You're Not Alone Page 3

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  In here. Here. Here. They were faint at first. I was so deep in my sleep all the whispers could do was touch the boundaries of my unconsciousness. I never will. Here. The whispers were jumbled. Different voices mixed together, trying to speak to me, but I couldn’t discern the difference from one to the other, only that there was more than one. Male? Female? I stirred and rolled over in fitful sleep. Look. Here. Here. Here… Young? Old? My subconscious strained to grab hold of the words. Over there. No. Stay away. This way. Ohhhh!

  I sat up. Someone was in the room with me. There had to be. The voices were too close. I could feel their breath on my ear.

  Suddenly, I heard a scream. It sounded as if they were in agony. The howl sounded so close, I looked wildly around the room for the source. But who would be screaming in my apartment? It wasn’t me. Or was it? My body tensed with fear, anxiety and confusion.

  There was no one in the living room. Did I scream in my sleep? In my dreams? No, it was more like my nightmare.

  The phone rang. I jumped and instinctively groped on the end table to find it. I wasn’t sure if I was awake or sleeping until I heard the voice at the other end.

  “Hey, girlfriend. How are you?”

  “Chaz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I just woke up.”

  “No, I’m sorry honey. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s okay. What time is it?”

  “Well, it must be five o’clock somewhere because I’m having my after work cocktail.”

  “After work? Oh my God! It can’t be that late.”

  “Girlfriend, I just told you it was five o’clock. Well, actually, it’s five thirty-five.”

  I said nothing. I quickly looked at the wall clock. I really thought Chaz was joking with me until I saw the time. I felt like I only slept for an hour or so. I was astonished to see I had been asleep for almost eight hours.

  “Chaz. I slept all day.”

  “Oh. You didn’t call the counselor, did you?” I could hear the disappointment all the way through the phone line.

  “No I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I guess everything is beginning to catch up to me. I haven’t been sleeping well. I know it’s not an excuse. I really was going to call. I can’t believe I slept that long,” I stammered as my brain tried to grasp onto consciousness.

  “What do I have to do to get you to get yourself some help?”

  “I know. You’re right. I promise I’ll call Monday on my lunch break.”

  “I know you will because I’ll plant myself in your office until you do.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” I swallowed my exasperation. I couldn’t let my irritation grow with one of the few people in my life who had been there for me since Matthew died.

  “Oh yes I do. Now why don’t you get yourself together and get over here and join James and me in a cocktail.”

  “That sounds pretty good. I think I might.”

  “Good! It will make you feel better. Drinks and the company of James and myself. What more could you ask for?”

  “Nothing, of course. What can I bring?”

  “Just yourself, honey. See you in a half?”

  “Give me an hour. I need to freshen up.”

  “Okay. Later, girlfriend.”

  “’Bye, Chaz. Thanks again.”

  “Stop with the thanks, okay? Just get your puny little ass over here so I don’t have to partake in the evening cocktails by myself with James. We get bored with each other after a while.” I heard him chuckle after his last sentence.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be there. ’Bye, Chaz.” I hung up the phone.

  Look, look, the whisper hissed. I flinched when I felt the whoosh of air from the whisper brush against my ear. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I frantically searched the room for the source of the whisper.

  “Okay, Quinn, okay,” I said out loud. “You’re hearing things because you’re stressed out. Time to get your mind in order again.” I stood frozen in the center of the room, my eyes continually searching with skepticism to my own scolding. But I felt it. I felt the whisper circling around me making the room spin. Look, loooook! The sound got louder as if frustrated it wasn’t being heard.

  “Look for what?” I shouted to no one. “Go away!” I pleaded as I ran to the door. I grabbed my keys and purse and sprinted out of my apartment.

  I drove fast. I was scared—scared I was losing it, afraid my grief and my troubles with the Shikmans were beginning to make me crazy—the white coat, rubber-room-kind of crazy. I realized I needed to go to the therapist Chaz was trying to convince me to see. I vowed I would call as soon as the office opened on Monday. I wouldn’t even wait until lunch. Besides, the earlier I called, the less time Chaz would sit in my office waiting for me to call.

  I smiled to myself at the thought of Chaz planting himself on the chair in the corner of my office staring at me in order to intimidate me into calling. As the vision played out in my head, I slowed down my driving, my breathing, and my heart rate. I tried to tell myself I was being silly, and I was just stressed out from everything.

  I stopped at a liquor store along the way and picked up a bottle of merlot for the boys. I planned on walking into Chaz’s place, taking the vodka and seven he would offer me, and enjoy the evening with my two friends, but as I turned into Chaz’s driveway, I felt myself shrivel in fear. I would have to go back home at some time. I didn’t know if I could. It was becoming more and more difficult to fight the panic that built up inside me when I pulled into my driveway. It was getting harder to unlock the door and walk through the threshold of my own home.

  Was I going crazy? Was I losing my mind? Was I becoming a victim to some psychological babble disorder that bereaving people get because they can’t come to terms with the losses they’ve suffered? I didn’t want to admit this to my friends, or my family, intensifying the need to call the therapist Chaz suggested to me.

  I got out of the car with a sense of renewal. I wouldn’t procrastinate any longer. I needed to get my life in order, to move on and have the mental and physical capacity to deal with the difficulties of Matthew’s death—namely the Shikmans.

  I didn’t have much family of my own, only a sister and brother-in-law and two nephews. I became an orphan in college; my parents died in a car crash. Matthew told me he couldn’t even imagine how life would be without your parents at such a young age. That’s why this hurt so much more than it might have. The Shikmans took me in as one of their own. They made me family, until he got sick. Then the real Shikmans reared their ugly reality.

  The Shikmans wanted their son to find a good Jewish woman. I was Irish Catholic—where you going there? But Matthew always told me he loved my fiery red hair with a personality to match.

  Matthew confronted them with the truth of our relationship, but it didn’t change things for them. We found out his parents viewed me only as a passing fad. They believed he would tire of me. That angered Matthew. “This is one long, passing fad,” he joked with me. But it didn’t help my feelings of disappointment because I knew the smiles his parents gave to me and the kindness they extended to me was only for his benefit during the time he was alive.

  After Matthew’s death, they frowned when I entered the room, turned their heads and talked over me, around me and through me. After his death, I found out how much they hated the fact their son was involved with a non-Jewish woman, and the only reason they tolerated me with their act of acceptance was to keep their son from disowning them.

  I picked up my pace to Chaz’s front door as my mind exaggerated the train of thought I was stuck on. Did Matthew know all along that’s how his parents felt? If he did, it was another hurt, a betrayal of omission on a long list of painful events, a chain reaction that started with Matthew’s illness and was still continuing almost two years later.

  I stopped at the steps leading up to Chaz’s door. Here I go again, I thought to myself. I was sure my brain would explode if
I continued to twist good, positive thoughts into ugly ones within just a few steps. I rapped hard on the door, not only to announce my arrival but in hopes of knocking all those feelings and thoughts out of my head.

  Seeing Chaz’s cheerful disposition after he opened the door, I forced a smile and held up the bottle of red merlot. “I really need a drink,” I said.

  “Honey, you’ve come to the right place.”