Mangled Memory, page 12
“Tell me why you feel now is the right time for therapy. And what do you hope to gain from our time together?”
I uncross my legs and recross them, watching the toe of my shoe bounce and wiggle. My pants are too formal, too proper, but I thought jeans would set the wrong tone for these meetings.
“I’ve got to stop letting my dad’s expectations drive decisions.” I say aloud from my chair in Joanie Jacaruso’s office
“That’s our goal, then? To free you to live without that burden?”
“Yes. And no.” I interlace my fingers and look her in the eye. “I’m a jeans and sweatshirt kind of girl. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t taking this seriously. So, this—” I sweep my hands from shoulders to the heels on my feet. “This was so you’d think I’m serious about therapy.”
I hold her eyes and continue after she smiles her gentle assurance. “I’m serious about therapy. I’m serious about being well. But my goal and my need for our time is more than my dad, though I wouldn’t argue with being free of his expectations and his control. Hell, I’d welcome that. But the pressing need, the real reason I’m here is—”
Do I say this out loud? Can I give voice to these fears?
Once it’s out, I cannot reel it back in.
I take a deep breath and let it out on a whoosh. My eyes close, and I steel my spine for what I must say. “I can’t rule out that my husband is a danger. I think he’s trying to kill me. I think he’s tried more than once.”
There. I said it. It’s out there.
And no one who knows the old me will try to refute it or downplay it.
“And, if that’s not bad enough, I have amnesia from a ‘fall’ which I’m questioning was a fall at all.” I sketch air quotes with my fingers. “So, I have blacked out patches in my memory and can’t piece together previous events. But I’ve had what I think are flashbacks. And none of them are good.”
I stop. I hold my posture and wring my fingers together before dropping them in my lap and lifting my gaze to hers.
Before she can speak, I add. “And I’m not crazy. I’m not here for attention. I don’t need to spend money for a friend so I can weave a tale. I’m genuinely worried and need someone impartial. Someone who won’t assume the worst of me or him… I need someone to call me on it when I’m wrong and to stand beside me when I’m right. Not blindly trusting like my brothers, or skeptical like my parents, or motivated like my husband. Can you do that?”
She visibly relaxes and does something so foreign to me. She uncrosses her legs, spreading them just far enough that her knees are nearly the width of the chair, and drops her elbows to them as she stares at me. “I knew when Jessi sent you over you were good people. I didn’t know how much I’d enjoy you until just now. I can absolutely do that. I can’t say it’ll be quick, or it’ll be easy, but we’ll get you there. I need two things from you, though, to keep my end of this relationship. The first is your word that if you’re ever in danger, you’ll commit to telling me. The second is that if that ever gets to a place where I must—and this isn’t something I relish doing—that I have permission to contact the authorities in order to protect you. I will not violate any confidence with you unless I think your life is in danger. Can you do that?”
Throwing my words back at me is a boss-level move. I like it. “Yes. So, when do we begin?”
Apparently now is not too soon and we spend the rest of the hour discussing my brothers of all things. That works for me because I love them and they make me happy. Liam and Cian are safe havens, pains in my ass, and my ride-or-dies. So, yeah, I’m happy to chat about them.
All in all, my first therapy session is easier, albeit stranger, than I expect. There’s no laying on a couch. No notebooks and hmms and ahs. Just two women delving into family dynamics, committed to my health and wholeness.
Me: You were right. Joanie is amazing. Thanks for the reference.
Jessi: She’s amazing for sure. {heart emoji}
Me: {blowing kiss emoji}
My load is lighter by the time I get home. There’s a spring in my step, and when I step through the doors, Corinne greets me just after the smell of something lush. She has a spread on the table and gives me a pat on the shoulder as she leaves.
“Dessert is in the warming drawer. Have a good evening.”
Oh, how the other half live.
Christian meets me in the breakfast room, grabbing the chair next to mine. This formal dining room stuff has to change. I get it—money and all that, but that doesn’t make us pretentious, old, and stuffy. A formal dining room is all of those things in spades
“How was your day? What did you do?”
I can’t hesitate. It’s like I know better. “I found a therapist. I’m struggling with all this.” I swirl a finger around my temple but open up the palm to swirl around my whole head.
“And do you like him? Her? Can you tell me about it?”
“Her name is Joanie, and she’s a ball buster.” I pause. “In the best way, of course. I was referred to her. I need someone to help me sort out the tangle of knots and, while I have you and Halley and my family, I need someone who doesn’t know me… before. I need someone to listen without pity. More so, I need someone to listen without anticipation. She’s with me where I am—in the unknown, sorting it out.”
“Sounds really good.” He loops an arm over my shoulder, giving me a squeeze, before releasing and going back to his Greek stuffed peppers. “She’s a psychologist?”
“I think she’s a counselor, not a doctor. I’m not looking for a prescriber. I still have the other one. I need—” I huff a laugh. “Hell, I need an archaeologist. And she seems up to it.”
“I like her for you.”
Curious answer, but all right.
“I’m, um… I’m going to go out this week and get some shots. I need the mountain air, the breeze, the warmth of the sun. And I need to sit in that silence and watch the light.”
His face goes serious. “When are we going?”
I turn in my chair toward him, choosing a posture carefully. “Not we. Just me. I need some semblance of pre-fall Ayla.”
“It’s not safe.” His gaze goes to my temple and the scar that’s still bubbly and red there. “I’m not okay with it.”
I place a hand on his shoulder closest to me. It’s the non-injured one and I cup my hand there. “I appreciate that, but I’m not okay with not being able to live—”
“We agree on that,” he interrupts forcefully.
I squeeze and release his shoulder only to have him catch my hand. “No risk or low risk. Just me and my camera and daylight. I—” I look away but return my gaze. “I don’t need your permission and I don’t have to tell you. I’m going, Christian.”
The squeeze at my hand is more forceful than needed. It’s gone quickly, as is my husband. He stands, drops his napkin on the table, and stalks from the room.
Great. I’m left with only my thoughts for the rest of the meal. I bought the silent treatment from the brooding, angry man, who I’m apparently hellbent on pissing off.
16
inner wolf
Ayla
Life moves on at a glacial pace. Fall settles in on the Front Range and the crisp nights require a fire outside. The brisk mornings and the crystalline skies are my favorites. They practically beg me to come out and play.
Aside from my time with Joanie, I find myself retreating more and more. Fewer texts with Halley. Less frequent calls with Mom. The visits from Dad have been replaced with messages that I leave unanswered. If it weren’t for Cian and Eleanor, I’d be even less social than I am.
But I need her, and she’s good for me, so while he’s at work, I “borrow” her and take her with me to shoot. She’s some measure of protection, I’m sure of it. She certainly won’t let a stranger surprise me. She’s a great work partner. And since I haven’t been to the shop, and I don’t really know what’s happening with much of anything, our time together has become special.
“Come on, girl.” I slap my leg as I head deeper into the brush. This isn’t one of my known spots or a scenic overlook. There is no planned vista. This is me in nature, finding the scene. I expect little and will be satisfied finding anything worth shooting.
Eleanor moves around me, nose down, as if she’s a hunting dog. Twenty minutes in, she stops dead in her tracks, her body alerting in some innate way dogs have. Her hair stands on end, her body hunches, and her lips peel back from her typical smiling face.
“What is—?” I don’t get the whole sentence out because I see it. The reason the sweet, silly girl has let her inner wolf come to the fore is a black bear cub. It’s the wrong time of year for a cub this size. Either he’s alone or…
I freeze on the spot. A mature black bear, probably its mom, lumbers behind. She’s massive. She’s prepped for winter hibernation by the look of her, but like most moms, appears to have had fitful sleep due to the baby playing ahead of her.
I slide the camera around my arm as quietly and with as little motion as I can muster and click off a few frames before I miss the moment. It’s not the right aperture, but sometimes the wrong settings and getting the shot is better than no shot at all. I pull back the camera and fiddle with the f-stop to get what I want and return to the viewfinder to seek my target.
A sniper analogy comes back to my mind. That’s because I need the other shooter’s tool. Mine is woefully underpowered. When I find the subjects again, the little guy is bounding straight at us.
No. No. No. No. No.
Eleanor!
I reach for her collar to pull her behind me. As if that’s going to do anything with a black bear barreling straight for us. But, if I survive, I need to tell Cian that I didn’t sacrifice his baby without at least a fight. Not that I’ll die trying to save her. Black bears aren’t that way. She’ll die, and I’ll die, and they’ll find our bodies in the late spring after the snow thaws.
Cian will be heartbroken, and Christian will be pissed. Both will blame the other.
The problem is Eleanor, affable and bouncy, has also been trained by my brother to near military precision. She slips from my hold and plants herself in front of me, and as if waiting for the wolf in her to rise to the surface, she hunkers down, exposes her canines and growls in a way that would chill my blood if I wasn’t already half frozen from fear and half burning with adrenaline.
I lift the lens and shoot. The clicking won’t draw them further, and if these are Eleanor’s last moments, I want Cian to have evidence of the warrior princess she apparently is.
The cub stops his trajectory, a bit gangly and uncoordinated, and lets loose a similar growl. Eleanor charges, and I scream. I know better, but I can’t not. My sweet Eleanor.
The cub startles at my scream and plops to his butt, not charging or fighting, just watching.
“Ellie.” My voice is a choked whisper. “Heel.”
I’ve not once given her a command. Never. But if we can get out of this alive, I vow to never do it again. And to never come out here with just bear spray and a bottle of water.
Amazingly, she does what I demand and comes to my flank to sit. Her gaze pivots between me, apparently waiting for me to release her, and the bear that she knows could kill me with a swipe. He’s a cub and so cute, but lethal nonetheless. I don’t want to take him on, and I don’t want Eleanor to either.
But it’s his mom that worries me.
She’s huge. She’s postpartum and she should be napping. I know next to nothing about bears other than I won’t win a fight with one and that it’ll suck as I die. But I know that tired, cranky, and chasing a little one when you want to be asleep makes any and every mama irritable.
I lift the camera and take a shot of the cub, fully focused, with the shadow of his mom behind before reversing fields to get her in her majesty.
Eleanor bounces on her butt, honoring the command, but not happy about it. I reach a hand down and stroke her fur, attempting in vain to settle it from where it stands on end.
The closer the mom gets, the antsier Eleanor gets. If I knew her commands and I knew I could order her to the car and she’d obey, I’d release her heel and send her away. But she’s Cian’s and she’s smart and loyal, just like him. She’ll fight on the side of right, even if it’s the last thing she does… Just like Cian.
So I keep her heel and wait as the mama bear lumbers forward, wary of me and of Eleanor with her baby so close. He doesn’t seem to be worried a bit if rolling on his back with his feet in the air is anything to go by.
Must be nice to be that secure. Play, eat, and wander all the while protected by the looming presence that ensures your safety.
I take one last shot as she approaches. It’s too perfect. Barren trees and a forest floor covered in brown decaying leaves. White trunks and brown trunks and a beam of sunlight slashed across her face. The blackness of her face, fierce and curious.
She’s like my moose. There’s a message. Now, I just need to live long enough to decipher it.
I wrap my fingers around Eleanor’s collar as I release the camera under my arm. I dip my head enough that my eye contact doesn’t seem aggressive, though I don’t know bear etiquette. This could be submission, or this could be acceptance of a death sentence.
Several long moments have passed when she opens her mouth and bellows the most excruciating sound, steam flowing from her mouth in the brisk morning. I hold Eleanor firm as she lifts from her heel to scoot behind me.
The cub looks up at his mom and squawks a bark of sorts and bounds away. I can’t decide if she gave us the lecture or if it was for him. With a long last look, she turns and scurries after her kid.
Get some rest I think as I watch her go.
It’s that moment when Eleanor releases everything in her bowels onto the cold earth below.
“Me too, girl. Me too. Come on. Let’s go home.” We start to walk toward the car. “We’re not telling your dad about this, right? Mums the word.”
It’s the sound of a boot crunching ice that spikes my adrenaline again. The question is from where… and from whom. Eleanor alerts again and moves to stand in front of me. Until, like a traitorous bitch, she turns on her tail and bounds away.
“Now you go,” I grumble. “Couldn’t have let me save your life earlier. Noooo. Too stubborn, but now you move out.”
Shit. I’m talking to myself and there’s a very real threat out there. It’s a real-life bear or man debate. After my encounter, I’ll choose the man.
At least until I realize who it is.
Fitz.
“What are you doing here?”
“My job.”
“Your job is to walk in the woods and scare me? Odd.” It’s not odd. It’s worse. “No, that’s fucked up is what it is.”
“Protect you, Mrs. Barone. My job is to protect you. And that—” He nods toward where Eleanor and I were just up close and way too personal with a bear and her cub. “That’s why I’m out here.”
“To watch a bear encounter and do nothing to prevent it. And later to scare me worse than the mama with her cub?”
His stoic face shows no emotion.
“You’re fired.”
“All due respect, Mrs. Barone, I can’t accept that termination.”
“So you take orders from my husband and only he can fire you?”
He dips a chin a single time and crosses his arms over his chest, his impressive forearms bunching and rippling.
“How long have you been following me?”
“I’ve been with you every time Mr. Barone hasn’t been.”
Fuck my life. “Nothing says creepy stalker vibe like you not even telling me.”
He shrugs.
“How have I not known?” I wave a hand dismissively. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. I trusted you. Past tense. Run back to your boss and tell him everything. But don’t bother ever feigning respect for me again. I’m no one’s ward. I’m not a child and don’t need you silently creeping me when I leave the house.”
He looks over my head as I slide past him. “That wasn’t nothing out there. You could’ve been killed.”
“And you would’ve watched silently from your safe little perch.”
He taps his hip before lifting his coat to show a very large pistol. Like Clint Eastwood make-my-day kind of large.
“Glad you didn’t need it.” I mutter and click my tongue for Eleanor.
“Me too.” His muttered reply is joined by his boots clunking along behind me.
“Have you always been this loud?” I throw over my shoulder. If he had been, I’d have known immediately.
“Obviously not.”
“Then why now?”
“Why indeed.” His cryptic reply has me turning on the spot.
“What’s your background, Fitz?”
“Army Rangers, ma’am.”
I don’t know shit about special forces or anything. But I hedge my bets. “So you know how to be stealth but chose not to be.” It’s a statement not a question. I hold his gaze until some kind of understanding passes between us. He wanted to be discovered. Hmmm.
I nod, giving nothing more away. “You have my camera equipment from the day this happened.” I point at my head as if the weight on my shoulders is an event in our lives.
“I do.”
“Good.” I turn on my heel, click my tongue for Eleanor again, and smile as she bounds up to me.
Without another word, I walk to my car, open my passenger door, and allow the frosty pup and her muddy paws onto the white leather of my car. “Who’s a good girl?”
I don’t look back as I drive the winding roads toward Cian’s house. A black SUV, and a nice one at that, follows at a consistent distance the whole way. When I park, I look at the dog who would’ve laid down her life for me today. “Not a word to your dad. He’d have my head.”
17
like camp, only with caviar
Ayla
