Miles found his breath and went inside. The door to his right read ALLISON VANCE, M.D., PSYCHIATRY. He opened it, stepped inside, rested his head against the door as he closed it.
‘Good morning, Michael,’ Allison said to his back. ‘I’m glad you made it this morning.’
‘Made it early,’ he said. Certain days he couldn’t face the appointment, the idea of sifting through the black sand of his memory, afraid of what he might unearth. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Nothing at all,’ Allison said, and her tense expression faded. ‘Would you like a cup of green tea?’
He hated green tea but said, ‘Great, thanks.’ He took off his jacket, hung it on a hook – the confession still in its pocket – and sat down in the fat, worn leather chair across from hers.
She poured a steaming cup of tea and handed it to him.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘You look tired, Michael.’ It was his new-life name, one conjured up by Witness Security.
‘I’m not a morning person.’ He sipped.
‘You probably worked a lot of nights, being an investigator.’ Attempt number one to get him to talk. His being a former private investigator was one of the three nuggets of truth she knew about his old life.
‘Nighttime is the right time,’ he said. ‘Cheating spouses often burn the midnight oil.’
‘Is that who you shot? A cheating spouse?’
Attempt number two, based on nugget number two. The dance remained the same; she would try to get him to talk about the horrible instant when his old life died, glean details he couldn’t remember, and he would duck and run, hiding behind jokes and chatter. ‘No. I never carried a gun.’ The words came out like molasses dripping from his lips. Get up and give her the confession, he told himself.
Andy stood behind Allison. ‘What’s wrong, Miles? Lose your nerve? Go ahead, tell pretty lady exactly what you did to me.’
Miles froze. His skin felt like it had been slathered in ice. Andy had never set foot in Allison’s office before. Miles glanced at his coat, where the confession lay. He looked at Andy. Andy grinned and shook his head.
‘Michael? Is something wrong?’ Allison leaned forward with a frown.
Miles hid behind a long sip of his tea. Steadied his breath against the rim of the cup. Looked up again. Andy made a gun of his fingers, fired it at Miles.
‘Michael, every time I mention the shooting, you freeze up.’
‘I know.’ He set the tea down. ‘I don’t want… to not remember what happened anymore.’ The words felt thick in his throat. ‘I need you to help me.’
She sat across from him. ‘Of course, Michael. This is a major step. Wanting to heal yourself – it’s a critical element that’s been missing from our work together.’
‘I don’t want you to hate me,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t. Never.’ She offered a thin smile. ‘I think I understand you better than you know.’
‘Wait till you find out what I did,’ he said. ‘I don’t even remember all the details of it – I can’t.’
‘Your willingness to talk about your trauma is all that matters, Michael.’
‘I know I haven’t been cooperative with you, but I want to be sure
… I stay your patient. You’re the only one who can help me.’
‘I’ll take it as a welcome compliment, thank you, but-’
He held up his hand. ‘Don’t give me the shrink line about every therapist is good, blah blah blah. And I don’t want you sending me to a hospital; I can’t, I won’t, go to one of those places, they’re not an option.’
An expression of surprise, or of disappointment, he couldn’t tell which, crossed her face, then vanished with her nod. ‘No hospitals. And I welcome the change in attitude toward your therapy. Where would you like to start?’
Prep her for the confession, he decided. ‘I keep seeing the person I shot. I can’t live this way, I can’t have him on my shoulder all the time, so it’s either get fixed or go even crazier.’
Her expression might have been cut from steel. ‘Is he here now?’
‘Yes. He’s a fever I can’t shake. He told me this morning he wanted to kill me.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Andy.’
Behind her, Andy crossed his arms. ‘I really resent you bringing this do-gooder bitch between you and me, Miles.’
‘Let’s talk about the shooting,’ Allison said.
‘I told you, I don’t remember all the details.’
‘We’ll go slow. Start with where the shooting happened.’
The first word caught, a stone in his throat, but he coughed and said, ‘Miami.’
‘Your home?’
‘I grew up there. So did Andy.’
‘Where in Miami did the shooting take place?’
‘A warehouse. No one there but me and…’ He stopped; he couldn’t look at her. Handing her the confession now seemed impossible. He steadied his breath; the burn of panic inched along his bones.
‘Me and two policemen and Andy…’
‘The knife that’s in the kitchen drawer,’ Andy said. ‘Wicked sharp. I’ll put it in your hand, I’ll help you draw a nice hot bath, and then you can slash your wrists, and we’re cool again.’
Miles stopped. ‘I want to be healthy again, I want my life back…’ He stood and he paced and put his face into his hands.
‘Let me help you. Go back to the story.’
‘But I can’t remember, I can’t remember, how can you help me if I can’t remember?’
‘Small steps. You shot this Andy.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Why?’
The pictures crossed his mind, a jumble, photos dropped at random on a floor. ‘We’re laughing. Then – Andy freaked. He pulled a gun. Aimed at the head of one of the cops.’
‘And you shot him.’
He sank into the chair. ‘Yes. But I don’t remember it.’
‘Doesn’t pretty lady deserve the truth,’ Andy whispered, ‘before you give her a letter full of lies?’
‘Let’s not try to remember,’ Allison said. ‘Let’s just talk about what you visualize if you think about the shooting. That’s different from the memory itself.’
He sipped the green tea and wished the cup held bourbon. ‘I remember the laughing. But then the laughing stops and I raise the gun. I see Andy start to speak but I can’t hear what he says. I pull the trigger. He shoots me.’
‘He shot you?’
‘Yes. In the shoulder. I see him fall. I…’ The scar on his shoulder began to ache, throbbing like a heartbeat. Sweat coated his palms, the close air of the building tightened in his chest – the smell of the paint, the faint hammering two floors above him faded and suddenly the office disappeared, the chill of New Mexico that pressed through the windows replaced with the humid blanket of Miami, the gunfire boomed a ceaseless roar in his ears, echoing in the cavernous warehouse, drowning out Andy’s scream, his own voice filled with shock and horror, the chock of the bullet hitting Miles’s flesh, a cannonball of pain.
‘Michael?’
‘Oh, Jesus, please.’ Miles ran his hand along his forehead. He felt feverish, sick. He steadied his hands, pressing them against the soft leather of the chair. He was here. Not there. He could not go back there. Never.
‘Michael. Michael.’
Michael wasn’t his name and he didn’t want to answer to it and then he remembered, yes, he was Michael now and forever. If he wanted to live.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You were having a flashback. You’re safe. No one will hurt you.’
‘I’m safe,’ he repeated after her. He blinked.
She cleared her throat. ‘Tell me about Andy.’
