocent though. She’s not like the grinning woman. I won’t insult or ignore her. I won’t leave her.”
His mood changed in an instant, and I knew pressing it more might lead to triggering him. “I don’t want you to,” I said.
He slowly bent forward, his shoulders trembling. “I can’t let her go again…I let her go without me and she got punished.”
I reached my hand across the table. “Emery…it’s another bad thought. Don’t let it take you.”
He bent until his head was almost between his knees and moaned. “She got away…she said she’d come back…she did but not with help…they caught her…the little rabbit…they caught her. Poor little rabbit.”
“Emery, hey, look at me.”
When he didn’t, I moved toward him. Getting close while he was trapped in a thought was risky, but I did it anyway, not wanting to lose him. Gently, I touched his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his seat. Startled, a gasp escaped me.
He looked at me in surprise. I showed him my hand, and he glanced at it, seeing I meant no harm.
He let out a deep, shaky breath. “I know…positive thoughts…kittens…sunrises…” He closed his eyes. “Fuck…”
“That’s it, let it go,” I hummed. “Dinosaurs, a tropical beach,” I continued, trying to help him.
“Eve…” he said.
My throat tightened, a knot forming in my stomach. “Eve,” I repeated softly.
He let out a few more breaths and started to relax. “Shit…I did it.” He looked like a proud little boy in that moment, and for a crazy second, I wanted to hug him. And that only tightened the knot in my stomach. His eyes drew me in as if asking, begging for me to, until I had to turn away.
“You did good, Emery.” I sat in my seat and fixed him with a smile. “I’m proud of you.”
It wasn’t a hug. But it seemed to work just as well. Words he probably never heard once in his life.
His eyes drew away from mine as if embarrassed I might see tears. It was such a small moment, but for him, it meant everything.
The sessions went by in a blur and the days with them. We made progress, although he still struggled with the smiling woman.
I asked him the kind of things he’d said to her. His responses were so unexpected I had to bite my tongue a few times to not react.
“I told her if her eyes were any further apart, she’d be a herbivore. She’s so ugly she couldn’t even arouse suspicion,” he deadpanned.
The next time he thought up more unique ways to belittle her, he said it had helped and she’d appeared smaller. I wasn’t shocked.
He might feel a little less stressed seeing her now, but I knew without medication, she would never go away. I had theorized in my paper that he had garnered his hallucinations through substance-induced psychosis. Though, usually, the psychosis was brief in that regard whether from taking the meds or from the withdrawal. But I had no idea what drugs they gave him and what they did to him. With the medication and the trauma from his youth, it was a perfect mixture to trigger the long occurring side effects.
In short, he needed medication in order to stop what other medication had done to him. But therein lay his greatest fear.
I didn’t introduce them right away. But once the week passed and he was showing he was willing to use my therapy and my advice, was willing to confront his monsters, and better his behavior, I decided to attempt presenting them.
Not offer them. Present. The next session, I asked Dr. Hannah for the medication they were trying to force on him. I took a few pills out of the box then, when we sat together once again, and I carefully placed them before him on the table.
Emery stared at them. I couldn’t gauge his reaction from his expression, but he tensed, shoulders squared. It almost felt like the room had grown colder from his icy presence.
“You don’t have to take them,” I said. “And that’s okay. They’ll just remain right there. You don’t have to touch them or anything.”
His sharp eyes turned to me. At first, I worried I’d see a look of betrayal. But there was none, just that fear.
“Can I tell you what they do or would you prefer I not?” I asked.
He shifted uncomfortably. “I know what they do,” he said.
“And what’s that?”
“They…they make me hurt.”
I frowned, sliding my fingers along the table surface. “No, Emery, these help.”
He shook his head as if that were impossible.
“Do you trust me?”
His chest heaved. “Yes.”
“Then I swear to you I would never give you something that would hurt you.” I looked him straight in the eyes as I said it so he knew I meant it. “I only want to help you. I know you went through something awful and traumatic in your childhood. But this is different.”
He looked at me uncertainly.
“Do you want to stop seeing the smiling woman?” I continued. “Or having bad thoughts?”
He didn’t say a word but I knew the answer.
“I won’t make you take them. That has to be up to you,” I stated. “They will just remain here if you decide to, okay?”
We went on with the session as usual after and the medication remained between us. I could tell it made him uncomfortable, his eyes drifting over to them every so often as if they might slide across the table and attack him.
A few more days came and went and he didn’t ask me to give them to him. I knew it would take time. But time was wearing thin. Dr. Hannah, when she came, reminded me how necessary it was that he started his recovery and each time I told her I was aware but I wasn’t going to force him.
I put out water for him next to the meds but he still wouldn’t touch them. When the end of another week came with no progress, I feared I might have to find another way.
“These things take time,” I said as Dr. Hannah stared daggers into me when I reported back to her and Dr. Langley.
“Yes, they do,” she said. “But Emery has had all the time. Clearly, these soft methods are not working, which isn’t surprising.”
Anger stirred in my chest. “I’ve been doing all I can,” I snapped as thunder rolled softly from outside. Rain pattered on the window next to Dr. Langley's desk, cutting out the silence.
“Not enough,” Dr. Hannah replied. “But how could you? Expecting a student to do more than a professional is a fantastical idea regardless. But you did try, I'll give you that.”
I clenched my jaw. “Emery trusts me. But he still needs our patience and understanding.”
“What he needs is tough love. Something I think you are too afraid to provide.”
My hands clenched into fists. “I can give him love!”
They both looked at me curiously.
“Tough love,” I clipped out. “But I don’t think it will help. It will only hurt.”
Dr. Hannah sighed, looking over to Dr. Langley. “I think now would be good to make him aware that if he continues to refuse treatment, he will be forced to leave this place.”
“No.” I stood, and they both turned to me, Dr. Hannah’s face twisting like a bulldog’s.
“No?” she said.
“I mean, let me,” I said carefully. “I’ll tell him.”
She looked unimpressed. “Fine. But I hope he believes you or I will make sure he does.”
I returned to the hotel that night with my laptop open but unable to write. Instead, I stared at the lake as the storm passed.
I had to figure out something, some other way to get him to take the pills.
I could offer food to him with the meds hidden, but they had tried that before and he had figured it out. And once he did, I would lose his trust forever.
Other methods were just unsavory. Like making deals that I would not be able to keep. If he found out the lie, he would stop right away. Trying to trick him just felt pointless.
Maybe when I was forced to tell him he would be transferred to prison, that would give him the incentive to try.
I could only hope.
Trying to take my mind off it, I decided I would focus back on getting into that safe. I had put it aside in order to focus on Emery, but now, with the threat of his transfer, I wanted the info that might be hidden, that could tell me more of what I needed to know.
Eventually, I turned away from the window and went to a restless sleep. The dreams were morphing into some new animal that left my sheets tangled around me and my bed damp with sweat. Leaving a slick wetness between my thighs. I didn’t remember much of the dreams, chaotic as they were, but I felt fear mingled with a dark arousal I couldn’t explain. I expected night terrors, just not for them to grow into wet dreams. As if I couldn’t be more disturbed.
Once I woke, I took a shower and dressed in a gray sweater and jeans. I put on a beanie, coat, and boots and flew out the door just as the sun was peeking over the horizon.
I rifled through the drawers, shelves, and bedroom closet of my apartment until I found what I was looking for. The key to the storage unit unlike the warehouse was filled with family heirlooms and other personal items only. Nothing from the company. So I shouldn’t have any fucked-up surprises there.
By the time I got to the unit, the sun was high, no dark allies to worry about, just an old, bored manager who pointed me to the row of units.
I felt confident going in knowing Dad’s stuff from his office was inside. Only when I opened the sliding door did that confidence lower considerably.
There was only a small path to the back. Most of it was antique furniture, paintings, and boxes full of stuff. Everything else that wasn’t worth something or had little personal importance had either been thrown out or been left at the house to collect dust.
I took the first hour rifling through the boxes. Thankfully, some were labeled. My brother’s stuff, my uncle’s, then I found my father’s tucked away to one wall. Office supplies, baseball memorabilia, his god-awful cologne and a box of watches. Why some of this garbage hadn’t been thrown, I’ll never know.
There were only a few things that caught my eye. A newspaper article about the Martel murders that someone had thrown in one of the boxes, one of my mother’s necklaces that I thought had been lost, and a picture frame of my family together at a Christmas dinner party. The same year, Dad had taken me and my brother to the warehouse.
I stared at it for a long moment, at our smiling faces, my brother wearing a Santa hat while I wore antlers. Dad hugged us both while holding a glass of gin. Uncle Pete and my cousin sat on the other side of the table.
I turned the picture over and found a date. December 8, 2015. Then a memory slammed into me.
Me, my brother, and Dad in the warehouse. Terri was packing something to take out as Dad requested while I stood nearby. Then Dad went to the office.
“This is why I hate remembering passwords,” he’d cursed. “Pete will kill me if I have to get a locksmith.”
“Just call the manufacturer,” my brother had remarked.
I blinked as the memory faded. Screw looking everywhere for the password. That safe was mine. If I can’t get into it, I’ll just contact someone who can.
Feeling better about not having to look through piles of stuff, I took the newspaper clipping, my mom’s necklace, and the picture frame, then closed the rest up and left the unit.
As I returned to my car, my phone went off. My heart flipped a little at seeing Uncle Wes’s name. I hadn’t called him since I’d been to the warehouse, a part of me afraid he had something to do with it. I wasn’t ready to confront him about it yet, but now I was paranoid he had figured out what I’d been up to.
“Hey, Uncle,” I said as I took the call, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Eve, you got a minute?”
I started my car but sat idle. “What’s up?”
“Did you go to the Martel warehouse at all?”
I grew tense, clutching my phone. “Yeah, I was just looking at a few of Dad’s old reports.”
“I see. I didn’t think you would go out there. You should have asked me to come, it can be dangerous going alone.”
I wanted to ask him why he thought that. Instead, I said, “Sorry, I was careful and there was a security guard.”
There was a long pause, then, “Well, it seems the spare key has gone missing. Did you take it?”
“I did.”
“Alright. Well, next time, you need to have me or a head manager with you. It’s still company property.”
“I’m aware but I still own part—”
“That’s not the issue,” he cut off. “You need to have one of us there for security reasons. It’s company policy.”
I wanted to ask why the hell that was too. “Alright, Uncle, whatever you say.”
I could hear his slow hiss of breath. “Will you be coming to the company charity party this year?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s near your birthday, but we’ll still be able to celebrate that too. It’s a masquerade this year.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Well, I’ll add you to the list just in case,” he said.
“Great. Well, listen, I got to go.”
“Alright, oh, and Eve?” he said before I hung up.
“Yes?”
“Be sure to bring the spare key next time you're around.”
I told him I would just so I could get off the phone. But no way I was giving it up until I got what I wanted. And no way I was asking him or anyone to be there when I did.
When I got back to my apartment, I called the manufacturer right away, remembering the name on the safe door.
“We’ll need the serial number on the safe before we can give you the proper master code,” the guy on the line said.
“Master code? You won’t need to take off the lock?” I asked, surprised.
“Nope. Just use the master code that comes with the safe number.”
Now, I was nervous if there would be anything in there at all.
I readied myself to leave and get to the warehouse by late afternoon. As I was walking out the door, Jamie called me.
“Lena is in the hospital,” he said.
I placed my hand on the door. “Why?” I said in a breath. “Was it…”
“No, not an overdose again. Thank fuck,” he said. “But she got in a bad accident. You should get here.” He gave me the address to the hospital.
Twenty minutes later, I was racing down the hall to her room. Some of her family was there and a few friends including Jamie. Across the hall I saw a sitting room where many of them sat. Liam was present too, but I hardly glanced at him.
I saw Lena lying there. She was on the bed, talking, but her legs were in braces and her feet wrapped.
“Eve…holy shit,” she said in a slow drawl, drugs clearly affecting her. Her arm went up slowly as if to reach for me. Jamie was on her other side along with Ben, talking quietly.
I went to her side and took her hand. “What the hell happened?”
“She was hit by a car,” Jamie answered when it took Lena too long to do so. “She was out drinking at the Tangerine Bar and was walking across the street. Some shithead in a corvette.”
My throat tightened. “Hit and run?”
“Nah, they caught them. Drunk driving,” Ben replied.
I squeezed Lena’s hand. “I’m so sorry.” I whispered.
She smiled and squeezed my hand back. “That’s what…I get for…going out to… that shit bar.”
“She needs surgery on her knee. They are trying to get her in as soon as possible,” Jamie said.
I sighed. “I’m just glad you're okay.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, blinking at me sleepily.
“I’ll stay as long as you need me.”