Direct Strike. Lorelei Buckley
tests, both MRIs and the unattractive electrodes squirming from her scalp like oozing brain tissue. They’d found nothing—no abnormalities or damage. The annoying dream echo finally stopped too. She should’ve been thrilled but instead battled a new monster, a dishonest peace. Under the calm lay a starving black hole. She felt it. An indefinable magnetic void.
She also gained a nickname: The Bride, as in Bride of Frankenstein.
She stood in the bathroom and angled the cabinet mirror toward the room to view Mitch. He packed a duffle bag with the clothes he’d brought her five days earlier.
“You’re a true survivor,” he said. “And I want you to take however long you need to recover. Your new house is damn impressive. Mountains and forest, and I took a stroll down the hill by the water. It’s beautiful, Zoey. Rejuvenating. Maybe I’m wrong about Chicago. This might be the best place for you.”
“I need a Q-tip,” she yelled from the bathroom.
“What, why?”
“I thought I heard you say you were wrong.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered.
Half-dressed, Zoey rubbed salve on her tender shoulder. Mitch and Dr. Selden agreed the wound looked like a star. She saw a butchered flower. She grabbed the gauze, and Mitch walked up behind her. He draped her long hair over her healthy side, his body heat persuasive and his breath loose feathers cascading along her collarbone.
She gave him the rolled bandaging. He gently wrapped gauze around her scar. His dark, depthless eyes studied her reflection. His masculine fingers tickled her skin, and because her hair only covered one breast, he’d see her nipple hardening on the other.
Affected by his intensity, she broke from his stare only to freeze on a patch of hair peeking out of his shirt. She remembered its softness. She hadn’t made love since Milo passed, and susceptible body parts stirred. Unprepared for the influx of sensations and rebelling against an emotional tie, she said, “I have a riddle for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What does a single woman in Big Cat Canyon do for fun?”
“I give. What?”
“Whatever she wants.”
Mitch finished and stepped backward. “Am I missing something?”
“Just remember I’m single now. I may have an itch I need to scratch.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not talking in code. I’ve said what I wanted to say.”
He left the bathroom and reentered with her bra.
“I can’t wear that.” She cocked her head toward her gauzed shoulder.
He walked out and returned with a blue cotton T-shirt. She faced him and held her arms forward. He stretched the sleeve holes and slid the shirt up her limbs, conscientious of her impaired mobility.
“Why do you hate me?” he asked while pulling the neckline over her head.
“You’re the only person I don’t hate. I’m in pain and cranky. I could use—”
Mitch handed her an ibuprofen and a Valium. “A nurse stopped by while you were in the shower.”
“Withholding?” She swiped the pills and swallowed. “It’s you who hates me.”
“That’s a crock.” He combed and ponytailed her hair. “What do you say, Goldilocks, can we go now?”
“Yes.”
In the hall halfway down the corridor, Dr. Selden stood next to the discharge desk, appearing less overpaid and more overtired. He sifted papers and chatted with a receptionist who’d spotted Zoey and mouthed, “The Bride.”
Dr. Selden turned and smiled.
Zoey blurted, “A week in purgatory. At last, I’m out of here.”
Dr. Selden’s teal eyes gleamed. “You’ve restored my faith in homeostasis. The body is certainly a wondrous machine.” He inspected her briefly from toes to crown. “You look radiant, ready to conquer.”
Zoey wasn’t interested in Dr. Selden’s warmth. Memories of her son superseded the pain meds melting in her bloodstream. She’d bury herself alive to see Milo standing in the hall next to Mitch.
“Was it something I said?” Dr. Selden’s squint tightened.
Mitch rubbed her back.
“No,” she said. “I have flashes of my kid, and it screws with my head. A glass of wine usually helps.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Dr. Selden said, “but alcohol will negate the antibiotics. Your shoulder is still healing. And I’m sure you’re aware pain pills and drinking aren’t a safe combination. Please don’t attempt to drive. Last year in April…” He droned on about a collision involving a discharged patient and an eighteen-wheeler.
Her gaze floated beyond Dr. Selden and landed on the bed of a vacant room.
Woman in the water.
The voice came from inside the room. Zoey stepped around Dr. Selden and Mitch and walked to the doorway.
Woman in the water.
Similar to the night in the woods, she noticed a change in the air’s texture. Not everywhere, just a spot on the bed. A zillion tiny sheer circles meshed together and formed a lozenge shape the size of a carry-on suitcase.
Do you hear me?
“Yes,” she said.
Woman in the water.
“What woman?”
Woman in the water.
“Please, explain yourself. Who are you?”
The cluster disappeared.
She blinked several times, trying to recapture the anomaly. “What woman?”
“Zoey?” Mitch said. “I could have sworn I heard you talking to yourself.”
“Yeah, that was me.” She laughed through her nose, making light of her mutterings. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m trying to get it all straight.”
She wondered if her hallucinations were a budding sensitivity to the drugs she counted on. Zoey turned quickly toward the hall and bumped into Dr. Selden. “Why do I feel ambushed?”
Dr. Selden offered two business cards. “I want you to have these. They’re reputable therapists.”
Zoey took the cards and observed each. “Shrinks? Are you kidding? I don’t need these.” She pushed them back at Dr. Selden. “I’m not crazy.”
“Dr. Jillian Esposito has a PhD in psychology, and Dr. Douglas Doyle is a respected psychiatrist,” he said, impervious to her rejection. “They’re located right outside of Big Cat.”
“Why are you so insistent? I’m not a nutjob.”
“No,” Dr. Selden said. “You’re mourning. And when and if you’re ready to restore your spirit, these people can help.”
Mitch swiped the cards from Zoey. “I’ll take them.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Might be worth looking into.”
She silently reassured herself no one could force her to do anything. Her life, her disorder, her decision on how to cope.
“This room,” she addressed Dr. Selden. “Who occupied it?”
“How strange,” he said. “Remember the teen I spoke of who died rafting?”
Zoey nodded.
“He was here.” Selden