Hell to pay, p.25
Hell to Pay, page 25
“I’m not dismissive.”
“Then tell me who Max is.”
“Max who, for godsake?”
“The dog!” Laurel blurted. She picked up the leash and showed the tag to Jeremy. “His name is on the tag. And if you turn it over ...” She flipped the small round piece of metal. “It gives the address of the house, and a phone number. Whose phone number is that, Jeremy? Can you tell me? If I dial it, our phone will ring. How’s that for a clue?”
Jeremy could barely contain himself. He ran his hand over his face, taking several long, silent moments to consider how to handle the matter.
“Fine, Laurel. You wanted to know, so I’ll tell you. But you should sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
“Then let’s both do it.”
Jeremy pulled out a chair for her, then sat in his own.
“You had a nervous breakdown,” Jeremy said, speaking in a gentle tone, as if she might shatter had he been any firmer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Just after you’d sent in the manuscript for the second book.”
Laurel stared at him. “What you’re saying is impossible.”
“No, Laurel, it’s not. You were ... it’s hard to describe now ... you were catatonic, clinically catatonic, for several weeks. I thought you’d had some kind of massive stroke.”
Laurel could not believe what he was telling her. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying, and I’m not making this up. You can ask Eileen, you can ask your uncle—”
“I’ll ask my mother, that’s who I’ll ask,” Laurel said. She started to get up from the table, intending to grab her cell phone.
“She doesn’t know!” exclaimed Jeremy. “I couldn’t have our families telling you to leave.”
“You mean leave you,” said Laurel.
“No ... yes ... it’s the same damn thing. You were in a terrible state, Laurel. You spent two weeks in the Flemington Psychiatric Hospital. They have the records.”
Laurel felt herself deflating. They have the records.
“You almost ran over a woman on the road.”
The woman from my dreams.
“She’s lucky you missed,” Jeremy said. “It’s like you tried to run her over. She could have had you arrested.”
But I didn’t hit her. And I didn’t keep going.
“We had a dog. His name was Max.”
“A dog can smell the Devil,” Laurel said, dazed by what he was saying.
“What are you talking about?”
“What happened to Max?” asked Laurel, ignoring his question.
“He ran away, Laurel. He knew something was wrong and it frightened him, and he ran away.”
“Dogs come home.”
“Well, he didn’t. And at this point I’d say he never will.”
“What happened then? After I almost killed a woman with my car and the dog ran away.”
“You went silent. There’s no other way to describe it. You were deaf and mute for weeks, two of which you spent in a locked facility.”
Jeremy reached over and put his hand on hers. She let him.
“It’s the past, Laurel. I knew you’d blocked it out, and wanted it kept that way. It wasn’t long after that you were pregnant, and this entire episode could add unbelievable stress to you and the baby. I left it buried.”
Like you left the dog buried, she thought, not knowing why. Was it another false memory? A psychic aftershock? Had everything been a series of aftershocks, radiating out from a traumatic event she couldn’t remember?
“I’m throwing this leash out,” Jeremy said, standing up and taking the leather strap in his hand. He walked over to the trash can, opened it with the foot lever, and tossed the leash inside.
Laurel watched him, resigned to believing what he’d told her because there was no other explanation.
They have the records. I want to see the records.
“Was he a good dog?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Max. Was he a good dog?”
“It doesn’t matter now, but yes. He was a very good dog.”
“Maybe I’m not the reason he ran away.”
“He’s gone, Laurel. You’re not in the psyche ward. You don’t even remember being there. Let’s make dinner and get past this, alright? You’re a mother now, and a successful writer. You’ve got a life most people would envy. Let’s just ... be happy with it.”
“You’re right,” Laurel said. “I’ll call Poppy tomorrow and make another appointment. Although I’m not sure how ethical it is for a therapist to keep something like that from her client.”
“It was a group decision,” said Jeremy.
And who is this group? You and Eileen, and Poppy, and Uncle Martin? Is Luther in this group?
Laurel instinctively knew it was time to drop the subject. The more she pressed Jeremy, the more he would insist she should stop. Don’t go there, Laurel. Don’t dig too deep. You’ll find them staring back at you again.
“Change into something comfortable and help me make dinner,” she said, standing up and pushing her chair in.
“I only kept this from you because I love you,” Jeremy said. He kissed her, picked up his briefcase and headed out of the kitchen.
“I love you, too!” Laurel called after him.
And everything you just told me is a lie.
She went to the trash can, took the leash out and put it in a drawer.
FIFTEEN
LAUREL STARED AT THE PHONE, needing to make the call but dreading what she might hear. If Jeremy had been telling her the truth, it meant everyone had kept something monumentally important from her. If he was lying, it meant exactly the same thing, and the people around her were involved in some bizarre conspiracy to keep her in the dark. But what was the truth? Why would they hide it? And what could they possibly stand to gain from Laurel thinking she was losing her mind?
You’re not losing your mind, she thought. That’s what he wants you to think, that you’re insane.
“I’m not a lunatic,” she said, steeling herself and dialing the Psychiatric Hospital in Flemington. She knew they wouldn’t give her any information, even if she claimed to be the patient in question. Instead she’d come up with a plan. After listening to the automated prompts for one department after another, she pressed ‘5’ and waited. And waited ...
“Billing,” said a man’s voice.
She knew if she presented her problem as one of payment, she could possibly get answer.
“Hello,” she said to the disembodied voice. “I was admitted there a year ago and I just got a bill, but it should have been covered by my insurance. Is there someone I can speak to?”
“I’ll try to help you,” the man said. “My name’s Sam.”
“Hi, Sam.”
“What’s your name, Miss?”
“Calloway,” Laurel said, guessing he was an older man to have addressed her that way. “Laurel Calloway.”
“I need the billing record or your date of birth.”
Thank God, she thought. She didn’t have a record number for a bill that didn’t exist, and she didn’t have dates of service for a stay she believed never happened. She recited her birth date and listened to him typing it in.
A moment later she got the answer she’d expected.
“I don’t have any record of you staying here.”
“I can’t be the only one with that birthday,” she said.
“No, but you’re the only Laurel Calloway, as far as I know. Maybe I’m wrong and there are twelve of you, but none of you are in our system.”
She held her breath, fear making its way through her like thickening blood in her veins.
“Miss Calloway? Are you there?”
“Mrs. Calloway,” she said. “My husband lied to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” Laurel said, and she disconnected the call.
The next number she dialed was the therapist’s. After several rings, it went to voicemail.
“Poppy, this is Laurel. We need to talk. I think Jeremy is trying to drive me crazy. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m afraid. Please call.”
She heard Isabel crying through the baby monitor. She shut her eyes and forced herself to focus. Whatever was happening could not be allowed to interfere with her responsibilities as a mother. Isabel came first. Not Jeremy, not schemes, not conspiracies. Her child.
She did her best to put her rising panic out of her mind. She had a daughter to take care of at the moment, and that was all that mattered.
SIXTEEN
SHE KEPT IMAGINING SCENARIOS ALL the way to Lambertville, with each possibility more complicated than the last: Jeremy was trying to make her doubt herself, Jeremy wanted her committed, Jeremy wanted ... what, Laurel, what does Jeremy want?
She began to consider motives that could make any sense at all. She had been the one whose dreams had come true. Her books had sold and been praised by all the right people, in all the right places. She’d made a small fortune selling movie rights and tripling her advances to deliver the next book, and the next. And Jeremy? He’d been a failed actor who, were Laurel ever to say it out loud, was not very good at his craft. She’d gone to the few plays he’d been in, first in Chicago, then New York, and finally Philadelphia, where his expected big break came to an end as quickly as some of the shows he’d been in. The agent who’d called him a star of tomorrow? She stopped talking like that when he couldn’t get more than a few magazine ads and a voiceover radio spot. Then he’d finally abandoned his pipe dream and hopped on the corporate ladder. He was making good money. He was higher in the ranks. He was somebody at last, but not the somebody he’d wanted to be. Was that why he was doing this? To get her out of the way, maybe consign her to a mental ward or a conservatorship, with him controlling all the strings?
What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine. Didn’t he sometimes say that, in jest? What if it wasn’t a joke after all, and he planned to get his hands on her growing wealth? They were married, they had communal property and assets, but what if Jeremy wanted everything, and he wanted it with Laurel out of the way? What if there was a new Mrs. Calloway out there somewhere, waiting patiently for the position to open up? Laurel gasped at the thought. She’d never considered Jeremy to be the affair type, but she’d watched enough shows on the ID Channel to know those were exactly the kinds of men who had affairs … often resulting in clumsily committed murders. Was this all a way to get her to do the job herself, freeing him up for a life her success would subsidize for years to come?
She parked in front of Poppy’s house and proceeded to get Isabel out of the back seat. She’d decided not to call Eileen for last-minute babysitting. In her fevered mind, she no longer trusted the old woman. So nice, so ready to help. She had never brought the baby with her to a therapy session, but there was a first time for everything.
“You’re lucky I had a cancellation,” Poppy said, letting Laurel into the consultation room with the stroller. Isabel was awake but quiet.
“I’m probably lucky he hasn’t killed me yet, too,” Laurel replied.
Poppy reacted with alarm, poking her head out and looking one way, then the other, as if a demented Jeremy might be about to barge in. Seeing no one, she closed the door.
Laurel parked Isabel by a large bookcase, giving her something to marvel at as she peered up at the wall of books.
“She won’t cry,” Laurel said, as if Poppy wondered about it.
“It’s fine if she does. I’m thrilled to finally meet her!”
Laurel realized it was true: her therapist had never met her daughter.
“She has a birthday party coming up,” Laurel said. “So I’m told.”
Poppy sat in her usual chair, while Laurel sat close to the stroller.
“So you’re told?” said Poppy. “What does that mean?”
“It means everyone seems to have a piece of me I didn’t give them,” replied Laurel. “Eileen is planning a party for Isabel’s first birthday, and all the attendees will be over seventy, except me, Jeremy and the baby. I hope you’ll come. What are you, forty?”
Poppy smiled. “I’m forty-six. But please continue.”
“Will you be there?” Laurel persisted.
“I’m your therapist, not your friend. But if you need me to show up for support, yes, I’ll stop by. Just get me the details.”
There was a moment of silence. Laurel kept glancing from Isabel, to Poppy, and around the room.
“What’s going on?” asked Poppy.
“Jeremy told me I was in the psychiatric hospital in Flemington, and I know it’s not true.”
Poppy’s curiosity showed on her face. “When was this?”
“When he told me, or when I was supposedly admitted for being insane?”
“You’re not insane, Laurel. When did he tell you, and when did he say you were in the hospital?”
“He told me last night, when I gave him a leash and asked him about a dog he’d said we never had. Now I know why I’ve heard a dog barking somewhere in the distance … I’m remembering it. He finally admitted it, but he said I scared the dog away.”
Poppy sat back, startled by the strange turn. “Wow. That’s a lot to unpack.”
“There’s much more,” Laurel said. “You may want to get your pen and pad ready.”
Agreeing with her, Poppy turned to her desk and got her notepad and pen. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning.”
“I went to our old house to meet the people who live there now,” Laurel began. “And I ended up in the basement ...”
For the next half hour Laurel told Poppy everything she’d done the past two days. It was extreme, even to a therapist used to hearing the colorful stories of her clients. Laurel talked more about her dreams, about the wall in the basement of their first home, about the dog leash and the tag with “Max” on it, and about Jeremy’s insistence that she’d been admitted to a psyche ward and had no memory of any of it.
“You look shell-shocked,” Laurel said, after reaching the point in her story where she called Poppy and drove over from Strickland.
Poppy had stopped taking notes halfway into the session. There was something mesmerizing about it all for her.
“Jeremy is not telling you the truth,” Poppy said.
“What is that?” Laurel replied. “I don’t have any idea anymore what truth is. Isabel is the truth, I know that.”
Poppy stared at her a long time, considering what to say and weighing the consequences of it.
“You have what’s called dissociative amnesia,” Poppy said.
“I don’t understand.”
“You were in the hospital, that part is true.”
“But I called them, there was no record ...”
“It wasn’t the psychiatric hospital, Laurel. It was an asylum.”
Laurel felt the blood drain from her face. “There is no such thing. They’re all torn down now.”
“Yes and no,” replied Poppy. “You’re right, they’re not called asylums anymore. I’m sorry I used that word. But there are places ...”
“Places?”
“Safe places for the mentally ill.”
“I’m not mentally ill!” Laurel said.
“Not now, but before you got pregnant with Isabel—”
“When we were living in the house in the woods.”
“Yes, it was during that time. You had a breakdown. You were taken to Derst Haven.”
“An asylum.”
“That’s not what it is,” said Poppy. “I should never have used that word. It’s a small facility near Trenton. A home, really. A rest home.”
Laurel shot up out of her chair. “You knew about this?”
“It’s how we met, Laurel. I was the therapist assigned to you.”
“Eileen referred me to you. Her husband Pete came to see you when his brother died, she told me that.”
“These things are not mutually exclusive, Laurel.”
“You’re lying!” said Laurel. “Just like Jeremy’s lying, just like ... who else, Poppy? Who else in my life is lying to me?”
“You need to relax.”
“You need to go to hell,” Laurel said.
“We can call them now, if you’d like.”
“Call who?”
“Derst Haven. They’ll verify you were there.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will. I’m sure you’ve all got this tied up nicely. Crazy Laurel, losing her mind. A madwoman, an unfit mother. Is that what this is about? You want to take my child from me?”
“No one wants to take Isabel from you. That’s the last thing anyone wants.”
“Who is anyone, for godsake?” Laurel nearly shouted.
“Everyone who cares about you.”
Poppy let her words sink in.
Finding herself suddenly exhausted, Laurel slumped back into the cushion.
“Everyone ....”
“Who care about you. That’s the important thing.”
“Jeremy, you, Eileen?”
Poppy’s silence answered the question.
“Oh my god. I really was put away.”
“You were not ‘put away,’’ said Poppy. “That language doesn’t help. You tried to kill yourself, Laurel. It was an extreme situation, calling for an extreme response.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Leaning forward, Poppy said, “You had a psychotic break ...”
“Psychotic? Like serial killer, slasher-movie psychotic?”
“Nothing of the sort. You mended very well, but I was concerned that revisiting all that could do more harm than good, so I waited.”
Laurel’s eyes narrowed. “And how long were you going to wait, Poppy?”
“I’d planned to regress you very soon, actually.”
“Regress me? Am I some kind of lab experiment to you? I really need to leave now.”
“I think we should talk about this.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Laurel said, getting up from the loveseat. “The time to talk about it was when it happened. You’re too late.” She grabbed the handles of Isabel’s stroller, flung the door open and hurried out.
