ANNASOPHIA
Monday—5 a.m.—Los Altos, California
The family room sofa pokes my ribs and hips with the intensity of a medieval rack.
Exactly what Freud would order for a guilty conscience.
“Penance now paid.” I stagger to my feet, unable to shake the nightmares of disembodied teeth ripping off Satish’s head.
Thank you, Herr Freud. I stand reminded. My dreams should star Alexandra. I rub my eyes and shuffle into my bedroom. The unmade bed where she and I slept seems to expand, swallowing the space between me and the closet. A chill kisses the back of my neck.
The stuff of guilt is everywhere I look. Stomach sucked in, I sidle past the reminders of Alexandra’s self-destruction. Dressing takes more concentration than when I was two years old.
Sooner or later, you have to put clean sheets on both beds.
Or, I can leave them for Jennifer …
Acid bubbles on my tongue. Coward.
I carry my shoes and socks back to the family room. Bone-crushing fatigue worse than med school intensifies images of Satish and me on the sofa. I circle its yawning embrace.
God, now I’m developing obsessions about furniture.
My legs give way at the nearest armchair. Images and thoughts about Satish explode.
Unbelievable how flirting with him last night set my nerve-endings on fire. How touching his warm skin tingled throughout my body. A flush spreads from my throat to my jawline.
“Someone had to examine his burn.” As if in support of this inane comment, the hallway clock chimes.
A laugh in my throat catches. He was too damned nice to question my regression to a silly, moonstruck teenager, but his eyes had fished in panic. All but jogged out of the house.
I jerk on a sock, and the heel catches on my toes. The harder I tug and pull, the higher my frustration rises. At the same time, my muscles are sluggish and listless. God, I am so whacked.
Is this how Alexandra has felt every day since Stefan Lefevbre disappeared?”
Molly’s toenails click on the hardwood. She lays her leash at my feet and peers up at me. Most days, she stays in bed as long as Magnus, her Chief Walker, Feeder, and Bather. I swear her eyes are liquid with hope that I’ll change the routine.
“Sorry to disappoint, Moll. The sun’s not even up.”
She whines and chuffs my hand with her cold nose.
“How about a compromise?” I lead her through the laundry room to the back door. “Go do your duty. When you come back, I’ll give you a treat.”
A doggy door would simplify life, but sightings of coyotes happen several times every year. Since Molly would never bark to save her feline nemesis, Anastaysa’s writer’s imagination wove a bloody story with Sir Kitty as a coyote snack, refuting the simplified life.
Why my overloaded brain veers to animal control gives me pause. A medical doctor should exercise more mental self-discipline. Learn more about BPD. Plan for meeting Rachel.
At the back door, I let Molly outside and returned to the kitchen yawning. I remove bowls and napkins and silverware. If my hands stay busy, the tiny voice tapping on my skull fades. I make fresh juice. Wash blueberries. Block thoughts of Alexandra. And Maverick. And Cassie.
My stomach flips. I lean over the sink. Free nearly two years from a fifteen-year abusive marriage, I still cling to procrastination and denial. Twin psychological dysfunctions, they offered my best coping strategies.
Water whooshes over the blueberries. Michael considered such mundane activities beneath his wife and children. Performing these small chores often fills me with little jolts of contentment. But today, I feel numb.
Did he kill Stefan because of Alexandra’s crush or because I, starved for friends, spent too much time in the kitchen? Always with Magnus, talking about everything but food preparation.
The question haunted me for months, and I suggested to the FBI that some teeth might belong to Stefan. The agents asked too many questions about my suspicions. Shivering with fear, I condensed the whole truth, reporting Stefan had cooked dinner for us one night. By breakfast, he’d vanished.
If our chef disappeared without a trace, why hadn’t I—the wife beginning to chafe under her master’s golden whip—been eliminated?
Not a question I plan to bring up at the meeting later with Rachel. Right now I need a plan to keep Anastaysa and Magnus busy until Jennifer comes home tonight. I set the blueberries on the table. Molly’s barks interrupt my dithering. Afraid she’ll wake the kids, I open the door and hold out her promised reward. She drops her Frisbee at my feet, inhales the treat, and tugs on my hand.
“Huh-uh.” I pat her head. “Honest, Moll. No time this morning for me to play.”
She picks up the Frisbee and trots toward the back of the house. When I remain in the open door, she comes back. Her pleading look mirrors every child’s mournful gaze turned on her mother. You’re neglecting me.
“Oh, all right. But if you tell anyone I played Frisbee with—” I stop at the perimeter of the pool and stare. My jaw drops. I must be a classic portrait of shock.
A neon-pink Frisbee floats on the placid blue water. A stuffed white rabbit sits on top of the disc. Nausea swells on my tongue. Even for an ER doc, the smell is putrid.
Feces—too clinical a word—coat the rabbit’s head.