Maybe because Alice isn’t here every day, she doesn’t bother to decorate.
Or maybe she doesn’t want her clients to have a peek into her homelife. All it takes is one psychopath to threaten your family. Alice probably prefers to keep her personal life private. It’s not going to keep Deborah from asking, though.
“Do you have children, Alice?”
“I do,” she says hesitantly. “I have a son and a daughter.”
“How old?”
“My son is seventeen. My daughter is in her twenties.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes,” Alice says coyly. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I made a lot of decisions based on keeping my family together, right or wrong.”
“I can understand that.” Alice abruptly stands. “If you’re not ready to talk about your late husband, we can save that for our next session.” Touching the knotted scarf at her throat, Alice says, “In the meantime, we can look at something to help with your other ailments. Besides what you mentioned last time, are you taking any over-the-counter meds or other prescriptions?”
“No.”
“Antidepressants?”
“Nope.”
Alice moves to the laptop at her desk. “I want to prescribe something different as a sleep aid and a medication for your migraines. Let’s try these and find out if there are side effects and go from there.” Clicking her nails on the keyboard, Alice confirms, “You said you don’t drink or keep alcohol in the house?”
“I do not drink.”
“Good to know, because you shouldn’t drink on these meds,” Alice warns. “Where do you want me to send them?”
Deborah prefers to handle most of her business in the next town over. Her prescriptions are filled at the small pharmacy there, and it gives her an air of anonymity. Deborah’s relieved Alice doesn’t ask her about using a different zip code.
After tapping a few more keys, Alice gives her a smile. “Okay, I submitted the scripts. You should be able to pick up today.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to see you in a few weeks, if that’s all right with you.” Alice scans her computer screen. “To see how you’re adjusting and to talk about whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“That works.”
Alice hands Deborah an appointment card, which is nothing more than a circled date and time. As she’s exiting the office, Deborah makes a quick stop. Twisting around, she turns to consider Alice. “Dr. Alacoy?”
Barely glancing up from her laptop, she murmurs, “Uh-huh?”
“What was the compliment, then?”
Alice peers at her from over the screen. “Beg your pardon?”
“You said Robert paid me a compliment.”
“That he did.” Alice grins. “He said you made the best pies in the county.”
Deborah shrugs. “I did win a blue ribbon at the state fair.”
“Where I come from, the state fair doesn’t compare to the one here. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to try one sometime.”
Giving her a thumbs-up, Deborah pauses at the door to retrieve her sunglasses. Sliding them back on, she smiles to herself, thinking of Robert.
With a glance in both directions, she heads to her car, a noticeable bounce in her step that’s still with her when she gets home. Then, with more energy than she has had in a long time, Deborah goes on a cleaning spree, wiping fingerprints and dirt from the windows, dusting the furniture, and sweeping the kitchen floor. Running the vacuum over the carpet, she maneuvers it through the downstairs rooms until her hip starts to throb. It’s not like I’m going to venture upstairs anyway, she consoles herself. It’s too spooky up there.
Robert’s coming over for dinner later, and she smiles, remembering the compliment he paid her to Alice. Scouring the cupboards and the walk-in pantry, Deborah checks to see if she has all the ingredients to bake an apple pie.
By the time it’s in the oven, Deborah has flour smudged on her cheeks and discarded apple cores on the countertop and floor.
With an hour timer set and feeling sudden fatigue, she crashes in her usual chair, watching mindless television while rocking back and forth, as if she can lull herself to sleep. The constant motion prevents Deborah from thinking about the strange man seated next to her in Jonathan’s recliner. She asks herself why she hasn’t gotten rid of the battered chair, but she doesn’t have a good answer. Mainly because after Jonathan died, she didn’t want her daughter to ask questions or take offense. Deborah supposes she’s had sixteen years to make a change and hasn’t. The man in the usually empty spot seems disturbed, his face covered in bits of toilet paper and shaving cream, as if he didn’t bother to consult a mirror while shaving his stubble.
Peering at him with concern, Deborah notices a rough patch of skin that looks like a scar, as if something as sharp as a razor is jutting across his face. Perhaps a knife?
When he notices her looking, he moves his head toward her, as if wanting to engage her in conversation. Trying not to flinch at the sight of his half-closed eyelid, Deborah drops her gaze to her hands clenched on the armrest. She doesn’t want to be rude, but his lid reminds her of something absentmindedly stitched up by a needle and thread.
His lips move, but she can’t make out the words. Deborah is annoyed by this; she’s always hated when people try to talk over the television. Jonathan used to do that, and she’d eventually get huffy and walk out of the room. Though now that she thinks about it, that was smart of him. It ensured he got the remote and television all to himself, and with only one TV in the house, it was calculated, like everything else he did.
Though she wants to focus on the chatter of the infomercial, Deborah cocks her head to the side, straining to hear what he keeps repeating beside her. She doesn’t want to look at him, but it’s no use.
“You owe me money,” he says testily. “You wanna keep the farm, don’t ya?”
Surprised at this pronouncement, Deborah shushes him.
“I mean it. Pay up.”
Trying to keep
