At three thirty she wouldn’t be eating lunch or dinner and I knew what she had in mind. People influenced by nemes often drink more than they should, to dull the anxiety and anger that come from the incorporation.

Though I would eventually work on getting her to cut down on her alcohol consumption, her being slightly intoxicated and relaxed now could be a big help. I waited five minutes and followed. Inside the dark tavern, which smelled of Lysol and onions, I spotted her at the bar. She was having a mixed drink. Vodka or gin, it seemed, and some kind of juice. She was nearly finished with her first and she waved for a second.

I sat down two stools away and ordered a Diet Coke. I felt her head swivel toward me, tilt slightly as she debated whether she’d seen me before, and turn back to her drink. Then the pieces fell together and she faced me again.

Without looking up I said, “I’m a professional counselor, Ms. Young. I’m here only in that capacity. To help. I’d like to talk to you.”

“You…you followed me here? From Raleigh?”

I made a show of leaving money for the soda to suggest that I wasn’t going to stay longer than necessary, trying to put her at ease.

“I did, yes. But please, you don’t need to be afraid.”

Finally I turned to look at her. The eyes were just as I expected, narrow, cold, the eyes of somebody else entirely. The neme was even stronger than I’d thought.

“I’m about five seconds away from calling the police.”

“I understand. But please, listen. I want to say something to you. And if you want me to leave, I’ll head back to Raleigh right now. You can choose whatever you want.”

“Say it and get out.” She took another drink.

“I specialize in treating people who aren’t happy in life. I’m good at it. When I saw you the other day in Starbucks, I knew you were exactly the sort of patient who could benefit from my expertise. I would like very much to help you.”

No mention of nemes, of course.

“I don’t need a shrink.”

“I’m actually not a shrink. I’m a psychologist, not a doctor.”

“I don’t care what you are. You can’t…can’t you be reported for this, trying to drum up business?”

“Yes, and you’re free to do that. But I thought it was worth the risk to offer you my services. I don’t care about the money. You can pay me whatever you can afford. I care about helping you. I can give you references and you can call the state licensing board about me.”

“Do you even have a girlfriend who’s a teacher?”

“No. I lied. Which I’ll never do again…It was that important to try to explain how I can help you.”

And then I saw her face soften. She was nodding.

My heart was pounding hard. It had been a risk, trying this, but she was going to come around. The therapy would be hard work. For both of us. But the stakes were too high to let her continue the way she was. I knew we could make significant progress.

I turned away to pull a card from my wallet. “Let me tell you a—”

As I looked back, I took the full tide of her second drink in the face. My eyes on fire from the liquor and stinging juice, I gasped in agony and grabbed bar napkins to dry them.

“Annie, what’s wrong?” the bartender snapped, and through my blurred vision I could just make out his grabbing her arm as she started to fling the glass at me. I raised my own arm to protect myself.

“What’d he do?”

“Fuck you, let go of me!” she cried to him.

“Hey, hey, take it easy, Annie. What—?”

Then he ducked as she launched the glass at him. It struck a row of others; half of them shattered. She was out of control. Typical.

“Fuck you both!” Screaming. She dug a bill out of her purse and flung it onto the bar.

“Please, Ms. Young,” I said, “I can help you.”

“If I see you again, I’m calling the police.” She stormed out.

“Listen, mister, what the hell d’you do?”

I didn’t answer him. I grabbed some more napkins and, wiping my face, walked to the window. I saw her stride up to her son, who was standing nearby with a book bag. So this was the rendezvous spot. I wondered how often he’d had to wait outside for mom while she was in here getting drunk. I pictured cold January afternoons, the boy huddled and blowing breath into his hands.

She gestured him after her. Apparently there’d been something else on the agenda for after school, and, disappointed, he lifted his arms and glanced at the nearby sports store. But the shopping was not going to happen today. She stormed up and grabbed him by the arm. He pulled away. She drew back to slap him, but he dutifully walked to the car. I could see him clicking on his seat belt and wiping his tears.

Without a glance back at the bartender, I too left.

I walked to the car to head back to the motel to change. What had happened was discouraging, but I’d dealt with more difficult people than Annabelle Young. There were other approaches to take. Over the years I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t; it’s all part of being a therapist.

THE NEXT MORNING AT six I parked behind Etta’s Diner, in a deserted portion of the lot. The restaurant was directly behind Annabelle’s house. I made my way up the hill along a path that led to the sidewalk in her development. I had to take an oblique approach; if she saw me coming she’d never answer the door, and that would be that.

The morning was cool and fragrant with the smells of pine and wet earth. Being spring, the sky was light even at this early hour and it was easy to make my way along the path. I wondered how different Annabelle’s life had been before her husband died. How soon the neme had incorporated itself into her afterward. I suspected she’d been a vivacious, caring mother and wife, completely different from the enraged out-of-control woman she now was becoming.

I continued to the edge of the woods and waited behind the house in a stand of camellias with exploding red blossoms. At about six thirty her son pushed out the front door, carting a heavy book bag, and strolled to the end of the cul-de-sac, presumably to catch his bus.

When he was gone, I walked to the porch and climbed the stairs.

Was I ready? I asked myself.

Always those moments of self-doubt, even though I’d been a professional therapist for years.

Always, the doubts.

But then I relaxed. My mission in life was to save people. I was good at that task. I knew what I was doing.

Yes, I was ready.

Tags: Neil Gaiman Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net