Still Missing

SESSION TWELVE

I'm in a weird-ass mood today, Doc. Wired up, mind all over the place, looking for answers, reasons, something solid to cling to, something real, but just when I think I've got it figured out and neatly filed under fixed instead of fucked, turns out I'm still shattered, scattered, and battered. But you probably already knew that, didn't you?

At least your office feels real. Real wood shelves, real wood desk, real native masks on the wall. And in here I can be real because I know you can't tell people about me, but I wonder if when you sit around with your shrink friends, talking about whatever it is you guys talk about, you want to just blurt it out.... No, forget I said that, you look like the type that went into the profession because you genuinely want to help people.

You might not be able to help me. That makes me sad, but not for me. It makes me sad for you. It must be frustrating for a shrink to have a patient who's beyond fixing. That first shrink I saw when I got back to Clayton Falls told me no one is a lost cause, but I think that's bullshit. I think people can be so crushed, so broken, that they'll never be anything more than a fragment of a whole person.

I wonder when it happened to The Freak. What the defining moment was--the moment when someone stepped down with the heel of their shoe and crushed both of our lives. Was it when his real mother left him? Would he still have been repairable if he'd had a nice foster family? Would he never have killed anyone or abducted me if his adoptive mom hadn't been such a freak herself? Did it happen in the womb? Did he ever even have a chance? Did I?

There was The Freak side of him, the guy who abducted me, beat me, raped me, played sadistic games with me, terrified me. But sometimes when he was thoughtful or happy or excited, when his face lit up, I saw the guy he could have been. Maybe that guy would have had a family and taught his child to ride bikes and made balloon animals for her, you know? Hell, maybe he'd have been a doctor and saved people's lives.

After I had my daughter, I even felt maternal toward him sometimes, and in those fleeting moments when I did see his other side, I wanted to coax it out. I wanted to help him. I wanted to fix him. But then I'd remember. He was a little boy standing in front of a hayfield holding a match, and he didn't need an excuse to drop it.

Right after the baby was born The Freak tossed me some cloth diapers, a couple of sleepers, a few blankets, and for a week barely spoke to me unless he was telling me to do something--he only let me rest in bed for one day. My first day up I got dizzy doing the dishes and he let me sit down for a few minutes, but then he made me wash them all over again because the water had grown cold. The next time I just leaned on the counter and closed my eyes until the feeling passed.

He never touched the baby, but when I changed or bathed her, he hovered and picked that moment to ask me to do something for him. If I was folding her laundry, he'd make me finish his first. Once, when I was about to nurse her while our dinner was simmering, he made me put her down and serve him. The only time he left us alone was when I nursed her. Not knowing exactly what was pissing him off, I picked her up and soothed her if she made so much as a peep, but his eyes only turned darker and his jaw clenched. He reminded me of a viper waiting to strike, and as I comforted my child, my insides hummed with anxiety.

When she was a couple of days old, he still hadn't mentioned anything about naming her, so I asked him if I could.

He glanced at her in my arms and said, "No," but later I whispered a secret name into her tiny ear. It was the only thing I could give her.

I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd handled his jealousy and resentment of his adopted father. So when he was in the cabin I made sure I looked indifferent to the baby and only met her basic needs--luckily, she was a content and happy baby who never fussed much. But as soon as he went outside for his chores, I'd take her out of the blanket and look at every inch of her, amazed she came out of my body.

Considering the circumstances of her conception, I was surprised how much I was capable of loving my daughter. With my fingertips I traced her veins, marveling that my blood flowed through her, and she never squirmed. Her little ear was perfect for singing lullabies into, and sometimes I just buried my nose in her neck and inhaled the scent of her, fresh and sweet--the purest thing I'd ever smelled. Behind her pudgy left knee she had a tiny birthmark, a coffee-colored half-moon that I loved to kiss. Every delicate inch of her made my heart shiver with the overwhelming urge to protect her. The intensity of my feelings terrified me, and my anxiety grew with my love.

We still had bath time every night, but she wasn't allowed in the water with me and The Freak never touched my breasts. After the bath, I nursed her on the bed while he cleaned the bathroom. When she was finished I laid her down in a little bed he'd put at the foot of ours--it was just a wicker basket with some blankets in it, like a dog bed, but it didn't seem to bother her.

I remembered a couple of my friends who had kids complaining about how they never got any sleep in the beginning, and I didn't either. Not because of the baby--she only woke up once a night--but because I was so terrified of what he'd do if she woke him up that I lay there listening to every faint sigh or the tiniest hitch in her breathing. I became adept at slithering to the bottom of the bed at the first signs of her waking so he wouldn't feel my weight leave the mattress, and like a dog nursing a puppy I'd hang my breast over the side, lift her up slightly, and feed her. If he moved or made any sound, I lay perfectly still with my heart pounding and wondered if she could feel it pulse through my breast. As soon as his breath evened out, I'd slither back up.

At bedtime, after she was down, he examined me and tenderly put cream on my privates, pausing to make soothing sounds if I flinched, his face sympathetic. He said we had to wait six weeks before we could "make love" again. When he'd raped me it was a hell of a lot more painful but somehow less disturbing. Sometimes I actually forced myself not to react if it hurt when he spread the cream, so he'd keep going. Pain was normal.

When she was a little over a week old I was cooking and needed two hands, so I was about to go put her down in her basket, but he stood in front of me and said, "I'll take her." My eyes moved back and forth between him and the safety of her bed--I'd been so close--but I didn't dare refuse him. After I gently placed her in his arms, he strolled away with her, and my heart climbed into my throat. He sat on the end of the bed.

She began to whimper, and I dropped what I was doing to stand in front of him.

"I'm sorry she disturbed you--I'll put her in her bed."

"We're just fine here." He bounced her up and down in his arms, and as he gazed down at her he said, "She knows I'm her father and she's going to be a good girl for me, isn't she?" She quieted and he smiled.

I turned back to the stove, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely stir the pot--every once in a while I twisted around to grab some spices so I could keep an eye on things.

At first he just stared down at her, but then he unrolled the blanket and took off her sleeper so she was lying on his lap in only her diaper. I was terrified she might start bawling, but she just wiggled her arms and legs around in the cool air. He looked her over, grabbed her arm, then slowly bent it backward. Even though he wasn't doing it hard, my body tensed as I waited for her cries to fill the air, but she was quiet. He did the same with her other arm and legs--it was like he'd never seen a baby before.

His expression was calm, more curious than anything, and he was gentle when he wiped a bit of drool off her chin, even smiled, but the urge to go over and rip her out of his arms was powerful. Only fear of the consequences overrode it. Finally dinner was done, so I walked over on shaky legs, put out my arms for him to hand her to me, and said, "Your plate is ready."

It took him a second to give her to me, and as he passed her through the air a look crossed his face that I'd never seen before. He let go. For a heartbeat she was in the air, and then she dropped. I leapt forward and caught her just before she would have hit the floor. With my heart hammering my chest so hard it hurt, I clutched her against me. He smiled and got up to eat his dinner, humming a tune under his breath.

In the middle of taking a bite, he paused and said, "Her name is Juliet." I nodded, but no way was I naming her after his crazy mom. In my head I called her by her secret name, and other than you, I've never told anyone what he named her.

After that he picked her up sometimes, usually when I was doing something, like folding the laundry or cleaning. He always sat on the bed with her, rolled her onto her stomach, and then bent her arms and legs back. She never whimpered, so I don't think he was hurting her, but I still wanted to run over and grab her--only the knowledge that he might hurt her to punish me held my feet fast. Eventually he'd put her back in her basket, but once he just left her on the edge of the bed like a toy he'd grown bored with. My body broke out in a cold sweat every time he went near her.

When I worked in the garden he let me take her outside with me, nestled in a little blanket tied around my neck. I loved being out there with her, seeing the vegetables I planted grow, smelling earth warmed by the sun, or just rubbing my hands over the down on my baby's head. Saying I found some happiness up there feels wrong, because it's like saying it was okay--it was never okay. But when I had my baby I did feel happy at least some of the time every day.

The Freak never let me outdoors unless he was working out there as well, but he usually had something going on, chopping wood, weatherproofing the shutters, staining some of the logs, so I made it out often. He wanted me to repaint the rocking chairs from the porch, and I took them down to the river with me to work on while I enjoyed the sun with my daughter.

If he was pleased with me, he let me just sit by the river when my chores were done. Those were good days, days when I wished I had a sketch pad to capture the contrast of my baby's milky-white skin against the emerald-green grass, or the way she scrunched up her face when an ant crawled over her. Images of fireweed in bloom, sunlight dancing on the river, and the reflection of fir trees on its surface made my hands itch to paint. I thought if I could just get all that beauty on paper I'd have a way to remember there was still an outside world to return to when things got bad in the cabin, but when I asked The Freak for a sketch pad he said no.

Because it was warm, he had me doing laundry in the river every couple of days--he was big on conserving water. The stupid baths he made me take every night used up a ton of water, but I never said anything. Hell, I liked the way river water and sun made the clothes smell. A rope strung from an apple tree someone must have planted years ago to a corner of the cabin served as our clothesline. That was The Freak and me, a regular pioneer couple.

I first noticed the mallard duck floating around the edge of the river, where the water slowed down, before I had the baby. Sometimes other ducks were with him, but usually he was alone. If The Freak wasn't looking in my direction, I stopped what I was doing and admired the duck. The first couple of times I went down to the river to wash clothes or just to sit, the duck flew off as soon as he spotted me. But when my baby was a week old I sat on a rock to rinse out some blankets and enjoy the feel of cool water on my hands, and the duck just moved to the opposite side of the river and paddled around, pecking at the water, catching bugs.

The Freak came down and handed me some bread. The gesture surprised me, but I was happy to be allowed to feed the duck.

Over the next few days I coaxed the duck closer and closer with the bread. Soon he was taking it out of my hand. I wondered if he ever flew over my house. He was a reminder of life beyond my narrow existence, and I couldn't wait to get down to the river to see him every day, but I was careful not to let my excitement show. Practiced indifference was becoming second nature--I'd learned the hard way that letting The Freak know I liked something was the quickest way to end it.

He never let us out of his sight or running distance, but he usually left us alone down at the river. Sometimes I was even able to tune out his presence enough to convince myself I was just relaxing by the river on a typical summer day, smiling at my daughter's growing awareness of the world. Before she was born, I'd wondered if she'd be able to sense the evil around her, but she was the happiest baby I'd ever been near.

My eyes had stopped searching the clearing for avenues of escape. I wouldn't be able to move fast carrying her, and I knew my fears of what he might do if he caught us were probably tame compared to the reality.

When my daughter was two weeks old, The Freak came down to the river and crouched near me. As soon as the duck saw him it backed away from my hand and swam into the middle of the pool. The Freak tried to tempt him closer with bread, but the duck ignored him, and a flush crept up The Freak's neck. My breath trapped in my throat, I prayed the duck would take it, but he didn't, and finally The Freak dropped the bread and headed back up to the cabin, saying he had to get something ready for dinner. The duck came right back.

I heard a sickeningly loud explosion as his beautiful head blew up in front of me. Feathers floated in the air--landing on me, on the baby, on the river's surface. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard screams and realized they were mine. I jumped up from my crouch and spun around. The Freak stood on the porch with a rifle in his hand. With my hands clamped over my mouth to hold in the screams, I stared at him.

"Bring it inside."

My mouth struggled to form words. "Why did you--" But I was asking the air. He'd already left the porch.

With my baby's wails expressing my own feelings, I waded into the river and grabbed what was left of the duck. Its head was practically gone and its poor bloody body was upside down, floating downstream.

Later that day I learned how to pluck feathers off a duck. I'll never forget the smell. Tears welled up and spilled over the whole time, and no matter how often he told me to stop crying, and God knows I tried, sobs kept breaking free. With every feather I pulled out of that duck's body, my guilt mounted. If I hadn't tamed him, he'd still be alive.

When it was time to sit down and eat our roast duck dinner, I froze. The Freak sat opposite me, and between us, arranged on a big platter, was my duck. I had given in to demand after demand, but watching him carve up my symbol of freedom, I hated him like never before. My hand couldn't lift the fork to my mouth. It didn't take him long to notice.

"Eat your dinner, Annie."

The only movement was tears down my face. It was bad enough I was the reason it was dead--I couldn't eat it. The Freak grabbed a handful of meat, strode over to me, pried my mouth open, and shoved it in. While I gagged and choked--drowning in duck--he screamed at me.

"Chew it!"

His other hand held the back of my head so I couldn't pull away, and once he'd shoved my mouth full, he clamped his other hand over my lips. I ate my duck. I had to.

The Freak went back to eating his. I was mesmerized by the flashing metal of his fork and knife as he carefully cut the duck into small pieces on his plate. Aware of my attention, he slowly brought the fork to his mouth and delicately took a piece off with his teeth. His lips closed around it, his eyelashes fluttered down, and he gave a sigh of pleasure. As he leisurely chewed, he opened his eyes to stare at me. Finally he swallowed.

Then he smiled.

That night was the first time I couldn't look at my daughter while she nursed. She was drinking the duck, drinking my beautiful duck, and I wondered if she could taste my pain.

Last night it was damn hard to stay out of the closet, Doc. My room was so dark, pitch-dark, and I kept thinking that something was reaching for me, but when I turned on the flashlight I keep by my bed, there was nothing. I tried sleeping with a candle, but that just made creepy flickering shadows on the wall. I turned on all the lights, but then I was wide awake. Which only made it that much easier to hear every creak in my house, and it's an old house--lots of creaks. So the good news is I never slept in the closet last night, Doc; bad news is there sure are some crappy late-night TV shows.

It did give me time to think about fear and all that stuff you told me on how PTSD manifests in different ways, but I still can't tell you exactly why sleeping in the closet makes me feel safer. All I know is, something about the bed just feels so exposed. There are so many ways I could be gotten to--from my feet, left side, right side, or even from above--too much empty space pressing in on me.

The more painful the stuff I tell you, the more I want to--need to--sleep in the closet. You asked what it is I'm trying to keep away from me, and maybe this is a good time to go into the granddaddy of all my lingering side effects--this paranoid itch that won't go away no matter how much I scratch.

I just can't seem to shake the overwhelming feeling I'm still not safe. And I know it's whacked, because the cops have been totally cool about keeping me up to date on the investigation, especially this one cop, Gary--man, the poor guy probably wishes he'd never given me his cell number--and they'd have told me if I was still in danger. They bloody well have to. That's their whole deal--protect the people and all that crap. So what the fuck?

Please don't give me any of the It's-just-PTSD-natural-after-your-experience garbage. Look, I get that I came home with major hang-ups and fear and shit. Like I said, I thought about everything you told me--even did some research on the Internet. Hell, I was hoping that was all it was, but there's something different about this. Feels too real.

That's where you come in, Doc. You have to help me get rid of this obsession that I'm still not safe. That someone or something is out to get me. Don't worry, I'm not expecting some instant shrink just-add-bullshit porridge answer. Give it some thought. Maybe I'll have it all figured out in a couple of weeks when you're back from your holiday--wouldn't it be nice if this shit was that easy.

Thanks for referring me to another shrink, but I'll wait for you to come back. For some strange reason, I have trust issues.

SESSION THIRTEEN

Nice to see you back, Doc. At least one of us is relaxed. Just giving you a hard time--I don't doubt for one minute you needed a break from all this doom and gloom. You do a good job of hiding it, but I know this stuff gets to you. Right from our first session I noticed whenever I talk about something intense, you rip off a corner of your note pad and roll it into a ball with your fingers. The faster you roll, the harder this shit's hitting you. We all give ourselves away somehow.

Like I said, I'm glad you had a nice time, but I'm a hell of a lot gladder you're back. Sure could have used you last week. And no, not just because of all that someone's-still-out-to-get-me crap I was talking about last time, although that vulture is still hovering in the background--something else happened. I saw my ex, in a grocery store, picking out apples with some girl.... God, the way he smiled at her killed me. And the way she tilted her head back--in her tight white turtleneck and designer jeans--laughing at something he'd said...

Before they spotted me and I had to see Luke's beautiful smile turn sympathetic, I ducked around the corner. Basket ditched in the middle of the store, I walked out, head down, and jumped in my car with my heart beating faster than a crack addict's. Trying not to squeal my tires in my desperation to get the hell out of there, I pulled around the back of the store, parked far away from any other cars, and with my head on the steering wheel, cried my eyes out.

She wasn't supposed to be there. He was mine. I should be the girl picking out apples with him. Eventually I drove home, but I couldn't stop crying and I never did get any groceries. Ended up eating hard cheese on stale crackers that night while I pictured them cuddling in bed on a Sunday morning, or him kissing her with his hands wrapped in that beautiful hair. Hell, by the time my mind was done with it they were pretty much engaged and naming their future children.

In those few seconds he looked so fucking happy, and I wanted to be the only woman who could make him smile like that. Just talking about it is making me feel all crazy inside. I know I'm supposed to want him to be okay, want what's best for him and all that, but man, oh, man--does it have to be someone like her? Miss Perfect Blonde, so clean in her white turtleneck I felt dirty just looking at her. I used to wear clothes like hers, used to want to wear clothes like that.

I wonder if this woman, this stranger, knows all about me. She's probably a nice person too--can't see him dating someone who isn't. Maybe she feels sorry for me. God, I hope not. I'm doing a damn good job of that on my own.

After The Freak killed the duck, a piece of me tore off and left a black hole in its place. Terror moved in and brought a giant hand gripping my heart and guts. Over the next couple of days whenever I watched him pick my daughter up, examine her, hell, even walk by her basket, the hand squeezed harder.

One morning she was fussing in her bed and I was about to pick her up when he beat me to it. A little cry escaped from the bundle in his arms; she was still wrapped in her blanket as he bounced her. He put his face close to hers and said, "Stop it." I held my breath, but she was quiet, and he smiled with pride. I knew it was the bouncing, not the words, that had calmed her, but I wasn't suicidal enough to set him straight.

"She listens well," he said. "But at this age their brains are sponges, easily poisoned by society. It's good she's here. Here she'll learn real values, values I'll instill in her, but most of all she'll learn respect."

Shit, how the hell was I going to deal with this?

"Sometimes kids, you know, they test their boundaries and she might not understand what you're trying to...teach her. But it won't mean she's bad or doesn't respect you, it's just what kids do."

"No, it's not what kids do--it's what parents allow them to do."

He didn't seem upset by the conversation, so I said, "Maybe it's good if a child has curiosity and tests authority? You told me the women you knew before always made bad decisions over men and their careers, but maybe they were just rebelling because they weren't allowed to think for themselves when they were younger."

Still calm, he said, "Is that what your mother did? Raised you to be free-thinking?" Sure, I was free to think exactly like her.

"No, but that's why I want to give my daughter a better life. Don't you want your child to have a better life than you had?"

He stopped bouncing her. "What are you implying?"

Oh, shit.

"Nothing! I'm just concerned you might have some expectations that aren't--"

"Expectations? Yes, I have expectations, Annie. I expect my daughter to respect her father. I expect my daughter to grow up to be a lady--not some whore spreading her legs for any man who comes along. I don't think that's expecting too much, do you? Or are you trying to raise my daughter to be a whore?"

"That's not at all what I'm trying to say--"

"Do you know what happens to girls who grow up thinking they can do whatever they please? I worked in a logging camp for a while." The Freak was a logger? "And there was a female helicopter pilot. She said her father told her she could be whatever she wanted. He was a fool. When I met her, her boyfriend--one of the idiot loggers in camp--had just discarded her."

Well, he didn't seem to have a good opinion of loggers, so maybe he was a foreman or worked in the office.

"I listened to her talk about this Neanderthal and let her cry all her pathetic tears on my shoulder for six months. She started saying she wished she could find a nice man, so I asked her out, but she said she wasn't ready. So I waited. Then one day she told me she wanted to go for a walk. Alone. But I saw him leave the camp a few minutes later, and I followed him."

He bounced the baby faster and faster and she began to whimper. "They were in the woods on a blanket, and she was letting this man, this man she despised, this man who threw her away like garbage, do things to her. So I waited until he left and tried to talk to her, tried to tell her he was only going to hurt her again, but she told me to mind my own business and walked away from me. Away from me! After everything I'd done to try to protect her, she was going to go back to that man. I had to save her. She left me no choice." His arms tightened around the baby.

I stepped forward with my hands out.

"You're hurting her."

"She hurt me." He jerked his head as the baby began to wail, then stared down at her like he didn't know how she got there. He shoved her into my arms, almost dropping her in the process, and stalked toward the door. With his hands gripping the frame, he said over his shoulder, "If she becomes one of them..." He shook his head. "I can't let that happen." Then he slammed the door behind him, leaving me to quiet the baby and wish I could break down and bawl myself.

He came back in after an hour with his face serene and made his way over to the baby basket. "I think if you take a look at what I've spared her from, Annie--the diseases, drugs, and pedophiles running rampant down there--and then ask yourself if you really want what's best for our daughter, or what you think is best for you..." He crouched over her and smiled down. "You'll realize it's time you put her life above your own." His smile disappeared as he looked up to stare hard at me. "Can you do that, Annie?" My eyes dropped to his hands resting on her tiny body--hands that had killed at least one person and done God only knows what to that helicopter pilot.

With my head bowed I said, "Yes, yes, I can."

For the rest of that day every nerve in my body screamed at me to run, and my legs ached from unreleased adrenaline coursing through them. My hands shook--I dropped dishes, clothes, soap, everything. The more frustrated he became, the more things I dropped, and the more my legs cramped. The smallest sound made me jump, and if he moved fast, my blood surged in my veins and I broke out in a sweat.

The next day he packed up a small bag with a change of clothes and took off without saying a word about where he was going. My relief was underscored by my terror that he'd finally had enough of us and wasn't going to come back. My frantic fingers searched the cabin top to bottom again, but there was no way out. He came back the next day, and I still didn't have a clue how I was going to get my child out of this hell.

Wherever he'd been, he brought back germs, and soon he started coughing and sneezing. True to form, he was a demanding patient. Not only did I have to care for the baby and do my chores, I now had to wipe his brow every five fucking seconds, keep the fire going, and bring him blankets hot from the dryer--his idea, not mine--while he languished in bed. I prayed he'd develop pneumonia and die.

He made me read to him until my throat became raspy. I wished I could just play poker with him like I used to with my stepdad. Wayne wasn't the wipe-your-brow kind of guy, which was just fine by me, but he did teach me to play cards when I was sick. At the first sign of a sniffle he'd whip out a pack and we'd go at it for hours. I loved the feel of cards in my hands, the numbers, the set order of them. Mostly I loved winning, and he had to teach me increasingly harder games so he could beat me once in a while.

By the second day coughs wracked The Freak's body, and I paused from my reading to say, "Do you have any medicine?"

As if I was threatening to pour something down his throat right there and then, he grabbed my arm, dug his nails in, and said, "No! No medicine."

"It might help."

"Medicine is poison." Against my arm his hand burned with fever.

"Maybe if you went to town and found a doctor--"

"Doctors are even worse than medicine! Doctors are what killed my mother. If she'd just let me take care of her she'd have been fine, but they pumped their poisons into her and she got sicker and sicker. They killed her." Even through a stuffed-up nose his contempt infused every syllable.

After a few days he stopped coughing, but the baby began crying at night and waking up every couple of hours. When I reached my hand down to her she felt warm. I tried to comfort her as soon as she woke up, but once I wasn't fast enough and he threw a pillow at her bed.

Another time he wouldn't let me go to her, saying, "Keep reading, she just wants attention." I wanted to take care of my daughter, I wanted to keep us both alive. I kept reading.

Her wails grew louder. He ripped the book out of my hands.

"Make her stop or I will."

My tone as calm and reassuring as I could make it, I lifted her out of her bed and said, "I think she might be getting sick too."

"She's fine. You just have to learn how to control her." He buried his head under the pillow. I had the insane urge to go over and press my whole body down on the pillow, but then his head popped up and he said, "Get me a fresh glass of water, and this time make it cold." I gave him a cheerful smile while inside another piece of me snapped off and spun away.

The next morning, earlier than usual, she woke me crying. I picked her up right away and tiptoed around, trying to calm her down, but it was too late. The Freak jumped out of bed and threw his clothes on while glaring at me.

"I'm sorry, but I think she's really sick."

He stalked outside. I lay back in bed and got ready to nurse her. It was one of my favorite things to do with her. I loved the way she stared up at me, one small hand resting on my breast, how her belly swelled up when she was full, how her little bottom fit my hand perfectly. Everything about her was so delicate--her hands with their little lines and tiny finger-nails, her smooth cheeks, her silky dark eyelashes.

Usually after she was finished nursing I kissed every part of her, starting at her toes and her soft instep. Once I got up to her hands, I'd pretend to nibble her fingertips and work my way back down her arm. For the grand finale, I'd blow on her belly until she emitted happy little squeaks.

But today my normally happy baby was restless and edgy, and every time I tried to nurse her she moved her mouth away from my nipple. Her skin was hot to the touch and her cheeks were circles of red, like someone had drawn a clown's face on her. Her belly looked distended and I thought she might have gas, so I walked around with her, but she threw up all over my shoulder and finally just cried herself to sleep. I'd never felt so helpless in my life. I was terrified of what The Freak might do if I told him, but I had to get her some help.

"The baby's really sick, she needs a doctor," I said as soon as he came back inside.

He glanced at me. "Start breakfast."

During breakfast she started crying in her basket and I moved to get her, but he held his hand up and said, "Stop. Going to her only reinforces negative behavior. Finish your meal."

Her wails ripped the air apart, and as she inhaled between each lusty cry, I thought I heard a wet rattle in her chest.

"She's not doing well. Can we please get to a doctor? I know your mom died, but she had cancer--it wasn't the doctors that killed her. You can tie me up in the van and take her in." I hesitated for a second. "Or I'll wait here and you can just take her, okay?" Had I really said that? She'd be alone with him. But she'd get help.

He chewed slowly. Finally he paused, wiped his mouth on his napkin, took a sip of water, and said, "Doctors ask questions." Her wails reached heart-wrenching levels.

"I know, but you're smart--smarter than any doctor--you'll know what to say so they never suspect a thing."

"Exactly. I am smarter than a doctor, that's why I know she doesn't need one." He stomped toward her bed, with me right on his heels. His voice rose to compete with her cries as he said, "She just needs to learn some respect."

"Why don't you relax, and I'll quiet her?"

"I don't think so, Annie. Obviously you've been doing something wrong." As he picked her up from the basket, I gripped the fabric of my dress at my thighs to stop my hands from pounding on his back and prayed she'd calm down for him. But when he bounced her, the wails only grew frantic.

"Please just give her to me." I held my shaking hands out. "Please. She's scared."

One minute he was staring at me, his face burgundy with rage, and the next his hands were up and she was dropping. I managed to catch her, losing my balance and falling hard on my knees at the same time. Whether from surprise or finally fatigue, the baby gave an exhausted hiccup and was quiet in my arms. He knelt down, putting his face close to mine, so close I felt his breath against my face.

"You've turned my daughter against me. Not good, Annie. Not good at all."

My voice a shaky whisper, I said, "I would never do anything like that--she's just confused, because she's not well. She loves you. I know she loves you, I can tell." His head was cocked to the side. "When she hears your voice her eyes move in that direction. She doesn't do that for me when you're holding her." Total bullshit, but he had to buy it.

His eyes drilled into mine for an excruciating minute, then he clapped his hands and said, "Come on, our breakfast is getting cold." I placed her in her basket and followed him, my body tensed for her screams. Thankfully, she'd fallen asleep.

After breakfast he stretched his hands over his head and patted his stomach. I had to try again.

"Maybe if you let me look through the books I could find some herbs or plants that grow up here for medicine. That's natural, and you could look at the books too and check what's okay to give her."

He glanced at her bed and said, "She'll be fine."

But she wasn't. Over the next couple of days a fever raged through her. Her silky skin burned against my hands and I didn't have a clue what to do for her. Coughs left her gasping, and I put hot cloths on her chest in an attempt to loosen her congestion, but that just made her cry more, and cold cloths made her scream even louder. Nothing worked. She started waking up every hour at night, and I never went all the way to sleep--I lay half awake in a constant state of fear. Sometimes I heard her breath hiccup in her throat, and my heart froze until I heard her take another.

The Freak decided that if she cried during the day we had to ignore her so she would learn self-control, but he usually only lasted maybe ten minutes before he stormed outside while screaming, "Deal with her!" I was quick to get her when she cried at night, but if he did wake up, he'd throw the pillow--at her, at me, or put it over his head. Sometimes he punched the bed.

So he could go back to sleep, I'd hide in the bathroom with her until she calmed down. One night, hoping the steam would help her breathing, I ran the shower, but I never found out whether it would have worked--he came tearing in, yelling at me to shut it off.

After a few of these nights, I was a zombie. On the fifth night she was sick, it felt like she was waking up every half hour and it was getting harder for me to stay awake in anticipation. I remember my eyelids feeling so heavy I just wanted to rest them for a second, but then I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up with a start. My first thought was how quiet the cabin was, and, glad she was finally resting, I let my eyelids drift closed. Then I realized I didn't feel The Freak next to me and I bolted up.

The cabin was dark. Even though it was summer, it had been cool the night before, so he'd had a small fire going, and from the glow of the embers I made out his shape at the foot of the bed. He was hunched over slightly, so I thought he was picking her up, but when he turned around, I realized he was holding her. Groggy, I reached out.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear her cry."

He handed her to me, turned on the lamp, and started getting dressed. I didn't understand why. Was it already time to get up? Why hadn't he said anything? The baby lay quiet in my arms, and I pulled the blanket away from her face.

For the first time in days it wasn't twisted in discomfort and her cheeks weren't red or sweaty. But their paleness didn't seem right either, and her rosebud mouth was tinged blue. Even her eyelids were blue. The sounds of his dressing were muffled by my heart whooshing in my ears, and then everything grew quiet in my head.

When I laid my cool hand against her cheek, her cheek was colder. She didn't move. I brought my ear to her mouth, and my chest tightened as my own lungs fought for breath. I heard nothing. Felt nothing. Then I put my ear to her small chest, but the only sound was my own racing heart.

I pinched her tiny nose, blew into her little mouth, pushed on her chest. I was aware of mewling sounds in the room. My heart surged with joy--until I realized they were coming from me. In between CPR attempts, I pressed my ear to her mouth.

"Please, oh, please, just breathe. God help me, please."

It was too late. She was too cold.

I sat frozen at the foot of the bed and frantically tried to deny the fact that I was holding my dead daughter in my arms. The Freak stared down at us with an impassive face.

"I told you she needed a doctor. I TOLD YOU!" I screamed at him while pounding on his legs with one hand and clutching her to me with the other.

He slapped me across the face, then in a flat voice said, "Give me the baby, Annie."

I shook my head.

He gripped my throat with one hand and curled the other under her body. We stared at each other. The hand around my throat began to squeeze.

I let go.

He lifted her out of my arms and brought her to his chest, then stood up and walked toward the door.

I wanted to say something, anything, to make him stop, but I couldn't make my mouth form words. Finally I held her blanket up in the air, thrust it toward his retreating back, and choked out, "Cold--she's cold."

He stopped, then came back and stood in front of me. He took the blanket but just stared at it in his hand, his expression unreadable. I reached for my baby, eyes pleading. His gaze met mine and for a moment I thought I saw something cross his face, a slight hesitation, but in the next second his eyes darkened and his face grew hard. He brought the blanket up to cover her head.

I began to scream.

He was headed out the door. I leapt off the bed, but it was too late.

My fingernails clawed, desperately, uselessly, at the door. I kicked it and threw myself at it until I couldn't lift my bruised body off the floor. Finally, I lay with my cheek against the door and screamed her secret name until my throat was raw.

He was gone for about two days. I don't know how long I spent pressed against the door, screaming and begging for him to bring her back. I bloodied my fingers, destroyed every one of my nails scrabbling at the door without managing to make even a mark on it. Eventually I made my way back to the bed and cried until there were no tears left inside me.

In a pathetic bid to buy time against the pain, my mind tried to reason out what had happened and make sense of it, but all I could think was that it was my fault she died--I'd fallen asleep. Had she cried? I was so in tune with her every sound, surely I'd have heard her. Or was I just so exhausted I slept right through? It was my fault, all my fault, I should have woken up and checked on her during the night.

When he opened the door, I was sitting up in the bed with my back against the wall. I wouldn't have cared if he'd killed me right then. But when he strolled toward me I realized he was holding something in his arms and my heart lifted. She was still alive! He handed the bundle to me. It was her blanket, only her blanket.

I hurled myself at The Freak's chest and hammered on it. With every blow, I repeated, "You sick fuck, you sick fuck, you sick fuck!" He gripped the upper part of my arms, lifted me up, and held me away from him. Like a demented alley cat I clawed at the air.

"Where is she?" Spit flew from my mouth. "Tell me right now, you bastard. What did you do with her?"

He actually looked confused as he said, "But I brought you her--"

"You brought me a blanket. A blanket? You think that's going to replace my daughter? You idiot!" Hysterical giggles bubbled through my lips and turned to laughter.

He let go of my arms, my feet hit the floor with a thud, and I staggered forward. Before I was able to regain my balance, his arm cocked back and his fist slammed into my jaw. As the floor rushed toward me, the room turned black.

I woke up alone on the bed, where he must have placed me, my jaw throbbing. My baby's blanket was neatly folded on the pillow next to me.

To this day no one knows my baby's name--not even the cops. I've tried to say it out loud, just to myself, but it stays locked in my throat, in my heart.

When The Freak walked out that door with her body, he took everything left of me with her. She was only four weeks old when she died--or was killed. Four weeks. That's not enough time to have lived. She lived nine times longer in my belly than she did in the world.

I see pictures in magazines of kids the same age she would be now, and I wonder if she'd have looked like them. Would her hair still be dark? What color eyes would she have? Would she have grown up to be a happy or a serious person? I'll never know.

My clearest memory of that night is him sitting at the foot of the bed with her in his arms and I think, Did he do it? Then I think even if it wasn't intentional, he killed her by refusing to get any help for her. It's easier to hate him, easier to blame him. Otherwise I go over and over that night trying to remember how she was lying when I last placed her back in her bed. For a while I'll convince myself that she was on her back and it was my fault because she probably had pneumonia and drowned in mucus. Then I think, no, I must have placed her on her stomach, and I wonder if she smothered while I lay sleeping not five feet from her. I've heard that a woman is supposed to know when her child is in trouble. But I didn't feel anything. Why didn't I feel it, Doc?

SESSION FOURTEEN

Sorry I missed the last couple of sessions, but I really appreciate how understanding you were when I canceled, and I have to say, it sure surprised the shit out of me when you called last week to see how I was doing--didn't know shrinks ever did that. It was nice.

After our last session I needed to retreat for a while. Looks like I finally hit the depression stage--or actually, it hit me. And not with some gentle tap. Nope, that bitch hauled off and knocked me to the ground, then sat on me for good measure. I've never talked about my feelings around my baby's death before--cops just want the facts, and I refuse to discuss it at all with reporters. Most people know not to ask about her, I guess people still have some sensitivity, but once in a while a dumbass reporter steps over the line.

Sometimes I wonder if people don't ask because it doesn't occur to them that I might have loved her. When I'd just got back home and was staying at Mom's, I overheard her and Aunt Val whispering in the kitchen one afternoon. Aunt Val mentioned something about my baby, then Mom said, "Yes, it's sad she died, but probably for the best in the end."

It was for the best? I wanted to storm in there and tell her how wrong she was, but I didn't even know where to begin. With the pillow clamped against my ears, I cried myself to sleep.

I feel like a hypocrite, letting everyone believe he killed her and I'm the innocent victim--all the while knowing it's my fault she died. And yes, you and I already talked about this on the phone, and I liked that article you e-mailed me about survivor's guilt. It made sense, but I still thought, How nice for the people this applies to. It doesn't matter how many books or articles I read, I've already tried and convicted myself for not protecting her.

I tried writing my baby a letter like you suggested, but when I got out my note pad and pen, I just sat at my kitchen table and stared at the blank page. After a few minutes, I looked out the window at my plum tree and watched the hummingbirds hover at their feeder, then I stared back at the page. All those thoughts I had about her being a monster when I was first pregnant ate at me--did she feel them in my womb? I tried to focus on my happy memories of life with her and not how she died, but my mind wouldn't cooperate, it just kept going over and over that night. Finally I got up and made myself a cup of tea. The goddamn note pad and pen are still sitting there. "I'm sorry," just doesn't seem to cover it.

For the first few days after our last session, I didn't do much but cry. It didn't even take anything in particular to set me off. Emma and I could be walking in the woods and the pain would hit me so hard I'd be doubled over with the sheer force of it. On one of our walks I heard what sounded like a baby crying, but when I whipped around on the trail, I saw it was a baby crow up in a fir tree. Next thing I knew I was lying in the middle of the trail, hands clawing into the dirt, sobbing into the earth, with Emma trying to shove her nose into my neck and wash my face.

As if I could outrun my pain, I sprinted for home, and the feel of my feet thudding against the earth felt right and solid. The jingle of Emma's collar as she ran in front of me brought back memories of us jogging together in the past, another thing I'd forgotten I enjoyed. Now I run every day. I run until my body is coated in sweat and my only thoughts are of my next breath.

Luke called a week after our last session--he used to leave messages asking me to give him a call if I felt like it, but I didn't return them. He stopped leaving the messages but he still called at least once every couple of weeks even though I never picked up the phone. It's been about a month since the last call, just before I saw him with that girl, and I didn't think he'd try again.

When the phone rang, I was down in my laundry room and I had to run around to find the cordless. As soon as I saw his number, my already racing heart hit overdrive, and I almost set the receiver back down in the cradle, but my finger was on the talk button and he was saying, "Hello?" before I realized what I'd done. Then I didn't realize I hadn't responded until he said, "Annie?"

"Hey."

"You answered. I didn't know if you would..." He paused and I knew I should say something, something that sounded friendly, something that said, I'm glad you called.

"I was doing laundry." Jesus, I might as well have told him I was in the bathroom.

"Did I interrupt?"

"No, I mean yeah, but it's okay. It can wait."

"I saw you a few weeks ago and I wanted to call then, but I didn't know if you'd want me to."

"You saw me?"

"You were just leaving the grocery store, I tried to catch up to you but you were moving too fast." My face burned. Shit, he did see me leave the store.

I waited for him to say something about the girl but when he didn't, I said, "Really? I didn't notice you. I just stopped to get something in a hurry, but the store didn't have it."

We were both silent for a few beats, and then he said, "So what are you doing these days? I keep expecting to see your signs in someone's yard." I fought the urge to be mean and say the last sign I ever had in someone's lawn was at the open house where I was abducted. I knew he hadn't meant to hurt.

"You might have a long wait."

"I miss driving by them--your four-leaf clovers always made me smile." I'd thought I was so clever when I put four-leaf clovers on my signs, business cards, and car door. My logo was, "Annie O'Sullivan has the luck of the Irish." Luck was my whole damn marketing campaign. Now, that's irony for you.

"Maybe one day--or maybe I'll do something else." Like throw myself off a bridge.

"You'll be successful whatever you do, but if you ever get back into it, you'll be right up there again in no time. You were so good at it."

Not as good as I'd wanted to be, not as good as my mom thought I should have been--the entire time I was in real estate she showed me the ads for every other Realtor in town and asked why I didn't get that listing. And I wasn't as good as Christina, who was one of the main reasons I got into real estate in the first place. After high school I had a series of shitty jobs--waitress, cashier, secretary--but then I got one I liked, working in the back room of a newspaper creating ad layouts. There wasn't any money in it, though, and by the time I was in my later twenties I was tired of being broke. Especially when Christina and Tamara made killer money, which Mom kept pointing out, and hell, I wanted to drive a nice car too.

"I've been seeing a shrink." Man, first the laundry, now my therapy--all I'd wanted to do was stop talking about real estate.

"That's great!" Yeah, now I can pee more during the day, I can actually eat when I'm hungry, and up until I had to talk about my dead daughter, I'd gotten that whole closet-sleeping thing down to a couple of times a week. Wasn't that great? But I choked back my bitter words--he was just trying to be nice, and who the hell was I kidding? I did need a shrink.

"You still there?" And then with a sigh he said, "Crap, I'm sorry, Annie. I'm saying all the wrong things, aren't I?"

"No, no, it's not you, it's just, well, you know...stuff. So how are things going at the restaurant?"

"We have a new menu. You should come in sometime? Customers seem to like it."

We talked for a while about the restaurant, but it felt like having one of our old conversations through a fun-house mirror--everything was distorted and neither of us knew which door was the safe one. I opened an unsafe one.

"Luke, I never said--and I know I should have before now--but I'm really sorry about the way I was to you when you first came to the hospital. It's just that--"

"Annie."

"The guy who took me, he'd told me things, and..."

"Annie--"

"I didn't find the truth out until later." When I kept refusing to see Luke, Mom wanted to know why. Then she told me not only did Luke not have a girlfriend, he actually held fund-raisers for searches at his restaurant with Christina right up until a week before I came home. Mom also told me the police questioned him for a few days, but he proved he was at the restaurant when I was abducted. She said that even after they let him go, a lot of people still treated him like he had something to do with it.

I remembered my reaction when The Freak told me Luke had moved on with another girl--while he'd actually been accused of hurting me and then kept trying and trying to find me. The least I could do was agree to see him.

I said, "But then I made such a mess of the visit."

"Annie! Sshhhhh, it's okay--you don't have to do this." But I did.

"And then when you saw me at Mom's..." I didn't even know how to begin to explain what happened there. Only out of the hospital for two weeks, I was napping in my old room at my mom's when I heard voices in the kitchen and stumbled out to ask her and Wayne to keep it down.

Mom's back was to me as she stood at the stove with a big pot of something in front of her and a man next to her. The man, whose back was also to me, bent down as she fed him something from a spoon. I began to back out of the room, but the floor squeaked. Luke turned around.

Distantly I heard Mom say, "Good, you're up just in time! Luke was just tasting some of my Spaghetti Surprise, and he wants the recipe for his restaurant. But I told him, if he wants it, he's going to have to name the dish after me." Her husky laugh filled the air already heavy with oregano, basil, tomato sauce, and tension.

Luke's honest face had been one of the things I'd loved about him, and now it paled with shock. He'd seen me in the hospital, and I'm sure he'd seen my photo in the paper, but I'd lost more weight and in Wayne's old tracksuit I probably looked even thinner than I was. My eyes were ringed by dark circles and I hadn't washed or brushed my hair in days. Of course, Luke looked even better than I remembered. His white T-shirt set off the tan on his forearms and the muscles in his chest. His dark hair, longer than when I was abducted and perfectly tousled, shone in the kitchen's bright lights.

"I brought you flowers, Annie." He waved a hand toward a vase on the counter full of roses. Pink roses.

"I put them in water for you, Annie Bear." Mom was looking at the roses, eyes narrowed--slightly, not enough for anyone else to see, but I know my mother. They had been measured against her own roses and found wanting.

I said, "Thanks, Luke. They're pretty."

For a few seconds that felt like hours, the only sound in the kitchen was the bubbling of the sauce on the stove, then Wayne swaggered in and thumped Luke on the shoulder.

"Luke! Great to see you, boy. You staying for dinner?"

Mom, Wayne, and I looked at Luke as a flush rose in his face. He looked at me and said, "If Annie--"

"Of course Annie wants you to stay," Wayne said. "Shit. Do the girl good to have some friends over." Before I could say anything one way or another, Wayne had his arm around Luke's shoulders and was leading him out of the kitchen. "Let me get your opinion on something...."

Mom and I were left staring at each other. "You could have warned me he was here, Mom."

"And when was I supposed to do that? You never leave your room." She wobbled slightly and braced a hand against the counter.

Now I saw it--Mom's face wasn't just glowing from the heat of the stove. Her eyelids drooped slightly and one--the right one, as always--drooped lower. My eyes found what they were looking for behind the container of pasta but within reach, a glass of what I knew would be vodka.

I'd noticed that Mom's predilection for "blurriness" seemed to have achieved new heights in my absence. After I'd been home for only a couple of days, I surfaced out of my bedroom when I smelled something burning. I discovered a batch of what I think were peanut butter cookies in the oven and Mom passed out in front of the TV, where they were replaying an interview with me--taken when I was just released and shouldn't have been talking to anyone. I had turned my face to the side so my hair fell like a curtain and shielded me from the camera. I turned the TV off.

Her pink robe--or, as she would say in a really bad French accent, her peignoir--gaped, revealing the skin of her neck and the upper swell of her small breasts. I noticed that her skin, always her pride and joy, although there weren't many parts of her body she didn't consider her pride and joy, had begun to turn crepey. In her hand she gripped a vodka bottle--my first sign things had changed; she used to at least mix the stuff. She must have just fallen asleep, because the cigarette between her full lips was still burning. The ash at the end was over an inch long, and while I stood there it quivered, fell, and landed on her exposed chest. Transfixed by the cigarette cherry glowing closer to her lips, I wondered if she'd even wake up when it began to burn her, but I gently removed it. Without touching her, I leaned over and blew the ash from her chest, then threw the cookies out and went back to bed. I figured her drinking would abate some once I'd been home for a while.

Now, standing in her kitchen, she spotted my eyes on the drink and moved to stand in front of it. Her eyes dared me to say anything.

"You're right. Sorry." It was just easier.

Not able to think of a graceful way to get out of it, I soon found myself helping bring dinner out to the table while trying to avoid Luke's eyes. His hands reached to take a hot bowl from me and I remembered those hands on me, then I remembered The Freak's hands on me, and I dropped the bowl. Luke's quick reflexes caught it right before it hit the table, but not before Mom noticed.

"You okay, Annie Bear?"

I nodded, but I was far from okay. I sat with Luke across from me and pushed the pasta around on my plate. I was all too aware of the clock above my head telling me I wasn't allowed to eat at this hour, and my empty stomach curled in on itself.

During dinner my stepdad was trying to tell Luke all about his latest business idea when Mom interrupted to ask Luke whether he noticed her use of fresh parsley in the garlic bread she'd baked herself. Oh, and did she mention the parsley was from her own garden? Wayne got another two sentences in, then paused to take a mouthful. Mom was off and running. She explained the finer points of creating the perfect spaghetti sauce, which seemed to involve her touching Luke's arm every twenty seconds and smiling up at him encouragingly when he asked questions.

After everyone else's plates were empty there was a pause in the conversation as they all focused in on my still-full plate. Then Wayne said, "Annie's doing much better." We all stared at him and I thought, Compared to what?

Luke said, "Lorraine, that was amazing, and you're right, ours at the restaurant doesn't even come close."

Mom tapped his arm and said, "I told you, didn't I? If you're nice to me I might show you a few of my tricks." Another throaty laugh.

"I'd be honored if you'd share your recipe with me, but right now I'd like a few minutes alone with Annie, if that's okay?" He turned to me, but the thought of being alone with Luke had frozen my blood in my veins and apparently my lips, because they couldn't seem to form the words, No, it's not okay, it's really, really not okay.

I wasn't the only one caught off guard. Mom's and Wayne's heads rose up in tandem like puppets on a string. Mom's hand had been resting on Luke's arm. She pulled it back like she'd been burned.

"I guess I'll just start cleaning up the kitchen, then." When no one moved to stop her, she pushed her chair back so fast it scraped the linoleum and she grabbed a couple of plates. Wayne got up to help, and after they were in the kitchen I heard him say something about giving the kids some privacy while he and my mom went outside for a smoke. Her muffled answer didn't sound happy, but soon I heard the kitchen door open and shut and both of their feet on the outside deck. For a quick second Mom peeked in the sliding glass door that opened from the dining area to the deck, but when I caught her she moved out of sight.

I continued to twirl my spaghetti with my fork. Then Luke bumped my foot under the table with his and cleared his throat. My fork dropped with a clang onto my plate, splashing tomato sauce on me and, worse, on his white shirt like a spray of blood.

I leapt up to grab a paper towel, but Luke leaned over and gripped both my arms.

"It's just spaghetti sauce." I stared down at his hands wrapped around my arms, then tried to pull away. He released them instantly. "Crap. I'm sorry, Annie."

I rubbed my hands up and down my arms.

"Can I not touch you at all?"

My eyes blinked desperately to hold back the tears, but one broke free when I saw the answering shimmer in his own eyes. I sat back down with a thump.

"I just can't. Not yet...."

His eyes pleaded with me to explain it to him, to share my feelings as I always had, but I couldn't.

"I just want to help you through this, Annie--I feel so damn useless. Isn't there anything I can do for you?"

"No!" The word came out angry-sounding, mean-sounding, and his face flinched like I'd hit him. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do. It was that very knowledge that made me hate him in that second, and hate myself for feeling that way in the next.

His lips curled into a rueful smile. He shook his head and said, "I'm a real dumbass, aren't I? I just thought if we talked, then I could understand--"

In my pain, I aimed to hurt. "You can't understand. You could never understand."

"No, you're right, I probably can't. But I want to try."

"I just want to be left alone." My words hung in the air between us like flies on the carcass of what used to be our relationship. With a nod of his head, he stood up. Inside I screamed, I'm sorry. I take it back. I didn't mean it. Please stay.

But he'd already opened the sliding glass door. He was thanking Mom for dinner, saying he had to get back to the restaurant and he'd be sure to get the recipe, sounding so polite. So polite. While I sat there red-faced in my shame, in my regret.

Then he was standing at the door and with his hand on the knob he turned and said, "I'm so sorry, Annie." The sincerity in his voice made me hurt deep inside, in places I'd thought were too full of pain to possibly feel any more, and I turned away, turned away from his beauty and kindness, and walked down the hall past him without even the grace to meet his eyes. From my bedroom, I heard the front door close and then I heard his truck pull away. Not even fast in anger like I would have, but slowly. Sadly.

Now, months later, he interrupted me on the phone and said, "Please stop, Annie. You don't owe anyone an apology, least of all me. I screwed up. I shouldn't have just showed up like that. I rushed you. I've kicked myself over and over for that. That's why I kept calling. I knew you'd be blaming yourself."

"I was so mean to you."

"You had every right to be--I was an insensitive prick. That's why I've tried to keep my distance, but maybe you're still not ready to talk to me? I won't be mad if you say so. Promise." That was always our thing--he'd say I love you, and I, not quite willing to say it back even after a year, would say, Promise?

"I do want to talk to you, but I can't talk about what happened."

"You don't have to. What if I just call you once in a while, and if you feel like talking, pick up the phone and we'll yak about whatever you want. Does that work? I don't want to push, like before."

"That works. I mean, I'll try, I want to try. I'm getting a little tired of only talking to my shrink and Emma." His soft laugh broke the tension.

After that we chatted about Emma and Diesel, his black Lab, for a while. Finally he said, "Talk to you in a few, 'kay?"

"Don't feel like you have to call."

"I don't, and don't feel like you have to answer."

"I won't."

He called the next day and again earlier this week, Doc, and we just had brief casual conversations, mostly about the restaurant and our dogs, but I still don't know how I feel about it. I like it, but then sometimes I feel rage toward him. How can he still be so kind to me? I don't deserve it--the guy needs to give his head a shake. His very goodness makes me love him and hate him. I want to hate him. I'm like a wound barely sewn shut, and every time we talk the stitches break, the wound reopens, and I have to sew it back together.

On top of all that, his kindness makes me feel even stupider because my biggest fear in seeing him again is that he might try to touch me. Just thinking about it makes my armpits flood with sweat. And to react that way to Luke, of all men? Luke, who would remove spiders from the sink and carry them outside? It's beyond ridiculous. If I can't get myself to the point where I can be comfortable around a person like Luke, then I'm royally screwed. Might as well pack up my crap and move right into the pent house suite at Chez Crazy.

SESSION FIFTEEN

Thanks again for accepting that I didn't want to talk about the mountain last session, and it's been a hell of a week, so I'm still not sure if I'm ready to tackle it today--I'll see how I feel. My grief is a windstorm. Sometimes I can stand straight up in it, and when I'm angry, I can lean into it and dare it to blow me over. But other times I need to hunker down, tuck around myself, and let it pummel my back. Lately, I've been in hunker-down mode.

Hell, you probably need a break yourself--pretty damn depressing stuff, isn't it? I wish I could tell you happy stories, or make you smile at something witty I've said. When I leave here, I feel bad that you had to listen to all my crap--it makes me feel selfish. But not enough that I want to change. This shit made me selfish. I have a righteous sadness.

When I first came to you, I mentioned I had a couple of reasons for giving therapy another go, but I never told you what finally popped the I'm-doing-just-fine-on-my-own-thank-you-very-much bubble I'd been bouncing around in.

It happened in a grocery store--I only shop late at night and with a baseball hat on. I've considered Internet shopping, but God knows who they'd send to deliver the groceries, and I've had enough of reporters using any ruse to get inside my house. Anyway, a woman was bent down reaching for something on the bottom shelf. Nothing weird about that, except a few feet behind her sat her cart, unguarded, with a toddler in it.

I tried to just walk by, tried not to stare at the baby girl's little white teeth and rosy cheeks, but as I passed, one of her tiny arms waved out at me, and I stopped. Like metal to magnet, I was helpless to keep my feet from bringing me close or my hand from reaching out. I just wanted to touch that tiny hand for a second. That's all I needed, I told myself, just one second. But the baby's hand curved over my outstretched finger and she giggled as she squeezed it. Hearing her giggle, her mom said, "That's my girl, Samantha, Mommy will be there in a sec."

Samantha, her name was Samantha. It echoed in my head, and I wanted to tell this woman, who was kneeling down to choose jars of what I now saw was baby food, that I had a baby too, the most goddamn beautiful baby you ever saw. But then she'd ask how old my baby was, and I didn't want to say she was dead and see this woman's eyes turn to her daughter in relief and gratitude that it wasn't her child, then see in those eyes that she was sure--sure with a mother's necessary confidence--that nothing terrible was ever going to happen to her daughter.

When I tried to pull my finger away, Samantha squeezed tighter, and a tiny bubble of spit formed at her lips. My nostrils inhaled her scent--baby powder, diapers, and the faint sweet odor of milk. I wanted her. My hands ached to lift her out of the seat and into my arms, into my life.

With furtive glances down either end of the aisle--empty--my mind worked to calculate how many steps it would take me to escape. I knew only one cashier worked this late. Easy breezy. I stepped closer to the cart. With my heart whooshing in my ears, I noticed every one of the baby's fine blond hairs glimmering in the store's fluorescent lights and reached out with my free hand to finger one silken strand. My baby had dark hair. This wasn't my baby. My baby was gone.

I stepped back just as the mother rose to her feet in the aisle, noticed me, and began to walk back toward the cart.

"Hello?" she said with a tentative smile.

I wanted to say, What were you thinking? Turning your back on your child like that. Don't you know what could happen? How many crazies are out there? How crazy I am?

"What a happy baby," I said. "And so beautiful."

"She looks happy now, but you should have seen her an hour ago! It took me forever to get her to calm down." While she went on about her mom-stress, stress I would have traded my soul for, I wanted to call her an ungrateful bitch, tell her she should be glad for every cry out of her baby's mouth. Instead I stood paralyzed and gave an occasional smile or nod to the woman until she finally ran out of steam and wrapped it up by saying, "Do you have kids?"

I felt my head shake back and forth, felt my lips straighten out from the smile, even felt my throat vibrate with the words, "No. No kids."

My eyes must have revealed something, though, because she smiled kindly and said, "It'll happen."

I wanted to slap her, wanted to scream and rage. I wanted to cry. But I didn't. I just smiled, nodded my head, and wished her a pleasant evening as I left them there in the aisle.

That was when I realized I might not be doing such a good job of handling things on my own. I'd managed to shove that moment behind all my other moments of near-madness until I saw a notice in the paper yesterday that one of the girls I used to work with just gave birth to a boy. I sent a card, but I knew I didn't trust myself to be around that baby. Even picking out the card was agony. Not sure why I did it, other than as another pathetic attempt to prove to myself I can handle shit I very clearly can't.

"Wayne and I would like you to come for dinner tonight," Mom said when she called late Tuesday afternoon. "I'm making a roast."

"Damn, I just had an early dinner. Wish I'd known." I hadn't eaten, but I'd rather rake my body over hot coals--hell, I'd rather eat hot coals--than go over there and hear what I was fucking up on now. Only Mom could manage to make me feel like shit about feeling like shit. I was already in a bad mood because of this one asshole movie producer who keeps taping proposals to my front door--he actually stands there and tries to talk to me through the wood, raising the amount every few minutes like he's bidding at a goddamn auction. He's wasting his breath.

Years ago, I remember watching the movie Titanic. People stuffed with popcorn were commenting on their way out about the great special effects and how realistic it was, particularly the bodies bobbing in the sea. And me? I went to the bathroom to throw up, because people actually died like that--hundreds and hundreds of people--and it seemed wrong to sit there and eat candies and lick salty butter off your fingers and admire how authentic their deaths in the freezing water looked.

I sure as hell don't want people stuffing their faces while they rate my life for its entertainment value.

"I tried to call you earlier, but you didn't answer." Mom never says, "You weren't home," it's always, "You didn't answer," in an accusing tone as though I let the phone ring just to piss her off.

"Emma and I went for a walk."

"What's the point of having voice mail if you don't check it?"

"You're right--sorry. But I'm glad you called back, I wanted to ask you something. I went through my things last night looking for my pictures of Daisy and Dad but I couldn't find them."

Not that I'd ever had a lot of photos anyway. Most of them had been given to me by relatives, and the rest were held hostage by Mom in her scrapbooks and albums with vague promises of their coming to me "one day." I was especially pissed that Mom was holding on to one with just Dad, Daisy, and me--it was unusual to find a picture Mom wasn't in.

"I'm sure I dropped those off after you moved back to your place."

"Not that I remember, and I looked everywhere for them the other night...." I waited for a couple of seconds, but she offered up no explanation for the missing pictures, and I knew she wouldn't unless I pressed harder. But there was something else I wanted to ask her, and I'd learned to choose my battles with Mom. Russian roulette was probably less risky.

"Mom, do you ever think about Dad and Daisy?"

An exasperated sigh hissed through the phone. "Of course I do. What a silly question. So how much did you eat? Those canned soups you live on aren't a meal. You're getting too thin."

"I'm trying to talk to you about something, Mom."

"We've already talked--"

"Actually, no, we haven't. I've always wanted to because I think about them all the time, especially when I was up there, but whenever I brought the subject up, you either changed it or you just talked about Daisy's skating and all her--"

"Why are you doing this? Are you trying to hurt me?"

"No! I just wanted...well, I thought...because I lost a daughter and you lost a daughter, I thought we could talk and maybe you'd have some insight on how to deal with it." Insight? What the hell was I thinking? The woman had never shown any insight deeper than an ounce of vodka.

"I don't think I can help, Annie. The child you had...It's just not the same thing."

My voice turned to steel as my pulse sped up. "And why's that?"

"You won't understand."

"No? Well, how about you explain to me why my daughter's death doesn't compare to your daughter's so I understand." Rage made my voice tremble, and my hand gripped the phone so tight it hurt.

"You're twisting my words. Of course what happened to your child was a tragedy, Annie, but you can't compare it with what happened to me."

"Don't you mean what happened to Daisy?"

"This is just like you, Annie--I call with an invitation to dinner and somehow you turn it into another of your attacks. Honestly, sometimes I think you just look for ways to make yourself miserable."

"If that was the case, I'd spend more time with you, Mom."

Her shocked gasp was followed by the loud click of her hanging up. Anger propelled me out the door with Emma, but after a half hour of hard running, my brief high from the exercise and saying no to Mom was snuffed out when I imagined the next phone call. The one where Wayne would tell me how much I'd hurt my mother, how she was just beside herself, how I really should apologize and try to understand her better--she's the only mother I'm going to have in this life and the poor woman's already been through so much. Meanwhile, I sit there thinking, Why the hell doesn't she try to understand me? What about what I've been through?

After my baby died on the mountain, I woke up staring at her folded blanket, and my breasts began to leak milk through the front of my dress as though they were weeping for her. Even my body hadn't accepted her death. When The Freak noticed me awake he came over, sat behind me on the bed, and rubbed my back.

"I have some ice for your face." He set an ice pack down near my head.

I ignored it and rolled over to face him, in a sitting position. "Where's my baby?"

He stared down at the floor.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, but I didn't want her blanket, I want her." I slid over the side of the bed and knelt in front of him. "Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything." He still hadn't looked at me, so I moved my face directly into his line of sight. "Anything you want, just tell me where you put her..." My mouth couldn't form the word body.

"You caaan't always get what you want--" He broke off and hummed the last few bars of the Rolling Stones song.

"If you have an ounce of compassion, you'll tell me--"

"If I have an ounce of compassion?" He leapt off the bed and, with his hands on his hips, paced back and forth. "Have I not proven to you over and over how compassionate I am? Have I not always been there for you? Am I not still here for you, even after you said those terrible things to me? I bring you her blanket so you can find some comfort and all you want is her? She left you, Annie. Don't you get it? She left you, but I stayed." My hands pressed frantically against my ears to shut out his terrible words, but he pulled them off and said, "She's gone, gone, gone, and knowing where she is won't help you one bit."

"But she was gone so fast, I just want to...I need..." To say good-bye.

"You don't need to know where she is, now or ever." He leaned closer. "You still have me and that's all that should matter. And right now it's time for you to make my dinner."

How was I going to do this? How was I going to get through the next--

"It's time, Annie."

I stared at him dumbfounded.

He snapped his finger and pointed to the kitchen. I'd only made it a few steps when he said, "You can have an extra piece of chocolate for dessert tonight."

The Freak never did tell me where my baby's body was, Doc, and I still don't know--the cops even brought in cadaver dogs, but they couldn't find her. I like to think he put her body in the river and she floated downstream peacefully. That's what I try to hold on to when I lie awake at night in the closet, thinking about her alone up on the mountain, or when I wake up screaming and covered in sweat after another nightmare about wild animals tearing into her with their teeth.

I have no way to honor my baby--no grave, no memorial. The local church wanted to put up a headstone for her, but I said no because I knew journalists and people obsessed with morbid crap would be out there taking pictures. I've made myself her cemetery. That's why it stung when Mom said I wanted to be miserable. A lot of truth to that.

When Luke called again the other night, I found myself laughing for a few seconds when I told him Emma had fallen in the water on our walk. I stopped myself right away, but it was out there, my laugh was out there. And I felt ashamed, like I'd let my baby down by feeling even one moment of carefree enjoyment. Her life was taken away and with it her chance to smile, laugh, or feel, so if I laugh and smile, then I'm betraying her.

I should be celebrating that I didn't sleep in the closet once last week--that talk we had about acknowledging when I'm feeling paranoid but not reacting to it might've had something to do with it. Even though I couldn't resist checking the front and back doors to make sure they were locked last night, I managed not to check all the windows by reminding myself that none of them had been opened after I'd inspected them during the day. It was the first night since I've been home that I've been able to skip part of my bedtime ritual.

The peeing thing has gotten better and better--the yoga tapes you gave me helped a ton with that. Most days I can go when I need to and without even having to do any of the breathing exercises or repeat my mantras.

Like I said, I should feel proud of my progress, and I am, but that just adds another layer of guilt. Healing feels a lot like leaving my daughter behind, and I already did that once.

SESSION SIXTEEN

Well, I thought about your suggestion, Doc, and I'm not sold. I know no one is actually trying to harm me, it's all in my head, so making a list of anyone who might want to seems goofy as all get-out. Tell you what I will do, though. The next time I'm feeling paranoid, I'll make a mental list, and when I can't think of a single name to put on it I'll feel like a dumbass, which beats feeling paranoid.

The blue scarf you're wearing looks great with your eyes, by the way. You're pretty stylish for an older woman, you know, with your black turtlenecks and long fitted skirts. A classy look--no, streamlined. Like you don't have time for bullshit, even when it comes to your clothes. I've always tended to dress conservatively, the exact opposite of Mom's style--Hollywood House wife. But Christina, who was my personal shopping guru, had been trying to coax me out into the light before I was abducted.

Poor girl wasn't having much luck with me, though. I generally avoided shopping, especially in the fancy stores she liked. My favorite suit was the result of an accidental walking-by-the-store-window-I-have-to-have-it moment. If there was an event I had to go to, I just headed over to Christina's house. She'd bounce around, ripping things out of her closet, draping me with scarves and necklaces, telling me how pretty I looked in this dress or that color. She loved doing it and I loved having someone decide for me.

She was really generous with her hand-me-downs, too--Christina got bored with clothes the week after she bought them--and a lot of my wardrobe was made up of her cast-offs. That's why I still can't figure out why I got so pissed at her for trying to give me clothes when I got back from the mountain.

When I found out Mom had gotten rid of all my clothes, I loaded up at the Goodwill. Man, you should have seen the look on Mom's face when she saw the oversized jogging suits and sweatpants I brought home. I didn't care what color anything was, it just had to be soft and warm-looking, the baggier the better.

Running around up there in all those girlie dresses The Freak liked made me feel so exposed. One thing you can say for the way I dress now: nobody's tempted to look underneath.

Luke called Sunday morning and asked if I wanted to get together and take the dogs for a walk. The first word out of my mouth was No! Before I could soften my reply with a reason--believable or otherwise--he launched into a rundown on something going on at the restaurant.

The thought of seeing him again terrified me. What if he tried to touch me and I pulled back again? I couldn't stand to see that hurt look in his eyes a third time. What if he didn't try to touch me? Would that mean he didn't care anymore? Now that I'd said no I wondered if he'd suggest a walk again--I wasn't sure if I'd feel any braver next time but I knew I didn't want him to stop asking. When I did finally drag my butt outside to take Emma for a walk I couldn't stop thinking about Luke and wondering what it would have been like if he was with me.

The next morning, instead of camouflaging myself with yet another shapeless jogging suit, I carried up from the basement the box of clothes Christina had dropped off on my doorstep months ago. I didn't realize until I checked out the faded jeans and sage-colored sweater in a mirror how long it had been since I'd looked in one.

It's not like I'd put on a slinky dress--the jeans were a relaxed fit and the sweater wasn't tight--but I couldn't remember the last time I chose something because I liked the color, or put on anything even hinting at curves. For a second, staring in the mirror at the stranger wearing Christina's clothes, I almost saw the shadow of the girl I used to be, and it freaked me out so much I wanted to tear off all the clothes. But Emma--anxious for her morning walk--whined at my heels, and I left them on. I don't care what she looks like, and she doesn't care what I look like.

Emma stayed at my mom's while I was missing--definitely not my first choice and it sure wouldn't have been Emma's. Later, I found out Luke and a couple of my friends offered to take her but my mom said no. When I asked her why she took Emma, she said, "What was I supposed to do with her? Can you imagine what people would've said if I'd given her away?"

Poor dog got so excited when she first saw me she started dribbling pee--she's never done that, even as a puppy--and shaking so hard I thought she was having a seizure. When I squatted down to hug her, she shoved her head into my chest and whined for the longest time, telling me all her woes. And she had a right to complain. For one thing, she was tied up to the Japanese maple tree in Mom's backyard, and Emma had never been tied up in her life. Mom said she'd been digging in her garden beds. No doubt--she probably thought she'd landed in dog hell and was trying to dig her way out.

Judging by Emma's long toenails, the last year of her life had mostly been spent tied to that tree. Her fur was matted and her beautiful glossy eyes were dull. On the porch I found a bag of food--the cheapest crap you could buy--and it smelled moldy.

This dog used to sleep with me every night and I walked her two, sometimes three times a day. She had every dog toy and treat ever manufactured, the softest bed in case she got too hot to sleep with me, and I planned my workdays so she never had to be alone for too long.

Furious at the way she'd been treated, I wanted to say something, but I'd just come back, and if being around people was like crawling uphill through mud, then talking to Mom was like crawling uphill wearing a heavy backpack. Besides, what could I have said? "Hey, Mom, next time I'm abducted you don't get my dog"?

After I finally got back to my place Emma preferred being outside, but it only took a couple of days for her to remember the good life and she's probably on my couch drooling all over the cushions right now. Her fur is back to shiny gold and her eyes are once again full of life. She's not the same dog as before, though. She stays a lot closer to me on walks than she used to, and if she does forge ahead, she comes back every few minutes to check on me.

I don't think Mom meant to hurt my dog, and if I accused her of cruelty she'd be shocked. She didn't raise her fist to Emma--not that I know of, anyway, but I doubt she would. But she didn't give her any love for a year, and as far as I'm concerned that's just as damaging as physical blows. Mom would never get that lack of affection is abuse.

After my baby died, I blocked out my grief by focusing on my hatred for The Freak as he forced me to continue with my daily routines like she'd never existed.

Late one morning after about a week of this, he went outside to chop wood in preparation for winter. I thought it was close to the end of July, but I wasn't sure. Time only counts when you have a purpose. Sometimes I forgot to make a mark on the wall, but it didn't matter--I knew I'd been there for almost a year, because when he opened the door I'd caught the scent of hot earth and warm fir trees, the same scents that filled the air on the day he took me.

While he cut wood, I was inside sewing some buttons on his shirt. I kept sneaking little glances at the baby's basket, but then I'd see her blanket hanging neatly over the side where he'd placed it and jab the needle into my finger instead of the fabric.

After about twenty minutes he came back inside and said, "I have a job for you."

The only other time he'd asked for my help was with the deer, and as he motioned for me to follow him outside, nerves made my legs go rubbery. Still gripping the shirt and with my hand holding the needle suspended in the air, I stared at him. His flushed face glowed with a fine sheen of sweat--I couldn't tell whether it was from anger or exertion, but his voice was neutral when he spoke.

"Come on, we don't have all day." While I followed him out to a pile of large fir rounds, he said over his shoulder, "Now, pay attention. Your job is to pick up the pieces as I split them and stack them over there." He pointed to a neat stack that came halfway up the side of the cabin.

Once in a while, when I was inside the cabin and he was outside, I heard the sound of a chain saw running, but I couldn't see any fresh stumps at the edge of our clearing or any drag marks. A wheelbarrow leaned against the pile where he was chopping, so I figured he must have felled a tree in the forest and wheeled the bigger blocks in to be split into smaller pieces.

The pile was only about twelve feet from the stack. Seemed to me it would be easier to either chop the tree up into smaller pieces where he'd cut it down, or at least wheel the bigger blocks right next to where they had to be stacked. Just like with the deer, something told me this was him showing off.

I hadn't been outside much since the baby died, and as I carried wood to the stack my eyes searched for any evidence of recently disturbed dirt. I didn't find any, but I was only able to give the river a quick glance before memories of my baby on her blanket in the sun overwhelmed me.

After we'd been working for about an hour, I deposited an armload in the stack and came to stand a couple of feet behind him until he finished swinging the axe and it was safe for me to pick up more. He'd taken his shirt off and his back glistened with sweat. He paused for a breather, his back to me and the axe resting on his shoulder.

"We can't let this distract us from our ultimate goal," he said. "Nature has a plan." What the hell was he talking about? "But so do I." The shiny blade of the axe lifted high in the air. "It was better we found out early that she was weak."

Then I got it, and my frozen heart shattered in my chest. He continued chopping, emitting one little grunt with each downswing, talking in between strokes.

"The next one will be stronger."

Next one.

"It's not quite six weeks, but you're healed, so I'm going to let you get pregnant early. We'll start tonight."

I stood perfectly still, but a loud screaming began in my head. There were going to be more babies. It was never going to end.

The silver of the axe flashed in the bright sun as he lifted it over his shoulder for the next swing.

"No response, Annie?"

I was saved from having to answer when his axe got caught halfway through a piece of wood. He used his foot to pry the axe out, then leaned it against the woodpile to his right. With his foot braced on one side of the block, which shifted his body slightly away from the axe, he bent down and tried to break the split apart by hand.

Treading softly, I came up behind him on his right--the side angled away. I could have reached over and flicked one of the beads of sweat off his back. He grunted as his hands fought with the wood.

"Ouch!"

I held my breath as he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked at a sliver. If he turned, we'd be face-to-face.

He bent over again and resumed his struggle with the wood. Keeping my body directly behind him and facing the same direction, I focused my gaze on his back for the slightest sign he was about to turn, then reached for the axe. My hands caressed the warm smooth wood handle, still slick from his sweat, and curled over it in a tight grip. The weight of it felt right and solid as I lifted it up and brought it to rest on my shoulder.

His voice straining with effort, he said, "We'll have another one by spring."

I lifted the axe high.

I screamed, "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!" as I sank it into the back of his head.

It made the strangest sound, a wet thunk.

For a few seconds his body stayed bent, then he fell over facedown with both of his arms and the wood underneath him. He twitched a couple of times, then stilled.

Shaking with rage, I leaned over his body and yelled, "Take that, you sick fuck!"

The forest was quiet.

Leaving a red trail in his blond curls, blood rolled down the side of his head, hit the dry ground with a plop, plop, plop, made a rapidly spreading pool, and stopped plopping.

I waited for him to turn around and hit me, but as the seconds turned to minutes my heart rate settled down and I was able to take a few deep breaths. The cut hadn't split his head wide open or anything, but the blond hair around the axe head--embedded halfway into his skull--was a glistening mass of scarlet, and some of the hair seemed to have gone into the cut. A fly landed and crawled around in the wound, then two more landed.

Walking backward to the cabin on weak legs, I hugged my trembling body with my arms. My eyes were mesmerized by the axe handle reaching toward the sky and the crimson halo surrounding his head.

Safe inside the cabin, I ripped off my sweaty dress, then ran the shower until it was so hot it almost scalded my skin. Shaking violently, I sat down in the back of the tub, tucked my knees under my chin, and wrapped my arms tight around them to stop the muscle spasms. The water thundered down on my bowed head in a fiery baptism while I rocked myself and tried to comprehend what I'd done. My mind couldn't grasp that he was really dead. Someone like him should have taken a silver bullet, a cross, and a stake through the heart to die. What if he wasn't dead? I should have felt for a pulse. What if he was making his way back to the cabin right now? Despite the hot shower, I shivered.

Expecting him to jump out at me, I slowly opened the bathroom door and sent steam billowing out into the empty room. Slowly picked the dress off the floor and pulled it over my head. Slowly made my way to the cabin door. Slowly placed my ear against the cool metal. Silence.

I tested the knob, praying the door hadn't locked behind me. It turned. I opened the door just an inch and peeked through. His body was still in the exact same position in the middle of the clearing, but the sun had shifted and the handle of the axe cast a shadow like a sundial.

My legs tense in case I had to break into a run, I snuck up on him. Every couple of steps I paused and strained my eyes and ears for any sounds or the slightest movement. When I finally got up to him, his body looked awkward with his arms under him, and the position made him seem smaller.

Holding my breath, I reached around his neck, on the opposite side of the blood river, and checked for a pulse. He was dead.

I backed away slowly, then sat on the porch in one of the rocking chairs and tried to figure out my next step. Keeping beat with every creak of the chair, my mind repeated the words, He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

In the hot summer afternoon the clearing was idyllic. The river, calm without spring's heavy rains, was a soft hum, and the occasional robin, swallow, or blue jay warbled. The only sign of violence was the buzz of the rapidly growing mass of flies that coated his wound and the pool of blood. His words tripped through my reverie: Nature has a plan.

I was free but I didn't feel free. As long as I could see him, he still existed. I had to do something with the body. But what?

The temptation to set the son of a bitch on fire was huge, but it was summer, the clearing was dry, and I didn't want to start a forest fire. Digging through the dry, compact ground to bury him would be next to impossible. But I couldn't just leave him there. Even though I'd confirmed he was well and truly dead, my mind refused to accept that he couldn't hurt me anymore.

The shed. I could lock him in the shed.

Back at his body, I tilted him slightly to the side and searched his front pockets for the keys. With my teeth clamped over the ring, I gripped both of his ankles--then dropped them quickly when I felt his warm skin. I don't know how long it takes a body to cool down, and he was lying in the sun, but it scared me enough that I checked his pulse a second time.

Grabbing hold of his ankles again and ignoring their warmth, I tried to drag him backward, but I was only able to move him enough that his body slid off the log round, and when it hit the ground, the axe handle in his head wobbled. I fought the bile rising in my throat, turned my back to him, and tried to pull him that way. I was only able to move him a foot before I had to stop and take a breath--my dress was already damp, and sweat dripped into my eyes. Even though the shed wasn't far away, it might as well have been on the other side of the clearing. Casting my eye around for an alternative, I spied the wheelbarrow.

I rolled it over to his body and braced myself for the sensation of his skin touching mine. With my eyes averted from the axe, I gripped him by his upper arms and managed to pull them out from under his body. Eyes still averted, I grasped him under the armpits and with my heels dug into the ground threw my whole body into trying to haul him up--I could only move him a few inches. I straddled his back and tried to pick him up from around the waist, but I was only able to get him up a foot before my arms began to shake from the exertion. The only way he was getting in that wheelbarrow was if he came back to life and climbed into it himself.

Wait. If I had something to roll his body onto, something that would slide across the ground, I might be able to drag him. The rug under the bed wasn't smooth enough. I hadn't noticed a tarp near the woodpile, but he had to have one somewhere, maybe in the shed.

After trying five keys on his monster key chain, I was able to open the padlock. It took a while because my hands were shaking like a burglar's on his first job.

I half expected to see the deer still hanging from the ceiling, but there was no sign of it, and on a shelf above the freezer I found an orange tarp. Unfolding it near his body, I considered how I was going to roll him over onto the tarp with the axe in his head.

Damn. It was going to have to come out.

With my hands wrapped around the handle, I closed my eyes and pulled, but it wouldn't budge. I tried a bit more force, and the sensation of flesh and bone resisting as they let go of their prize had me gagging. It had to be done fast. With my foot braced against the base of his neck, I shut my eyes tight, took a deep breath, and wrenched the axe out. I dropped it, bent over, and dry-heaved.

Once my stomach settled down, I knelt beside his body, on the opposite side of the blood, and rolled him onto the tarp. He fell onto his back, glassy blue eyes staring up at the sky, a smear of blood on the orange tarp arcing out from his head. His face had already paled and his mouth was slack.

With quick fingers I closed his eyelids--not out of respect for the dead but because I thought of all the times I'd had to force myself to look at them. Now, in a few seconds, I'd fixed it so I'd never have to see those eyes again.

My back to him, I grasped the edge of the tarp, leaned forward like an ox with a gruesome cargo, and pulled him over to the shed. Getting him over the lip of the doorway was tricky, because he kept sliding farther down the tarp. Eventually I had to drag it out again, move him up it, and fold the end over him like a napkin. Then with both ends in my hands I wiggled, dragged, shoved, and pulled him inside. At one point his hand fell out and touched my knee. I dropped the tarp, leapt backward, and hit my head on a post. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I was too focused to pay the pounding any attention.

I stuffed his arm back in the tarp and tucked it all around him. I found some bungee cords, wound them tight around his legs and upper body. As I wrapped him up like a mummy I kept telling myself he couldn't hurt me anymore. Not one part of me believed it.

Dehydrated, sweat-soaked, head pounding, and aching all over from the physical exertion, I locked the shed and made my way back to the cabin for some water. Once I'd slaked my thirst, I lay on the bed clutching the keys and stared at his key-chain pocket watch. It was five o'clock--the first time I knew the hour myself in almost a year.

At first I didn't think, I just listened to the ticking of the second hand until the pounding headache calmed down, then I thought, I'm free. I'm finally fucking free. But why didn't I feel like I was? I killed a man. I'm a murderer. I'm just like him.

All I'd gotten rid of was a body.

During one of the first press conferences I held after I came home--I stupidly thought if I got it all over with at once, they might actually stop calling and lurking outside the trailer--a bald guy in the audience holding a Bible up in the air chanted, "Thou shall not kill. You're going to hell. Thou shall not kill. You're going to hell!" The crowd let out a collective gasp as he was dragged off by bystanders, then turned back to me. Camera bulbs flashed, and somebody shoved a microphone in my face.

"How would you respond to what he said, Annie?"

As I looked out at the crowd and the back of the bald-headed guy, who was still chanting, I thought, I'm already in hell, asshole.

I wish sometimes that I could talk to my mom about these things, Doc, about guilt and regret and shame, but as much as I have a talent for shouldering all the blame, Mom has one for ducking it. Which is one of the reasons I still haven't talked to her since our fight, not that she's tried either. That doesn't surprise me, but I thought for sure Wayne would have called by now.

Shit, I'm getting so damn lonely these days I might even have to give one of your meet-your-fears-head-on experiments the old college try. But it's just so stupid that I still feel like I'm in danger. The Freak is dead. I'm as safe as safe can be. Now, can someone please tell my psyche that?

SESSION SEVENTEEN

You know, Doc, all along, even while you were giving me techniques to work through my fears or explaining what might be causing them, I still told myself they'd eventually go away on their own--especially after I read up on all that grief stuff. Then this week some dickhead broke into my house.

I came back from my morning run to find my alarm blaring, cops parked in my driveway, the doorjamb on my back door kicked apart, and my bedroom window open. Judging by the broken branches on my shrubs, that's how the bastard got out. Nothing seemed to be missing and the cops said they couldn't do much unless I figured out if anything was gone. They also told me there's been a couple of B&E's in my neighborhood recently, but they didn't find any fingerprints at them either, like that was supposed to make me feel better.

After they all went home and my full-body shaking had subsided to occasional tremors, I headed to my bedroom to change. A thought stopped me in the hallway. Why would you risk going in but not steal anything? Something wasn't right.

I walked around my house slowly, trying to think like a burglar. Okay, bust open back door, race upstairs, then what? Run to the living room--nothing small visible, stereo equipment and TV are too big to grab fast, especially if you're on foot. Run down hallway to bedroom--search drawers for valuables?

I examined each one carefully. All were shut tight and my clothes were neatly folded. Everything still hung straight in the closet and the door was closed evenly--sometimes one side sticks. I stepped back and surveyed the bedroom. A hamper full of clothes I'd just taken out of the dryer was in the same place on the floor, the big T-shirt I sleep in still tossed across the foot of the bed. The bed.

Was that a slight indent near the edge? Did I sit there when I put my socks on? I came closer and inspected every inch of the bed. Examined every hair. Mine? Emma's? I brought my nose close to the duvet cover and sniffed the length of it. Was that the faint traces of cologne? I stood up again.

A stranger forced his way into my house, was in my bedroom, looking at my things, touching my things. My skin crawled.

I stripped my bed, grabbed my T-shirt, dumped everything in the wash with lots of bleach, and wiped down every surface of my house. After I boarded up the back door and the window--house looked like an army bunker by the time I was done--I grabbed the cordless phone and hid in the hall closet for the rest of the day.

Gary, the cop I was telling you about, called me later to make sure I was all right, which was nice of him considering he doesn't deal with robberies. He backed up what the other cops were saying, that it was most likely a random event and the guy raced in to grab what he could, then panicked and took the quickest exit out. When I argued with him, insisting it was a dumbass thing to do, he said criminals do a lot of stupid things when they're scared. He also suggested I call someone to stay with me or go to a friend's until my doorjamb was fixed.

I may have been scared to death, but no way was I going to my mom's. And friends? Well, even if I wasn't more paranoid than Howard Hughes, I'm not sure how many of those I have left these days. Luke is about the only one who still calls. When I first came back, everyone--friends, old coworkers, people I went to school with but haven't seen in years--was making such a fuss over me, I just couldn't handle it. But you know, people only try for so long, and if you keep shutting the door in their face they eventually go away.

Christina is about the only one I'd consider asking, but you know what happened there, or at least you know about as much as I know, because I still don't understand why I reacted so badly to her. She's probably just trying to be a good friend by leaving me alone now, but sometimes I wish she'd haul off and force me out into the light, bully me like she used to.

Of course, right away I thought about moving, but dammit, I love the house; if I ever sell, it won't be because of some asshole burglar. Not that I could, anyway. How the hell am I going to qualify for a mortgage? I thought about looking for work. I have a whole new set of skills, but I'd hate to see what kind of job they'd land me.

All of which leads me to the call I got from Luke when I got home from our last session.

"My bookkeeper up and quit on me, Annie. Any chance you could take over until I find someone else? It would be just part-time, and--"

"I don't need your help, Luke."

"Who said anything about you needing help? This is about me, I need your help--I can't make heads or tails of these books. I feel bad even asking, but you're the only person I know who's good with numbers. I can just bring the stuff to your house, you won't even have to go into the restaurant."

I think it was embarrassment that made me tell him okay, I could try it, before I realized what I'd just committed to. Later, it was a different story. I'm not ready for this! I almost called and canceled. But I took a few deep breaths, then told myself to just sleep on it. Of course the next morning is when my house got broken into. In the midst of all that drama and the ensuing panic attack, I forgot about my conversation with Luke. Then last night he left a message that he's going to come over this weekend with an accounting program to load on my computer. He sounded so damn relieved and grateful, I couldn't think of a way out. And I wasn't sure if I really wanted one.

I tell myself it's just a business thing on Luke's part, but I'm sure I'm not the only person who could do his bookkeeping--the phone book is full of names.

Last Monday night I had a cold that was threatening to escalate and was sitting at half-mast on the couch in faded blue flannel pajamas and hedgehog slippers, a box of Kleenex in my lap, the TV on but the sound down. A car door slammed at the end of my driveway. I held my breath for a second and listened. Footsteps on the gravel? I peeked out the window but couldn't see anything in the dark. I grabbed the poker from my fireplace.

Soft footsteps on the stairs, then silence.

Poker gripped tight, I peered through the peephole, but couldn't see anything.

Rustling sounds near the bottom of the door. Emma barked.

I yelled, "I know you're out there. You better tell me who you are RIGHT NOW!"

"Jesus Christ, Annie, I was just picking up your paper."

Mom.

I slid open the deadbolts--when the locksmith came to repair the doorjamb I had an extra one installed. Emma took one sniff of Mom and headed straight to my room, where she probably crawled under the bed. I felt like joining her.

"Mom, why didn't you call first?"

With a toss of her head that made her ponytail shimmy, she shoved my paper into my hand and headed back out. I grabbed her shoulders.

"Wait--I didn't mean you had to leave, but you scared the crap out of me. I was just...dozing off."

She turned around and with her big blue doll eyes staring at the wall over my shoulder she said, "Sorry."

Well, that threw me. Even though the "sorry" did have a slight edge to it, I can't remember the last time my mom apologized for anything.

Her gaze traveled down to my hedgehog slippers, and her eyebrows rose. My mom wears marabou-feathered high-heeled slippers, summer or winter, and before she could comment on mine I said, "Did you want to come in?"

As she stepped into the house to stand in the foyer, I noticed she was clutching a large brown paper bag to her chest with one hand. For a second I wondered if she'd brought some booze with her, but no, the package was flat and square. In her other hand she held a Tupperware container she now thrust toward me.

"Wayne dropped me off on his way into town--I made you some Annie Bear cookies."

Ah. Peanut butter cookies in the shape of a bear's paw with chocolate chips melted for the pads. When I was a kid she made them for me if I was sad or if she felt guilty about something, which wasn't often. She must have felt bad about our argument.

"That was really thoughtful, Mom. I've missed these." She didn't say anything, just stood there with her eyes darting around my house, then she wandered over to finger the dry leaves of the fern on my mantel.

Before she could critique my plant-mothering skills, I said, "I don't know if you want to be around me--I have a cold--but if you want to stay I could make us some tea."

"You're sick? Why didn't you say something?" She perked up like she'd just won the mother lottery. "When Wayne comes back, we'll drive you to my doctor's. Where's your phone? I'll call their office right now."

"I've had enough of doctors." Shit, I sounded like The Freak. "Look, if I decide I need one, I can drive myself, but it doesn't matter anyway, we're not going to get an appointment this late in the day."

"That's ridiculous--of course my doctor will see you." My whole life Mom has never thought she should have to wait for anything--not doctor's appointments, tables in restaurants, supermarket lines--and sure as shit she generally ends up with an appointment within the hour, the best table, and the store manager opening the next checkout for her.

"Mom, stop, I'm fine. There's nothing a doctor can do for a cold--" I held up my hand as she opened her mouth to interrupt. "But I promise if I get sicker I'll go." She sighed, set her purse and package down on my end table, and patted the couch.

"Why don't you lie down and I'll make you a hot lemon tea with honey."

Telling her I was capable of boiling my own water would just get me a look, so I collapsed on the couch.

"Sure, it's above the stove."

Once she'd brought me a steaming mug, a plate of Annie Bear cookies, and poured herself a healthy glass of the red wine I had in the kitchen, she sat at the end of the couch and spread my throw over the both of us.

She took a good long gulp of the wine, handed me the package, and said, "I found that photo album you were talking about, it must have gotten mixed up with our stuff somehow." Sure it did. But I let it go. She'd brought the pictures back and the hot tea was spreading a pleasant glow throughout my body and even my feet felt warm tucked against her leg.

As I started to flip through the album, Mom took out an envelope from her purse and handed it to me.

"You didn't have these photos, so I made you copies."

Surprised at the unexpected gesture, I focused on the first one. She and Daisy were at one of the ice rinks in town wearing matching outfits, matching ponytails, and matching skates. Daisy looked about fifteen, so it was probably taken just before the accident, and in the pink sparkly costume Mom looked about the same age. I'd forgotten she skated with Daisy sometimes when she was practicing.

"People used to tell me all the time that we could be sisters," she said. I wanted to say, Really? I don't see it at all.

"You were prettier."

"Annie, your sister was gorgeous." I looked at her face. Her eyes were shining and I knew she was pleased, but I also knew she agreed with me.

While she got up to get herself more wine, I flipped through the rest of the photos, and as she settled back down at my feet with a full glass--this time she brought the half-empty bottle with her and set it on the end table--I stopped at the last one, of Dad and her on their wedding day.

When I glanced over at her, she was staring into her glass. It may have just been a trick of the light, but her eyes looked moist.

"Your dress was beautiful." I looked down at its sweetheart neckline, at the long beaded veil in her blond hair. Then back up from the photo.

Leaning toward me, she said, "I made it from a pattern Val wanted for her own wedding dress one day. I told her she didn't have the chest for it." Mom laughed. "Can you believe she's never forgiven me? For that or for going out with your father." She shrugged. "Like it was my fault he liked me more."

This was news. "Aunt Val dated Dad?"

"They only went out a few times, but I suppose she thought they were something. She was just awful at the wedding, barely spoke to me. Did I tell you about our cake? It was three layers, and..."

While mom went step by step through their wedding feast, the details of which I'd heard a million times, I thought about Aunt Val. No wonder she was always trying to get back at Mom. Might also explain her attitude toward Daisy and me. When we were kids she and Mom did the take-each-other's-kids-for-the-weekend thing, which Daisy and I dreaded. Aunt Val mostly ignored me, but I swear she actually hated Daisy, looking for any reason to make fun of her while Tamara and her brother giggled.

Our families didn't do a lot together after the accident. Wayne and Uncle Mark don't have much in common, or even like each other, so it was mostly just Aunt Val and Mom. When they did include us kids, my cousin Jason teased the hell out of me, but Tamara kept her distance--I thought she was stuck-up. Now I figure her mother was probably giving her the gears about me as much as mine was about her.

One afternoon after I moved into my house Mom and Aunt Val popped in from a shopping trip. Aunt Val glanced around, then asked me how I was enjoying real estate.

"It's good, I like the challenge."

"Yes, Tamara seems to really thrive on it too. She got the top sales award for her office this quarter, won a bottle of Dom Perignon and a weekend trip to Whistler. Does your office ever do anything like that, Annie?" Nice dig, if not subtle. My office was large for Clayton Falls, but nowhere near the size of Tamara's downtown Vancouver firm--we'd be lucky to get a bottle of wine and a plastic plaque.

Before I could answer, Mom said, "Oh, she's still doing residential? Annie's getting a huge project, all waterfront units. Didn't you say it was going to be the largest building in Clayton Falls, Annie Bear?" I'd only been talking to a developer, hadn't even done a presentation yet, which Mom well knew, but she just enjoyed twisting the knife so much, I didn't have the heart to take it out of her hand.

I said, "It's a big one."

"I'm sure Tamara will get a project one day too, Val. Maybe Annie can give her some tips?" Mom smiled at Aunt Val, who looked like her tea had just turned to poison in her mouth.

Of course, Aunt Val rallied.

"That's a lovely offer, but right now Tamara is finding she can make more money selling houses and doesn't want to spend years marketing a project that may not even sell. But I'm sure Annie will be fabulous at it."

Mom's face turned so red I was actually worried for a minute, but she managed to force a smile and changed the subject. God only knows what those two were like growing up.

Mom never talks about her childhood much, but I know her dad split when she was pretty young and her mom remarried another deadbeat. Her older stepbrother, Dwight, is the one who's in prison. He robbed a bank when he was nineteen, just before Mom got married, served his sentence, and was released a month after the accident, then managed to get arrested a week later. Dumbass even shot a guard in the leg the last time. I've never met him and Mom refuses to talk about him. I made the mistake of asking if we could go see him once and she flipped out. "Don't you even think about going near that man." When I said, "But Tamara told me Aunt Val takes them, so why can't we--" that got me a slammed door.

After we moved into the shitty rental house, I came home from school one day to find Mom sitting on the couch, staring at a letter in her hands with a half-empty bottle of vodka beside her. It looked like she'd been crying.

I said, "What's wrong, Mom?" She just kept staring at the letter.

"Mom?"

Her voice was desperate. "I won't let it happen again. I won't."

A jolt of fear shot through me. "What--what won't you let happen?"

She held a lighter to the letter and dropped it in the ashtray. When it was gone she picked up the bottle and stumbled to her room. On the kitchen table I found an envelope with a prison as its return address. The envelope was gone by the morning, but she didn't leave the house for a week after that.

I tuned back in when Mom said, "You know, Luke's a lot like your father."

"You think? I guess in some ways. He's patient like Dad was, that's for sure. We've been talking a lot recently, I'm going to help him with his bookkeeping."

"Bookkeeping?" She said the word like I'd just announced I was going to become a prostitute. "You hate bookkeeping."

I shrugged. "I need to make some money."

"So you haven't talked to an agent or a producer?"

"I decided I don't want to make more money off what happened to me. It makes me sick that people, including me, have made any money off it at all."

The first time I saw an old high school friend being interviewed on TV, I sat stunned on my couch while this girl I hadn't seen in a decade told the talk show host about the first time we tried pot, about the outdoor party where I got drunk and threw up in the backseat of a car belonging to a boy I had a major crush on, then read aloud from notes we supposedly passed each other in class. That wasn't even the worst of it--the guy I lost my virginity to sold his story to a major men's magazine. Jerk even gave them pictures of us from when we were together. One of them was of me in a bikini.

Mom said, "Annie, you really need to think about this. You don't have the luxury of time." Her face was concerned. "You never went to college or university. Sales is just about all you can do, but try selling anything now--all people see when they look at you is a rape victim. And bookkeeping for Luke? How long is that going to last?"

I remembered a call a few days back from a movie producer. Before I could hang up on her she said, "I know you must be sick of people bothering you, but I promise if you just take a few minutes to hear me out, and you still say no, I'll never call again." Something about her no-bullshit tone of voice connected with me, so I told her to go ahead.

She gave me her pitch on how I could set the record straight and my story could benefit women all over the world. Then she said, "What's holding you back? Maybe if you tell me what you're afraid of I can see what we could do."

"Sorry, you can talk, but sharing my reasons wasn't part of the bargain."

So she talked, and it was like she knew exactly what I was worried about and what I wanted to hear--she even told me I could have final script and actor approval. And she said the money could set me up for life.

I said, "It's still a no, but if anything changes, I'll call you first."

"I hope you do, but I hope you also understand that there's a time limit to this offer...."

She was right, and Mom was right. If I waited much longer I was going to be a hell of a lot more than a day late and a dollar short. But I wasn't sure what was worse, going down in a ball of flames like Mom predicted, or actually taking her advice.

Mom looked away from the TV and took another slug of wine. I said, "Did you give a movie producer my number?"

She paused with her glass in midair and her forehead wrinkled. "Did someone call you?"

"Yeah, that's why I'm asking. My number's unlisted."

She shrugged. "Those people have ways."

"Don't talk to any of them, Mom. Please." We held eyes for a moment, then she let her head fall to rest on the back of my couch.

"I know I was hard on you girls, but it was only because I wanted more for you than I'd had." I waited for her to say more, but she just gestured to the TV with her hand holding the glass. "Do you remember when I let you and Daisy stay up late to watch that?" Now I realized she'd been staring at a preview for Gone with the Wind--one of her favorite movies.

"Sure. You stayed up with us and we all slept in the living room."

She smiled at the memory, but her face was sad. It turned thoughtful as she turned to look at me. "It's on in an hour. I could stay over tonight, if you're sick?"

"Oh, I don't know, I've been getting up around seven and going for a run, you--" She turned back to the TV. The sudden withdrawal of her attention hurt more than I care to admit. "Okay, sure, it might be nice to have some company, probably stupid to run feeling like this anyway."

She gave me a smile and patted my foot under the blanket. "Then I'll stay, Annie Bear." She dragged the cushions off the other couch and started building a bed in the middle of the living room floor. When she asked me where I kept my spare blankets, her cheeks pink with excitement, I figured what the hell. Beats another night lying awake in the hall closet thinking, Why didn't the burglar take anything?

Later that night, after Mom sent Wayne home when he stopped by to pick her up, after we'd eaten popcorn, Annie Bear cookies, and ice cream while watching Gone with the Wind, Mom passed out with her small body pressed against my back and her knees tucked into the curve of mine. As her breath tickled my back and her arm lay over me, I stared at her tiny hand touching my skin and realized it was the first time I'd let anyone physically close to me since I came back from the mountain. I turned my face away so she wouldn't feel my tears against her arm.

Just thinking, Doc, every time I say something bad about Mom, I have this urge to list all her good qualities right after--my version of knocking on wood. And the thing is, Mom isn't all bad, but that's the problem. It would be easier if I could just hate her, because it's the rare times when she's loving that make the other times so much harder.

SESSION EIGHTEEN

On my way to your office I walked by a bulletin board, and a concert poster caught my eye. I was checking out the announcement, just about to take a sip of my coffee, when I noticed part of a different flyer underneath the poster. Something about it seemed familiar, so I pulled it out. And holy shit, Doc, it was a flyer with my face on it--my face--over the words Missing Realtor. I just kept staring, and until a drop landed on my hand, I wasn't even aware I was crying.

Maybe I should put up my own flyers: Still Missing. That smiling face belonged to the woman I used to be, not the woman I am now. Luke must have given them the photo--he snapped it on our first Christmas morning together. He'd just handed me a beautiful card and I was grinning up at him, all happy and shit. My hand shook like I was holding ice instead of warm coffee.

The flyer is stuffed in the garbage can outside your office now, but I still have the urge to go back and pull it out. God knows what I'd do with it.

Now that the shock of seeing my picture's worn off, I really want to talk about what happened when I finally sat down and made a list of all the people in my life like you suggested. Yes, Fraulein Freud, I actually gave one of your ideas a whirl. Shit, I had to do something--couldn't keep sitting around freaking myself out over the break-in.

My internal scare-yourself-silly sound track goes a little something like this: My car was in the driveway, so the burglar must have seen me leave with Emma. How long had he been watching the house? Days, week, months, still? What if it wasn't a burglar?

Then I spend the next hour telling myself I'm an idiot--the cops are right, it was just a random event, a stupid burglar who got freaked by the alarm. But then the whispers start up again. Someone's watching you right now. The second you relax he's going to get you. You can't trust anyone.

Like I said, I had to do something.

Starting with the ones closest to me--Luke, Christina, Mom, Wayne, any family like Tamara, her brother Jason, Aunt Val, and her husband Mark--I made a column beside each one for any reasons they might want to hurt me, feeling like a complete idiot because of course there's nothing to put there.

Next I moved down the list to anyone else I might have pissed off--former clients, coworkers, ex-boyfriends. I've never been sued, the only Realtor who might've had an issue with me is the "mystery" Realtor competing against me for that project back when I was abducted, and although I've broken the odd heart, I never did anything deserving of revenge so long after the fact. Even wrote down the names of a couple of Luke's exes--one was still hung up on him when we started dating, but hell, she moved to Europe before I was even abducted. I put The Freak down too, then wrote "dead" by his name.

I sat at my table, staring at this ridiculous list with its got-a-listing-they-wanted, didn't-return-their-call, didn't-sell-their-house-fast-enough, kept-one-of-his-CDs notes in the column, and when I tried to imagine any of these people lurking outside my house or breaking in so they could "get" me, I shook my head at my craziness.

Of course it was just a burglar, probably some junkie teenager looking to buy his next fix, and he's not going to come back now that he knows I have an alarm.

Man, as silly as I felt making that list, I'm glad I did. Even got a good night's sleep in my bed that night. By the time Luke came over Saturday afternoon to set up that bookkeeping software, I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

Aiming for casual but not sloppy, I'd rummaged through the box of clothes from Christina and found some beige cargo pants and a periwinkle-blue T-shirt. Part of me wanted to throw on a jogging suit and mess up my house again, but when I looked in the mirror I didn't mind what I saw.

I still haven't gotten around to having my hair cut, so I just washed it and pulled it back. I've finally gained a bit of weight--never thought I'd think that was a good thing--and my face has filled out.

I debated putting on makeup--Mom brought me a bag of cosmetics in the hospital--but none of it was colors or brands I like. Anyway, even if I hadn't heard The Freak's voice telling me makeup is for whores, I couldn't bring myself to call that much attention to my face. I settled for moisturizer, light pink lip balm, and mascara. I probably didn't look as good as the old days but I'd definitely looked worse.

Luke, however, looked amazing when I answered his knock. He must have just come from work, because he wore black dress pants and a burnt-orange shirt that set off his warm olive skin and the amber flecks in his brown eyes.

Emma rolled over and wriggled at his feet. I answered his "Hi" with a barely audible one of my own, then stepped back so he could come in. We stood awkwardly in my foyer. He raised an arm as though he was going to touch me or pull me in for a hug, then let it drop. Considering my reaction the last two times he tried to touch me, I wasn't surprised.

He crouched down to pet Emma. "She's looking great, huh? I thought about bringing Diesel over but I didn't know if that'd be too much chaos."

I told the top of his head, "I'm not an invalid."

"Never said you were." Still crouched, he looked up and met my eyes with a smile. "So, should we have a look at this program? And by the way, you're looking great yourself."

I stared at him while my cheeks grew warm. A grin spread across his face. I twisted around so fast I almost tripped on Emma, and said, "Let's go down to my office."

The next hour whipped by as he showed me how to set up the program and we went through the system together. I enjoyed learning something new and was glad we had something to focus on besides each other--I was having a hard enough time adjusting to him sitting next to me. He was in the middle of explaining a section when I blurted out, "That time you noticed me leaving the store? I saw you with a girl. That's why I was in such a hurry."

"Annie, I--"

"And when you saw me in the hospital you were so fucking kind, with those flowers and that stuffed golden retriever, but I just couldn't deal--with you, with anything. After that I asked the nurses to tell you I was only allowed visits from family and the police. And I hate that I did that, it was so nice of you, you're always so nice, and I'm such a--"

"Annie, the day you were abducted...I was late for dinner."

Well, that was news.

"The restaurant got busy and I lost track of time--I didn't even call when your open house ended like I usually did, and when I finally called on my way to your house a half hour late and you didn't pick up, I just thought you were mad. And when your car wasn't there, I assumed you got stuck with your clients, so I went home to wait. It wasn't until you still hadn't returned my calls an hour later that I finally headed over to where you said you were doing the open house...." He took a deep breath. "God, when I saw your car in the driveway, then all your things just lying there on the counter...I called your mom right away."

Turns out it was Mom who got the cops to take things seriously. She met Luke at the police station, convinced the desk sergeant I would never stand my boyfriend up, and was at the house when the cops found my purse in a closet, where I always put it for safekeeping. Since there weren't any signs of a struggle, Luke was their main suspect in the beginning.

"After a few weeks I started drinking at the restaurant almost every night after work."

"But you hardly ever--"

"I did a lot of dumb things then, things I never would have done...."

I wondered what dumb things he was talking about, but he looked so awkward and red-faced I said, "Don't beat yourself up, you handled it better than I probably would have. Are you still drinking a lot?"

"After a few months I knew I was relying on the buzz, so I quit. By then most people thought you were dead. I didn't feel like you were, but everyone was acting like you'd never be found and a lot of the time I was angry at you. I knew it was irrational, but in a way I blamed you. I never told you this, but I didn't like you doing open houses--that's why I usually called you after. You were so friendly, men can take that the wrong way."

"But that was my job, Luke. You're friendly at the restaurant--"

"I'm a guy, though, and look, I had stuff I had to work out for myself. I went a little crazy."

Emma butted her head between us and broke the tension. We gave her a few strokes, then I asked her where her ball was and she took off.

"I went out with the girl you saw a couple of times, but I ended up talking about you and the case, so I knew I wasn't ready. What I'm trying to say, Annie, is that I'm just as confused as you--and that we've both changed. But I do know I still care about you, still like being with you. I just wish I could help you more. You used to tell me how safe you felt with me."

He gave a sad smile.

"I did feel safe with you, but now no one can make me feel safe. I have to get there on my own."

He nodded. "I can understand that."

"Good, now can you help me understand this damn program of yours?"

He laughed.

About twenty minutes later we were done and just as I was debating whether to invite him to stay for dinner, he said he should get back to the restaurant. At the door he stepped toward me, hesitated for a second, then raised his eyebrows and--just slightly--his arms. I moved toward him and he folded me into a hug. For a minute I felt trapped and wanted to wrench free, but I buried my nose in his shirt and inhaled the aroma of his restaurant--oregano, baked bread, garlic. He smelled like long dinners with friends, like too much wine and laughter, like happiness.

Against my hair, he murmured, "It was really good to see you, Annie." I nodded and as we slowly pulled apart, I kept my eyes down until I'd blinked back the tears. Later, I wondered if he would have stayed for dinner if I'd asked, but my regret was balanced with relief over not having to hear him say no. I used to be so good at quick decisions, but ever since I killed The Freak I've lived in perpetual hesitation. I remember reading once that if you have a bird that's lived in a cage for a long time and you leave the cage door open, the bird won't leave right away. I never understood that before.

I'd fallen asleep on the bed, where I'd collapsed after killing The Freak, and the throbbing of my breasts woke me--my milk was still drying up. My first awareness was of the keys gripped in my hand. I'd held them so tight while I slept that they'd left marks in my skin. In my sleepy confusion over why I had the keys and fear that The Freak would catch me with them, I let go. The jingle they made falling onto the bed startled me out of my haze. He was dead. I'd killed him.

My bladder urged me to the bathroom, but I checked the watch and saw I had ten minutes to wait. When I tried to go anyway, my bladder froze. Ten minutes later, no problem.

On my way back to the bed, my leg brushed the baby's blanket on her basket. I picked it up and pressed my face into it, breathing in the last traces of her scent. My daughter was still out there--alone. I had to find her.

I pulled on a white dress and stuffed my bra with cloths dampened with cold water for breast pads. After grabbing some slippers, I headed back down to the river and searched its shores in either direction until trees or sheer cliffs blocked my path. From a distance, any pale boulders the size of a baby stopped my breath until I was close. A bundle of cloth snagged on a tree in the middle of the river had my knees wobbling until I waded out and realized it was nothing but rags. When I wasn't able to find any trace of her there, I examined the clearing inch by inch for any signs of disturbed earth but I couldn't find a thing.

I even dug my hands through the soft garden dirt surrounding the cabin--I wouldn't have put it past the sick bastard to bury her where we planted food--and crawled under the porch. Nothing. The only place I hadn't searched yet was the shed.

The summer sun had been beating down on the metal shed all morning, and as the door opened, the odor of his already decomposing body rushed toward me in a nauseating wave. I grabbed a gasoline-scented rag off the bench and held it against the bottom of my face. Then, concentrating on breathing through my mouth, I tiptoed past his body. Flies that had hitched a ride in with his corpse the day before hummed around the tarp, as loud as the generator.

With trembling hands I dug everything out of the freezer. She wasn't in there, and the shelves held nothing but lanterns, batteries, kerosene, and ropes. I found a trapdoor with stairs to a root cellar, its dank scent fresh compared to the stench of death above. All it contained was canned foods, house hold items, a first aid kit, some boxes, and in an old coffee can a roll of money with a pink hair elastic wrapped around it. I hoped the elastic didn't belong to another girl who'd been hurt. It wasn't a lot of money, so I figured he had more stashed elsewhere. His wallet still hadn't showed up, not in his pocket when I grabbed the keys or in any of the cupboards in the cabin, but I'd never seen him with one. One of the keys hadn't fit any locks yet and I hoped it was for the van, hidden somewhere, his wallet inside.

In a wooden crate I discovered a rifle, a handgun, and ammo. I stared down at them. I'd never really seen the gun he threatened me with the first day, only felt it in my back and saw the butt of it in his waistband. It looked small next to the rifle, but I hated them both. One had killed the duck and one had forced me into this hell. My hand moved for just a second to the spot on my lower back where it had been pressed. I closed the crate and shoved it behind some others.

Each time I opened a box I was afraid I might discover my baby's body shoved inside, something that needed to be stored away and neatly labeled "Practice." But the final box only held my yellow suit and all my photos and newspaper ads. When I opened it I caught a trace of my perfume and I pressed the soft material against my nose. I tried the blazer on over my dress but it felt wrong to wear it--like I'd put on a dead girl's clothes. I left the suit in the box and only took the photo of me I thought was from my office as I headed back up and out into the light.

The only area I hadn't searched was the surrounding forest, so after I drank some cold water, I stuffed an old packsack I'd found in the cellar with protein bars, the first aid kit, and a Thermos of water. I was about to head out when I spotted the photo on the counter next to my baby's blanket and one of her sleepers. I added them all to my packsack of treasures.

Soon after I stepped into the forest on the right side of the cabin, the steady rush of the river and the chirp of the birds that usually clustered in the clearing faded and the only sounds were my footsteps muffled by the blanket of fir needles covering the ground. I spent the rest of the afternoon climbing over and under dead logs, digging at every slight mound, and sniffing the air for any trace of rot. I never went into the woods any deeper than fifteen minutes from the cabin and worked my way toward the highest point of the clearing in a sweeping radius.

When I finally made it to the top, I discovered a narrow trail at the edge of the woods heading into the forest. Crowded with salal and lady ferns, it was a vague line discernible only by the odd faded machete mark on the tree trunks. Some of the trees, Douglas firs reaching higher than I could see, were a couple of feet around and their trunks were blanketed in moss, which meant it was a moist forest. I was probably still on Vancouver Island.

I looked back at the clearing one final time and prayed that if there was a heaven--and I've never wanted to believe more than in that moment--then my baby was with my dad and Daisy.

As I headed down the trail, I spotted a possible break in the tree line in the distance and after another five minutes I stepped out of the woods onto an old gravel road. Judging by the potholes and lack of tire tracks, it hadn't been used for a while. About ten feet down, the bank dipped in slightly on the right.

Moving toward it, I realized the dip was the start of a smaller road veering off the main one. The Freak would've had to hide the van close to the cabin, so I decided to follow it. Not much wider than a truck, it was covered in grass and if you were driving by you probably wouldn't even notice it. It curved around to run parallel to the main road, about twenty feet of trees between the two.

Farther down the road I came across a small white bone, and my feet stopped along with my heart. I scanned the ground inch by inch, then found a bone too large for my baby, and within a few feet I nearly stumbled on the skeleton of a deer.

I followed the road until it ended in a wall of dead broom bush and branches. At the bottom, a piece of metal glinted in the sun. With frantic hands I ripped the vegetation away. I was staring at the back of a van.

A quick search of the glove box turned up no wallet or registration papers, not even a map. Peering between the seats into the dim back of the van, I noticed some material wadded into a ball and reached for it. It was the gray blanket. The one he used to abduct me.

The sensation of the rough wool in my hand combined with the scent of the van was all too familiar. I dropped the blanket like it was on fire and flipped around in the seat. Trying not to think about what had happened in the back, I focused on turning the key in the ignition. Nothing.

I held my breath. Please start, please start...and tried the key again. Nothing. My body dripped with sweat in the sweltering van and my legs stuck to the vinyl seats, where my dress had ridden up. With my forehead against the hot steering wheel I took a few calming breaths, then popped the hood. I spotted the disconnected battery cable right away, tightened it back up, and gave the engine another try. This time it came to life immediately and the radio began to blast country music. It had been so long since I'd heard music that I laughed. When the DJ came on I caught the words "...back to a commercial-free hour." But no clue to where I was, and when I tried to find another station, the knob just spun around.

I threw the van in reverse, backed down the little road, ran right over some saplings, and shot out onto the main road. It hadn't been graded for a while, so I took my time coming down the mountain. After about a half hour my tires hit pavement, and maybe twenty minutes later the road straightened out.

Eventually my nose caught the familiar scent of ocean air tinged with the sulfur from a pulp mill, and I came into a small town. Stopped at a red light, I noticed a coffee shop on my left. The smell of bacon drifted through my open window and I inhaled the aroma with longing. The Freak never let me have bacon, said it would make me fat.

My mouth filled with saliva as I watched an old guy sitting near the window pop a piece of bacon into his mouth, chew quickly, then shove another one in. I wanted bacon--a plateful, nothing else, just strips and strips of bacon--then I'd chew each piece slowly, savoring the salty yet slightly sweet juices every crunch released. A big bacon fuck-you to The Freak.

The old guy wiped his greasy hands on the shoulder of his shirt. The Freak whispered in my head, You don't want to be a pig, do you, Annie?

I looked away. Across the street was a cop shop.

SESSION NINETEEN

Hope you're feeling better this week, Doc. Guess I can't give you a hard time for canceling our last session, considering I was probably the one who gave you the cold. I'm feeling better myself, about a lot of things. For starters the cops called early this week to tell me they nabbed the guy who's been doing all the break-ins, and yep, it was just a teenager.

You'll also be happy to hear I haven't slept in the closet since I last saw you, and I've stopped having a bath at night. Now I can shave my legs in the shower and I don't even need to wash and condition my hair twice. I can pee over half the time without having to do any deep breathing and I eat when I need to. Sometimes I don't even hear The Freak's voice when I break one of his rules.

Only thing that keeps nagging at me is that stupid photo The Freak had of me--the older one. I hadn't thought about it once since I came home, too much other shit going on, but then after I mentioned it to you the other day I came across it in a little box where I keep the stuff I brought home from the mountain, during another of my many that-bastard-must-have-stolen-something searches of my house.

The real estate company where I worked had cubicles and I kept a corkboard above my desk with lots of photos pinned to it, so I figured maybe The Freak had snatched it from there. If he said he was looking for a house, he could have been in the office meeting with any of the Realtors. That might even have been when he first saw me, for all I know. But why would I have had one of just myself up in my office? And why am I driving myself nuts trying to figure it out? It's not like it matters anymore. Hell, sometimes I think my mind just looks for shit to obsess about. It's like trying to put a group of kids to bed--one worry finally drifts off, and another is out and running.

This week I was thinking about how in the past Christina and I would've gone over every minute of Luke's visit, analyzing it scene by scene, and I had a wave of missing her. Reminding myself how relieved I'd felt after I made my list, and how proud I'd been when I finally faced Luke, I dialed her cell before I could chicken out.

"Christina speaking."

"Hey, it's me."

"Annie! Hang on a sec--" I heard muffled sounds of Christina speaking to someone, then she came back on the line. "Sorry, Annie, hectic morning, but I'm so glad you called."

"Shit, it's tour day, isn't it? Want me to call later?"

"No way, lady--I'm not letting you off that easy. I've been waiting too long for you to pick up the phone." We both paused.

Not knowing how to explain my avoidance of her and everyone else, I said, "So...how have you been?"

"Me? Same old, same old."

"And Drew?"

"He's good...he's good. You know us, nothing ever changes. How are you doing?"

"Okay, I guess...." I searched my mind for something interesting in my life I could share. "I'm doing some bookkeeping for Luke."

"You guys are talking again?" Out came the fake Russian accent. "Vell, vell, vell, that's good news."

"It's not like that--it's just a business thing," I said, quicker than I meant to.

She gave her I-know-you're-full-of-shit laugh, then said, "If you say so. Hey, how's your mom doing? I saw her and Wayne downtown the other day and she was looking, ummm..."

"Pissed out of her mind? Seems to be the theme lately. But she did come over a couple of weeks ago to bring me back my photo album and some pictures of Dad and Daisy I'd never seen. That shocked the shit out of me."

"She thought she lost you--she's probably still trying to come to terms with it all."

"Yeah." I didn't feel like getting into it, so I said, "I was wondering what my house is worth these days."

"Why? You're not thinking of selling, are you?"

Not wanting to talk about the break-in, I said, "It's just not the same since Mom rented it out--doesn't even smell like me anymore."

"I think you should give it some time before you--" A voice said something to Christina in the background. "Darn, my clients just arrived out front. We're already late, so I've gotta run, but give me a call this evening, okay? I really want to talk to you."

During and after the phone call, I missed Christina more than ever, and I did think about calling her that night, but her sign-off told me she was gearing up for another of her this-is-what-you-should-do talks and I just couldn't deal with it. So when I heard the knock on my door Saturday afternoon and looked through the window to find Christina, who's always dressed to the nines, standing on my front porch wearing white overalls, a baseball cap, and a shit-eating grin, I didn't know what the hell to think. I opened the door and saw she was holding a couple of paintbrushes in one hand and a huge paint can in the other. She handed me a brush.

"Come on, now, let's see what we can do about this house of yours."

"I'm kind of tired to day. If you'd called--" She blew right by, leaving me talking to my doorstep.

Over her shoulder she said, "Oh, please, like you answer your phone." She had me there. "Quit your whining and get your ass in gear, girl." She started pushing one end of my couch, and unless I wanted my hardwood floor damaged, I didn't have much choice but to join in moving all the crap out of my living room. I'd always wanted to paint the beige walls but I'd never gotten around to it. When I saw the gorgeous creamy yellow she'd chosen, I was hooked.

We painted for a couple of hours, then took a break and sat outside on my deck with a glass of red wine. Christina won't drink anything under twenty dollars a bottle and always brings her own stuff. The sun had just gone down, so I turned all my patio lanterns on. We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Emma chew her rawhide bone, then Christina looked me straight in the eyes.

"So what happened between us?"

I played with the stem of my glass and shrugged. My face felt hot.

"I don't know. It's just..."

"Just what? I think if people are friends, they should be honest with each other. You're my best friend."

"I'm trying, I just need--"

"Did you follow up on any of my suggestions or did you block them out too? There's a book out now by a rape survivor you should read, it talks about how victims had to build up walls to survive, but then afterwards they can't--"

"It's that. The pressure. The endless, constant 'you shoulds.' I didn't want to talk about it, but you just couldn't let it go. When I tried to tell you I didn't want the clothes, you just steamrolled right over me." I stopped to take a breath. Christina looked stunned.

"You were trying to help, I get that, but man, Christina, sometimes you just have to back off."

We were both quiet for a minute, then Christina said, "Maybe if you explained why you didn't want the clothes?"

"I can't explain, that's the problem, and if you want to help, then you just have to accept me the way I am. Stop trying to make me talk about shit, stop trying to fix me. If you can't do that, then we can't hang out."

I braced for fireworks, but Christina nodded a couple of times and said, "Okay, I'll try it your way. I need you in my life, Annie."

"Oh," I said. "Well, good. I mean, that's great, because I want you in my life too."

She smiled, then her face turned serious. "But there's something I have to tell you. A lot of things happened when you were away.... Everyone was so emotional and nobody knew how to handle it. And--"

I held up a hand. "Stop. We have to keep things light. It's the only way I can do this."

"But Annie--"

"No, no buts." I had a feeling she wanted to tell me she got the project--I drove by her signs in front of it the other day--but the last thing I wanted to do was talk about real estate. Besides, it made sense that she got it, and I was happy for her. Hell, I'd way rather it be her than whoever I was competing against.

She stared at me hard for a few seconds, then shook her head.

"All right, you win. But if you're not going to let me talk, then I'm going to make you paint some more."

With a groan I followed her back into the house, and we finished the rest of the living room.

After we said our good-byes on the porch and she was about to step into her BMW, she turned back.

"Annie, before, I was just being the same way with you as I've always been."

"I know. But I'm not the same."

She said, "None of us are," and shut her door.

The next afternoon I decided to go through a couple of boxes of my stuff I'd found in my mom's carport when I was borrowing some gardening tools. The first one was full of my real estate awards and plaques, which I put away in my office without hanging them. The second box, with all my old art supplies, drawings, and paintings, interested me much more. Tucked into the pages of my sketchbook was a brochure for an art school I'd forgotten I wanted to go to. For once, a trip down memory lane wasn't lined with screaming ghosts, and the smell of charcoal pencils and oil paints made me smile.

I pulled out my sketch pad and the brochure, grabbed my pencils, poured myself a glass of Shiraz, and headed for my deck. For a while I just stared at a blank page. Emma was lying in one of the last rays of the setting sun, which made her coat glow and accentuated the shadows on her. With my pencil I followed the curve of her body on the paper, and then it started coming back to me. Reveling in the sensation of my hand brushing against crisp paper, I watched my simple lines create a form, then smudged some of them with my finger-tips for shading. I kept working at it, changing the balance of light and dark, then stopped to gaze for a few seconds at a bird whistling in a tree near me. When I focused back on my paper I was startled--no, shocked. I'd glanced away from a drawing of a dog, but when I looked back I saw Emma. Right down to the little cowlick at the top of her tail.

I sat there enjoying my sketch for a few minutes, wishing I had someone to show it to, then my attention turned to the brochure. As I flipped through it I smiled at notes I'd made to myself. But my smile faded when I noticed I'd circled the tuition fee and put a big question mark beside it.

Mom got a small inheritance when my grandma died, but when I asked about using some of it for school, she said it was all gone. Whatever was left when she hooked up with Wayne no doubt disappeared before the ink was dry on the marriage license.

I thought about getting a part-time job to put myself through art school, but Mom kept telling me artists don't make any money, so I wasn't sure what to do and I just started working. I figured once I'd saved up enough, I'd look into going to school, but it just never happened.

When Luke called last night I told him about my afternoon sketching. "That's great, Annie, you always liked art." He didn't ask about seeing my drawing, and I didn't ask if he wanted to.

Christina's come over a couple of times to help me paint the other walls in my house. She keeps it light, like I asked, but it feels strained in a way. Not tense, just odd. But the second I think about sharing anything that happened on the mountain, a massive wave of anxiety presses in on me. Right now all I can handle is gossip about Hollywood stars and people we used to work with. The last time I saw her she told me about this goofy cop who taught her self-defense class.

Took me right back to the ones I had to deal with when I first got off the mountain. Let's just say, since my expectations were based on TV reruns, I was hoping for Lennie Briscoe but I got Barney Fife.

I was happy to see a woman behind the front desk of the cop shop, but she didn't even glance up from her crossword. "Who you looking for?"

"A policeman, I guess."

"You guess?"

"No, I mean, yes, I want to see a policeman." What I really wanted was to leave, but she waved over some guy who was just coming out of the men's room and wiping his hands on the legs of his uniform.

"Constable Pepper will help you," she said.

It's a good thing his title wasn't sergeant, the guy already had enough to deal with. He was at least six feet tall and had a really big gut but was skinny everywhere else--his gun belt looked like it was losing the fight to hang on to his narrow hips.

He glanced at me, grabbed some files from the front desk, and said, "Come on."

He stopped to pour himself a cup of coffee from a beat-up coffeemaker--didn't offer me any--and dumped sugar and creamer into the mug. He motioned for me to follow him past a glass-walled office and three cops in the main area crowded around a table with a small portable TV, watching a game.

He pushed a stack of files to the side of his desk, set his coffee mug down, and waved me into the chair across from him. It took him a two-minute rummage through his drawer to find a pen that worked and another few were spent pulling out various forms and then shoving them back in. Finally he was settled with a working pen and a form in front of him.

"Your name, please?"

"Annie O'Sullivan."

He looked straight at me, his eyes searching every angle of my face, then he got up so fast he knocked over his coffee.

"Stay here--I have to get someone."

Leaving the coffee soaking into his papers, he went into the glass office and started talking to a short gray-haired guy I assumed was important because he had the only private office. Judging by his hands waving around, Pepper was pretty excited. When Pepper pointed to me, the older guy turned to look, and our eyes met. I already had that get-out-of-here-NOW feeling.

The cops near the television turned it down and looked back and forth between me and the office. When I glanced at the front desk, the woman there was watching me. I looked back at the office. The old guy picked up his phone and talked into it, pacing around as far as the cord would go. He hung up, pulled a file from a drawer behind him, then he and Pepper looked in the file, talked to each other, stared at me, looked at the file again. Subtle these guys were not.

Finally the old guy and Pepper--carrying the file--left the office. The old guy leaned down close to me with one hand resting on his knee and the other stuck out. He spoke slowly and enunciated every word carefully.

"Hello, my name is Sergeant Jablonski."

"Annie O'Sullivan." I shook his outstretched hand. It was cool and dry.

"Nice to meet you, Annie. We'd like to talk to you in private--if that's okay?" Why the hell was he dragging his words out? English isn't my second language, dumbass.

"I guess." I got to my feet.

Grabbing a couple of legal pads and pens off his desk, Pepper said, "We're just going to take you to one of our interview rooms." At least he was talking at a normal speed.

As we walked away from the desk, all the cops in the room stood still. Pepper and Jablonski moved to stand on either side of me, and Pepper tried to hold my arm, but I pulled it back. You'd think I was being escorted to the electric chair--I swear the phones even stopped ringing. Pepper managed to suck in his gut slightly and walked with his shoulders back and chest puffed out like he'd hunted me down all by himself.

It was definitely a small town. So far I'd seen only a few cops, and the cold concrete room they led me into was the size of your average bathroom. Just as we sat down across from each other at a metal table, Pepper got up to answer a knock on the door. The woman from the front desk handed him two coffees and tried to peer around him, but he stepped in front of her and shut the door. The older guy nodded to me.

"You want coffee? A pop?"

"No, thanks."

One of the walls had a large mirror on it. I hated the idea of someone I couldn't see watching my every move.

I pointed at the mirror. "Is anybody there?"

"Not at this time," Jablonski said. Did that mean there might be someone later?

I nodded toward the upper left corner. "What's the camera for?"

"We'll be audio-and videotaping the interview--it's standard procedure."

That was just as bad as the mirror. I shook my head. "You have to shut it off."

"You'll forget it's even there. Are you Annie O'Sullivan from Clayton Falls?"

I stared at the camera. Pepper cleared his throat. Jablonski repeated the question. The silence continued for another minute or so, then Jablonski made a quick slicing motion across his neck. Pepper left the room for a couple of minutes, and by the time he came back the little red light on the camera was off.

Jablonski said, "We have to leave the audio recorder on, we can't conduct an interview without it." I wondered if he was bullshitting--on the TV shows, sometimes they use one, sometimes they don't--but I let it go.

"Let's try this again. Are you Annie O'Sullivan from Clayton Falls?"

"Yes. Am I on Vancouver Island?"

"You don't know?"

"That's why I'm asking."

Jablonski said, "Yes, you're on the island." His slow, precise speech disappeared with the next question. "Why don't you start off by telling us where you've been?"

"I don't know, other than that it was a cabin. I don't know how I got there, because I was doing an open house, and a guy--"

"What guy?" Pepper said.

"Did you know this man?" Jablonski said.

As the two spoke--at the same time--I flashed to The Freak stepping out of the van and turning toward the house.

"He was a stranger. I was almost done with the open house, and I went outside to--"

"What was he driving?"

"A van." I saw The Freak smiling at me. Such a nice smile. My stomach clenched.

"What color was it? Do you remember the make and model? Had you seen this van before?"

"No." I started counting the blocks on the concrete wall behind them.

"You don't remember the make and model, or no you hadn't seen it before?"

"It's a Dodge, Caravan I think, tan and newer--that's all I know. The guy had the real estate paper. He'd been watching me, and he knew stuff--"

"He wasn't a past client, or maybe some guy you turned down in a bar one night or chatted with on the Internet?" Jablonski said.

"No, no, and no."

He raised his eyebrows. "So let me get this straight. You're trying to tell us this guy picked you out of thin air?"

"I'm not trying to tell you anything, I don't know why he picked me."

"We want to help you, Annie, but first we need the truth." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

My arm shot across the table and sent their stupid little pad of paper and coffees flying. I stood up, leaned over the table with both of my hands flat on it, and screamed into their shocked faces.

"I AM telling the truth!"

Pepper held out both of his hands. "Take it easy! You're getting all worked up here--"

I flipped the table over on its side. As they tried to get out of my way and scurry out the door, I yelled at their backs, "I'm not saying another damn word until you get me some real cops!"

After they left me alone in the room, I stared at the mess in shock--I'd even broken one of their mugs. I righted the table, picked up the note pad, and tried to wipe up the coffee with some of the paper. After a few minutes Pepper slunk in and grabbed the note pad off the table. One palm held out in front of him and the other clutching the note pad to his chest, he slowly backed out of the room.

"Just relax, we have some people coming in to talk to you."

The front of his pants was wet with coffee from when I'd knocked the table over. I was about to hand him the broken pieces of mug and apologize, but he was through the door in a flash.

I laughed for a couple of seconds, then put my forehead down on the table and cried.