"So you and your wife had an argument?"James shrugged, knotting his hands together behind his head. His feet, clad in their pristine white tennis shoes, were already propped up on Dr. Reightman's low table, which caused the psychiatrist no end of irritation. At the same time, though, it was a sign that his patient was willing to be candid, which was all too rare with a man like James Vance. "I wouldn't really call it an argument," James said in his typical dry manner, "more of a 'discussion'."
"And what was that discussion about, James?"
"My fiendish and adulterous ways, as usual."
Reightman caught himself about to start tapping his pen on his notepad, and set the implement aside decisively, steepling his fingers instead. "And what did you two say?"
"Nothing much. Mostly she yelled at me and threw things."
"Threw things? Well, that sounds like an argument to me."
"Not really. It's only an argument when you don't agree." A smirk curved up the left corner of his mouth, and Dr. Reightman frowned in return, pushing his professorial glasses back up along his nose. He could not help but wonder if James was putting him on again. The man was a champion liar by his own admission, but with the corollary, of course, that 'I could be lying'. It was all written down in his case file. No wonder he had been through three other doctors before he had chosen Dr. Reightman.
"Well then," Reightman said, "if you wouldn't mind clarifying..."
James waved a hand casually. "Of course I don't mind. That's what you're here for, isn't it? A face for me to talk at."
"If that is what you want it to be."
"So I might as well, I suppose. Let's see..." He sank into the couch with the boneless ease of a cat's sprawl, not an ounce of tension or care apparent; if he had been any more relaxed, Dr. Reightman thought, his heart would probably stop. He was looking up at the ceiling, that obnoxious little smile still lingering on his lips as if drawn there. "Miranda and I were in the kitchen. The kids were already off at school. I was reading the paper, I think. Anyway, she says 'Jim', and I look up, and she's glaring at me like she wanted me wriggling on a fishhook. So I say 'Yes?' and then she started yelling."
"And what did she yell, James?"
"I thought I told you this already... Something about knowing about what I'd been up to, and how I was scum and she should never have married me, and how I was making her life miserable what with sleeping around with...Rachel, I think it was. I think she must not have known about the other one back then, because she started throwing things when I corrected her."
"The other one?"
"I forget her name. Sara, maybe...?"
"A second affair?"
"Briefly."
"Concurrently?"
"Well, yes."
"And so your wife Miranda threw things at you." If I were married to someone like him, Dr. Reightman thought as he wrote his notes, I'm sure I would have as well. He flexed his bare left hand absently, silently congratulating it for its lack of marital encumbrance. People, as far as his experiences went, were flawed one and all. Some moreso than others.
Case in point, the psychiatrist thought as he looked back up to his patient, who was picking at the weave of the couch cushions with idle curiousity. Even as Dr. Reightman watched, James found a stray thread and started reeling it out, twining it between his fingers. One of these days, Dr. Reightman thought, I really need to get a good leather couch. Nothing to pick at. "How did her accusations make you feel, James?" he said to distract the man.
"Make me feel?" James looked up, dark brows inclining slightly. His pupils were little black pinspots drowning in water-blue iris. "Irritated, mostly. I was right in the middle of reading the paper."
Dr. Reightman felt a twinge of disgust, and tried not to show it as he looked back down at his tablet of scrawled notes. Why do I take these clients? he wondered, not for the first time. Grief counselling was all well and good, but with a patient like James, sometimes it was simply too tempting to cancel the appointments. It had been well over a month since the smirking fellow had first wandered into his office, directed by a business card given to him by his last psychiatrist, and from day one he had made it entirely impossible for Dr. Reightman to do anything with him. Post-traumatic shock, he understood. Absolute denial, he also understood. Everything about James Vance screamed those things. Everything but the smirk, that tiny little smirk that just sang with contempt.
Grinding his teeth was another bad habit that Dr. Reightman had to get rid of, but he indulged himself in it momentarily as he paged back through the file. It was time to try a different tack, since James was apparently going to be stubborn today. A glance down the column of facts brought a possible subject. "Well, James," he said, looking back up to his lounging patient, "why don't we try something else this time?"
"I don't see any problem with that." He was picking at the couch again. I need a vacation, Dr. Reightman thought.
"Would you tell me, then, about what went on during the Fourth of July weekend?"
It might have been his imagination, but for a moment James' expression almost seemed to change. The look was gone too quickly for him to interpret, but Dr. Reightman marked it and noted it before James drawled on.
"If that's what you want to hear, Doc. We set out from Bristol at about eight in the morning..."
The highway was clogged all the way to the turnpike, hundreds of cars idling anxiously in the midmorning glare. Summer had hit the East Coast as it always did, in a wave of sticky, breathless heat that wafted up from the blacktop like volcanic vapor. Here and there, the tar that patched the cracks in the road had melted and begun to ooze toward the potholes. Eternal cracks, eternal potholes, eternal eastern rotting stench. It got to be too much for some people, sometimes. Steps had to be taken.
In the driver's seat of the family van, James Porter Vance--of the New Hampshire Vances--heaved a resigned sigh and glared at the steering wheel, trying to resist the urge to rip the fuzzy cream-colored cover off of it. It looked just like one of Miranda's damn cats, the one that left its long soft hairs imbedded in each and every one of his sweaters. Even the feel of it got his back up, and Miranda and the kids were not helping.
He tried to focus on their destination: Cape April, an oasis, a haven ages away from the lightning tang of the electrical plant, the chaos of the house and the endless droning voices of his white-coated colleagues. For at least a while he could block out the sounds of machinery and children from his ears and fill them instead with the steady pulse of the sea. Slow, inexorable, mesmiric...
"Daaaad!"
The words were like a physical blow, and he glanced around bewildered for a moment, clear-water eyes slowly swimming back to awareness. The traffic jam, yes, right... Ahead of him, cars were cutting in; behind, horns were blaring, just another few notes to add to the symphony of discontent. Thomas and Jillian were fighting in the back, as usual, and Jilly was shrieking for him to intercede in her particularly earsplitting manner. He hit the accelerator, then the brake as some jackass in a red convertible darted in from the right lane to take up what little space there was. Next to him, Miranda gasped and grabbed the doorhandle, her rings flashing back glints of the morning sun as she struggled not to spill her nail polish.
It took some control not to purposefully rear-end the jerk. He knew he would hear no end of it from Miranda if he did, though, no matter how satisfying it would be to crunch the offender's little car, and that was enough to dampen his temper. He took a few deep breaths like the therapist had told him to, thinking of the sea....calm sea, placid sea...calm, placid...
After a moment, the traffic started moving again, and he flowed along with it. Miranda had silently resumed painting her nails, no doubt saving every predatory little snipe up for later. Her hand had left the door handle only hesitantly, fluttering up to her delicately-positioned curls to make sure none of them had been accidentally dislodged. Heaven forbid a hair ever got knocked out of place, James thought; what with all the time and hairspray she spent on it, it was liable to survive a nuclear holocaust unscathed.
Anything that took her attention off of him for a little while was a welcome thing, though, even if it involved filling the car with the fumes of her polish. It was worse than being at work; at least it was only ozone there.
"Mirry," he said reluctantly, as they inched closer to the nominal shade of the tollbooth.
"Hmm?"
"We remembered my migraine medicine, didn't we?"
"Did we? It's your medicine. I know how you hate it when I touch your things, dear."
Barking at her would not be conducive to a good day, so he glared out the window. "I suppose you didn't pack anything else of mine either, did you."
"Of course I did, Jim darling," she said, her sunglasses reflecting his own dull expression back at him above her rouged smile. "And I packed your medicine. Don't take everything so seriously, dear, this is our vacation after all."
"How silly of me to forget, Mirry dear. Toll?"
"Right here." The coins were warm from her hands, sweet-smelling like the lotion she used. When he rolled down the window the heat lashed in and sucked all the air- conditioning away in one long drag; he dropped the coins into the basket and took the turnpike ticket in one smooth sweep, then was breezing out onto the 'pike with the window whirring back up before the kids could even complain. If all went well, it would be a straight shot up to Cape April, with no traffic and no more tollbooths. Just James, the sea...and his in-laws.
No vacation was perfect, after all.
The countryside flew by unseen, mile after mile of twisting east coast road grinding away beneath the van's tires. In the back, the children had quieted down a bit, too lulled by the monotony to even argue. Miranda's nail polish went back into her chunky purse, and the air slowly cleared of its fumes. As the road spooled out before him, it almost seemed like he could relax. It was too early to do that, though; from the passenger seat beside him, he could practically feel irritation crackling. It was only a matter of time before Miranda stopped gazing out the window and turned those mirrored eyes on him.
Traffic bogged down on the 'pike near the last exit, cars choking up the throat of the highway under the direction of a half-circle of warning flares. The kids stirred and pressed against the window, gawking. Miranda just pouted in the way that he had once found so endearing. "I told you we should have gone up last week, Jim," she said, filing her nails absently as they passed the twisting wrecks. "It's Saturday. Half the people out here must have hangovers. If there are any more of these idiots, we'll never get to Geoffrey's place on time, and I'd hate to miss Aunt Sophie."
James just nodded, and hit the gas as soon as the lanes widened back to normal again. The sooner they got there, the sooner he could be out of the car and stretching his legs on the beach, shaking out the lingering feeling of Miranda's fingers in his brain. Perhaps he could plead migraines like he had the year before, and just hole up in one of the guest bedrooms and breathe in the sea-scent through the window. It would drive Miranda insane, and he liked that just fine. She could try to keep the crumbling facade of their marriage up as long as she wanted to, but the foundations were long since rotted away. It was all a mirage now. Let the women play their wicked games all they wanted, he thought. All it was, was surface.
He knew it was hopeless the moment they rattled up the pebbled drive. The place looked like a cross between a car dealership and a junkyard, smooth shiny import cars sidled up next to sticker-laden antiques, and right in the middle of the cluster sat Lily's topaz-colored sedan as if basking in the sunlight. James pulled up onto the grass nearby, set the van in park and cut the engine, letting out a sigh as seatbelts unbuckled and reeled back into their sidebars, doors swung open and slammed. For a moment he had the urge to stick the key back in the ignition and go. To Maine, maybe. Or Canada. It would be pleasant enough there, this time of year. Rent a cabin, go fishing, sleep under the stars like he used to do in his faded-photo childhood... Before she snared him like a trout on a line, flailing in uncomprehending reflex. Drowning in air.
A little further down the way, though, he could see the perfect horizon-line of the ocean, and as he opened the door the salt-air invaded his being, washing away the thick vanilla scent of Miranda's ever-present lotion. The pebbles crunched beneath his shoes as he locked up the car and started up to the house, trailing his bright chattering family into the mouth of hell once more.
"You never enjoyed yourself when you went there on vacation, James?"
The other man shrugged noncommitally, watching the ceiling with a half-dreaming expression. "It was fun once or twice. Especially when Lily was around those last few years. She came after Sara and Rachel, you see. Miranda was terribly suspicious, but that was the point, now wasn't it. Of course, Lily was a boring girl. Not a brain in her head, but she was pretty. And God, she knew how to screw. I could not have asked for a better tool." A frown cracked the vague look. "I think I need a cigarette."
"I thought you'd quit, James," Dr. Reightman said, glancing up from his notes. Despite his best attempts, he had been scribbling again, drawing random spiral patterns on the pristine page as the other man spoke. He pushed up his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. "You told me last time that you hated the way they smelled."
"Well, that's true...they smell like the whole damn family. But sometimes I need it, you know? Keeps the noise down."
Noise? Dr. Reightman frowned, considering for a moment. "Nicotine withdrawal can be difficult, I understand, but if you make a choice you really should try to stay with it."
"I don't like all the noise, Doc. Brings my migraines on."
"If you say so, James. I could write you a prescription..."
"That's fine, I'm doing all right without it. I'll have one when I go."
"If that's what you want. Shall we continue?"
"It's just my in-laws. They've never been all that interesting."
Dr. Reightman looked down at his notes again and sighed, closing the folder neatly. "Perhaps we should end the session early this time," he said. "You seem a bit unfocused today."
Tapping his forehead with one well-manicured finger, James smiled. "Migraines. The medication does wonders for me. You always look stressed out, Doc, you should try it. Everything's clear as a bell." His eyes held that odd light Dr. Reightman had begun to associate with his bad days.
"I'm sure it is, James. Would you like the secretary to call you a taxi?"
"No, I drove. I'll pay on the way out, usual style." And with that, James Vance flowed up from the couch with a loose grace that would have been enviable in a twenty- year old, let alone a man approaching the grey-streaked domain of forty. Dr. Reightman's infinitely younger back twinged in envy. The patient nodded amiably, picked up his windbreaker off the back of the couch, and sauntered out into the reception area, leaving the psychiatrist with a moment to himself.
Dr. Reightman stared off into the distance within his mind for a few moments, reeling James' narrative through his memory again. The root of the man's problem did not spring immediately to mind. He could be distancing himself from the deaths due to guilty feelings--there was no doubt that he had some sort of guilt complex, what with his candid acceptance of his wife's old accusations of adultery and his blunt account of their passive-aggressive relationship. He could also still be in shock, though nearly nine months had passed since the accident. That and denial might begin to explain his attitude. Given time, Dr. Reightman knew he could probably reduce the patient to a sobbing wreck. It was one way to deal with grief. God knew he was hardly enjoying this job; it was far too sensitive for his likings, far too personal. Give him marital discord or arachnophobia any day.
Mary, the secretary, flagged him down once he finally stepped from his office, holding a clipboard up over the counter. The faint scent of lilac drifted off of her. "Mr. Vance scheduled his next appointment for three o'clock on Tuesday," she said, dark eyes trained on him from behind her delicate wire-rimmed glasses and pen tapping imperiously against the patient's signature. "I told him you have another appointment then, but he insisted, then he left. Would you like me to call him tomorrow and reschedule?"
"No, let it be." She bothered Dr. Reightman to no end. Her way of looking at him always made him feel like some sandy-haired rabbit under wolfish scrutiny. It was an uneasy thing. He tried not to look back; the last thing he needed was a female entanglement infringing on his mental space. However pretty. "Call whoever the other patient is and reschedule theirs. You'd never be able to convince James to change his."
"All right, Dr. Reightman. Have a good day," she called as he moved with all haste toward the door. He could sense her gaze, heavy with intent, resting on the space between his shoulderblades. The skin there prickled oddly, as if a phantom fishing-line were tugging at his spine. His thumb traced the spot where no wedding band had ever been, over and over, as if to assure himself of that fact as he stepped outside.
James was in an irritable mood on Tuesday, fidgetting on the couch like a five- year-old cooped up too long. "You never get tired of people talking at you?" he asked for perhaps the tenth time in the last half hour. "They make so much noise, all the time..." He twisted his hands together impatiently, trying in vain to get comfortable.
"Have you quit smoking again, James?" Dr. Reightman asked, half amused. The other man was amazingly restless, swinging up from the couch every so often to pace around the room and examine the psychiatrist's scholarly bric-a-brac. "Or is this what happens when you don't take your migraine pills?"
"A little bit of both, maybe. I have to refill my prescription. Do you think you could keep your voice down, though? It's terribly grating."
"My apologies. Would you mind sitting down so we could get started?"
"Answer my question first," James said, wheeling around in mid-stride to lean against the side of the couch, pale eyes resting on the doctor for a few moments before flitting away. "Doesn't it get tiring, all these people parading through saying nonsense?"
"I don't consider anything my patients say to be 'nonsense', James."
"Well of course it's nonsense! All petty little lives and lies and things and problems that don't belong to you, don't you get tired of them?"
Dr. Reightman's mouth thinned a little. James was trying to push his buttons again, but it never worked. It did not matter what he thought about his patients or their problems; they were his clients, and it was his duty to listen to all their little rants. "Of course not, James. This is my job. Now please, have a seat."
"I can have all the seats I want as long as they're empty, Doc. Don't you ever want some peace and quiet?"
"I have plenty of peace and quiet."
With a sigh, James collapsed onto the couch; Dr. Reightman winced in sympathy for the abuse heaped on his furniture. He was in an oddly light mood, probably because his patient was so stormy. It was always easier to work with these people when they were reactive, not half-drugged by their own self-medicating urges. The patient waved Dr. Reightman on after a moment, a sour grimace twisting his face. "Start, start... If you have to talk, you might as well do so, but I won't promise to like it."
"Now James, you know the idea is for you to talk to me."
"Talk at you, Doc. You're still just a wall. A mask on a wall. You don't get it at all, do you?"
Dr. Reightman's brows drifted into view over the rims of his spectacles; immediately, his pen became poised over his notepad. "And what do you mean by that, James?"
"Nothing much. What did you want me to talk at you about?"
The pen descended back to a waiting position again, and Dr. Reightman settled back in his chair to await the long haul. James was protecting himself again. Closing himself in a shell of denial, the psychiatrist was sure.
"We were talking about your in-laws?"
"I can't fathom why. Haven't spoken with them since...since you know."
Since the funeral. Dr. Reightman nodded, adding another brief comment in his notebook. "You've told me that. I was thinking more along the lines of during the weekend of the Fourth."
"Oh. Right, that. Where was I?"
The barbecue was a horrendous affair. Just like every year, Miranda's Uncle Louis would take command of the grills in order to feed the whole ravening Belhumer clan while her Aunt Gwen directed the set-up of the rented picnic tables, the umbrellas, the buffet. There were far too many people swarming the backyard for James' peace of mind, and Miranda's hand had clamped down on his elbow like a crimson-nailed vise. She waded with practiced ease among cousins and siblings and distant French relatives, drifting through the everpresent cloud of cigarette smoke and gossip that defined those summer days. Down the sloping backyard and over the wall was the beach, and beyond that the ocean gleamed like a valley of knives in the sharp, bright light, but it was ages away. Red and green towels flapped like great wings as the children vaulted themselves en masse over the wall and down to the shore.
James plastered on the smile he saved for the most droning of his colleagues and tried not to get drawn into conversation, but his in-laws descended upon him and soon he was the main course in a dinner-circle of French Canadian sharks. His head started to buzz about midway through Cousin Deborah's ex-husband story, this time embellished with a plot-twist of child-support avoidance. Now and then, James had the urge to break in and tell her to put the kids out of their misery already. It would at least make the woman shut up for a moment. The buzzing rose in quick stages until his ears felt like they ought to bleed and white jags of lightning skidded through the darkness behind his lids when he closed his eyes. He excused himself as quickly as possible, leaving the maiden aunts and adult cousins to giggle and trade glances behind their hands. His knuckles were white on his half-empty beer can, but his face was placid. Calm. Frozen.
She caught him when he went out to the van to get his pills. Rooting through the bags Miranda had packed was like going on safari amongst herds of roving cosmetics and small predatory implements of torture. The little orange prescription bottle was buried at the very bottom, and by then the pain was so great that he fumbled it three times trying to get the child-proof cap open, the last time spilling a handful of the tiny pills across the dank floor of the van. His mouth was too dry to swallow, so he washed down a good-sized dose with what remained of the beer. Screw the doctor's orders. Sometimes drastic measures were necessary. When he turned around, pleading silently for it to kick in, Lily was there. He stumbled as she flung her arms around him, sat down on the edge of the van. The emptied can clattered on the pebbles tinnily.
They found each other again later, in the shifting sea of partygoers. She smiled and glanced off toward the beach. He just nodded.
Afterward, they shook the sand out of their clothes and looked up over the wall, where the fireworks were bursting high above the remnants of the barbecue. Tiki torches glowed like fireflies, sparklers danced and jumped in the hands of the children. The little beach was deserted except for them.
Her breathing was soft next to him, tidal, rhythmically attuned with the lapping of the waves that slowly ate up the shore. She smelled like cigarettes, just like all the others, the scent trapped lingeringly in her hair like a perfume, but he could forgive her for that because she was quiet and not afraid of getting sand in strange places, and she had never tried to hold his hand again after the first time. She had thought it was because he felt ashamed. He never corrected her; she was just a means to an end, and never needed to know it. Just a tool.
She left after a while, floating back up the yard toward the celebration like a white moth. The lightning behind his eyes had faded away, pounded out like a storm among the dunes on the shore, and no one had noticed because one of Lily's greatest merits was digging in her nails instead of crying out. The sting in his shoulders would fade, and Miranda would hardly notice; he never gave her the opportunity, more to avoid the crackling sound of her presence than the fleshly woman herself. It was not her words so much as her noise.
The stars shifted positions imperceptably, like the slow drift of the hour hand across a clockface, and the ocean licked at the soles of his feet invitingly. He could still half-hear the murmur of the party, a low static hum punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter like a generator misfire, but the sound was drawn long and coaxed out to sea where the salt breeze dissipated it like so much smoke. The water tickled at his ankles, then his calves, sliding the sand out from beneath them in thin glimmering rivulets, and he closed his eyes and felt the inexorable pull of it, the sea and the eternally wheeling stars and the great white weight of the moon. It worked at something lodged deep within him, eroding the sand-castle walls and raking cold fingers in its search. Maybe this time, he thought, it will not be in vain. Maybe this time the sea will take it away. Something ached, had been aching for too many years to count. People always said that salt water was good for the pain. Perhaps this time too...
A shadow cast its unwelcome darkness over him, and he opened his eyes. It was Miranda, of course, her summer dress flailing in the breeze like a dying gull. Smoke swirled off her cigarette in elaborate curls and eddies, crafting a hazy halo around her head; in her other hand, ice clinked in a half-full tumbler. She looked down at him from the wall, expression indistinct in the darkness. "Put your clothes back on," she said.
He began to hate her then, when her voice drew the electric hum back around him. "Get dressed and come back to the house," she continued when he was silent, fingers twisting to talons around the thin stem of the cigarette. "I won't have you shaming me. I don't care what they think they know, but I won't let them see it."
They had separated the beds three years ago, he remembered dimly. Anyone with the urge to see it could walk right into their bedroom, and there would be the evidence. But he did not mention it, only tried to sink back under the water.
"Damn it, James!" Her shoes crunched and wobbled in the sand as she leaned down, and then her hand cracked across his cheek like a lightning strike, a freak generator discharge. The air stank of ozone. The ocean scudded away from her feet, dragging deep furrows in the sand as it left. His cheek felt the dim imprint of the cigarette butt, but it had ceased to matter. She loomed over him still, taking a deep breath of the pollution, then stabbed him with the toe of one of her red shoes. "Get up," she snapped. "We're going home."
They loaded everything up, Miranda apologizing to everyone in her obsequiously drunken way. The children curled up on towels in the back, their bathing suits still damp from the midafternoon romps, and James slid into his spot at the wheel. It was alien to him, abhorrent, but Miranda shoved his hands down on the fur-covered wheel and smiled her razor smile until he turned the key. She rolled up all the windows, too, eclipsing the breeze with her thick vanilla stench, and then they were rumbling down the driveway once more. The moon gleamed in the rearview mirror, full and witchlike, and whispered in his ear.
Dr. Reightman sighed and flexed his fingers slowly to work out the writer's cramp. He skimmed down over his notes, shaking his head slightly. "I thought you said that Miranda never knew about Lily."
"She didn't catch us, Doc," the patient replied from his lounging position on the couch. He had calmed a little, but not quite back into the boneless peace of the last session. Dr. Reightman was pleased; the person most relaxed in any situation was always the one who controlled it, by his thinking. James went on, "So even if what she suspected was true, she still didn't know."
"Did you love your wife?" The answer was an obvious one, but the question was necessary.
James sighed, looking away, an almost melancholy expression disturbing the placid blankness of his countenance. "Maybe once. Not for years, though. She was Artemis, I was the stag, but after a while the hunt got old, I think. There was a time when she used to smile, and I'd light up inside... But Miranda's always refused to get a divorce, so there we were."
"Were you ashamed of what you were doing? You told me you agreed with her when she called you names. Why?"
"Well, because it was true."
"You were never concerned about the impact of your actions on your wife?"
"Why should I have been? Tell me, Doc, don't you ever want them to just shut up?"
"It is my job to--"
"No, Doc," he said, rising in a sudden jolt that startled Dr. Reightman. He smacked his palms down on the low table, leaning over, and for a moment that something-else was in his face again, identifiable now. A peculiarly greedy look, angry, grasping. Dr. Reightman forced down the urge to back his chair away. "Answer the question. Don't you ever want to shut down those voices, close the mouths, get rid of all the noise pollution? So you can think for once? Doesn't it bother you that stupid people come to you to run their stupid mouths off when all that comes out is static? Don't you get tired of it being everywhere, in everything, just the constant idiot babble?"
Dr. Reightman's fingers twitched on the pen. Was this a breakthrough to a deeper problem? Identifying something severe in this disturbing man would give him no end of relief, not to mention the added pleasure of dropping him in some other case worker's lap. "James," he said in his most professional of psychiatric tones, "do you hear voices that you think you shouldn't?"
The patient just blinked at him, anger melting away into a vaguely disgusted look. He shook his head, slumping back down onto the couch, manicured nails plucking at the frayed strands yet again. "No, no, not at all," he said. "Just ones I wish I didn't. But I know who they belong to, so it's all right." His expression smoothed out again until it was as flat as Dr. Reightman had ever seen it, with only that crooked little smirk ghosting up the corner of his mouth. His eyes were blank, small-pupilled. "I think today's session is over. Unless you have anything else to ask. My head is starting to ache."
"You have to come to terms with their deaths eventually, James. You feel guilty; that is only natural. However, we'll be having these sessions until you stop running from your problems and feel up to facing them and dealing with them. If you want to stop now, that's fine, but it will not be doing you much good."
James just shrugged and stood, rubbing at his temples. His attention skittered around Dr. Reightman's head for a moment before focusing in on the psychiatrist, and the doctor met the shallow-water gaze firmly. After a moment, James laughed.
"I'll make another appointment. Have a nice day, Doc. It was good talking at you."
Dr. Reightman shuffled papers for a while after James had left, then finally gave up. The man's restlessness had rubbed off on him, sending him pacing around the room watching the clock and waiting for his next appointment. There was nothing to do but wait and think, and considering the Vance case was something he did not want to do at the moment. His notes were patterned with spirals again.
Mary stuck her head in after a little while, winglike brows arched in polite curiousity. She had dragged him out for coffee the other night, despite his protests, and now seemed to think that her nose belonged in all of his business. It disturbed him a little bit, the infringement on his mind, but he could fend her off. She was no Artemis.
"Decided to go a little early, did he, Edward?" That drew a wince, but Dr. Reightman refused to rise to the bait. So she had called him by his first name. It meant nothing. Neither did her arch, expectant look.
"I told you he's a stubborn one."
She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the outer door, then looked back to the psychiatrist, red nails drumming a tattoo on the doorframe. "What's wrong with him, anyway? He's so odd. He came out today laughing and told me 'good hunting'."
Dr. Reightman sighed, closing his notepad and lifting his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. Telling her anything about it was a violation of confidentiality, but... It was not like she was going to do or say anything about it. She was just the secretary, after all. "He fell asleep at the wheel last year, on a coastal road by the Cape. Veered right off a low bridge. His wife and kids drowned. A couple of motorists picked him up and brought him to a hospital because he was in shock, some sort of hysteria."
"That's horrible!" Mary looked over her shoulder again, shuddering theatrically. "Oh my. I can understand, then. The poor man." She turned back, one hand rising to pat a vagrant lock back into place, and Dr. Reightman felt a sudden dread in the pit of his stomach. His fingers darted over to make sure they were all still ringless. The way she was looking at him, it seemed just a matter of time.
A smile was growing on her mouth, one that he could not help but be drawn to. That spot between his shoulderblades twinged. "Why don't we meet again tonight, Edward? Sunday was lovely, didn't you think?" she said. "You've been looking so tense lately; it would be a good way to relax."
Dr. Reightman could summon no excuse, so he simply nodded. Deny it as he might, the smile she flashed him then was almost worth it all.
Hook, line, and sinker.
Darkness. Summer. A pair of high-beams jolting in the night. Full moon riding high, drawing a trail of silver along the water that flanks the coastal road. A long-nailed hand in the car, blazing ember tracing every gesticulation. A row of white knuckles clenched over a fuzzed steering wheel, the glimmer of teeth bared in a response. In his head, the pry of fingers, hate and frustration. Ocean-black eyes, full fathom five. Deliberate motions. The broad band of a seatbelt reeling back into its mooring. The gleam of the window sliding down. A swing of the wheel.
A spray of splinters from the guardrails as they shatter, a black 'O' of fear below impassive sunglasses. Passenger-side down and descending. Towels flailing around. Small hands pressed in startlement to the window. Water storming in, crushing. Red nails fumbling at the buckle, sandals drifting, kicked off. Kick. Push. Wrench. Slide, shimmy through the open space as the air rushes out in a brilliant stream. Water filling up every empty space, every dark hole. Snagged, glance back. A white mask gleaming in the darkness, silver static coiling up from the open mouth. Thrash. The vise shatters, at long last. The fishing line snaps. Claw up through the ocean, pulse matching the pulse of the tide. Claw for the moon. Break through. Breathe.
A stumbling figure, arms raised. A pair of high-beams, sinking. A head thrown back, mouth open to swallow the moon, but no sound, no sound, not laughter or screams or static. Silence, blessed silence.
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