Chapter30.html

The elevators opened with a sharp bing sound. I hurried down the hall, my sandals making a thwick-thwack sound as I walked. I pushed open the door of Suite 3106 and rushed to Sally’s desk. It was nearly five o’clock, but she smiled as if she’d been expecting me.

I glanced at the massive door that led to Dr. Alexander’s inner office. “Is there a chance—?”

I sat, tapping my right foot like a jackhammer. I watched Sally’s back as she talked on the phone. I couldn’t hear a word.

She hung up the phone and turned to face me. “Dr. Alexander can see you now.”

Sally got up and stood beside Dr. Alexander’s office door. “Right now.” I followed her into the office. She dropped a file on the doctor’s desk and then left me alone in the room. I moved to the couch, my usual place, then got up and paced the room. I walked over to Dr. Alexander’s desk and sat in one of the two chairs in front of it. Another door opened, and Dr. Alexander appeared, straightening his tie and jacket. He sat across from me and opened the folder on his desk. “Nice to see you again, Kate.” He said this while reading from the folder.

He looked at me. “I was wondering if you were going to show up today. I’m glad you did.”

Late? I tried to remember. Laura-Lea. She had told me last night Dr. Alexander wanted to meet with me. Was it only last night? I opened my eyes and saw Dr. Alexander watching me closely. “Your right leg has a rather violent tremor.”

I looked down; my leg jerked like Thumper. I pushed it down with my hand, to still it. “I guess I’m wound up. This morning I found out Kevin had been cheating on me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That is terrible news. I can see how that would upset you.” He watched me for a long moment, then opened a drawer and pulled out a prescription pad. He scribbled on the pad, ripped the page off, and slid it across the desk. “It’s mild, but I think it’s all you need right now. You drove in yourself?”

I held my palm up in a stop-right-there gesture. “Have you ever gone hiking? Kevin and I went hiking on a trip to the Rockies not long after we were married. He took me on this long path way up high on the mountain. He said I’d love it, but I didn’t. We got off the marked trail and Kevin couldn’t find it again. He lost the bear bells—the ones you’re supposed to shake while you walk so you don’t sneak up on a bear and get eaten. The day turned cold and we weren’t dressed for cooler temperatures. I twisted my ankle and it swelled up bigger than my head.” Dr. Alexander opened his mouth to interrupt me, so I raised my voice. “The point is, as miserable as the hike was, as painful as it was to walk on my sprained ankle, I needed to do it. I had to get back to our campsite—to safety.

“That’s what I need to do now, Dr. Alexander. I need to keep walking; press on so I can get through this.”

His chair squeaked. “Kate, I want to help you, but it seems you won’t let me. You miss appointments, you won’t follow the medicine regime I set out, and now you’re refusing a second prescription. You say you want my help, but you ignore my advice. It makes me wonder if you really want to get better.”

My face flushed hot. “Of course I do. But did you hear what I said? What I just found out? You can’t expect me to be relaxed.”

He pressed his palms flat on the desk. “I understand, Kate. And I’m sorry about your news. But still, you’re hearing voices, Kate. No amount of talk therapy is going to cure that symptom.”

“One voice,” I screamed. “Not voices. Just one. Just Kevin’s rotten, lying, cheating voice.” I balled my fists by my side. Why couldn’t anyone get it right?

Dr. Alexander sat in silence as I bawled on his desk. After a moment he pushed a box of tissues at me. I took one and blew my nose. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

I looked up at him through wet lashes. “I want you to listen to me, to believe me.”

Dr. Alexander folded his hands in front of him. “Then it would be best for you to seek a new doctor.”

His expression was blank, unreadable. “If you refuse to follow my treatment regime, I don’t see how I can help you.”

The sunlight assaulted my eyes as I stepped out of Dr. Alexander’s high-rise building. I squeezed my eyes shut and felt my thoughts, like ticking bombs, circling me.

Mobs of people rushed around, moving as if with a single heartbeat, in and out of buildings, on and off buses. Downtown pulsed and throbbed. A woman yelled into a cell phone, a man with a briefcase bumped shoulders hard with another man and hurried on. A hot-dog stand manned by a grubby-looking guy who may or may not have been homeless. But I was alone in the throng. Alone with my contemplations, my musings, my stupidity.

After Dr. Alexander’s ultimatum I was disorientated, unable to adjust to the reality that I wasn’t the only person left on earth. That I wasn’t the only thing that mattered.

Dr. Alexander’s warning—threat?—hung on me like a damp towel. There were requirements, expectations I had to fulfill if I ever wanted to be considered well. It seemed what constituted “well” was a process best left to the professionals. So many rules I hadn’t learned. What had Kevin’s requirements been? What had he expected of me in order to keep him from having an affair?

I stood on the bustling street corner and gulped in a lungful of air. Across the courtyard the hot-dog vendor dropped a wiener on the sidewalk and, as he bent to retrieve it, his customer walked away, shaking her head. He straightened up and looked around, bun in one hand, frankfurter wobbling on the end of his tongs in the other. His expression said, “Where’d she go?” He looked across the courtyard and we accidentally locked eyes. He shrugged. I shrugged back. Sometimes it’s a small thing that causes someone to walk away from you.

That evening I drove out of the city, turned down exit twenty, and noticed a billboard. A man’s face, fat and smiling, filled more than half the board. He pointed Uncle Sam–style at the traffic below. Beside the gigantic head was his name, Reverend J. D. Slater, and a slogan, Miracle Working Power—Today! Under that, a phone number. I chanted the number, memorizing it as I took the turnoff to Greenfield. I could use a miracle today.

Back at home I stood on the front sidewalk and surveyed my lawn. A riot of silk shirts waved in the breeze. The lawn covered in bits of bedroom debris that I would have to clean up. My only regret was I had lacked the strength to hurl them farther.

I pushed into the house, dragging my feet as if I suddenly weighed five hundred pounds. I’d have to clean up the mess sooner or later. I shut the door behind me, blocking the view to my front yard. Later. I sloughed to the kitchen, found the prescription for the antihallucinogen on the counter, and shoved it in my purse, a germ of an idea forming.

“Kevin?” I called his name in a loud voice, and then waited. Silence pulsed back at me. I walked to the living room. “Kevin? Are you really gone, or just hiding?”

I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I crawled onto the bare mattress, rolled onto my side, and stared through the open window. I had expunged all obvious traces of Kevin from the room, had flung them from a great height. Now I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes. As I fell asleep, two things were clear. My soul had been swept clean of Kevin. And I wasn’t happy about it.

The next morning I stuffed Kevin’s ruined belongings into large green garbage bags. At one point a shard of plastic or wood bit into my hand and pierced my palm. I swore at it and kept going.

As I worked, I weighed the two theories of mental health. On the one hand Dr. Alexander believed a regimen of medication and talk therapy would, in time, cure me. Well, he’d never used the word cure. Improve? I kicked at a bit of smashed dresser drawer. Did Dr. Alexander believe I could be cured? That the pills would right the chemistry of my brain for good, solving all my … delusions, he called them delusions. And what had caused these delusions in the first place? Memory loss, Kevin’s voice blistering with rage, then soothing with sexual advances.

On the second scale was the question Eliza Campbell had introduced, that my issue was a spiritual one and had a spiritual cause. That the voice had more to do with a plugged connection to the eternal than it did with faulty wiring in my brain. But if that were the cause, what was the cure? What did spiritual people do when their pipes rusted out? Chant? Drink herbal tea?

On the one scale sat a regimen of pills and therapy that promised a cure, but offered no clue of the cause. On the other scale the cause was faulty connection, crossed spiritual wires, but I had no idea how to proceed toward a cure.

I shoved three shoes into the overflowing green garbage bag. It wasn’t simply that Eliza Campbell’s spiritual theory offered me a cause, it was the idea that I could fix my problem myself, without relying on medications. All I had to do was find someone who knew how to clean out people’s spiritual causeways. I recalled Rev. J. D. Slater’s phone number. Miracle Working Power—Today! I dragged a garbage bag into the back alley and tossed it on the pile. I went inside to call Rev. J. D. Slater and make an appointment for my miracle.

Two days later I turned into the parking lot of Rev. J. D. Slater’s church. It was a massive building that from the street resembled a concert hall more than a church. I drove through a huge parking lot. A smattering of cars huddled near the front door. I parked beside a green Jaguar, wondering when I’d last seen a Jaguar. No one I knew could afford one. I got out of my Ford Focus and walked toward the main entrance. A large banner above the doors read Welcome to Rhema Word Victory Church.

I tried all three sets of double-glass doors, but they were all locked. I checked my watch. Was I early? No, I was right on time.

I stepped back and surveyed the doors. Maybe these were Sunday morning doors and there was some other entrance people used on weekdays.

I was about to walk around the building in search of another door when I spotted a doorbell set into the brick wall beside one of the doors. I punched it with my finger. Nothing. I pushed it again, holding it for several seconds. Still nothing. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through one of the glass doors.

It was like glimpsing paradise. Gleaming white marble pillars and floors blinked in the sunlight. The foyer was as large as the gym at Glen Hills Community Center. A tiny figure came into view—a woman with a pixie haircut gone terribly wrong. Her mouth formed what looked like a permanently etched frown. She unlocked the door and poked her head out. “Yes?”

I handed over the paper with Rev. Slater’s name and phone number on it. “Hi there. I have an appointment with, uh, The Reverend?”

Pixie Woman pushed the door open and stepped back as I entered. She closed the door and locked it again. With military precision she spun on her heels and marched back into the church, waving an arm at me, indicating I should follow.

If she hadn’t been walking at a breakneck pace, I would have taken time to ogle the surroundings. The lobby was expansive, with ceilings that soared, trying to reach God Himself. Light from the glass doors, as well as from a dozen or so skylights, poured in from every angle. I suppressed the urge to touch the leaves of one of the several massive trees that dotted the lobby. Each one was planted in its own dirt hole carved into the marble floor. The air was cool, almost chilly, despite the soaring temperature outside. Pixie Woman’s low heels made a loud clacking sound as she strode toward our destination. The word palatial drifted through my mind.

Ms. Pixie ushered me into a waiting room and pointed to a chair. “I’ll let The Reverend know you’re here.” She disappeared down a hallway.

I sat and scanned the magazines on the table in front of me. Charisma, Spirit Led Woman, Pray!, Prophecy in the News. I crossed my arms and sat back in the chair. After a long moment Pixie Woman clomped back into the room and took a seat behind a teeny desk. She turned to a computer screen and began typing.

I stared at her profile. “Excuse me—”

She spun in her chair. “The Reverend is praying and will see you when he’s done.” She indicated the phone by her elbow. Apparently he would call. She returned to her typing.

Huh. Praying. Maybe I should try praying too? This was a church, after all. God could be lurking around any corner. I shifted in my chair and lowered my head like I’d been taught as a child in Sunday school. I searched my memory for a prayer. There was one that started, Now I lay me down to sleep. Not helpful. I searched further: God is good, God is great …

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to dredge up the rest of the prayer. Let us thank Him for this food. I sighed and opened my eyes. How, exactly, does one pray? How do you know if it’s a good time to talk to God? Maybe it’s like a university lecture hall and you have to raise your hand and wait your turn until the professor points to you. I lifted my eyes to the heavens—actually to the soaring ceilings of the church, they must have been twenty feet high, and pictured God pointing down at me, a gigantic finger in the sky, and a loud voice like an earthquake booming out, “Your turn, Kate Davis.”

The idea made me moderately hysterical. Calm down, Kate. Of course it didn’t work like that. Get a grip. Besides, who was I to think I could just prance up to God and start talking? Like, hey, God, I know we haven’t talked much in the past twenty years, but I sure could use a favor.

I chewed my fingernail. Better to wait for The Reverend. He could introduce us, God and me. Like a mutual acquaintance at a party. He would chat us up until we were both comfortable, and then he’d leave God and me alone for a while.

Did I even believe in God? I squirmed on my chair. I didn’t not believe in God. I’d never stomped my foot and said, “That’s it! Proof of the nonexistence of God. Case closed.” But miracles? When was the last time I’d seen a miracle? Or knew someone who had? No, no, I was fine. I wasn’t asking to walk on water, I only wanted clarity, a path I could follow. Just an ordinary miracle. I just had no idea how to get one on my own. That’s why I needed The Reverend.

Pixie Woman startled me out of my musings. “The Reverend will see you now.”

I followed her to J. D. Slater’s private office. She waved me in, and I came face-to-face with the man himself. He was a mountain, capped with greasy black hair instead of snow. He quivered toward me, a glacier on the move. His suit strained with the effort of containing his bulk.

He held out a massive paw, his voice deep and booming. “I am the Reverend Slater.” He waved Pixie Woman away. “Sit, and tell me what troubles you today.” He sounded as if he might burst into a sermon at any moment.

We sat on opposite sides of his desk. He eased himself into his chair, wheezing with the exertion. The chair creaked alarmingly, but held.

I chewed my lip. Where to start? I shifted in my seat, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. Maybe this was a bad idea. No, I’d thought about this a great deal before I called. Just jump in, like a swimming pool. “Well, I’ve been hearing my dead husband speak to me.”

The Reverend made a humph sound, not unlike the sound I’d heard a rottweiler make once. He moved his head, perhaps a nod, his head rolled up and down, folds of fat undulating under his chin. They momentarily hypnotized me. I blinked rapidly. “I was. But I’m not anymore.” I spoke quickly. “I got rid of him, chucked him out the window, so now he won’t talk.” I frowned. Was I making sense?

He narrowed his eyes until they were almost invisible in the meat of his face. “The voices have stopped?”

“Voice. One voice.” I held up a finger like a primary school teacher. “Yes, it’s stopped. That’s why I came to you. My psychiatrist thinks pills are the answer, but I’ve come to believe I’m experiencing a spiritual thing … problem.”

The Reverend made a deep rumbling sound. “I agree with you. This is spiritual. Doctors can’t help you. Pills won’t help.”

I cocked my head. He was saying the same things I had said, but why did I get the feeling we weren’t speaking the same language?

“Uh, certain things have happened in the past week that caused Kevin to stop talking to me.” I leaned forward, and he did too, spilling over onto his desk. I sought out his eyes, deep within the fleshy pockets of his face. “I need Kevin to speak to me again.”

The Reverend fell back in his chair with a tremendous thud. “You’ve come here to ask for help in talking to the dead?”

His incredulous tone shook my already wavering confidence. “Well, just Kevin. I need to get some answers—set some things straight. He’s the only one who can do that.”

He seemed to think about this. He didn’t move for a long moment, not even blinking. Then he folded his hands on his desk and peered at me. “I’ve spoken to God about this matter, and God has directed me.”

When did he speak to God? Just now? I’d missed it. God directed him? How?

He held up a fat finger. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Your answers hold the key regarding how we’ll proceed today.”

I squirmed in my chair. He made it sound like a pop quiz I’d forgotten to study for.

He sat back. “Are you willing to attend services here for a minimum of six weeks?”

I started. “Six weeks? Here? Uh, I don’t live in the city. It’s a long drive to get here.” He fixed me with a steady gaze. “I mean, I suppose I could.”

“A church alive is worth the drive. Jesus isn’t going to help you unless you are obedient to His Word.”

“Word?”

“Do you believe the Bible is the literal and inerrant Word of the Living God?”

I tried to dredge up what I knew of the Bible. Fragments of stories and images flashed then faded in my mind. Stories of good guys and bad guys. A man named Noah, or Jonah, or maybe Moses, floating in an ark filled with animals; another man, being thrown from a boat (the ark?), and getting swallowed by a whale, a man in a den of lions. I had heard these stories in my childhood, when my parents would drop my sister and me off at church for Sunday school. I remembered believing these stories with the same kind of faith I had in Santa Claus. A wink-nudge-wouldn’t-it-be-nice faith.

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it before. I guess it could be.” I thought of the book in Eliza Campbell’s waiting room, the Bhagavad Gita. Wasn’t that supposed to be scripture too? One look at Rev. Slater told me not to ask him.

He narrowed his eyes, but he was smiling, a Pillsbury Doughboy grin. “Have you exposed yourself to the demonic world by the practice of séances, witchcraft, or Ouija boards?”

My heart began a panicked tattoo. “What? No, of course not.” I’d sat on sateen cushions in Eliza Campbell’s elaborately painted counseling office, I’d sang and danced in my kitchen with my deceased husband, but that was a far cry from séances and Ouija boards.

He stood up. “Can you confess with your mouth, right here and now, that Jesus Christ is your Lord and Savior?”

I shrank in my chair. “I’m not sure I understand …”

He moved around his desk toward me. “Do you know you’re a sinner who needs a savior?”

Sinner? He didn’t even know me.

The Reverend stood in front of me as I sat in my chair. “It’s clear to me what’s happened. I can see the path your feet are on.” He slapped his hands on the top of my head. Pressing down hard he shouted, “Come out!”

My neck buckled until my chin pressed into my chest. What was he doing? I clawed his wrists. “Stop!” I screamed, but the word stuck in my throat. Only strangled, garbled noises escaped.

Rev. Slater sounded as if he were being choked as well. He hollered strange words, like a different language. He clamped a meaty hand over my mouth and shouted, “Come out of her, foul devil!”

Devil? Terror swept through my body. I couldn’t breathe. Desperate, I tore at his hand, but he only pressed harder. “I command you to come out, you lying spirit!” He shifted his weight from side to side, his hands like a vise around my head and face; we rocked in frenzied rhythm. I pushed at his arms, screaming through the meat of his palm.

I tried to slide off my chair and slip out from under his immense weight, but he dug into my face and skull and held me in place. He bellowed a mixture of English and gibberish. Desperate for a breath I kicked his shin. He stomped his foot like a mad bull, but kept rocking me from side to side, faster now until I could feel the metal frame of the chair dig into my hip, first the right, then the left. I kicked with both legs and managed to connect with his kneecap. He roared with pain and tightened his grip on my head. “You can’t win, foul spirit. I claim this life!”

He’s trying to kill me. I begged him, pleaded for my life, but his hand over my mouth pushed the words back down my throat. I needed air. Black spots exploded before my eyes. My hands dropped to my side and I felt my body go limp. Surprisingly The Reverend loosened his grip and then let me go. I slumped over and raked in gulps of air, a sob of relief escaped my throat.

He took two steps back from me. “Now I’m going to lead you in prayer.”

I jumped up and ran for the door.