Unhinge, Page 3

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Each beat is louder than the last, until I am positive that everyone in the room can hear the pounding of my heart. I clutch Evelyn closer as the man stops directly at my table. I tilt my head back to make eye contact and I swear I feel a jolt straight to my heart.

  “Can I sit down, Victoria?”

  How does he know my name? I’m frantic, desperate to know what’s going on. Is someone playing a trick on me? I glance around the room, waiting for one of the doctors to jump out from around the corner and tell me this is just a test.

  When I don’t reply, he lifts a brow and sits down across from me. He settles his hands on the table, lacing his fingers together. They’re large, rough with calluses and blunt fingernails. My stomach flips because I remember those hands on me, last night. Not Wes’s. His.

  We sit in silence, but what exactly am I supposed to say? There’s no easy way to start up a conversation with a virtual stranger.

  He stares at Evelyn with those hard eyes. His gaze flicks between my daughter and me. I shift Evelyn so her head is resting against my chest and gently pat her back. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” My voice is firm, but kind.

  He tilts his head to the side and looks at me beneath his lashes. The black slant of his brows brightens his eyes. “I’m Sinclair.”

  I stare at him, expressionless. I know he expects me to recognize him. I don’t. I’ve never met him. Not counting last night.

  “Sinclair Montgomery,” he elaborates.

  Still nothing. All I can do is shrug. His eyes close and his lips move into a flat line. I don’t know him, but his pain is obvious. I wish I could help him. Yet how can I? I can barely help myself.

  “You don’t remember me,” he says bluntly. No anger or hurt in his voice but there’s a riot of emotions in his eyes. It’s almost too much for me.

  “Should I?”

  His lips tilt up into the saddest smile. “You should.”

  It’s crazy to have someone look straight at you, with thousands of memories playing in their eyes. Memories you can’t retrieve but wish you could.

  Crazy and terrifying.

  “Your name doesn’t sound familiar,” I offer quietly. I feel like my tongue is too big for my mouth and that anything I say will sound pathetic.

  Sinclair.

  His name is Sinclair.

  With his dark looks and intense eyes, the name fits him to a T. He smiles at me, a slow smirk that spreads across his face, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  “I know you don’t remember me. That’s why I’m here,” he says. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

  This seems all too…unbelievable. I hold Evelyn tighter. “Are you lying to me?” I whisper.

  He leans in. “Since we’ve known each other I’ve never lied to you once,” he says fiercely.

  “And how long has that been?”

  He swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. “Two and a half years.”

  My doubt shows in my eyes.

  Sinclair sighs. “I know you don’t believe me.”

  “You’re right,” I concede. “I don’t. I’ve lived here for three years. There’s no way we’ve met.”

  Sinclair frowns. His eyes flick across the room for a quick second and veer back to me. “Three years? You haven’t been here for three years.”

  My mouth opens. I’m so close to insisting that I’m right. I should know better than anyone how long I’ve been here, but as I skim through my Fairfax memories and go back to the beginning I don’t see much. And that was all in…2011?

  Frustration gets the best of me. What’s the point in having a memory when it doesn’t work? I close my eyes and rub my temple. When I finally look at Sinclair his expression softens as though he sees the brick wall my mind is running into. “You’ve only been in here for six months.”

  I want to challenge his word so badly. I want to have cold hard facts, but I don’t. Three years. Three whole years I’ve been here and if we were such good friends why didn’t he come sooner? I ask.

  “Since you’ve been here, I’ve tried to visit you every day.” His lips pull into a flat line. “I’ve been turned away every time.”

  “How do you expect me to believe that?”

  “Ask any of the nurses. Go look at the visitor sign-in sheet from yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. You’ll see my name on every page.”

  I swallow loudly.

  No one told me about his visits. I feel anger blossom in my chest. Shouldn’t it be my choice to decide who can and cannot see me?

  “I promise you I’m not lying.” And before I can say a word, he speaks again. “Do you remember anything that happened?”

  I frown. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your past,” he says bluntly. “Do you remember?”

  Patiently, he waits for my reply. My pulse skyrockets. “No.”

  “Well I do.” His voice becomes gruff. “I can help you…if you let me.”

  His offer is dangerous and enchanting. I have no proof, but I believe he knows my past. He is part of it.

  I glance down at the table. A fine coat of dust covers the surface. I write my name in clear block letters.

  VICTORIA.

  VICTORIA.

  VICTORIA.

  I see nothing. Just letters strung together. This man claims to know me and I can’t help but wonder what he sees behind my name.

  “How do you expect me to believe you?”

  “You and my sister used to be best friends.”

  “Used to?”

  He nods and hesitates. “Before everything happened.”

  When his words trail off, I have to stop myself from reaching across the table, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, and demanding that he tell me everything.

  But instead I just say: “Why doesn’t she visit?”

  “She did at the beginning, but like me, she’s restricted.”

  Exactly how many people were barred from seeing me? Was there a list? Did Wes make that happen or my mother? Or maybe my doctors were behind it?

  “Why would she not be allowed to visit me?”

  He gives me a weary smile. “Because she was the one who brought you here.”

  The day I arrived at Fairfax, I remember slamming the car door and shielding the sunlight away with my hand as I stared at the building. I remember grabbing Evelyn from her car seat. I remember signing the admission paperwork and thinking to myself that while everyone else around me might be here to heal, I was here to rest.

  Not once do I remember being accompanied by someone.

  Sinclair looks like he wants to say something. His mouth opens and closes. In his eyes I see memories. Am I those memories?

  “Victoria! What are you doing in here?”

  Alice. The sound of her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. How long have I been sitting here? I jump out of my chair just as she walks over. She looks between the two of us and finally focuses on me.

  “I told you to wait in your room.” She doesn’t wait for a reply and glares at Sinclair. “Mr. Montgomery, you’re not allowed to be here. Who let you in?”

  Sinclair stands up. He towers over Alice. The corner of my lips twitch, but I fight my smile. It’s nice to finally see someone stand face-to-face with this woman and not be fazed by her harsh glare and scowl.

  He gestures to the nurse behind the front desk, who looks ready to bolt. “She did.”

  “Well, you can’t be here. You have to leave.”

  Not yet. No, not yet. For the first time in a while, I feel like someone’s on my side. I’m not ready to let go of that feeling.

  Evelyn starts to cry. I take a step toward Sinclair, but Alice blocks me. I’m a calm, patient person, but right now I want to shove Alice aside. I want to invoke that same level of fear in her that she vindictively shoots my way every day.

  Sinclair reaches out. His large hand lands gently on my shoulder. It’s only a second before it slips away
, his fingers grazing my arm.

  “I’ll come back soon.” Before he turns and walks away his gaze collides with mine and he says, so quietly, “If you never remember us, that’s okay; I’ll remember for the both of us.”

  And then he leaves.

  Alice guides me toward the front desk. She speaks to the new nurse, no doubt reprimanding her for letting Sinclair through. I take this moment to peek at the sign-in sheet. His handwriting is unintelligible, but I clearly see the S and M. I go to yesterday’s sign-in sheet and the one before that. I keep moving until I’m a month out. His name is on every single sheet.

  Sinclair Montgomery is right.

  Today, there’s no outburst from Reagan. Or a visitor waiting for me in the dayroom.

  All morning and afternoon I’ve held out hope that something would happen until the very last second. But as I stand in front of Dr. Calloway’s door, I know I can’t put it off another second. I have to get this session over with.

  Taking a deep breath, I loudly knock on her door.

  “Come in,” she calls out.

  I push it open and step inside her office.

  I don’t hate Dr. Calloway. In fact, she’s not so bad. But I’ve never gone into depth with her about my foggy past. That’s not a hit to her personally; I don’t trust any of the doctors here. They crack open your feelings and you’re expected to let the truth spill out.

  Crazy or not, that’s hard for anyone.

  I can’t remember how long I’ve been seeing her. Maybe a few months? In that time span Dr. Calloway has never pushed and prodded me to get information. Not like the other doctors who ask the same questions ad nauseam. Your husband’s dead. Tell us what you know.

  Some have different approaches though. Some have this astonishing ability to put me on—nodding their heads at everything I say, acting as though they understand me. Got me. Liked me. But inevitably, they always, always go in for the kill.

  She doesn’t give me the kid glove treatment like all the rest. At the beginning she asked the generic doctor questions, but after a while she stopped. Now when I see her, she’ll ask how I’m doing. How Evelyn’s doing. How I’m handling my medication. And then, when I offer up nothing else, she’ll turn to lighter topics. I’ve actually had good conversations with her. Normal ones.

  I know she’s been married once. Divorced. She and her first husband drifted apart. She’s been with a man named Tom for three years. Tying the knot is not in her future. No kids. She’s not human until she’s had a cup of coffee in the morning. She hates to cook and orders in a lot.

  She’s forty-one and loves her job.

  Her openness is not common. Here at Fairfax she’s the exception. At times we slip into a silence that is neither awkward nor comfortable. It’s just…there.

  This morning, I told myself that everything would be okay if I told Dr. Calloway that I wanted to leave this place. Now I’m incredibly nervous. Nervous to voice my thoughts. Nervous to get shot down.

  “Good morning, Victoria.” Dr. Calloway lifts her head slightly, gives me a smile, and goes back to reading the paper in front of her. Blindly, she gestures at the seats angled toward each other and facing her desk. “Please sit down.”

  I take a seat and almost instantly my legs start to bob up and down nervously. Evelyn shifts in her sleep and I stop moving my legs. I remind myself that I have to do this. I have to talk to someone. If not for me, then at least for Evelyn.

  Dr. Calloway drops her pen and finally gives me her full attention. “How are you doing today?”

  I start to break out in a sweat. I can’t give her my routine reply of “I’m fine.” It doesn’t cut it.

  “Great, great,” I start out slowly. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  Dr. Calloway cocks her head to the side. “How long?”

  I nod anxiously. My nerves are getting the best of me. So I hold Evelyn a little bit tighter and grasp her hands in mine.

  “Well, I’m not sure. That’s something I’d need to look up.” She glances at my mammoth file and back at me and then glances at her computer. She smiles at me. “It’s much faster to look it up here.”

  Her fingers fly across the keyboard. It takes only a few seconds, but it feels like years. Finally, she turns the computer screen toward me. It’s my admission sheet. She points at the very bottom of the screen. I see my signature and right next to that is the date: 5-19-2015.

  Sinclair was right. Six months.

  I sit back in my chair and my mind is running. Why did I think I’ve been here for three years? I feel Dr. Calloway’s eyes on me and meet her gaze.

  “Why do you ask?” she gently prods.

  I answer honestly. “I thought I’d been here for three years.”

  “Three years?” Dr. Calloway’s brows lift. “That’s a long time. Why did you think three years?”

  I shrug and go on to tell her I don’t know, but just then I hear the sound of Wes’s voice. It’s very faint at first, but soon the sound turns up and it feels like his lips are against my right ear as he says, “We’re coming up on three years of marriage…”

  I meet Dr. Calloway’s eyes. “I have no idea,” I say. Before she can prod any further, I change the subject. “I’ve been doing some thinking lately…”

  Say it, my mind urges. Just say it!

  Calloway says nothing, just waits patiently for me to continue. God, I wish I had her patience. Nervously, I lick my lips. “I want to leave Fairfax.”

  She doesn’t look shocked, just nods agreeably. There’s a look of interest in her eyes. “Why are you ready to leave Fairfax?”

  Because I feel like I’m really starting to lose it. I need to take my life back. I need to feel normal again. No, I can’t say that.

  “Because I don’t want to be here,” I finally reply.

  My words are met with silence. She laces her hands together and rests her chin on top of them.

  “Why not?” Dr. Calloway finally asks.

  Don’t tell her about the voices, my mind whispers. That will just fuck everything up.

  If I’m going to tell the truth, I have to go about it wisely. The last thing I need is for her to think I’m crazy.

  “Has anything occurred that’s made you come to this decision?”

  My mouth opens and closes. I certainly can’t tell her that I’ve stopped taking my medicine. So I give her a sliver of the truth. “No. I just know I don’t belong here anymore.”

  Dr. Calloway stares at me carefully. I don’t see judgment in her eyes. “In order for you to leave, you need to be evaluated by me and a board of doctors before we sign off on discharge papers. We need to see that you’ve made a vast improvement from when you were first checked in.”

  That’s what I figured. And even though I prepared myself for how big a battle this will be, I’m still deflated.

  I don’t say a word.

  Silence wraps around us. This is the worst kind of silence too. It eats at me. Dr. Calloway stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something.

  “If you leave, I want to be confident. I’m not disagreeing with you that you might not belong here anymore, but…”

  God. I hate that word. Has any sentence ever had a positive ending that began with but? No. I don’t think so.

  “But there’s a lot of work to do before you can reach that goal. If you’re willing to let me help you, I want to.”

  “You want me to open up and tell you how I’m feeling?” I ask skeptically. Just saying that out loud leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “No, not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s nothing bad, Victoria. I know you’re a private person.” She glances at Evelyn, her smile slightly fading. “You love your daughter and want to protect her, but I need you to open up. I need you to trust me.”

  She stands up abruptly. With the sun shining in, her shadow dwarfs my own. Instinctively, I flinch. Dr. C
alloway doesn’t notice. She goes over to a filing cabinet and pulls out a file. My name is on the side. There are so many papers; it looks close to falling apart. “Is that my file?”

  She nods and opens it up. Some papers are paper clipped together. Red tabs run the length of the edges. In the back, tucked into the pocket, is a thick stack of pictures. She only takes a few out and holds them in her hands.

  “I want to show you some pictures.”

  I try to get a look at them, but Dr. Calloway hides them like we’re playing a game of poker.

  “Pictures of what?”

  “Yourself. I’ll start off slowly showing you each photo. Once you’ve got a good look at them I’ll speed it up. If any of them are familiar tell me to stop and I will.”

  “Who gave those to you?”

  Dr. Calloway lowers the pictures. “Your mother. When you checked into Fairfax she gave them to your doctor at the time in hopes that you would remember…something.”

  “Why am I just seeing these?”

  “Because every time these pictures were brought out, you refused to look at them.”

  I refused? I can’t remember, but I don’t doubt her.

  “Are you willing to try and look at these pictures?” she asks gently.

  When someone wants to retrace their steps, where does one start?

  The beginning.

  The problem is, I don’t know where my beginning is.

  But here it is: my chance to taste life twice through a prism of pictures.

  I’d be a fool to say no, but an even bigger fool not to be nervous. This is a quantum leap from my everyday routine and I have no idea where I will land.

  Very slowly, I nod my head.

  “Excellent,” she says. “It’s time to untangle your past.”

  First picture: Wes and me on what looks like our wedding day. We’re walking down the aisle, our hands intertwined. Wes is smiling at me, and I’m beaming with joy. We look like the perfect happy couple. Deeply in love.

  Second: my mother and me. We are sitting outside on my mother’s back deck. It’s the same house I grew up in. My mother holds a super-slim cigarette in one hand, a picture in the other. Stacks of photographs are in front of me and drinks are on the patio table. We’re both smiling at the camera.