transference: a novel Read online

  I don’t know why I handed her my card. I didn’t have to.

  I shouldn’t have.

  A referral would have been enough. But there was something in her eyes. Something I had seen before. A deep-rooted sadness I wanted—no, needed—to fix.

  The last week and half, I’ve done nothing at all. I feel as if the world is closing in around me and there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. Heaviness sits on my chest. There’s a feeling of suffocating with every strangled breath I try to take.

  I can’t eat.

  I can’t sleep.

  I can’t go on like this. Something has to give.

  I find myself staring down at Dr. Montgomery’s card and wondering what it would be like to sit in front of him and purge my soul. The card is starting to fray and bend from the countless times I’ve handled it. Should I call him? He seemed to know what he was talking about, but at the same time I’m not sure he would be the right fit for me. I’m not sure I want to look into his eyes and let him see my weaknesses.

  Since I’ve been home from the hospital, I’ve started having nightmares that leave me feeling hopeless and scared. Every night I pray for peace, but as sleep finds me, an array of images and smells and feelings so crisp attack me. They rip me from my bed night after night in sweat and tears. But I know the nightmares will always find me. I have no choice.

  This morning, after a dreadful night of tossing and turning, I’m woken from my haze by the sound of glass shattering.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I hear as I pad down the hallway and into the kitchen. I find Sydney on the floor picking up pieces of my favorite coffee mug.

  I can’t help but laugh at the irony. Everything is falling to pieces. Why not my mug, too?

  She spins around at the sound of my laugh. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I was trying to make you a cup of coffee and I accidentally knocked it off the counter.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I try to give her a reassuring smile. “Seriously, Syd. It’s only a mug.”

  Nodding she stands, placing the shards of ceramic into the garbage can and then heads over to the cabinet and grabs another coffee cup.

  “Want some?”

  “Sure, thank you,” I say as she pours the coffee.

  “So, what do you have planned for today?” She pulls out the chair at the kitchen island and takes a seat.

  “I need to call my mom, see if she needs anything. That’s pretty much it.” Sydney’s lips set into a hard line. “I’ll be okay,” I try to reassure her, but she’s smart to worry about me. Talking to my mom is emotionally draining on a good day, and with my current condition, I’m not sure I can handle speaking to her. But I have to.

  I take one more sip and stand from the table, grab my phone and start to dial. She picks up on the first ring, as if she’s desperate for someone to hear her neurosis.

  “Eve,” she groans.

  “What’s wrong, Mom? Are you okay?” I know she’s not. She never is. Her hypochondria knows no bounds. It encompasses every breath she takes.

  “I’m dizzy and I can’t move. It’s as if my face is numb. I might be having a—”

  “You’re not, Mom.”

  “How do you know? I could be. My heart beat is slow—”

  “Did you take anything?”

  “Just my insulin.” And there it is. My mom doesn’t have diabetes. She has “self-diagnosed” diabetes, and with enough money and a crooked doctor, she now has insulin to treat an ailment she’s never had.

  “I’m coming over right now.” I bite my lip and draw blood. The coppery taste coats my tongue as it swipes to wipe it. I’m not strong enough to deal with this now, but it falls on me regardless.

  I’m all she has.

  An hour later, I find myself on the Upper East Side in my mom’s apartment. My whole body is on edge. Richards’s apartment is in the same building, and a part of me feels empty knowing I can’t pop over to see him.

  I walk into my mom’s living room, but it’s empty, so I continue to the bedroom. It’s where I find her, half-dressed and disheveled. There’s make-up smudged against her face and her eyes are closed.

  “Mom, are you okay?” I rush to her side of the bed, grab her arm and check her pulse.

  She groans at the contact. “Cold,” she mutters.

  “Mom, can you open your eyes?” She does, but I see instantly that they aren’t focused and they look hazy. “Did you take anything else, Mom?”

  “N-Nothing.”

  “What did you take, Mom?”

  “Nothing,” she mumbles. “Just my insulin.” And with that I know her blood sugar is dangerously low. I dash out of the room and into the kitchen to grab some orange juice. When I’m back, with my help, she drinks. Within a few minutes, the color returns to her cheeks.

  Taking insulin could kill my mom. When she takes it, her sugar level is never high enough for the quantity she takes. I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I get into bed and rock her to sleep.

  Reaching out my hand, I stroke her face, and she mutters unintelligible words. I don’t know what set my mom off today. All I know is today is worse than most. Normally, most of her ailments are fictional. They reside inside her brain and feed off the fear that lives there. But this time, she is actually psychically ill. She’s harder to deal with like this. On days like today there is no calming my mom. On days like today there is no asking questions or getting truths. On days like today I just have to treat the symptoms and pray it passes quickly.

  She lies peacefully in my arms and, for one moment, my heart tugs in my chest.

  This is so backwards. She should be holding me, comforting me, not the other way around.

  She should be the one doing the mothering.

  I’m exhausted when I arrive back at my apartment. Every muscle in my body hurts. Heading into the living room, I submerge myself into the fluffy white couch that sits adjacent to the wall. It was our first purchase when we moved in together two years ago, and to this day it provides the sanctuary I always need after leaving my mom’s. Reclining back, I close my tired eyes. They burn from all the fallen tears I’ve shed in the last week. Like sandpaper scraping against the grain of wood, they remind me of all the defects in me I need to smooth out.

  “How did it go with your mom?” Sydney asks as she lazily strolls into the living room.

  “Not good.” I breathe out a choked groan as I run my hands through my hair and pull at my roots.

  “What’s going on?”

  “She’s sick.” My fingers tense in my lap. “This time she was dizzy.” Sydney knows what this means. Today it’s dizzy, last week it was a stomach ulcer, and the week before that a blood clot. I swallow with difficulty as the familiar anxiety weaves its way through my blood stream.

  “She’s having a reaction to her insulin. It’s making her weak and lethargic.” A silence surrounds us as she takes in what I’ve said. My stomach churns uncomfortably at the void. She has a puzzled look upon her face.

  “Insulin? For diabetes? Since when does she have diabetes?”

  “You know how it is. She’s had it for a few weeks now, but it’s not real, obviously. Like everything else, it’s in her head.”

  It’s a sad truth, but this is how it’s been for as long as I can remember. No doctor ever finds anything wrong. They only humor her with a false diagnosis. It breaks my heart, and I wish I could help her, but there is no helping someone like her. The scary part is that every day since Richard’s death, I understand her more and more as my own panic disables me.

  “How can that be?”

  “With the right amount of money and pressure, a doctor will diagnose you with anything. In this case, her sugars are normal, but for her they’re “high,” so the doctor gives her insulin. Then she gets “sick” and a horribly vicious cycle starts.”

  “What can you do?”

  My eyes lock with Sydney’s. Her forehead is furrowed and I feel a stab of pain for putting that look there. “All I can do is be there
for her and take care of her, I guess.”

  Her cheeks pinch in and little lines of worry appear on her brow. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  She gives me a tight smile and sits beside me on the couch. “I know it’s not my fault, but I care about you, so your pain is my pain.”

  “You have no idea how much that means to me. I know I’m not the easiest—”

  “Eve—”

  I hold up my hand. “No, Syd, let me finish. I never really had any friends. In high school, even in college, I always had to be there for my mom, and it didn’t lend well to fostering relationships with my peers. Sure, I had some friends, but eventually they got sick of me always canceling or leaving early. But you never care if I have to disappear for hours to check on her, or if I’m evasive or closed off, and I thank you for that. I know it can’t be easy being my friend, but I thank you for putting up with my endless pile of shit.”

  Sydney moves closer and pulls me into her arms. Her embrace is warm and comforting. My shoulders drop forward as I let some of the built-up tension be absorbed into this hug.

  “This isn’t a one-way street, babe. You’re there for me, too.” I pull back and look into her eyes. She smirks at me. “You help me pick out all my outfits for dates, and you deal with my endless crazy diets.” She laughs, lightening the sober mood lingering in the air.

  “Yes, totally the same.” I giggle back, joining her. Together we laugh until she stills, and every muscle in her face tightens as she grows more serious.

  “I love you, girl. No matter what,” she says and tears well in my eyes. “And even with everything you are going through, you’re still the strongest person I know.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I don’t know many twenty-four years olds who are the sole caregiver to their mother. Even if she doesn’t need you all the time, I know her health wears on you. But every day, no matter how bad your own day was, you are still there for her when she needs you.”

  “Thanks.” Her words act like a balm. As if they are a magical elixir that mends my troubled soul.

  Even if it’s only temporary, I welcome the feeling.

  The smell hits me. Unmistakable, yet indescribable at the same time.

  Coppery.

  Sweet.

  Pungent.

  It seeped through our house like mist on a hazy day.

  Blanketing the world around me. It filled my nostrils.

  Suffocated me with fear.

  “No!”

  My whole body flails as screams leave my mouth. Everything is closing in on me. Fear, stark and vivid, glitter behind my lids. Trying to escape the confines of my mind, my eyes flash open. A half-dressed Sydney rushes in. The door collides with the wall, causing the room to shake.

  “Are you okay? I only left you for a minute.” Am I okay? Am I okay?

  The words echo around the space. Jumping off the walls. Bouncing through my brain.

  But they have no meaning. Nothing has meaning. The only thing I understand is the feeling of the blood coating my skin.

  Blood.

  Wildly, my eyes dash around the room like a crazed animal clawing at myself. “Get it off! Get it off!”

  “Get what off?” She eyes me with confusion as I scrub my hands over my body, trying desperately to clean it off.

  “It’s everywhere! Don’t you see it?”

  I can feel it. Taste it. It’s everywhere. Controlling everything.

  “See what? I don’t see anything.”

  “The blood! The blood is everywhere!” My shrill voice echoes through the room as Sydney flips the light switch and the room floods with light, blinding me. “There’s no blood.” As my eyes adjust, I lift the blanket. There’s nothing there. “I saw it. I smelled it. I swear it was there!” I cry.

  “It was only a dream. You’re okay. Shh, you’re okay. Here, let me get you some water. I’ll be right back.”

  It was so real, but she’s right. There’s nothing here. But the tension still lingers in my bones. It still resides in my heart, in my mind.

  By the time she comes back, my tears have dried but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. That the dream was a piece of a puzzle, but I don’t know where the piece belongs. “Here.” She hands me the glass and I take a long gulp of the water. It cools my body, quenches my thirst, but it doesn’t stop the wave of apprehension sweeping through my body. “Do you need me to get you anything else?”

  “No. I’ll be fine. I promise.” She raises an eyebrow at me. I steady my breathing to convince her I’ll be fine. Plastering on a reassuring smile, my head bobs up and down a few times. “Really, I’m okay. Please, go back to sleep. You don’t have to stay up and watch me. I’ll just watch some TV or read a book.” My voice sounds fake even to my own ears.

  She crawls out of my bed. “You sure?”

  A part of me wants to beg her to stay to comfort me, but instead, I bow my head.

  “Yeah.” I exhale.

  She eyes me one more time before turning around to leave the room. My life pre-accident seems so far away right now as my body shakes like a leaf falling from a tree. It’s as if I don’t even know who this person I’ve become is, but it reminds me of my mom. I need to snap out of it. Return to the version of me that I know. That makes sense. I haven’t been back to work since the funeral. Between Richard’s death and my head, no one is in a rush to have me return. But being alone all day is starting to wear on my sanity, so I need to go back. The only problem is, my body is psychically exhausted. I only have a few more days before I go back and I’m scared. I don’t think I’ll be able to function on this little sleep.

  I lie in my bed and pull out Pride and Prejudice. I always find comfort in Jane Austen’s words. Maybe that will take my mind off having to return to my real life in a few days. Maybe it will bring some semblance of normalcy.

  Somewhere between Mr. Darcy insulting Elizabeth and them falling into an all-consuming love only possible in stories, I must have fallen back to sleep. This time, no visions danced behind my eyes. There was no taste of fear so terrifying that I’m sure it will haunt me for days. Peace finally found me and although brief, I welcomed the reprieve.

  I wake with a new resolve this morning, and that is to start preparing for work. It’s inevitable that I must return. It’s been almost two weeks since I left the hospital, and I can’t hide forever. My two-week leave of absence is coming to an end, but the idea of all that I missed at work suddenly makes my head ache. I knead at my temples. No, I will not get a headache right now. I have too much to do. For the first time since Richard died, my appetite has returned. I can’t imagine how sickly skeletal I must appear to Sydney. When she’s around, I sense her studying me. The concern is evident in her eyes.

  Today my stomach rumbles and turns with the need to be satisfied. It needs strength and substance. Heading into the kitchen, I pull out cereal and milk, and sit down when my phone rings . . . Sydney. I’m not surprised; she checks in often to make sure I’m okay.

  “Hey,” I answer but it comes out muffled as I chew the corn flakes in my mouth.

  “Hi. What’s going on over there? You okay?”

  “I’m good, just eating.” I lay the spoon down and stand to grab some water. The faucet comes to life and I pour myself a glass from the cold stream. “How’s work? Anything I need to know?”

  “Nope, you’re on break. I’m not going to talk work with you,” she says in a stern voice that makes me smile. “Oh shit, the other line is ringing. I’ll call you back.” I don’t even have time to say goodbye before I hear silence. Sitting back down with my now filled cup, I reach for my spoon when my cell phone rings again. My mouth splits into a smile. That was quick. When I peer down, I realize it’s a number I don’t recognize. Should I answer? Curiosity wins and my finger swipes the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Eve Hamilton there?” The voice is unfamiliar and it puts me on edge.

  “
Yes, this is she. Who’s calling?” My shoulders tense, the time going still as I wait.

  “Hi, this is Pamela calling from Milton Schwartz’s law office. He’s the attorney handling Richard Stone’s estate. Do you have a moment to speak?”

  “Yes. Sure. How can I help you?”

  “Mr. Schwartz would like to schedule a time to meet with you to discuss Mr. Stone’s estate. Would you be able to come in to our office tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, the word rolls in my mind multiple times. Will I be able to meet him? Can I handle it? I’m scared of what he will tell me. But I don’t have a choice. I have to say yes.

  “Yes, I can meet Mr. Schwartz tomorrow.”

  “What time would be convenient for you, Miss. Hamilton?”

  “I can be there around noon. Would that work?” The sound of fingers tapping a keyboard can be heard through the phone.

  “Yes, Mr. Schwartz can see you then.”

  Pamela proceeds to rattle off the address, and once done, I hang up the phone, already dreading what tomorrow will bring.

  With sleep-blurred eyes, I wake. The nightmares last night were the same as all the previous nights. I need to get help, but I’m scared. Sweat coats my upper lip and I find myself chewing on the inside of my cheek. My stomach clenches that I have to meet with Richard’s lawyer soon. A strange feeling of dread gnaws at me, as if ice is crawling through my veins. I try my best to plaster on a fake smile, to pretend I’m okay. Instead, I let the smile fall off my lips.

  You can’t lie to yourself.

  An hour later when I finally walk through the door to his office, I meet with an elderly man. He looks to be about sixty and he’s dressed in a crisp navy suit with a matching tie.

  “Hello, Ms. Hamilton. Please come in. Can I have my assistant Pamela get you something to drink? A coffee perhaps?” He smiles. It’s a fatherly smile and reminds me of Richard.

  “Hello, Mr. Schwartz. Please call me Eve, and yes, a cup of coffee would be lovely.” I’m exhausted from a rough night and my muscles are so tight that I’d welcome anything right now to keep my mind busy. I’m hoping a warm cup of coffee will do the trick.