Dearly Beloved, page 2
CHAPTER THREE
“And how does that make you feel?” asked a smooth, soothing professional tone.
“I couldn’t give a shit less,” Renée Sutton answered. “It was nineteen years ago. I’m over it. I’m not the first kid it’s happened to, and I won’t be the last. It was a dream. I only told you because you give out the meds.” Yeah, that voice was supposed to calm her, or whatever, but it pissed Renée off to no end.
Hazel eyes narrowed, condemned. Mrs. Anne Mendoza, M.D., seemed to have a hard time keeping her emotions in check, sitting behind her large oak desk. She struggled to pinch her too many times tucked face while twisting in her big, black, I’m-somebody-important leather chair. The degrees hanging on the wall gave her the authority to prescribe medicine and the right to think she knew everything.
Looks like someone’s giving away their power, Renée thought. It took conscious effort to keep her mental sarcasm off her face.
She’d been told that same thing during one, or forty, of her sessions with Dr. Mendoza over the last three years. According to Dr. Mendoza, no one can make another feel anything without their permission. To let someone provoke you to anger gives away your power. Damn, therapist psychobabble! Renée didn’t buy it, which was why she worked extra hard to poke the bear.
Renée was here for two reasons. Neither had anything to do with thinking this white blond haired, middle-aged lady in her gray pants suit knew anything. At least, not anything about her. This fulfilled one of her well-meaning parents’ stipulations for her “moving” back home. The second reason: the excellent psychiatrist prescribed the only Western medicine Renée would take.
Usually, she stayed pretty healthy. She rarely drank. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t eat meat. Exercised her mind and body. She used natural remedies for any aches, pains, or illnesses. But, there was one condition nothing but good old-fashioned Xanax would cure: panic attacks. Her traitorous nervous system… Hangnails and being held at gunpoint elicited the same physical response.
“Renée? Renée, did you hear me?” Dr. Mendoza asked, breaking into her reverie.
“No. What’d you say?”
“How are you and your parents getting along? Your living situation?”
“Great, it’s the best experience of my life. I love it. I recommend every twenty-four-year-old be forced under the threat of an involuntary psychiatric hold to move back home,” she said, then tossed in a grin for good measure.
What did she mean—how were they getting along? They got along like too many queens in a castle. Barely.
“You know, sometimes sarcasm is used to hide deeper pain,” the good doctor informed in the condescending tone that drove her crazy. “It’s a way of deflecting.”
“And sometimes sarcasm keeps annoying people from asking too many questions,” Renée rebutted condescendingly.
“Renée, I’m here to help. Have you given any more thought to our discussion from a few weeks ago?”
God, give it up, lady! Less talk, more prescription writing. “Jeez, memories, dreams, they’re all the same. Everybody dreams. Once I dreamed, I married a big, nine-foot-tall slug. Should I find a slug to keep that dream at bay? See if we have any chemistry? Or, wait, you know… I had a dream about being alive inside my coffin at my funeral. Should I go down to the local funeral home and lay in a pine box?” She shuddered. “No. Thank. You.”
Dr. Mendoza ran a shaky hand through her chin-length hair. “Ms. Sutton, you could try the patience of a saint.”
Gotcha, bitch! “I do what I can,” she said in a breathy, dreamy voice.
“You can’t keep running from your past—your feelings—forever. Waiting to examine things until later. The past will catch up with you. Confront those things that haunt your nightmares. For instance, you could try talking to me about them. Your parents pay for these sessions. The least you could do is use me. These degrees here,”—she pointed to the wall behind her—“aren’t just for covering the holes I punch in the wall after our sessions, you know?”
Renée flashed a brief smile. Okay, that was funny. She didn’t mean to be such an ass. But she didn’t want to talk about it. For years, she’d been having nightmares about her past. But they weren’t dreams. They were memories of the most harrowing experiences of her childhood and life. Memories she’d love to forget. But her subconscious didn’t get the memo. And after “The Event” three years ago, the memory nightmares increased, which meant so did her anxiety attacks.
Dr. Mendoza believed the increased dreams and panic attacks were because of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, PTSD. Renée agreed. After “The Event,” she couldn’t take another trauma or stressful situation in her life. The next big thing would more than likely kill her. Her fragile mental health couldn’t endure another hit.
“This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve talked about this stuff with therapists before. It doesn’t go away, no matter how many times I repeat the stories. Nobody understands what it was like for me, and I’m honestly over it. But, hey, good lookin’ out.” To further illustrate her point that the topic was closed for discussion, she gave Dr. Mendoza the wink and the gun.
“So, how are our relationships?” the doctor asked, changing the subject to one she thought safer. “Your friends? Your brother? Are we dating yet?”
The doctor didn’t understand the universal sign for stop-talking-and-get-to-the-prescription-writing.
Hmm… she’d have to work on her sign-giving. “Er, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather clear out my right and left eye with a rusty nail than date anybody. On a happier note, friends are good. The brother’s doing well, I guess. We don’t speak much.”
With a smile and nod, the doctor reached into her desk drawer—a white prescription pad.
Thank God!
“Have you given any more thought to how you identify?” Dr. Mendoza asked, fancy pen tip to paper.
What the hell was she doing? Besides her resolve to never date or marry and her hate of mouth noises, everybody knew—very well—Renée had zero patience. And this bitch was toying with her. Yeah, patience wasn’t a virtue she possessed. We all have our battles.
“My identity isn’t wrapped up in skin color. Some people get left. Kids get left. There’s no deeper meaning,” she snapped, harsher than intended. The very idea she might not be as comfortable with herself as she believed didn’t sit well with her. It had weighed on her mind since her psychiatrist brought it up a month ago. But she’d be damned if she admitted it. “I identify with me.”
Thankfully, her response seemed to suffice because the pen glided across the paper. Sweet freedom was within her grasp. An hour had never seemed so long.
Arizona sun pummeled asphalt. Blurry, shimmering heat haze distorted a rundown beige and brown townhouse. Two white, four-door sedans were parked outside of it. Doors of the idling vehicles hung open. A black, spear-top iron perimeter fence bordered an Astroturf-covered front porch.
The home’s front door flew open. Distraught screams and cries rent the air.
“No! Please…” screamed five-year-old Renée. A young, light brown-haired, professionally dressed Caucasian man struggled under her slight weight. “I don’t want to go!” she yelled. “Kathy!” Tears streamed down a tiny, round chocolate face. Brown eyes were wild.
Kathy followed close behind, sedate. Her mouth turned down, a frown of resignation. A petite, red-haired woman with worried green eyes—dressed in a professional A-lined, gray skirt and sleeveless, cowl neck, black blouse—escorted her from the house.
“It’s okay, it’s not forever. We’ll see each other again,” came Kathy’s hollow assurance. The woman led her to one car. The man led Renée to the other. “Renée, it’s okay. Shh… I love you.”
The attempt at comfort fell upon deaf ears. Renée knew better. She kicked, struggled harder against the man’s hold. He forced her into the back seat. A jagged piece of metal from the doorframe sliced through her right wrist. Cut to the bone. Blood ran from her wrist to her elbow. She didn’t feel it. Deeper, excruciating pain lanced her heart. Overshadowed the physical pain as she watched the other car pull away. The only person in the world who loved her sat rigid in the back seat, facing forward. Kathy never looked back.
Renée jolted awake. It was dark. Sweat ran from her forehead, down her hairline, off her chin. Her body shook. Tears flowed, unchecked, down her cheeks. Her heart compressed yet thundered in her chest. Breath ragged, she reached toward the nightstand beside her bed. Hand bumping into the lamp atop it. She tapped the metal shade. Muted light trickled out. She turned her alarm clock toward her—three-thirty-three in the morning.
Great!
Hands shaking, she opened her top drawer. Pulled out a prescription bottle, opened it, shook out two pills, and swallowed them dry. To give the Xanax time to do its thing, Renée focused on breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Waiting for her body to relax, she scanned her room. She attempted to re-familiarize herself with her surroundings.
Hoping to make her feel comfortable after her adoption fourteen years ago, her parents allowed her to paint the walls her favorite color: maroon. Her other favorite colors, black and royal blue, which were the colors of her bedsheets, always brought her peace. Right now, she needed all the peace she could get. She gazed across the room at her oak dresser with an attached mirror. In the mirror’s frame, she’d tucked pictures of her friends. On the dresser were more framed photos.
As her medication calmed her system, flashes of her memory-dream replayed in her mind. She didn’t allow her conscious mind to dwell in the past, but the chances of falling back asleep now were slim to none. So, she let her mind wander down the cracked memory lane. The day her sister had called Child Protective Services and reported that their mother abandoned them was as clear as if it happened yesterday.
She remembered most of her life experiences and events as if they’d happened yesterday. They’d diagnosed her at twelve years old with Hyperthymesia. People with the syndrome have superior autobiographical memory. Her memory was her most significant ally, and worst enemy. It reminded her of all the things she wanted, never wanted, and never wanted to happen again. It kept her grounded, maybe too grounded, which left the guard walls around her heart high with barbed wire and choked full of electricity. No one got in, or out, easily.
Of course, she knew her thinking wasn’t healthy, and it limited her, but that didn’t make it any less a part of her, nor did she know how, or even if, she wanted to fix it. Most people weren’t worthy of her heart, anyway. Her guard wall allowed her to stay aloof. Able to detach from anyone. Barring two events in nineteen years, she never let her guard down. Let no one in that she couldn’t kick out in a nanosecond. Those two exceptions only fortified her resolve, especially the last slip-up.
It pained her on a soul-deep level to have to maintain such a view of people. More than anything, she wanted to let someone in. Be close to someone. Have someone see her. Know her. But every time she tried, she learned the accurate measure of mankind the hard way. Humans’ penchant for committing brutal, cruel, cold, and heartless acts against each other confounded her. She couldn’t be that way. Yes, she treated people like they were disposable, but that covered her genuine care. It killed her inside.
Although she knew now that her five-year-old self’s thought process wasn’t fair... it didn’t change the fact that Renée included Kathy in the long list of people who’d abandoned her. Who’d let her down. Now, of course, she realized Kathy hadn’t known they’d be tossed knee-deep into the craptastic foster care system and separated. But some wounds run to the very fiber of a person’s being. Age and wisdom scabbed them over, but they never truly heal.
Three weeks after their “mother” said she’d be right back, neighbors got wise to their situation. One neighbor Kathy babysat for threatened to call the police. Scared, Kathy did the only thing she could think of: She called the police herself.
Less than twenty-four hours later, two social workers came to investigate. One look at their barely furnished townhouse—barely furnished because their tweaker mom sold anything of value for drugs—empty refrigerator and cupboards. They seized emergency custody. They took her and her sister that same day, each with a tiny garbage bag of dirty clothes. Renée never saw Kathy again.
Kathy could have found her later in life; they were seven years apart. She’d reached adulthood far before Renée. Yet she never came back. Never looked for her.
Renée rubbed the crescent moon-shaped scar on her right wrist and yawned. She laid down. Her final conscious thought: Does she ever think about me?
“Isn’t it a little early to set up camp in front of the TV, young lady?” a rumbling voice asked.
Turning from her position, curled up at the end of the stone-colored plush sectional, Renée dropped the television remote. She squinted. When filtered through off-white curtains, the sun bathed the contemporary-style living room in a harsh orange glow, making it hard to discern her father’s image in the arched entryway.
Randall Sutton. Possibly the most handsome fifty-six-year-old man alive—at least in her opinion. At six-three, he was a big man, but not fat. He was in fantastic shape for his age. Cropped brown hair peppered with gray complimented sky-blue eyes. Lugging four large, black suitcases—one under each arm and one in each hand—he’d forgone his usual cowboy attire. In its place, he wore a tacky, multi-colored, floral print, button-down shirt with khaki shorts, and Timberland boots.
Not every outfit can be a winner, I guess.
“Don’t you have work to get ready for? Or a mall excursion to plan?” Randall asked.
Renée gave a wide, ditzy smile and twirled a lock of long, mahogany hair around her finger. “Like, OMG, Dad. Like, the mall’s not even open this early. Duh!” she said, affecting her best Valley Girl accent, which wasn’t far from her usual speech pattern.
“Hilarious, Renée,” he replied, eyes narrowed. “Is this your plan for the entire time your mother and I are gone? Watching soap operas?”
“Dad!” she exclaimed, offended. “Do you see how fast I’m flipping through the channels? I couldn’t be watching anything if I tried. I’m surfing. And soap operas aren’t really a thing anymore.”
God, the way her dad made it sound, one would think she asked to live here. She wasn’t some freeloader mooching off her parents. She managed a luxury apartment community close to their Paradise Valley home. On-call all the time, this was the first day of a much-needed vacation. Shit!
Randall put down the luggage. Sat in his favorite, ugly brown La-Z-Boy recliner. It contrasted starkly against the other furniture: the curved stone sectional where she sat, the plush stone couch, her mother’s stone recliner, the glass-top oak coffee table with matching end tables, and a burnish-brown oak entertainment center. His La-Z-boy was also a source of contention between her parents.
A familiar, disapproving clucking echoed through the hall, grew louder by the second, and annoyed the shit out of Renée. Six seconds later, buxom, five foot five, Susan Sutton came into sight. Her outfit was almost identical to her husband’s, except she wore flat white sandals and a black carry-on bag. Censure dimmed emerald eyes. Pink gloss-coated lips pressed into a firm line in a wrinkle-free, heart-shaped face. Her honey blond hair, up in a ponytail, made her look younger than her fifty-two years.
Eyes cut at her daughter and a hand propped on her hip, she shook her head. “Always sarcasm from you and your brother. A simple ‘No, I’m not watching TV,’ would suffice.” She turned to her husband. “Honey, remember I told you Née has the next few weeks off?”
Randall arched a curious brow in Renée’s direction.
Susan returned her attention to Renée. “You doing anything today, or just hanging around the house?”
Renée released a deep sigh. It’s not like they’d be here. What did they care? This over-interest in her life shtick pissed her off. Too much. Her interrupted night’s sleep was catching up with her. She glanced at each of her parents; warmth and love warred with annoyance. “Gosh, sorry, you act like you don’t want me here. What? Afraid I’ll throw a wild party? I will gladly move out if it helps alleviate your fears.”
Susan entered the room and sat at the opposite end of the sectional. “Stop, Renée,” she chided. “We were just curious—no ulterior motive or hidden agenda. And we said we didn’t want you to move out before you were ready. You’re not ready,” she clarified.
Renée understood her mother’s comment for what it was, a command. Oh, so now they were splitting hairs. Two could play that—
Ding. Dong!
Saved by the bell. Thank God! She would’ve given the I have to potty excuse to escape this escalating conversation in another minute. She hopped up on bare feet to answer the door. Renée pulled the door open and froze.
A smile lit Renée’s face. “Hey, you!” she exclaimed. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence.” No sooner than the words left her lips, she jumped up and threw her arms around Andrew’s neck.
He looked good. Debonair in his gray T-shirt and jeans. She’d almost forgotten what he looked like in casual clothes. Since moving out, whenever he came by, it was after some meeting with a client, so he wore business attire. A successful private investigator, Andrew could not only find half a needle in a haystack but also determine who put it there, why they put it there, when they put it there, and get pictures of it happening in seconds.
He was one of only three men she tolerated. The serious workaholic never dated, which was sad because he was gorgeous with above-average height, green eyes, and chiseled features.
Bone-crushing strength returned her gentle embrace. He lifted her off her feet. She’d missed him but would bite her tongue off before voicing such a weakness. Renée glanced over Andrew’s shoulder. Something—yeah, some-thing—caught her eye. Her smile morphed into a fierce scowl. She backed out of her brother’s arms, grabbed the door, and pulled it close to her body. Wrapping her left arm around it, she blocked entry into the house.
