“Can you trace it?” I asked, not liking how a message that suggested I might lose my hands so I couldn’t kill people didn’t measure up to a threat.
“Yes, but it’ll be one of those toss away phones. People are smarter now about these things.”
“Can you at least try?”
He agreed, and as he guessed, none of the calls could be traced to a person. I wondered if it was one person, or some sort of conspiracy with a group of people in town wanting to harass me. What was his or hers or their end goal? Did they want to hurt me or just run me out of town?
One day I came out of my home to find my windshield bashed in. I was happy Mia hadn’t been at my place, not just because she might have been outed, but because clearly someone was upping the ante. I was able to have a glass replacement guy come and fix it that morning, but I wondered how long before it happened again.
The resulting paranoia was taking its toll on me. The dreams came nightly now. They’d morphed from my past patients blaming me for their deaths, to more vivid images of how they died, and what they wanted to do to me. Jane Parker, Mia’s mother chopped my hands off. Ms. Mason came at my eyes with a hot poker. A shrink would probably say that the dream about Jane represented my feeling like I hadn’t done enough to help her and the one about Ms. Mason was that I hadn’t seen what was wrong. See, that’s why I didn’t need therapy as Mia suggested more frequently now. I knew what it all meant. Talking about this shit wasn’t going to make it stop. I was already jumping at the wind rustling the trees outside my home or a warning buzzer ringing in the hospital. I was in a constant state of hyper-awareness that I couldn’t seem to shake. One night when Mia turned over in bed, I woke in a panic, worried someone had broken in. Not that I told her that.
Was I having problems? Yes. But telling a therapist wasn’t going to help. And if it got out that I was seeing someone, I’d look guilty. Like I was in therapy because I couldn’t handle that I’d killed Ms. Mason.
“Can you believe those people?” Peggy said as she came into the lounge where I was trying to regroup after shocking a patient back to life when his heart stopped. “Did you see them out front? Picketing us. What happens if one of them has a heart attack? Where are they going to go if not here? Wouldn’t that be ironic?”
“The hospital needs a better PR strategy,” I said.
“It does feel like they’re hiding something.” She sat with me at the table. “I’ve been over it a million times, Nick. We didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t miss anything.”
I nodded, mostly to reassure her because I wasn’t sure.
“They’re getting obnoxious. I heard about your car.” She shook her head. “I wonder if we need more security.”
My heart rate ticked up again and I swore inwardly.
“Hey, Nick. Maybe you should take some time off?”
I glared at her. “Why?”
She shrugged and looked away. “You’ve had to deal with a lot.”
“So have you.”
She shook her head. “No. Not like you.”
“Do you think I can’t do the job?” I knew I sounded angry, but I was. Why was she questioning my ability? Of all the people that should be on my side, it was Peggy.
“You’re a great doctor, but you’re under a lot of stress. We can all see it.”
My eyes narrowed. “But can I do the job?”
She huffed out a breath. “Yes, but—”
“Either I can or I can’t, Peggy.”
“You’re not as on your game as usual. And no one blames you.”
“The whole fucking town blames me,” I snapped. “They’re picketing.” I closed my eyes as I tried to rein in my anger and frustration. Maybe Peggy was right. Maybe I should take some time off.
“They’re wrong, Nick. And I don’t question your commitment or skill.”
“So, what are you questioning?”
“Whether you’re mentally focused.”
“You think I need counseling too?”
“Too?” She cocked her head to the side and I cursed for giving away too much.