You Are Here Read Free

bed.
    “No.” I’d shaken my head, certainty warming me from the center of my being. “This hasn’t happened yet.”
    She’d blinked three or four times before her mouth hung open in anticipation of her next question. “Are you sure?” She had scoffed at herself, choosing to rephrase. “That is, it may just be a memory of how you met. Sounds like a great love at first sight story to me.”
    “I realize it sounds ridiculous, lady, but if there’s anything I do know,” I’d said through my teeth, defensive and embarrassed, “it’s that this. Has not. Happened. I remember gagging on those horrible runny eggs for breakfast yesterday—I nearly yakked all over the floor. That kind of memory feels different. This one feels … anticipatory .”
    She’d held my eyes for a moment before looking down and scribbling on her notepad. “Okay. What makes you so certain it’s different?”
    “I feel it in my gut. It’s called instinct.”
    To my surprise, she hadn’t reacted to my impatience, but moved on to ask questions about every detail, physical and perceptual, surrounding the premonition. In every subsequent meeting, she’d tried to trigger memories and always prodded for my feelings on everything.
    Remembering how kindly she’d treated me despite the crazy-sounding claim of clairvoyance, I felt even worse about offending her. I was struck by the oppressive feeling of guilt, the strongest reaction I’d had to anything since I awoke with no memory.
    ~
    When an orderly showed up to take me to my morning session, I refused to get out of bed.
    “I remember you,” I said, my voice weak and sad even to my ears. “Hank, right?”
    His demeanor visibly shifted from professional distance to childlike surprise. “Yeah, that’s me. Most people don’t bother to learn my name.”
    I smiled for show. “I have a lot of room up here,” I said, tapping my temple.
    He frowned, but checked himself. He insisted we had to get to Vivien’s office, but I told him I couldn’t go. Eventually he left.
    It wasn’t long before Vivien herself arrived at my door, appearing incredibly uncomfortable. “May I come in?”
    I set down the September 2009 issue of Popular Photography I was perusing for the third time in as many days. I was at once nervous and hopeful. I chewed the dry peeling skin on my lower lip. “Of course. Please.”
    Hesitantly, she came in, set her briefcase to the side, and sat primly in the guest chair. Gulping and inhaling slowly, she released her breath and looked me in the eyes.
    “I apologize, Lucie,” she began, “but I have to recuse myself as your therapist.”
    My stomach plummeted to my feet. Given my overstep at our session, I couldn’t fault her. “I understand. I’m sorry for getting so personal. It was—”
    She trampled my apology as though she hadn’t heard me. “I shouldn’t … I shouldn’t share this, but I miscarried just after the New Year.”
    I gasped, feeling the delayed aftershock of an epic case of foot in mouth.
    “Crap,” I said, brilliantly. “I’m so sorry.”
    “Don’t apologize, please. It is crap because this is my third. I keep avoiding the tests they want to do.” She pauses to laugh humorlessly. “Stupid, right? I help people face their fears for a living, but I refuse to face my own.”
    I felt like I was watching a car wreck. She stood and pulled a Lady Macbeth, wearing circles in the floor and wringing her hands. She would stop and go, avoiding various mental walls while worries and obstacles bubbled off her tongue. Soon enough, she went silent and stepped up to the side of my bed. It was only then that I understood that the nerves were all a preamble to the greater precipice. I watched her gather her courage and leap.
    “You asked me when I was due. Why? What did you see?”
    False hope was a horrible thing, and though I firmly believed in the truth of each foresight thus far, the last thing I wanted to do was mislead anyone.
    Suspended in a brief