Convergence Page 4

  When the panic finally subsides, I lift my head. “What… is wrong with me?” The question seems to echo in the car. But no answer comes. One isn’t really needed anyway. I know exactly what is wrong with me. I’m experiencing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder triggered by… what? Today’s date? My return to work—leaving the safe haven I’ve created at home? I’m not sure.

  But the panic feels real. Is real. What’s wrong with me is the issue I can’t seem to change. Can’t fix. I can’t roll back the clock and prevent what happened to me. Nor, it seems, can I move forward and forget.

  But why? I’ve worked so hard. Spent so much time in therapy focused on working through the trauma. Why have the symptoms reappeared?

  I have all the psychological training the educational system offers, yet I feel powerless to help myself.

  As I wind my way along the river, the wind buffets my car. This evening I’m grateful for the miles between PCU and home. It isn’t a long drive, only twenty minutes or so depending on the weather, but it’s enough time to gather myself, to weave my frayed emotions back into something resembling normalcy—whatever that is.

  As the adrenaline that coursed through me wanes, my limbs grow heavy, and just gripping the steering wheel seems to take more energy than I have. I blink several times as I work to focus on the road.

  When my phone rings through the car speakers, I glance at the monitor on my dash to see who’s calling. I have neither the physical or emotional energy to expend on conversation. But when I see it’s Jaylan, I press the button on my steering wheel to answer. “Hi there.”

  “Driving home?”

  Everyone needs someone who knows not only their schedule but the perfect time to check in. Jaylan is one of those people in my life. We met during grad school, the same time I met Ryan. There were four of us who bonded—we were the Fearless Four in those days—the days before we settled into real life with all its responsibilities and messiness. I’ve maintained my connections with Jaylan and Ryan. Jay is my closest friend, or “sister” as she would say. When I was still practicing, Jay and I shared a suite of offices.

  “I left a few minutes ago.”

  “How’d it go today?” The warmth of Jay’s voice fills the interior of the car.

  “Good. It was good. Great to be back in the classroom. So, yes, really good.”

  “Who you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”

  I hear the smile in her voice.

  “Myself. Definitely.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  I hesitate. “No. It was good to be back in the classroom. But the rest of it? I don’t know, Jay.” I bite my lower lip and change the course of the conversation. “Tell me about you. You’re in between clients?”

  “You’re not getting off that easy, lady. But yes, I’m in between clients. I’m seeing someone new at six, and then I’ll take off. The evening hours seem longer this time of year, you know?”

  The headlights of an oncoming car glare, and I avert my gaze to the white line delineating the side of the road on my right until it passes. “I do know. How’s Gabe? Work?”

  “He’s okay. Tough week to be a cop. But you know him—he wouldn’t do anything else.”

  “I know.” A story took over the news broadcasts two nights ago—a Placer County sheriff’s deputy shot and killed during an investigation. I was standing in the kitchen when I heard the report coming from the TV in the den. I held my breath as I waited to hear the officer’s name. Not Gabe. Please, not Gabe. It wasn’t Gabe, but it was someone else’s husband, a child’s father, a mother’s son, and I know their lives are forever changed, marred by tragedy. “I’m sorry, Jay. I heard the news. It was so senseless.”

  “Always is. Okay, enough of that. Give me the best and the worst. Dump ’em on me.”

  “That’s not fair. It’s your turn—”

  “I don’t have time to do fair. Talk to me.”

  I concede because it’s easiest. Or maybe because I need to talk. “Best? That’s easy, the classroom. I’m not sure why, but I’m at ease there. It feels safe.”

  “You feel a sense of control?”

  “I don’t know. It could be that. Or maybe it’s as simple as safety in numbers. Or, more likely that I’m focused on others rather than on myself. But also, I still have purpose there. It’s one of the few places where I still know who I am.”

  “The worst?” Her tone has softened and is laced with compassion. It’s the tone I imagine her using with clients when she’s not, as she’d put it, kicking their butts. If you truly want to change, want to grow, Jaylyn’s who you want to see.

  “Okay, the worst was leaving the campus. I thought… someone was watching me. Following me. And I lost it.” I hesitate. How many times have I said things like that to Jay? To my therapist? My mother? “But it was just my imagination.”

  “Maybe someone was looking your way. Lots of people on that campus. Doesn’t mean their intent was malicious. Maybe your sense was accurate but your response was exaggerated.”

  “Maybe. Ryan offered to walk out with me, but I told him no. I should have taken him up on his offer.”

  She’s silent for a moment. “Why’d he offer to walk you out?”

  Her question isn’t what I expected, though it shouldn’t surprise me. “Because—”

  “Never mind. Listen, you are the only one who expects you to act like the Rock of Gibraltar. What you went through?” I can picture her shaking her head, her short dark curls bouncing as she does. “No, ma’am.”

  “I know. But Jay… why can’t I get over it? Early this morning I had a nightmare. When I woke it was as though it had all just happened. I’ve had to fight to stay present all day. The memories…” I swallow. “Is it just the date? The anniversary?”

  “Could be that, or something else. A trigger of some sort, but you know that. Maybe your meds need adjusting. You seein’ Heather soon?”

  “I have an appointment later this week.”

  “Good. She’s golden. You’ll work through it with her. In the meantime, go easy on yourself. Give yourself a dose of the same grace you dish out to others. And if you need me, you know where to find me. Got it?”

  “Got it. Hey, I’m going to lose you in a minute. I’m heading into the canyon.”

  “Your mama gonna be there when you get home?”

  “Yes. What a godsend she is.”

  “You got that right. Okay, sister, you good for now?”

  “I’m good. Thanks, Jay.”

  “No need to thank me. I didn’t do nothin’.”

  As Jay and I are exchanging goodbyes, the road drops into the canyon and static crackles through the car’s speakers, followed by silence. Although the section of road without cell service is just over a mile in length, I’m always relieved when the dark, twisting road rises out of the canyon and service is restored.

  Although it was eight years ago today that I was attacked, every detail of that horrendous night is indelibly marked on my mind. It’s said that time heals all wounds, but time hasn’t dulled either the memory of that night nor the wounds I sustained—at least not the emotional wounds—let alone heal them.

  So on a dark, stormy night, traveling a road alone without cell service, even for just one mile, produces anxiety that’s become all too familiar.

  I glance in my rearview mirror and see headlights coming up behind me. A truck, maybe? The lights seem higher than if it were a car. I look back at the road ahead until lights flash in my rearview mirror. I glance back, and this time the truck is closer. Too close, in fact.

  Why did the driver flash his lights? I check my speedometer—I’m going the speed limit. I look ahead for a place to pull over so the driver can pass me, but there’s only a narrow shoulder on this section of the road. Before I can decide what to do, the lights flash again, and the truck pulls out, crosses the double yellow lines, passes me, and then flies up the road ahead.

  What’s the rush?

  It was nothing. Just an
impatient driver.

  Right?

  I take a deep breath. “One, two, three, four…”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Denilyn

  November 2009

  Although I’d succeeded at putting him out of my mind, the next time I saw him, I recognized him immediately, as did my sympathetic nervous system, but I wouldn’t process that until much later.

  Keith and I, paper coffee cups in hand, had just left the café of our large church following a Saturday evening service. I pulled the collar of my coat up around my neck, the hot cup of coffee warming my hand. Crisp fall leaves cartwheeled across the brick courtyard, and when a gust of wind blew through, it whipped my hair into my face. With hair covering my eyes, I laughed and held out my cup to Keith. “I can’t see.”

  He took the cup, and I swept the hair from my face then turned toward the building nearest us to look at my reflection in one of the tinted windows. It was dusk, and the white lights hanging across the courtyard had just come on, their reflection twinkled in the window, and the orange and purple burst of reflected sunset cast an alluring glow. I could just see myself against the backdrop. I smoothed my hair back into place and tucked it into the collar of my coat. I checked my reflection once more, and just as I was going to turn back to Keith, my breath caught.

  The man standing behind me wasn’t my husband.

  I stared at the reflection, and even as dim as it was, the inky, unkempt hair, pale complexion, and dark eyes were unmistakable. I untucked my hair from my collar, pulled it back again, and then tucked it back in. I’d hoped if I stalled he’d leave. When he didn’t, I slowly turned to face him.

  He wore the same khaki-green jacket, although this time he wore a wrinkled plaid shirt and knit tie, which hung askew under the coat. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Who are you?” My voice was hoarse, so I cleared my throat, and spoke again. My tone firm this time. “Who are you?”

  His eyes were almost black, and again there was something familiar about him.

  “You know my name.”

  As he spoke, I looked over his shoulder to search for Keith. He stood several yards away, a cup of coffee in each hand, talking to someone.

  When I looked back at the face of the man in front of me, he was staring at me. I glanced Keith’s way again, but this time the guy’s gaze followed mine. He was staring at Keith when I turned back. When he looked at me again, his expression had changed. Hardened.

  I swallowed as I tried to make sense of what he’d said. Did I know him? Know his name? I was sure I didn’t. I worked to keep my tone even, “I’m sorry. You’ll have to remind me.”

  When he didn’t respond, I continued. “Your name? I’m sorry, I don’t…” This time when I glanced over his shoulder, Keith was coming toward us.

  When he reached us, he looked from me to the man it seemed I was having a conversation with. He reached out his hand. “Hey, I’m Keith.”

  The guy lifted his chin, nodded at Keith, and then turned and walked briskly away, head down.

  “Who was that?” Keith handed me my cup of coffee.

  I took the cup from him, but I stood rooted, my pulse thrumming in my ears and my breaths coming in quick succession. I was also perspiring, despite the chill of the breeze.

  “Deni?”

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself—to stem the adrenaline coursing through me.

  When Keith put his hand on my shoulder, I jumped.

  “Whoa. You okay?”

  “I just… I don’t know. Sorry.”

  “What’d that guy say to you?”

  He’d said nothing to garner the response I was having. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

  I turned and strode toward the parking lot. Keith followed me, and when he caught up with me, he put his free arm around my shoulder and took a sip of his coffee. “Good java.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t present. I couldn’t absorb what Keith said as he continued talking.

  As we crossed the courtyard where hundreds of people milled about, I spotted the guy again. He’d reached the giant heritage oak between the courtyard and the parking lot. He leaned against the trunk, his frame silhouetted against the setting sun, but I knew it was him. As we got closer, just a few feet away, it was evident he was watching me. When our eyes met, his posture seemed to relax. He stuck his hands back into his pockets, but they fidgeted there. Then he looked down and dug the toe of one of his booted feet into the dirt. Eyes down, he appeared focused on whatever he was trying to unearth.

  I nudged Keith and pointed. “You don’t know him?”

  Keith lifted his coffee cup in the guy’s direction “That guy you were talking to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nope. How do you know him?”

  I slowed, and Keith turned and looked at me. At the same time, the guy lifted his eyes from the ground and stared at me again.

  “I don’t know him.”

  He glanced back to the guy and then looked at me, eyebrows raised. “What’s the deal?”

  I picked up my pace, and Keith kept in step with me. When we reached the parking lot, I stopped and faced him. “That guy was at the book signing in Menlo Park.”

  “So?”

  I searched Keith’s eyes. “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  “No, why? You have events posted on your website. Anyone interested can see what you have going on and attend, right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  Keith shrugged. “You have a fan at church, and he went to your signing. Why is that a problem?”

  “All the way to the Bay Area?”

  “Whatever floats his boat. Welcome to the world of celebrity, babe. People follow you now.” He put his arm around me again. “C’mon.”

  We walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. But I couldn’t let it go. When we got into the car, Keith set his cup in the holder in the middle console, then looked at me. “You’re really bugged by that guy?”

  “Something’s just off. He said I know him—know his name. But I don’t. I know I don’t.” My heart was still racing and my palms were damp. “And the way he stared at me the day of the signing. And here. It didn’t feel right.”

  “You’re the type of woman men stare at. You just live in here”—he tapped my forehead—“too much to notice.” Then he planted a kiss on my lips. “Don’t worry about it.” He straightened, started the car, put it in gear, and backed out of the parking spot.

  It seemed obvious that, at least in his mind, there was nothing to worry about.

  While I’d always appreciated the independence our marriage afforded me—our mutual respect for one another—sometimes Keith’s lack of concern or his cavalier attitude bothered me. “I feel like you’re dismissing what I’m feeling.”

  Keith glanced at me. “Really? I was going for reassuring.”

  I bit my bottom lip.

  He glanced at me. “Okay, what are you feeling?”

  “I… I don’t know. Something about the guy just freaked me out. But”—I turned and looked out the passenger window, then turned back—“you’re right. There’s probably nothing to it.”

  By the time we pulled into our garage, I’d convinced myself that Keith was right—there was no need to worry about the man I’d encountered at the signing and then again at church. Although I’d also given talks and done signings at local bookstores, it wasn’t that far-fetched that someone from our area might attend the signing in the Bay Area—it was only a couple hours’ drive. Maybe my book had touched something in him. Helped him in some way. That’s what I’d hoped for as I wrote it. Maybe he felt I understood something about him that others hadn’t.

  Or maybe it was just a coincidence. Wasn’t that possible? He was in the Bay Area, at the store, and happened to see me—recognized me from church. Maybe he’d bought my book after noticing me.

  There were myriad possibilities.

  I desperately wanted to believe my husband was right, that there wa
s nothing to worry about, so I ignored my instinct. But not just my instinct, also everything I knew about the way the limbic and nervous systems work. Before my mind had time to process the encounter, my amygdala, that part of the limbic system closely tied to fear, had sounded the “fight or flight” alarm and my body had responded, releasing a rush of adrenaline that resulted in a rapid heartbeat, quickened breathing, and sweating, along with other less noticeable symptoms.

  Essentially, my body perceived a threat before my mind processed the situation. But I wouldn’t consider any of that until much later.

  Instead, I ignored my reaction.

  Although the release of the book and its ascent to the New York Times bestseller list, where it appeared it was going to stay for a while, was exciting, there was also some stress involved as I attempted to balance my therapy practice and teaching with travel, interviews, speaking, and book signings. And our first year of marriage.

  It was a lot. I was tired, I reasoned. I overreacted.

  But now, looking back on that day, I know I made a critical error, the first of many.

  I didn’t trust myself.

  I didn’t trust what both my mind and body knew to be true.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Adelia

  May 5, 2017

  As I near Three Rivers Village, my past, my present, and my future, like the forks of the Kaweah, converge. The last time I was here, I’d just graduated with my MS in psychology. We’d come to spend our last summer together, friends drawn to one another by our mutual fascination with the mind—the way it functions and the behaviors it affects.

  Soon we’d each enter the next phase of our lives, which meant putting in the necessary hours to receive our licenses, further education in the pursuit of doctorates, or both. Marriage was on the horizon too for more than one of us.