AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Do you want me to email Amazon and send it back?”
I blink a few times. “You think it was a mistake?”
“Of course. What else could it be?”
A reminder? A threat? A warning? My mind immediately goes to that group that put up flyers. Mothers Against Abusive Doctors. Those people want me to never forget. I once had a patient whose abusive husband beat her to within inches of death. He’d been physically abusing her for years, but that time she finally had him locked up. Somehow he sent her gifts from prison—the same model pot he’d fractured her skull with, the wine bottle he’d smashed and used to slice open her face. It’s called an anchoring tool—planting an item intended to paralyze someone with fear.
“Meredith?” Sarah puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and nod. “Yeah. Just tired. That’s all.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me, but at least she takes the box from my office so I don’t have to look at it anymore. “I’ll give you a few minutes before I bring Mr. Halloran in.”
“Thanks.”
Though a few minutes won’t help. The damage is done. I’m on edge yet again. A Hello Kitty figurine. Not too long ago a book about a stalker. Coincidence? How many is one too many of those? Three? Six? Or do you not figure out the magic number until something really bad happens…
I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything when Sarah shows my first patient in. I’m not ready, yet I’m grateful for the interruption. Work has become my fortress, acting as a barrier from my negative thoughts and worries. Session one feels like driving over rough terrain. Session two, a few speed bumps. By the time my last patient arrives, I’m back to smooth sailing.
Henry Milton. He’s been with me for years. Depression. And a pathological liar. The latter is a term people throw around to describe someone with a penchant for telling tall tales, but a true pathological liar is very different from a guy who describes his fish as twice its size or weaves stories about conquests that never happened. The average, common liar lies for a reason—to get out of trouble, to avoid embarrassment, to make themselves seem more important than they are. But a pathological liar makes up stories that have no clear benefit to them. It’s a compulsion. And it’s often difficult to tell if anything they’re saying is the truth. They perfect their craft. But with Henry, I can usually recognize his lies by the level of detail and the outlandishness of the story.
“My friend got hit by a car,” he begins today. “Prius. They’re so quiet. He was crossing on East Sixty-Fourth against the light. He made it halfway and—” He smacks his hands together. “Splat.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Is he okay?”
He shakes his head. “He broke his back. Well, they’re not sure if it was broken. Definitely sprained. But he was in a lot of pain. They went in to do exploratory surgery. He’s originally from Ohio, so his parents were driving up to be with him. But he died on the table.”
“He died during surgery?”
He nods but looks away. Another telltale sign that Henry is lying. I briefly ponder if Dr. Alexander can read me so easily.
“His parents are suing. They think it was the anesthesia. His father’s a big-time lawyer, too. He’s got commercials on TV. Real channels like Fox, not just local stations. And get this—the guy who was driving the Prius is a pretty famous actor. Well, not too famous. But famous enough that he’ll probably have deep pockets for a settlement.”
Now I’m certain this story is fabricated. Because he just keeps spinning it, like a spider—all different directions and round and round. If I don’t stop him, in ten minutes the story will have morphed into something unrecognizable from where it started.
“Henry…” I use a stern but tempered tone. “Did your friend really have an accident?”
He frowns and changes the subject, rather than answer my question.
“I don’t think the guy who was subbing for you while you were out liked me.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugs. Then babbles on with a new story. This one about a woman he’s started talking to who I’m not sure is real. I should be paying better attention, but I’ve been distracted all day. Ever since Sarah broke the news that a certain patient is no longer a patient. Of course, the mistaken delivery didn’t help matters, either. Lately my life has felt a lot like trudging through mud. More and more things weigh me down as I go, but I have to keep pushing forward.
My buzzer goes off while Henry is in the midst of yet another story. I wait until he finishes and then wrap things up. Sarah pops in as soon as he’s gone.
“I’m going to head out in a few. Are you sticking around?”
I nod. “I have some session notes to catch up on.”
“I’m going to make myself a green tea for the road. You want one?”
“I’d love that. Thank you.”
After she’s gone, I stare down at my daily appointment sheet. Gabriel Wright is the only name not crossed off. Deep down I know cutting all ties is the right thing to do. There shouldn’t have even been any ties to cut. Yet I feel a heavy sense of loss. And I can’t stop myself from wondering a dozen what-ifs…
What if he wasn’t who he was, and he and I had matched on the dating app instead of Robert? It’s lunacy to even think about such a thing, yet I can’t deny that part of me was attracted to him. Would I be dating him right now? Would I have met him for drinks the other night, instead of Robert? Would I have gone home with Gabriel? Slept with him? There’s some sort of chemistry there. Sadly, his two-minute appearance during my date was a stark reminder that I don’t have that with Robert. No spark. No fire. No pull. Which stinks because Robert is a great guy—the guy I should’ve been dreaming about last night, rather than my patient. Or ex-patient now.
