Perfect Strangers

Edmond says, “Let’s talk about why you’re upset.”

“For starters, you know Chris has only visited me once. And you know how well that went. Now I’m supposed to go live with him?”

“I’ve spoken with him many times, including today. He’s very eager to have you return to your home.”

Everyone has a tell when they lie: shifty eyes, restless hands, toying with their hair. Edmond’s is fiddling with his bowtie.

I watch him nervously adjust it for a while before I look at my crooked hands resting like dead doves in my lap. “Who’s going to care for me there? I know it won’t be him.”

“We’ve assisted him in finding twenty-four hour daily home care from an excellent company that specializes in patients with ALS.”

“Round-the-clock care? That sounds expensive.”

“It’s covered by a combination of Medicare and a policy included in his work insurance.”

Chris is a mechanic, as I remembered after his first visit. It’s honest work, and the pay is decent, but he doesn’t own the shop, and he has no ambition to move up.

I also remembered that he’d been having an affair with the busty twenty-something receptionist at the shop and was planning to leave me.

But that was before I was diagnosed with ALS—the diagnosis that came a few months after Emmie died.

I’d been ignoring the persistent twitching in my right thigh muscle, the numbness in my feet that would come and go, how I’d occasionally drop a pen or stumble. But during the investigation after the accident, while the police were ruling out intoxication as a possible reason I didn’t brake fast enough, I happened to mention that my foot had been bothering me that day. It had tingled then gone numb.

I hadn’t quite hit the brakes in time.

The bump I felt was the big metal rear bumper hitting Emmie. She was thrown a few feet back into the driveway from the initial impact. If I’d stopped right then, she would’ve been safe, but I fumbled with the brake just long enough to roll over her…

And stop right on top.

Edmond says gently, “Olivia.”

I glance up. He looks pained, so sorrowful and compassionate. I feel bad for him. He tries so hard. He really does want to help me. But what help can anyone offer a mother who killed her own child?

There’s a special place in hell for people like me. And I’m right here in it.

“You can still have quality of life,” he says softly. “You might have years left yet—”

My laugh is sharp and bitter. “God forbid.”

“You could reconnect with your husband.”

I scoff. “The husband who only didn’t leave me because he didn’t want people to think he was a total asshole for abandoning his dying wife? Yeah, that’s doubtful.”

“You could be an inspiration to others in your situation.”

I sigh, closing my eyes. “I’m a cautionary tale, Edmond. Not an inspiration.”

“You could write a book.”

A book? I’ve always wanted to write a book. I open my eyes and stare at him.

Encouraged by my attention, he warms to the idea, nodding and leaning forward. “Yes, you could write about your experiences. Here at Rockland, and with your disease, and as a mother coping with losing her child—it would be a riveting story. Simply riveting. Imagine what people dealing with hardships in their own lives could get out of it!”

“Major depression?”

“Inspiration,” he counters. “Hope.”

I suppose it makes a certain kind of sense. Even the worst tragedies have their lessons. And if my story could save even one parent from losing a child because they ignored strange medical symptoms…if even a single accident could be prevented…

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about writing a novel. Before I was a stay-at-home mom, I was a secretary.”

Edmond brightens. “So you have experience writing for business!”

“Only correspondence,” I argue, hoping he won’t give up too easily because if I’m going to do this, I’m gonna need tons of moral support.

I mean, I can’t use my hands! How the hell am I going to write a novel?

But Edmond is reading my mind. “You could dictate the whole story into a recorder. I’m sure there are many freelance editors you could hire to polish the final draft. And if you can’t find a publisher, you can publish it yourself. More to the point, it would be excellent therapy for you.”

My tone turns dry. “No matter how many books I might write, I think we both know I’ll never be mentally stable again.”

He waves a hand in disagreement. “The mind is an incredibly powerful thing. Just as it has, say, the potential to remain in a psychotic state forever, so too does it have an unlimited potential to heal itself.”

In reaction to Edmond’s words, I stop breathing. My blood stops circulating. Everything inside me screeches to a stop.

A person can remain in a psychotic state forever?

Forever?

Talk about hope.

For the first time, I’m grateful for my paralysis. Otherwise, I’d shake so violently the good doctor would call for enough tranquilizers to sedate a horse.

I say slowly, “You know, I just realized we never talked about the nuts and bolts of what happened to me. The logistics of how a psychotic break actually works.”

Surprised by the change in subject, Edmond blinks.

“I mean, I’ve told you how it all seemed so real to me. As real as it seems to me now, sitting here across from you. Maybe if I understood the process better, it would help me be prepared. Perhaps if I’m aware of what the mind goes through before a psychotic break, I could catch the signs. Like there were signs with my ALS that I ignored…are there any indications of imminent psychosis?”

After a moment, he nods. “Yes, there are. And to be frank, Olivia, I’m pleased you want to know. Facing your challenges directly is a significant step in your recovery.”

So get talking already! I gaze at him, outwardly composed. Inside I’m a rave party with screaming crowds, flashing lights, and deafening music, with riot police closing in.

Because if I can discover how I found James the first time…

Maybe I could do it again.