Page 50 of Love What's Left
I started therapy sessions at that time, as well, but I have a viscerally negative reaction to the idea of putting more drugs in my body. I won’t even take the multivitamin. I also know I’m making that choice based on fear, not logic. It doesn’t matter.
“Hyper-vigilance is an understandable trauma response, but it’s important to recognize that what you’re feeling isn’t based on the reality of danger in present circumstances. Being open with your family and medical support staff can help. We’re all here for you.”
“Not hap-happening until the person who helped Markov kidnap me . . . is caught.” If I can stay calm, I can speak clearly. But the more stressed I feel, the harder it gets to express myself. And the harder it becomes to express myself, the more stressed I feel.
She leans forward, her feet flat on the floor, and braces her forearms on her fawn-colored dress pants, her hands loosely clasped together. “Your captor is dead. The authorities have closed the investigation into your kidnapping.”
I shrug. “I don’t b-believe he was working alone.”
“Have you remembered something from your captivity to back up that theory?”
I give a minute shake of my head and twist the fabric of my black pants at the knees. “No. Henry agrees, though. He brought the b-bag with the clothes I was wearing. It could help me remember.”
I suspect I wanted it because I once used the belt on it as a comfort object. I haven’t managed to force myself to open the bag yet, though. I asked my husband to take it away.
Dr. Frankhouser takes in a slow breath. “You were drugged during that time. It’s no more likely for you to remember it than a person would remember undergoing surgery. But your body may remember the trauma you experienced, even when your mind doesn’t. The dress isn’t likely to bring back any useful information, but it could set you back into the state your husband found you in. I understand your desire to remember. But it’s far more important to focus on the issues you’re facing in your life now.”
“I don’t want to open the bag.” It’s weird. Idon’twant to open that bag. It’s true. But her insistence that I shouldn’t irks me.
“Good.” She nods before shifting gears. “Last time we met, you told me you planned to try eating independently. How did that go?”
“I changed my mind.”
“When you were a captive, being wary of your food was necessary. It may have even kept you alive. You did a great job. But, now that you’ve returned to safety, those coping mechanisms no longer apply. They’ve become a burden.”
She leaves an awkwardly long pause after her statement. It wasn’t a question, and I don’t know how to fill the silence. Finally, I settle for a shrug.
“Who in your home do you suspect of tampering with your food?” she asks.
She refuses to let me get away with another shrug and waits for me to answer.
“I can’t think of a-anyone,” I finally admit.
“Could that be because no one here would do it?”
I nod just to get her to shut up.
“Can you think of ways you could eliminate the need for Gabriel to test the food for you?”
“If it came in unopened c-cans. I could make my own s-soup.”
“That’s a good start.” Dr. Frankhouser reaches into the brown leather messenger bag she carried into the room with her when she arrived.
Smiling,she produces a chocolate chip cookie in a sealed plastic wrapper and places it on the end table between us. “Would you be willing to try that?”
My gaze skips away from her. “I’ll w-work on it on my own. Later.”
She leans toward me. “Can you look at me, Sydney?”
I make reluctant eye contact.
“You’re safe at home. No one can get to you behind these walls. The cookie is in a factory-sealed package.”
Déjà vu crawls down my spine. “I d-don’t like your tone.”
A light furrow touches her brow. “What tone?”
Too coaxing. Too nice and reasonable. It’s fake. When I don’t do what she wants, violence follows. Not from her, but fromhim.
