Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“You’re not working Friday night,” Marsha says. “I know, I checked the schedule.”
“Yes, but you know how it is.” I spear eggs with my fork. “Babies don’t always arrive on a schedule.”
“Come on, Marsha, let her be,” Andy says, tucking a red curl behind her ear. “Can’t you see the poor girl is tired right now? If she wants to go, she’ll go. No need to drag her anywhere.”
She winks at me, and I give her a grateful smile. This is my first time interacting with Andy outside the hospital hallways, and I’m discovering that I genuinely like her. Like me, she’s in her late twenties, and according to Marsha, she’s had a steady boyfriend for the last five years. The boyfriend—he of the purple condoms—is apparently a self-absorbed douchebag, but Andy loves him anyway.
“You moved here from Michigan, right?” I ask her, and Andy nods, grinning, then tells me all about how Larry, her boyfriend, got a job in the area, forcing the two of them to move. Listening to her, I decide that Marsha is not far off in her assessment of Andy’s boyfriend.
Larry does seem like a selfish douche.
The rest of the meal flies by in casual, friendly conversation, and by the time we pay the bill and head out of the bar, I’m feeling lighter than I have in months. Maybe my dad is right; getting out and socializing could be good for me.
Maybe I will go to that dinner with the Levinsons, and even to the club with Tonya.
My improved mood continues as I say goodbye to the three women and walk the two blocks to the hospital parking lot to get my car. Lady Gaga is singing in my headphones, and the sky is just beginning to lighten. It feels like the early dawn is speaking to me, promising me that at some point in the not-too-distant future, the darkness may dissipate for me too.
It feels good, that tiny ray of hope. It feels like a step forward.
I’m already in the parking lot when it happens again.
It starts off as a light prickle across my skin… a quiet pinging in my nerves. The blast of adrenaline is next, accompanied by a surge of debilitating terror. My heart rate spikes, and my body tenses for an attack. Gasping, I spin around, tearing off my headphones as I rummage in my bag for a canister of pepper spray, but there’s no one there.
There’s just that sense of danger, a feeling of being watched. Panting, I turn in a circle, clutching the pepper spray, but I don’t see anyone.
I never see anyone when my brain misfires like this.
Shaking, I make my way to my car and get inside. It takes several minutes of breathing exercises before I’m calm enough to drive, and I know that despite my tiredness, I won’t be able to sleep today.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I turn left instead of right.
I might as well go to the clinic. They’re not expecting me until tomorrow, but they’re always grateful for the help.
8
Sara
* * *
“Tell me about this latest episode, Sara,” Dr. Evans says, crossing his long legs. “What made you think someone was watching you?”
“I don’t know. It was just…” I inhale, trying to find the right words, then shake my head. “It was nothing concrete. I honestly don’t know.”
“Okay, let’s backtrack for a second.” His tone is both warm and professional. That’s part of what makes him a good therapist, that ability to project caring while remaining detached at the same time. “You said you went out for breakfast with some coworkers; then you were walking back to your car, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you hear anything? Or see anything? Anything that might’ve triggered you? A car door slamming, leaves blowing… a bird, perhaps?”
“No, nothing specific that I can recall. I was just walking, listening to music, and then I felt it. I don’t know how to explain it. It was like—” I swallow, my heart rate quickening at the memories. “It was like that time in my kitchen, when I sensed him a second before he grabbed me. That same kind of feeling.”
The therapist’s thin, intelligent face takes on an expression of concern. “How frequently is this happening now?”
“It was the third time this week,” I admit, embarrassment heating my cheeks as he jots down something in his notepad. I hate this out-of-control feeling, the knowledge that my brain is playing tricks on me. “The first time was in a grocery store, then as I was entering the clinic, and now in the hospital parking lot. I don’t know why this is happening. I thought I was getting better; I really did. I only had one small panic attack in the last two weeks, and I felt genuinely hopeful after that breakfast yesterday. It just doesn’t make sense.”