Hannah stood in total darkness. Her fingers twitched nervously as they moved, searching for the smooth protrusion of the switch. She could hear the blood surging in her ears, her heart rattling in her chest. Her eyes closed as she took a deep breath in and exhaled it with the word, “Forty.” She moved the switch up and it landed with a snap, illuminating the dining room with soft, amber light. She lingered, the fingertips of one hand still pressed to the cold, hard plastic of the switch. The other palm was anchored to her chest as her racing heart gradually steadied. She flipped the second switch and light bathed the patio, spilling through the French doors.
She walked over to the kitchen counter, taking the leather notebook from the drawer, and flipped to the next page to find a blank space. She wrote down the date. Beside it, the number forty. She replaced the notebook and pen and gave the drawer a push, letting it close with a soft thud. Sinking into the center cushion of the caramel-colored leather sofa, she grabbed her phone from the end table and sent a short text to Doctor Lipkin. The number forty.
The reply came a moment later. “That’s incredible progress, Hannah. You should be proud. Let’s discuss tomorrow.” She took in a deep breath, letting it seep out through parted lips, and nodded her head once.
You’re going to do this, Han. No more panic attacks. You’re going to be better.
⁂
She loved the converted Craftsman-style cottage that housed Doctor Lipkin’s practice. As her feet creaked on the broad wooden steps to the deep front porch, she thought, as she had thought dozens of times before, that she might try to find something more like this place. The house she lived in was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a large, affluent community. She had chosen it for the privacy. The security. For the location that let her see anyone approaching. She had bought it after a big promotion at work a few years before. She finally had what her friends, the few of them there were, would call a big job. Now she had a big house to match, but when she came to her weekly appointments, she was reminded that her place was too big. Maybe, when she got past the fear, when she was better, she’d get something cozier. More like this place. Something she chose out of love, not out of fear.
The screen door clattered against the frame as she passed through it. Doctor Lipkin’s face appeared from the door of her office. “Hi, Hannah. Debbie’s at lunch. Come on through.” Hannah followed her, dropping her bag in one of the club chairs and taking a seat on the sofa.
“It just feels like it’s taking so long,” she said. Doctor Lipkin jotted something on her notepad. She was old school. No tablet for her. No recordings. She wrote everything down.
“We’ve talked about this. You’re doing great,” Doctor Lipkin assured her.
Hannah nodded, but her agreement was tenuous. “I’m just so tired. Tired of fear controlling my life.”
“You will get better. It takes time.”
She told Doctor Lipkin about the fire drill at her office the previous week. Her colleagues making small talk as they made their way toward the exits. Her hands glued to the edge of her desk, knuckles white, her heart crashing against her ribs. Doctor Lipkin put down the notebook, something she rarely did, and leaned forward, resting an elbow on her knee. “Hannah, you can’t heal until you give yourself permission to, and that starts with acknowledging you’re not responsible for what happened. You couldn’t have done anything differently.”
I could’ve tried to save her. I could’ve come to my mother’s rescue instead of cowering in the pantry.
Maybe it was the lack of closure. If they’d only caught him, maybe she could move on.
She tried to busy herself on days she had therapy. She knew if she didn’t find something to keep her mind and hands occupied, she’d spend the whole night ruminating over the day’s conversation. She worked in the garden. It was early summer, the sunlight lingering into the evening. She liked this time of year, when things were bright, and the light arrived early and departed late. She hadn’t worked hard enough, though. Sleep wouldn’t come. She wanted to quiet the thoughts swirling in her head. She couldn’t.
In her mind, she heard the heavy work boots crossing the floor upstairs. She heard her mother’s voice, shaky as it called out that night. “Don’t move. Just stay quiet.” She’d said it over and over, like a mantra. The words were punctuated with sobbing. Then, later, the cries came. One blood-curdling shriek. That was the last of it. The last thing she heard.
She often skipped the exposure exercise the day after therapy. She let two more days pass before she picked it back up again. She came in from gardening, straightened the doormat by the back patio, which was crooked for some reason, and went upstairs to shower and change. When she came back downstairs, the skies outside her windows were dark.
No point putting it off. Might as well get it over with.
Her fingers trembled on the light switch. She tried not to hold her breath, but to let each one out slowly, like Doctor Lipkin had taught her to. She was safe, she reminded herself. She was in control.
“Forty,” she said aloud on an exhale. Hannah’s eyes were shut tight this time. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head. Her skin began to prickle, hairs standing on end as if an electric current were running through the room. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. She took another deep breath in, then blew it out.
You can do this.
“Forty-one.” Her fingers were trembling now. She flipped the switch, and her eyelids flew open. She closed them again, and slowly reopened them. As if what she was seeing wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real.
His eyes were emotionless pools of black, his lips curled up on one side in a smirk. She was a statue, rooted to the floor. He closed in, his boots heavy as he stalked toward her. A cold, damp sweat peppered her skin.
His voice was older, rougher than she remembered.
“Hello, Hannah,” the man said. “Guess you won’t make it to forty-two after all.”