The Grey Door Read online

  Candy took the easy way out. She couldn’t face her demons– kidnapping– murder charges. Grace’s hand began to shake recalling the pistol striking her temple. The memory escalated to when she found Carlos’s body lying behind the trash can near her back door. Blood pumped from the gash in his throat...Garret weeping over his friend’s body. If only he had waited one more day… Deep inside she knew, he needed to work…his way of coping with Carlos’s death.

  Grace thumbed through the articles, finding one near the bottom of the pile. She took a sip of coffee and nearly gagged. It wasn’t just her coffee that tasted bitter. She couldn’t resist blaming others for all that had happened. Candy’s identity eluded police. It was me and Garret who put the pieces together, almost too late. Her mind recreated the sequence of events: arriving home, the broken window, the patrolman’s body sprawled on her dining room floor.

  Her thoughts went viral. Her mind struggled to make sense of it all. The best advice she could give a client would be to let go of the hatred and focus on healing. But the feeling gnawed at her like a hunger pang waiting to be fed and demanded she read on.

  Suspects Still at Large in Shooting of Police Sergeant

  “Thirty-two-year-old police Sergeant Garret Weston died last evening. He had remained in a coma for three months after being gunned down on Forty-Seventh Street in Sacramento, just one block from where Charro Vasquez and his gang were arrested for drug trafficking.

  “No witnesses have come forth…”

  ***

  Grace kneaded the tight muscles in her neck, trying to ignore the knot forming in her gut. It wasn’t my fault James broke up with Candy. I gave him my professional opinion. He’s the one who had problems with her stripping. Imprints in time began to roll…

  Grace remembered Candy pushing her into the garage at gunpoint. At first she remained calm, counting on the silent alarm Carlos had installed the night Candy slit his throat. She gave up hope when she saw Garret’s still form lying on the garage floor. Grace almost lost her mind then, when Candy kicked him and he didn’t budge. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Grace’s body began to shake. She grabbed her head to make it stop, but the painful memories went on. Candy forced her into the car. The windows were rolled down. It was a beautiful spring day—

  Grace slumped to her knees, shielding her eyes from the visions tormenting her soul: Garret, appearing at the car’s window, his gun planted at the back of Candy’s head. She pleaded with Candy to put her gun down. “I promise to get you some help,” she heard herself say, but Candy said it was too late. She’d killed a cop. She laughed, claiming Carlos wasn’t on her agenda like it was no big deal. That’s when Grace heard the sound of the hammer engage on Garret’s .45. If only Carlos hadn’t recognized Candy from the strip joint where she worked.

  “I didn’t know he was a cop!” Candy cried.

  “Put your gun down!” Garret demanded.

  The scene continued, fresh in her mind: Garret’s jaw set in determination, moving the .45 to Candy’s temple, his finger positioned on the trigger ready to fire.

  “Put your gun down, now!” he demanded through clenched teeth.

  Grace relived the moment in slow motion: “Fuck you!” Candy cried, turning the gun on herself.

  >click<

  Grace pounded her fists on her knees. She couldn’t rid herself of the image of Candy’s head bouncing off Garret’s chest as the bullet exploded her skull. A scream froze in Grace’s throat. The last thing she remembered, Garret dripping with gore. From that moment on, her mind was a blank.

  Sneaky rested her snout on Grace’s knee and nudged her hand once, waiting patiently until the tears streaming down Grace’s face subsided. Hard as Grace tried, she couldn’t release the haunting memories.

  She put her cup down, time to get ready for her appointment with Dr. Meltz.

  ***

  She stared in the mirror, hardly recognizing the person staring back. Blonde hair, now past her shoulders, looked shaggy. Her heavy waves barely fit into a clip. Brown eyes looked tired beneath swollen lids. Her long lashes were sparse from rubbing. Nice. She stepped away from her reflection and into the shower, feeling older than her thirty-one years.

  Hot water beat tense muscles. Minutes evaporated into steaming plumes. However, scrubbing herself pink couldn’t exfoliate the pain. Tears converged with suds and swirled down the drain.

  Brushing straight, white teeth added to the improvement reflected in the mirror, but not much. Still dull. Lifeless. Perhaps a little make-up? She rummaged through a small drawer aimlessly, but when her fingertips touched the narrow tube of mascara, she lost her incentive. No. Not today. Not yesterday, or the day before. Months had gone by since she concerned herself with make-up.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  The lemon colored tank-top hung loose over Grace’s once full breasts. Faded jeans fit baggy on her five-foot-seven frame. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. Back downstairs to the kitchen for another attempt? The thought of her mother’s unsolicited remarks haunted her. Try.

  She poured herself another cup of stale coffee, opened a box of her favorite donuts and placed one on a napkin. After contemplating life’s full circle, she pushed the glazed ring aside. Two more minutes passed staring in the refrigerator. Nothing appealed to her. Maybe an egg. She pulled out a small frying pan, lit the fire on the stove, added butter, broke the egg, and watched it sizzle.

  “I can’t do this!” She removed the pan from the flame, threw it in the sink, crumbled to the floor, and sobbed.

  ***

  Later, Grace pulled up to the haughty Victorian snuggled between a Mexican restaurant and a comic book store. Last one, she thought, sadly noting the changes in the last few years. Prestigious households governing the block were torn down for the sake of urban development.

  Climbing the stairs, she caught a whiff of wisteria. It smelled sweet, like childhood.

  The grey door creaked open as she entered the foyer. She walked past two wingback chairs, a marble table stacked with magazines and a settee. “I have a ten o’clock with Dr. Meltz,” she said to the woman behind the desk. The woman checked her watch. Grace cringed, admitting, “I’m late.”

  “He’s waiting for you, Miss Simms,” the woman replied in a tardy-bell voice. “Go on back.”

  Grace followed Persian runners to the end of a narrow hallway. She reached for the crystal knob and pushed through the interior grey door marked “Dr. Marcus R. Meltz – Psychiatrist.” Frosted glass rattled gently in its wooden frame. The scent of lemon oil invaded Grace’s nostrils. Her palms began to sweat.

  “Good morning, Dr. Meltz. Sorry, I’m late.”

  “With good reason, I’m sure.” Dr. Meltz patted her shoulder, placed the “In Session” sign on the door and plopped into a brown leather recliner.

  “So,” he smiled and paused.

  She smiled back, trying to recall when his neatly trimmed mustache and full beard had turned snow white. When did the slicked hair behind his ears, tethered at the nape of his neck, reach the middle of his spine? Had he always dressed like he was on vacation and smelled like a sunny day in June?

  “Damn, I go through more cheap pens,” he said, fiddling with the one he was holding, twisting the barrel, and pressing the tip.

  “I know what you mean,” Grace replied, easing into the “ice-breaker.”

  “Still slumming?” he asked in an amused tone. Grace began smoothing wrinkles from the cut-velvet cushion.

  “I had intended to go back to work last week. I need more time. I’ve been crying a lot. Starving myself. The usual.”

  He chuckled. “You’ve been through a lot.” He donned his glasses and stroked his mustache, studying her with warm, blue eyes. “Let’s get busy; shall we?”

  Grace didn’t hesitate.

  “I’m still having that awful dream.”

  “Let’s start there, then.” He balanced a small tablet and the cheap pen on one knee. “Ready when you are.”

 
Grace tucked her legs beneath her. Taking a deep breath, she began.

  “I’m leaving the hospital,” she described, continuing up to the part where she entered the area with cement walls. She sucked in another deep breath.

  “I ran! Next thing I know, I’m back in the corridor, but this time, there’s a coffee kiosk on the right. If it was there before, I didn’t notice. So now I’m not only frantic, but I feel like I’m lost.”

  Dr. Meltz flipped the page and continued to write.

  “When I approach the vendor to ask directions, the light around me became dismal. Surreal. Then I see a man dressed in dirty, tattered clothes. He has a scraggly beard and greasy hair.” Grace closed her eyes and saw the man’s gnarled fingers pushing a rickety grocery cart. “He walks passed an old woman who’s wearing a limp cotton house dress. The woman keeps shooing something from her shoulder.” Grace squeezed her lids tight. “Something only she can see.”

  “Anyone you know?” Dr. Meltz squinted his eyes.

  Grace bit her lower lip.

  “The old man looks like Daddy.” She swallowed. “The old woman looks like Mom.”

  Dr. Meltz scribbled and shook his pen. “Interesting. Go on.”

  Grace closed her eyes. “Suddenly there’s a commotion. Two adolescents come tumbling toward me.” Grace remembered the difficulty she had interpreting the scene. “A young girl with two heads, performing fellatio on a screaming boy. He’s begging her to stop before he ejaculates, but the two-headed girl ignores the boy’s pleas. They fall to the ground in front of me, at my feet! Then, the two heads look at me defiantly and laugh while the boy zips his pants.”

  >Click<, flash. Grace opened her eyes.

  Dr. Meltz nodded his head. “How did you feel about the situation?”

  “In the dream, I was sickened by what I saw. I lashed out at the girl. I yelled, ‘What are you doing?’ She hisses at me. ‘Shut up,’ she says, and I start to walk away in disgust, but then I stop. I hear myself say, ‘Don’t walk away. You can help her this time.’ I turn around and grab her by the hand. The scene changes to a different corridor. I scold her, ‘Why did you do that!’ And she replies, like a smart-ass punk. She gets in my face, tells me she gets paid, as if daring me to pass judgment.”

  He chuckled again, “Please continue.”

  “I know it all sounds preposterous,” she said, nibbling her thumbnail.

  “No, not at all. I apologize for being glib. Tell me, how did you handle the situation?”

  “I threatened to tell her mother. She got snippy. She says, ‘I don’t care.’ Grace went on to describe the elusive scene changes, the creepy mother. “I barged my way in. I was not going to be ignored!”

  Dr. Meltz raised one eyebrow.

  Grace’s stomach churned. “Basically, the dreams are the same, except this morning, the ending was different.”

  “How so?”

  “When I rushed out the door, I bumped into a dark-haired man with cameras dangling from his neck. He held one camera to his eye, clicking, clicking, clicking. The flash nearly blinded me.” When Grace closed her eyes, she could still see each flash. “I cried, ‘Stop!’ and I raised my forearm to my face. I confronted him, ‘Who are you, what are you doing?’ >Click<, flash.

  Grace quickly blinked the image away.

  “Did he stop?” Dr. Meltz’s expression showed concern.

  “No! I shouted, ‘Enough!’ but, he didn’t stop!” Grace moved to the edge of her seat, turning pale. “I grabbed his camera. That’s when I saw his face.” Grace looked horrified. Her body trembled.

  Her eyes opened wide, haunted by the memory.

  “Who was it, Gracie?”

  “It was Jess!”

  They both sat quietly digesting the information before Dr. Meltz broke the silence. “Well, let’s think about where the dream stems from,” he said, “from what you told me about the woman.”

  “Candy—”

  “Candy,” he smiled apologetically. “You told me she had a tragic childhood.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You can’t fix everyone, Grace.”

  “You’re right.” Her eyes focused on her lap. “I felt helpless. I was hoping that she would find reason,” she said, her voice picking up volume. “I had her talking. She was letting it out. She was purging the poison stored in that beautiful head of hers and then >bam
  “You’re a psychotherapist Grace, not God.” He paused long enough to let his words resonate. “Why dream of a two-headed girl?” He rocked in his chair. The springs sang sweetly.

  Grace felt like a student making rounds at the hospital, Dr. Meltz, her mentor.

  “Candy suffered from depersonalization. Her personality split. I’m not sure why and without analysis—” She sighed. “It could have been because of anything. She talked about being forced into oral sex as a young girl. In my dream, she was the perpetrator, her victim, a young boy. She said she got paid. In my dream, the mother was delusional, detached.”

  “Very good. Now tell me about the photographer.” Dr. Meltz smoothed the hair on his chin.

  “When Candy shot herself, I went into shock. All I remember is waking up in the hospital. Candy had hit me across the face with her gun. I regained consciousness during an x-ray.” Grace pressed a finger to her cheekbone; it was still tender to the touch. “When I was released from the hospital, Jess offered to pick me up. He said he drove past my house, and the reporters were like vultures, so I called my neighbor Eli and asked if I could stay with him until things died down. When we pulled up to Eli’s, this guy jumped out of a van and began snapping my picture while another man shouted questions at me. It freaked me out.”

  “How did they know where you were going to be?”

  “Good question. I didn’t think about that.”

  “My Lord, Gracie!” he chuckled. “What do you eat before going to bed, Limburger cheese and onions?”

  She eyed him with disdain. “Blood and cement. There’s a correlation, here. Carlos bled to death on my sidewalk. I vaguely remember the officer that was shot being in my dining room, but I sure do remember the blood. When Candy led me into the garage, Garret was lying on the floor; there was blood. Then Candy shot herself. Blood.” She paused, trying to compose herself. “In my dream, there are people everywhere, no one pays any attention to the blood, and no one hears me scream.”

  Dr. Meltz’s inflection lacked emotion, but his eyes couldn’t conceal the fury they withheld. “The day Candy shot herself, you were injured. You suffered a concussion. According to the report I read, you were in and out of consciousness when the paramedics arrived. It’s possible you actually did scream, and don’t remember. I’m sure between the SWAT team, the police, and the paramedics, your garage was crawling with people. They were probably too busy attending to your needs to deal with the blood.” Grace broke down in tears.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling, Grace.”

  “I was so scared. I thought Garret was dead. I saw him lying on the garage floor, in his blood. I was relieved when I saw him come to my rescue. Then, when the bullet passed through Candy’s skull and hit him in the chest, I lost it.”

  “You passed out. There’s a difference.”

  “I didn’t know he was alive until the next day. Jess was there when I woke up. I saw the two dozen sweetheart roses in my room. I assumed Jess brought them. It was awkward. Jess wasn’t happy when Garret suddenly showed up. I don’t even remember if I said thank you or not. I couldn’t help myself. I had fallen in love.” Her jaw clenched, steadying the words in her mouth. “And now it’s…it’s—” She bunched the fabric in her fists. “It’s over?”

  “Yes.” She released the cut velvet, letting it return to its supple state. “His family, a distant aunt from Portland, disconnected life support yesterday.”

  Dr. Meltz patted her hand.

  “I
’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, tenderly.

  “He’s been gone for months now. I was just too stubborn to let go.”

  “No one wants to lose someone they love.”

  Grace’s eyes swelled. Her tears spilled in a quiet room.

  The psychiatrist didn’t budge. His eyes expressed sorrow, yet he said nothing. He knew she would come around when she was ready to speak. And she did.

  “The old people in my dream…” Grace’s head was beginning to ache. She rubbed her temples as she spoke. “Why Dad and Mom? Daddy never dressed like a bum. You’d never find him disheveled, unclean. And Mom seemed to be out of her mind. I’m not sure what it all means yet.”

  “Well, symbolically—”

  “I saw their faces clear as day.”

  Dr. Meltz leaned forward, his merriment fading with discernment. “You’ve suffered a loss.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Give it time, Gracie. Things will get better. The nightmares are reenactments of what you have experienced. Have you written them down?”

  “No,” she sighed. “I suppose I should. I just wish—” She held her hands over her face. After a few moments, Dr. Meltz gently pulled them away.

  “You’re allowed to have feelings, Gracie,” he said softly. “Talk to me.”

  “Have you ever had a moment where you looked into someone’s eyes and you felt so deeply connected …soul to soul…but because no words were spoken, you never knew if that person was feeling the same way?”

  “I think I know what you mean. There was a little redhead that rode the same bus as I did in high school. She was on the tennis team…great legs.” He chuckled. “One day, getting ready to get off the bus, we stood up at the same time, and I bumped her shoulder. I thought she would say something derogatory, but she didn’t. She didn’t say anything.” He smiled. “Instead, she gave me a look I’ll never forget.”

  Grace’s face warmed. “Exactly.”

  “PSTD, hallucinations, crazy dreams—you know the symptoms,” he said emphatically. “Let’s work on getting you back on your feet. No need to shrink your head.”