Desperate to the Max (20 page)

“You’re a bastard.”

“You did the same thing with me, Max. Played with me. Tested to see how badly I wanted you.”

“I
married
you.”

He was silent a long moment. Then, “Why’d you marry me, Max?”

Because ... because she’d suddenly seen herself as a ragged old woman in a convalescent home, dying alone, unloved, unwanted. The way her uncle had died in the end.

He snatched the thought out of the air. “Such an endearing reason.”

“I tried my best to be a good wife. I’m alone anyway.”

“You will be alone for the rest of your life if you don’t stop using sex as a power tool.”

“He was the one that started it.”

Silence. For a beat longer than necessary. She used it to slip in her own dig. “Why’d
you
marry
me
, Cameron? I dished out the same crap to you as I do to Witt. Why’d you stick around?”
Come on, big boy, answer that one
.

His voice was a whisper on the night air, soft, gentle, devastating. “I loved the woman I thought you could be, the woman hiding inside waiting to be set free. So tough and so strong on the outside, a survivor. But on the inside ...”

She closed to her eyes and hugged herself. She hadn’t been any of those things. On the inside, she’d been weak and hurt. Leaning on Cameron even for moments had given her such ... peace ... almost joy.

“I admired you for your strength, but I loved you for the times you let go. The times you laughed and you forgot the past.”

She’d never been like that. Cameron’s memory had short-circuited when they’d killed him.

“I don’t know why he wants me,” she said so softly the words might have been only in her head. She’d certainly never leaned on Witt or let him see this mystical quality Cameron thought lived inside her.

“He sees you the way I know you.”

“
You
can read my mind. He can’t.”

“You think you’re so good at hiding what you think and what you feel. But sweetheart, it’s written all over you. How badly you wanted justice for Wendy. How much you want it for Bethany. How much you fucking
care
.”

She didn’t want Witt to examine her, to know things she didn’t or couldn’t tell anybody. She didn’t want him to want her. She didn’t want him to even like her. She’d given everything to Cameron, and she’d never do that again. Maybe there wasn’t even anything left of herself to give.

“This is your last chance, Max, do you know that?” Cameron plucked her thoughts out of her head. Desperation tinged his voice.

“My last chance at what?” The chill had crept into her heart. She let it bleed into her voice. “At finding the man of my dreams? Living happily ever after? My name isn’t Cinderella, and I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

“Your last chance at living your life instead of hiding out. Let the scars heal, and I’m not talking just about my death or about your rape. Heal them before you become that dried-up prune with no friends, no family, and no heart.”

A pithy comeback died on her lips. She wasn’t in danger of becoming a withered crone dying alone and abandoned in some urine-infested old folks home. No, not her. Not that way. She was sure she’d go out long before that, in a blaze of glory.

“You’re already that woman. You’ve abandoned yourself.”

She turned her back on his voice, turned her back on his words. Turned her back on the truth.

He didn’t leave. She smelled his peppermints and fell asleep amidst the uncomfortable silence between them.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dr. Prunella Shale, a short, round woman with frizzy red hair, was quite unlike the image her name conveyed. Either by stroke of luck or due to the urgency in her just-shy-of-midnight phone call last night, Max secured an appointment with the good doctor at ten the next morning.

The office was by no means plush nor relaxed. Prunella—which was how Max thought of her—sat on a secretarial chair behind a cubicle-style, three-sided desk unit. Max’s own chair was typical office furniture also, blue-cushioned seat and back, wooden arms. A matching chair sat close to the window. The floor was standard linoleum. The only things that remotely suggested a psychiatrist’s office were the oversized box of Kleenex and the egg-shaped stress reliever on the side table.

The doctor wore a frumpy pink-and-black-checked suit with the sleeves an inch too long for her short arms. She’d applied little makeup. Her fingers and ears were bare, and a simple gold chain circled her throat, disappearing into the neckline of her blouse. Max suspected a cross, though why she couldn’t have said.

“So, Max, tell me what prompted your call last night.”

The doctor did not, as Max had anticipated, ask who had referred her or how Max had gotten her name. She’d worked up the most unverifiable of excuses, too, simply that she’d looked through the phone book and taken a shine to the doctor’s name. She’d even had the forethought to check that it was listed.

Max launched into the second half of her prepared speech. “My husband died two years ago.” The doctor didn’t bother to interrupt her with any platitudes. “And I’ve been fine.”

Her stomach twisted when she remembered saying exactly the same thing to Cameron last night. He was right. She was a liar. She hadn’t been fine. Even before he died.

The doctor didn’t need to know
everything
.

Max hurried on with her fabricated story. “I mean it was a shock, of course, but I haven’t really suffered with any big problems like insomnia or drinking too much or ...” She used her hands eloquently, allowing Dr. Shale to draw her own conclusions. “Until about two months ago.” She stopped. Time for the good doctor to earn her $155 an hour.

“What happened two months ago?” Not how did your husband die or what do you do for a living—although that had been on the patient enrollment form—not even a why do you think you’ve been “fine.”

“I met a new man.”

“Ahhh.”

“And my husband started talking to me.”

Now that was worthy of a raised brow, the color of which matched Prunella’s red hair. This morning, when she’d outlined her plan, Cameron had asked how the hell that was supposed to get her into a group of anorexics. It was more likely to get her a room in the loony bin. She, however, counted on the fact that Dr. Shale would see it as an allegory, a story rich with meaning. Psychiatrists loved that kind of stuff.

“Hmmm. Why do you think he’s suddenly made an appearance after two years?”

“He’s jealous.”

“So he’s been telling you to dump this other man?”

“Not exactly. He’s been telling me how great the guy is, but he’s using reverse psychology.” It
was
the oddest conversation and not quite how Max had envisioned it.

“Ah. I get it. He thinks that by extolling this new man’s virtues, you’ll turn tail and run. To spite him.”

“Right.” Of course, Max wouldn’t put that past Cameron. In fact, could that have been his game with Witt all along? Max gave it a two-second consideration, then tossed it aside.

“Tell me, Max. Is this the first man you’ve dated since your husband died?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel about that? Disloyal? Frightened? Vulnerable?”

“I think terrified would describe it accurately. I feel sort of out of control.”

“Describe that to me, being out of control.”

Here was where she’d wanted to get. “Well, I worry about every little decision. Not just about Wi ... this man, but about work, about my personal life. Everything. The more I go round and round, the more I can’t make decisions, the harder it is to ...” She trailed off, not wanting to push Prunella too fast.

“The harder it is to what, Max?” the doctor prompted.

“Well. When I was in high school, I had this small problem with eating.”

“Eating?”

“Yes. I kind of ... stopped.”

“You stopped eating? You mean you were anorexic?”

“Well, yeah.” Ducking her head, she went for the slightly embarrassed attitude. She had, actually, been in control of everything back then.

“What about laxatives?”

“Gross. I was more fond of a little binge-and-purge when necessary.” She thought the whole story sounded very realistic. A few embellishments on the truth.

“Ah, bulimia.” The doctor’s eyebrow went up again. “Were you ever treated for this eating disorder?”

“For a while.” Now came the really big lie, the one intended to suck the doctor into her plan. “I went to a group thing. It really helped. Saved my life, I suppose you could say.” Actually she’d hated the group. In her opinion, she’d never really needed to be there. Then her aunt died, and she’d gone away to college. Life changed. It had been a phase she’d gotten through, despite Cameron’s nitpicking about her weight these days.

“So tell me about now.”

“You mean the eating?”

“Yes. I mean the eating.”

Max opted for something close to the truth. “Well, for a few weeks, I couldn’t eat anything at all.” Since she’d met Witt, she’d lost five pounds, though God knows she’d never admit that to Cameron. “Then this last week, I’ve been bingeing. That’s not something I used to do back in high school. It’s kind of scary.” Being possessed was kind of scary. She figured she’d save that one for the group. She went on gravely. “There’s been those bad body thoughts, too.”

“Bad body thoughts?”

“Oh, sorry, that’s a term ... the group used. The best way to put it is that I feel fat. Really fat.”

“Stand up, Max.”

Max obliged. She knew the routine. People look at you like you’re crazy. Larger people even seemed to get angry.

“You can sit now. Thank you. I hope that didn’t embarrass you. I’m pretty good at guessing weights. Actually, working with eating disorders is one of my specialties.” Prunella sighed, picked up a pencil and tapped it against the pad on her desk. “Normally I’d meet with you a couple of times, you’d get over your anxiety about seeing a new man, and you’d move on. Here’s what worries me. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that anorexia is like alcoholism. It’s not a disease that gets cured, it’s a disease that’s managed. It never truly goes away. If you’re having ‘bad body thoughts,’ or whatever else you’d like to call them, then I think it’s of the utmost importance that we take them seriously.”

“Exactly. I want to nip it in the bud.”

“I have a few questions, to keep me on track.” Dr. Shale wrote on her pad, underlined, then looked back at Max. “I realize that after the death of your husband, many things in your life have changed. At one time, though, would you have considered yourself promiscuous?”

Max shook her head, topped it off with a quick, “No,” but the lie made the hair at her nape rise. Her hands were suddenly cold.

“The reason I ask is that many sexual abuse survivors suffer from eating disorders and/or problems with promiscuity, as odd as that may sound. Is abuse a possibility we need to explore with you?”

“No. Absolutely not.” The words came out a little too strong and set off a live wire of tension buzzing through her. Prunella watched her like a hawk. Max took a deep breath. “What I mean is, I don’t remember anything like that happening. After my mother died when I was eight, I went to live with my uncle and aunt. They were quite ... pleasant people.” Her uncle was an asshole, but she really wasn’t here to be analyzed. She was here to get to Jada.

“Pleasant? What do you mean by that?” Psychiatrists. They could take a word and make it into a thesis.

“I mean that they were okay. I didn’t particularly love them and didn’t particularly hate them. They were just there.” Quite unintentionally, Max’s voice rose on the last sentence.

The doctor scribbled a note. Max was sure she’d revealed evidence of some lesion on her brain.

The questions went on. A tidbit about high school. Another about college. What did she do for a living? How had she met Cameron? Had she loved him? And finally, how had he died?

She answered everything. She didn’t lie unless she had to. All she wanted was to get assigned to Jada’s group.

“Why are you afraid of this new man in your life?”

“A million reasons,” burst out before she had a chance to stop it. Not the least of which being the way she wanted to feel Witt inside her again, his weight pinning her to the floor or the mattress or whatever other surface might be available.

“Tell me one.”

Max looked at Dr. Prunella Shale. She’d paid this woman $155 for forty-five minutes, thirty-five of which was up. She couldn’t talk to Cameron about Witt. She couldn’t talk to Witt about Witt. She didn’t have anyone else, unless she wanted to talk to herself.

“I don’t want to start depending on someone, then wake up one morning to find him gone.”

“So you’d rather be alone now, than risk being alone later.”

Sounded kind of dumb put that way, but, “Yeah.”

“Your mother died, your aunt died, your husband died. I’d say you have good reasons to be afraid, Max.”

She felt like a nail had been slammed right through her breastbone. “Yeah.”

“So what do you want to do about it?”

“It?”

“Being alone. Is that what you want?”

The woman’s questions robbed her of speech. They were so succinct, the answers so simple. So terrifying. If she said yes, she doomed herself to another fifty years in a one-room studio replacing her cats every ten to fifteen years when they died so she had something alive to cuddle up to at night. If she said no? Well, that meant Witt.

None of this was what she’d come here for.

“I’m sorry, Max, I can see you’re thinking I want an answer right now. I don’t.”

Thank God. Max breathed a sigh of relief.

The doctor went on. “I’m trying to get to the lowest common denominator here. Quite frankly, I don’t have a clue yet.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” Especially with the hodgepodge of crap Max had fed her.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think you want?”

Ah, so psychiatric. Patient, heal thyself. “I think I’d like to try a group again. It worked before.”

“Why?”

Hell, she hadn’t thought of the answer to that one. Wasn’t it obvious? Wasn’t that why doctors loved to send their patients there? Or maybe an answer lay in the fee structure. “I realized I wasn’t as fucked up as some other people are.”