So close, p.14
So Close, page 14
“It’s good to see you looking so well, Lily,” Dr. Hamid says with a warm smile.
She settles into a desk chair at a black conference table with chrome legs. I mirror her on the opposite side. You won’t sit at all, having refused Dr. Hamid’s gracious offer with a curt shake of your head.
You’re pacing instead, with the methodical stride of calculating predation. You seem even taller as you loom over us, and your restlessness charges the room.
Are you afraid of doctors, love? Of hospitals? Does the smell of disease and decay turn your stomach? Does the prick of a needle sinking into soft flesh turn your blood cold?
It’s something I don’t know about you, one of the incalculably infinite threads that form who you are at the core. It’s those filaments, from phobias to fervors, that form the weaving of an individual.
I’ve come to accept that asking for reciprocation of my love is unfair. You don’t even love yourself. I don’t even love myself.
What a pair we are, intrinsically broken but tied to one another by desire and death.
“I apologize for running behind,” Dr. Goldstein says, entering the room with a leisurely air that belies his apology. He’s the psychologist who’s been testing and examining me, and he pulls out a chair one removed from Dr. Hamid.
Balding, with a scruffy reddish beard perpetually kept at the three-day-growth length, he’s nondescript. His olive-gray plaid suit is a size too large and couldn’t be more different from Dr. Hamid’s outfit; her red shalwar kameez is vibrant beneath her white lab coat. She’s been responsible for healing my body while Dr. Goldstein picks through my mind.
I don’t like him, not at all. His degrees are more advanced than mine, but he’s only book smart, at best. He eyes me like a bug he wants under a microscope, but he can’t pick my brain. He hasn’t the skill or the strength to face my demons.
“Thank you for joining us, Dr. Goldstein,” Dr. Hamid says, her smile as kind as always, but I respect the censoring glint in her eye. Beneath her caring demeanor and colorful femininity is a doctor who takes her work very seriously and expects no less from others.
As agitated as you were before, you are suddenly deeply still, standing behind me and gripping the back of my chair with both hands.
Dr. Hamid begins, speaking directly to me. “The multitude of scans we performed yielded images that several neurological experts studied, and their conclusions align – your brain is entirely without injury.”
“Physically,” Dr. Goldstein interjects.
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Hamid concurs impatiently. “We’re discussing the brain, not the mind. Further, the reports from the physical therapist were glowing. For a woman with your delicate appearance, he says you’re surprisingly strong even after three weeks of immobility. All in all, you’re a woman in remarkable health.”
“Physically,” Dr. Goldstein qualifies again.
You abruptly pull out the chair beside me and sink into it with elegant physicality. It’s very sexy, the power you wield over yourself.
It’s not until I hear your shaky exhale and watch your body melt into the uncomfortable seat that’s too small for your tall frame that I finally comprehend: it’s not our surroundings that made you so edgy. You reach for my hand and hold on too tightly.
“Ah. You were worried,” Dr. Hamid surmises, her gaze sympathetic. “I’m sorry, I thought I was clear that the prognosis was very good. We were just being cautious, perhaps overly so.”
Your chest lifts and falls, your nostrils flaring with every deeply drawn breath. We all wait for you to say something, and then I realize you can’t.
I smile brightly to fill the gap. “All good news.”
Your fingers flex on mine. “Does she have any physical-activity limitations?”
Remembering your reminder about the home gym and what you were responding to at the time, my smile flattens, and I try to pull my hand free. Your grip tightens to the point where I can only make a scene if I don’t desist.
Dr. Hamid shakes her head. “There are no activity restrictions.”
“To be clear,” you go on, “I’m free to make love to my wife without concern?”
My posture stiffens. Is that what’s held you back? Can it be that simple?
No. That doesn’t explain why you’ve avoided me so thoroughly.
Her smile is kind. “I would say resuming sexual intimacy after such a lengthy and painful separation can only be good for both of you.”
“Sexual dysfunction is one of myriad complications that can arise from dissociative amnesia.” Dr. Goldstein’s fingertips drum into the tabletop. His legs are crossed, his chair tilted back. “I cannot stress enough how vital it is that you begin therapy at once. You’ve been resistant. I understand that guided self-examination can be especially difficult for psychology students, who might believe they can analyze and diagnose themselves without assistance. However, disorders like yours are rare and indicative of severe emotional trauma.”
The fingers of my free hand curl into my palm. “I’m aware of that.”
“I’m not,” you interject. “Can you explain what you’re worried about?”
“The mind isn’t like a VHS tape that can be erased and re-recorded over. You do know what a VHS tape is, Mr. Black?”
“Yes, of course,” you say drily, “I was born in “83.”
“Ah, and now I feel old,” he says with a genuine wry smile. “Your wife’s mind has compartmentalized her trauma; it hasn’t erased it. Her subconscious is very aware of what she’s suffered, and it will react strongly when triggered. We have no idea what her triggers might be. A storm. The sight of a boat. Something as simple as a song she may have been listening to. It will be something her subconscious associates with the trauma.”
Dr. Goldstein focuses on you, but Dr. Hamid studies me.
“Generalized amnesia is most often diagnosed in combat veterans and sexual assault survivors,” he continues, “and we can anticipate certain triggers in those situations. In this instance, we don’t know if the extreme stress of fighting for survival precipitated her memory loss or something else entirely. Perhaps she was traumatized after reaching the shore or during a rescue when she was most vulnerable. We simply don’t know what happened, but we know it was an experience far beyond what her mind could accept.”
You squeeze my hand until the band of my ring feels like a blade. Your dark eyes reflect the horrors of your imagination. I don’t want you to torment yourself, but maybe that’s what you’ve been doing since you found me. Perhaps this conversation is only reinforcing your worst fears.
Dr. Goldstein’s voice rises as he goes on, his eyes alight with avid curiosity. Something rare has wandered into his purview, and he’s greedy to study it exhaustively.
“The past six years of her life are known as a dissociative fugue,” he says. “Essentially, her trauma was so great her mind performed a complete reset. Returning to the life she’d lived before wasn’t seen as a viable option.”
You clear your throat. “She hasn’t seemed uncomfortable in our home or with me.”
“Your wife’s seeming indifference to such an extreme experience is a well-documented reaction.” His dismissal is casual; he’s firm in his diagnosis. “It’s as normal a response as distress or confusion. Even without knowing the source of trauma, we can presume some approximate responses. She may have nightmares and/or flashbacks. She may develop eating and sleep disorders. She may exhibit self-destructive behavior. Depression and suicidal ideation are very real concerns, especially if she doesn’t resurface the trauma in the safety of a clinical setting.”
“None of that has been an issue thus far,” I argue.
Dr. Goldstein straightens abruptly and leans over the table. “Have you had the sense of being detached from yourself or your emotions? Has your perception of your surroundings or the people around you seemed unreal or distorted? Do you feel your identity doesn’t fit properly or is askew or blurred?”
My blood runs cold. Fear sinks into the pit of my stomach like a boulder.
“I’m six years behind, Doctor,” I say as calmly as possible. Damned if I’ll show too much emotion and be called hysterical. “The world has changed in many ways. I feel like a time traveler, but I’d venture to say that’s not unexpected or unreasonable.”
“How is something like this treated?” you query.
“We’ll attempt to retrieve her memories through hypnosis. Administering drugs can also facilitate the process. Then we work together to unpack the trauma and address it.”
I laugh silently. Mental health care is still medieval in so many ways. To say nothing of how he addresses you as if I’m not here or am incapable of understanding his advice. Joseph Goldstein isn’t going to dig around in my brain for his edification.
You glance at me, and I turn my head toward you. I let you read my thoughts through the window of my gaze. Your white-knuckled grip on me loosens, then you give me a reassuring squeeze as the blood rushes back into my fingers in a prickling wave.
“Thank you for the explanation, Doctor,” you say. “And thank you for your exceptional care of my wife, Dr. Hamid. I’m in your debt.”
“Yes,” I concur. “Thank you so much.”
She smiles. “Every once in a while, we experience miracles. That you suffered no broken bones or internal injuries is certainly one of them. It’s been my pleasure to do what I could, Lily, and to see you looking so well.”
“When would you like to schedule an appointment?” Dr. Goldstein presses. “I can clear some space this afternoon. We really should waste no time.”
You stand with easy grace, and then offer your hand to assist me. I need the help. My legs are weak, my thoughts tumbling. Nothing said here was a surprise. I was avoiding the consequences and can no longer.
“We’re leaving the city for a while,” you tell him. “We’ll call your office when we return.”
Goldstein’s mouth purses. “I repeat that I don’t recommend that you and your wife try and cope without the support of therapy. Individuals with your wife’s condition have tremendous difficulty maintaining relationships. Resuming intercourse may impede emotional reconnection in your marriage, rather than strengthen it.”
“Duly noted.” You thank the doctors again, shake their hands and lead me out of the conference room.
You don’t say anything as we wait for the elevator, even though we’re alone, but you keep me tucked firmly into your side as you type out a quick text on your phone with one hand. Once we’re inside the car and descending, you step behind me and wrap your arms around me. “He’s aggressive,” you murmur, “and made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry he was the one to administer the battery of tests you’ve been subjected to. You should’ve said something.”
I tense, my breathing turning shallow. Your closeness now versus your distance when we left the penthouse leaves me reeling. “It’s not a subject I felt like discussing with Witte.”
The warmth of you burns into the chill within me. Your richly masculine scent envelops me, shielding me from the hostile odors of powerful disinfectant and illness cloaked in dread.
Your chest expands against my back as you grip me more securely. “I’ve handled everything poorly, haven’t I? I’ve been overly cautious.”
“That’s one word for it,” I retort. I try to ease out of your embrace, but you don’t allow it.
“I couldn’t risk pushing you too far too fast, especially when every medical professional is warning me to limit your stress. Nothing I feel for you is delicate.”
“Or maybe it’s that you feel nothing.”
“Setareh.” You press your lips ardently to my temple, clutching me tightly. “I want you too much. I always have. I’m sorry.”
Not knowing if you’re being honest is an insidious form of torture. “You didn’t have to lie about going out of town. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have a shot in hell at accessing my mind with drugs, hypnotism or anything else. He wants a case study to publish and lecture on. I’m not letting someone harvest my memories for personal gain.”
“I didn’t lie to him. And I agree, he’s a pompous ass.” A smile enters your voice. “Although his arrogance worked in our favor when the detectives questioned him. He’ll argue the validity of his diagnosis to his grave.”
I bite my lower lip. Was Dr. Goldstein the best choice for me or the most advantageous in the circumstances? It’s impossible to know the truth, even if I ask and you deign to answer.
“Was his explanation correct?” you ask.
I don’t ask which part because it was all accurate and because now, I’m overwhelmed by curiosity. And hope. Where are we going? How long is a while? “Yes.”
“Would you be willing to see someone else?” Your deep, measured tone of voice calms me. You’ve mesmerized me with that tenor before. “I’m going to need you to try.”
“Why? Are we going to try and save our marriage? Or are you hoping a little psychoanalysis will trigger me into forgetting about you and disappearing again? After all, you haven’t shown any sign that you want me around.”
The silence that descends is blistering.
“You’ve lost years,” you hiss in my ear. “Don’t you want to know what happened during them?”
The elevator stops smoothly and opens on the ground floor. You take my hand, and we walk toward the front entrance. You moderate your stride so that we stroll through the lobby in tandem. Heads turn, and gazes follow. How could they not? You’re so tall and devastatingly handsome, and my heels raise me to just over six feet in height.
You exude confidence and the warmth of the fire that fuels you. In so many ways and for so many reasons, it is a tormenting joy to walk beside you.
You draw me aside when we exit the hospital into an outdoor alcove out of the way of foot traffic flowing through the automatic sliding doors.
“I asked you a question, Setareh. Give me an answer.”
“What does it matter what I remember? There doesn’t seem to be much to save in our marriage. What do you want from me beyond modeling your jewelry collection?”
That sculpted jaw of yours tightens.
Discouraged and bitter, I go on. “You don’t want my company. You don’t want to fuck me. You don’t even want to share a bedroom with me. Are you planning on fucking other women? How have you managed that, by the way, with that giant photo of me watching? Or is that the point? Do you like me to watch? Doesn’t that creep them out? I guess not. You’re so gorgeous, sexy and rich they’d probably let you nail them in Times Square.”
There is a moment of furious silence, then, “Are you done?”
“Do I get the same sexual freedom?”
Now the fire rises into your eyes. Still, you rein it in and hold your tongue.
The fact that I can’t even get you angry about me sleeping with other men tells me all I need to know. Except for one thing … “Why don’t you just ask for a divorce? You can have the fucking money, Baharan, everything. All I want is peace.”
I move to step around you, then gasp in surprised pain as you yank me back into position between you and the alcove wall as if I’m a recalcitrant child in need of discipline. Then you pull me into a tight hug. Your big, powerful body radiates ferocity and violence. And I realize with stunned delight that you have an unmistakable – and impressive – erection.
Your lips, so firm and sensual, are a breath away from my forehead as you speak in a low, vehement whisper. “Is that really all you want?”
Hot, sexual demand emanates from you. So, too, does edgy, anxious energy.
It hits me that my answer matters to you deeply, that waiting for it has you strung tight. As if I might possibly not desire you more than my next breath.
“I don’t know what peace is, Kane, to even have a hope of wanting it. You’re all I need. You always have been.”
“Setareh.” You crush me close and press your lips to my forehead. It’s such a simple gesture, yet I feel relief drain the tension from your body. “That’s what I’ve needed – for you to tell me you still want me.”
“You’ve seemed so angry with me.”
Pulling back, you bare your teeth before you bite off your answer. “You made a decision that took you from me for six years! You’re damn right I’m mad at you.”
The chill in my blood finally warms. I’ll bear the marks of your fingers for days, but I don’t care. I relax in your grip, and in return, your grip relaxes.
Your voice softens, too. “I slept like shit, just like every other night I’ve spent without you. If you want a baby, we’ll get pregnant. If you don’t want to go to therapy, we won’t. We have separate bedrooms because I couldn’t let your things go, but I couldn’t function seeing them, smelling them, touching them every day.”
Cupping my face in your hands, you rest your forehead against mine. “We vowed to forsake all others, and we will. You will. I absolutely fucking will. There’s never been another woman in my bedroom. And divorce is not now, nor will it ever be, an option. Did I miss anything?”
Your thumb is now stroking my arm, back and forth, soothing and stimulating. It’s an involuntary caress, an instinctual movement.
“What if it’s better not to know what I was doing the past six years?” I ask. “What if I did terrible things?”
“I don’t care. It won’t change anything.”
“What if I was a prostitute?” It stabs deep to feel you flinch. “What if I sold illegal weapons or drugs? Robbed? Killed? Who the fuck knows.”
“Who the fuck cares,” you rejoin with a renewed flare of temper. “I told you, it doesn’t matter to me. You were someone else then. You were Ivy York.”
“But Ivy York is in me. She’s not an abstract. She existed. She exists. If I have to be perfect for you to love me, we’re finished already.” I look away to see the Range Rover pull to the curb. “Is that what you want? To end this and be free?”
“You don’t have to be perfect, and I don’t want to be free.” You grip my chin to turn my gaze back to you. “That you’d think for even a moment that I don’t want you proves I’ve seriously screwed this up.”
