Unsure of how to respond and on rocky footing with the topic of his wife’s death, she closes her palm around the heavy cardstock. “Thank you.”
“I won’t bring it up again,” he promises. “I just want you to feel better. PTSD is a real thing.”
Though her external injuries have healed, her renewed terror at living on the farm alone hasn’t. After every sunset, at the first trace of dusk, her insides clench in apprehension as Deborah imagines a stranger waiting in the gloomy night, ready to pounce and finish the job.
“I know.” She nods her head. “But even with seeing someone, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again.”
“It might be time for a change.” Robert is grim.
Before he drives off, he gives her hand one final squeeze, and Deborah can’t imagine giving him up for anything. If Robert thinks she should seek help, then maybe she should. It might even make him more inclined to want a relationship with her, especially since he witnessed the fallout from before. She doesn’t want him to think she’s unstable. Or deranged.
That’s all in the past, isn’t it?
But in this moment, Deborah is suddenly unsure.
CHAPTER 3
Deborah
Sitting in her vehicle until 8:00 a.m. on the dot, Deborah clasps the now-tattered business card in her hand. She arrived early for the appointment, but her nerves got the best of her. Distrustful that this quack doctor would be any different or wiser, she circled the block, then opted for a parking spot behind the building, instead of in plain sight. She’s had enough curious and threatening stares over the years in this tiny town.
Robert recommended this woman, she reminds herself, and he’s not like Jonathan; he’s better. Kind. His concern is from a place of caring, not selfishness.
With this in mind, Deborah hesitantly enters the office from the back door instead of the front entrance. After shutting it softly behind herself, she’s tempted to open it and run back to the safety of her automobile.
The shades are drawn in the waiting room, if you can call the small area that, but Deborah doesn’t spot a receptionist, which is a relief. In fact, there’s no check-in desk or bell, and there’s always a bell to ring for service.
When she announces her presence aloud, it’s garbled, and even her name sounds foreign to her ears.
She starts to pace the small room, and fighting the instinct to run, she forces herself to take a seat in a plush chair in the corner. Then, unable to relax in the elegant chair, Deborah fiddles with the strap of her purse.
Staring at the pale-blue walls, she’s reminded of an article she read in one of her home-improvement magazines, or maybe it was O, Oprah’s magazine. It said the walls of doctors’ offices are painted soft colors like this shade of blue or light green because the colors have been shown to be soothing.
Though she despises bright, vibrant colors and loud wallpaper, the pastel tone isn’t warming her up to this visit. Deborah agreed to come only to show Robert she was serious about starting the healing process and merging their lives.
Suddenly, as if Deborah had snapped her fingers, a woman in her midforties appears. Too much of her face is covered by thick black glasses, a contrast to the platinum hair. The picture Robert showed her on the website when she scheduled an appointment online matches the woman perfectly, minus the white lab coat and black dress with Dr. Alacoy, Clinical Psychiatrist on it. Today she’s more casual, wearing linen pants and a flowered tunic.
At first glance, she appears harsh—cold, even, not a strand out of place in her stern updo—but when Dr. Alacoy opens her mouth, the crinkles at the corners express her desire to smile, and it transforms her demeanor instantaneously.
Deborah feels an immediate warmth and familiarity with this woman. Maybe it’s because they’ve bumped into each other around town, but she feels like a kindred spirit.
“Deborah Sawyer.” The doctor not only shakes her hand but allows her soft one to linger over Deborah’s trembling one. “I’m Alice Alacoy, and I’m so glad you could make it.”
“You came highly recommended.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.” She lets out a slight chuckle. “I’ll ignore the fact this town has limited options, and there aren’t many choices.”
This is true, as Deborah’s previous doctor has retired.
Unsure what to say, she simply stands to follow the tall woman into an adjoining room, an exact replica of the one she just came from. Painted the same color, it has coordinating furniture. The only difference is the large, polished mahogany desk sitting astutely in the middle. It’s uncluttered and empty, save for a laptop and printer.
Dr. Alacoy points to the sitting area on the left, where an overstuffed chair and a small leather couch beckon them. A little side table rests between the two pieces of furniture. “Take your pick.”
“Where will you be sitting?”
“On whichever one you don’t choose. That is, if you’re comfortable with it.” She motions to the desk. “Or if you prefer, I can sit here and take notes. It’s just not as easy to hear you across the room.”
Hesitating for a moment, Deborah chews her lip before deciding on the couch.
“Great!” Dr. Alacoy claps her hands. “Before we get started, is there anything I can get for you? Maybe some coffee or tea?”
Deborah rests her purse next to her, though for some reason, keeping the strap around her fingers feels oddly therapeutic, so she keeps the leather loose around her knuckles. Deborah winces as she has a flashback to them bloodied and bruised from the steel-toed boots that stepped on them.
Dr. Alacoy offers to light a candle. “I’ve got either vanilla or a lavender one.”
Deborah read in the same magazine that mentioned relaxing paint colors that
