The Grey Door Page 3

  “I suppose you’re right. I did have a great childhood, didn’t I?”

  He chuckled and nodded, affirming her question. “We’ll talk again next week,” he said, crossing the room.

  Lifting the shade brightened the room instantly. Grace checked the time; their hour wasn’t up.

  Grace wondered why the sudden change in demeanor. It wasn’t like him to rush her off. Something I said?

  Dr. Meltz stood by the doorway, ending the session. “Need to get back to the hospital,” he said, holding up his pager as proof.

  Funny. Grace didn’t hear it go off.

  CHAPTER 2

  TINY BURTON

  T yrell Burton, better known as Tiny, folded the sticky note into the size of a postage stamp and dropped it into his wallet. Therapist. Fuck. He’d done his time. Parole, now this. Always playin’ the game by someone else’s rules. He scrolled through the contact list on his phone: doctors, lawyers. Family, at the bottom. He dialed the number next to the “Gumby” sign. The voice at the other end sounded faded, worn. “Pick another number, man. Mine’s up.” Tyrell disconnected and dialed again. Gone. He listened, the pain deepening. “I’m next, my brotha. See ya soon.”

  Tiny walked to the dingy window. Tattered curtains blew back at him, gnarly fingers accusing. You know whatcha done, boy. Time to pay da piper! Tiny rested his forehead against the cool glass, his fever almost gone. He felt better today, but not well enough to count his lucky stars, praise Jesus, or hail Mary. He crossed another day off the calendar, put on his high tops and hit the hood. A little walk before his appointment with the therapist might do him good. Grab a coffee and a croissant at the corner. He missed the food on the outside. Fries and burgers smothered in onions. Eat yo’ fill boy. Ticktock.

  ***

  Grace grew tired of laying around, feeling sorry for herself. She was anxious to get back to work. But when she pulled into the parking lot that adjoined her office building, she wished for the Xanax Dr. Meltz had prescribed.

  “How was your vacation?” Sal asked, prompting a smile from Grace.

  “Great, wanna see my tan lines?” The smile didn’t last long. “Do I smell coffee?”

  “I bought a new creamer. Want some?”

  “Sounds good.” Grace tucked her white blouse into navy slacks. She lifted the plastic covering off the matching blazer and walked over to adjust the thermostat. “How’s the family?”

  “So-so. They hate this chemo thing more than I do.”

  “They’re scared. They don’t want to lose you. Neither do I.” Grace swallowed her tears. “How are you feeling?”

  “Still getting nauseous, but I only have two more treatments. I’m hanging in there.”

  “I’ve missed you.” Grace reached out for the petite woman and hugged her tightly. Sal wasn’t just the best secretary-office manager in the whole world; she was her best friend.

  “I missed you too. How are you doing?” she asked, breaking away from Grace’s tight grasp to study her eyes.

  Grace was tempted to say fine, but her friend’s expression said she would only accept the truth. “I cry a lot. I’m having bad dreams.” Before either one had the chance to elaborate, the door opened. In walked a lumbering figure dressed in baggy pants and a long jersey.

  “I’m here to see Miz Simms.” The man examined the piece of paper he was holding as if the information were bogus.

  “I’m Grace Simms. You must be Tyrell Burton.” Grace extended her hand. It disappeared into dark skin covered with crudely drawn tattoos.

  “You can call me Tiny, ma’am.”

  “Have a seat in the waiting room over there, Tiny. I’ll be with you in a moment.” Grace waited until he was out of earshot.

  “Looks like I’m back,” she winked at Sal. “We need to catch up. Do you have Tyrell’s folder?”

  Sal held up a can of mace. “I have this back here if you need it.”

  “I’m fine.” Grace flexed her muscles.

  Sal rolled her eyes and turned back toward her office.

  “This way, Tiny,” Grace said.

  She let the man enter first, and then closed the door behind her. She sat down in her red lambskin chair and cracked open the new folder.

  “I’d like you to fill out this information sheet for me, Tiny. It’s procedure.”

  “They didn’t tell me I was gonna have to do no paperwork!” He got up to leave.

  “I can help you fill it out,” she said, rising. She sensed the possibility he couldn’t read.

  They both eased back into chairs.

  “Tell me why you’re here.”

  “I’m havin’ bad dreams,” he replied, sulking.

  Great, that makes two of us! she thought. She put the folder aside. His history was important, but it could wait. Right now, she was sitting across from a three-hundred-pound man who was built like a boxcar and looked like he was ready to cry. She knew exactly how he felt.

  “Tell me about your dreams.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Is all this confidential?”

  “Yes, after you sign this form.” She handed him the sheet of paper after marking the signature line with an X. “We can fill in the other information after we finish talking. This form basically says that if you are a threat to yourself or others, I have the right to notify the authorities.”

  He took the pen and scribbled something that looked like a signature.

  Grace placed the paper on her desk and leaned back to listen.

  “I been havin’ these dreams. We was young—me and my friends. We was doin’ drugs. Buzz told me we could score some crack if we got some green. Shoots gets this idea to go up to someone’s house, knock on the door and take their bling. We was so fuckin’ high.” Tiny tapped his temple. “Man, I was fifteen and stupid.” He hung his head.

  “We all make bad choices growing up, that’s how we learn.” Grace leaned forward, connecting with his misery.

  His shoulders shook. “I keep dreamin’ ’bout this girl. She’s standin’ there like a ghost or somethin’, lookin’ at me with those eyes.” His eyes filled with tears. “I pushed her down on the floor and started beatin’ her. I wanted her to stop lookin’ at me. I heard her nose break.”

  “In your dream?” Or did this really happen? Grace watched his body stiffen.

  “Maybe it was a bad idea, comin’ here.”

  “What you tell me stays on this side of the closed door.” The clock ticked away one minute, then two.

  “I fucked ‘er.” He burst out. “I fucked ‘er hard.”

  “You raped her?”

  He began to cry. “Man, I was so fucked up myself an’ my brothers was laughin’. Shoots was bashin’ heads. Li’l Shots was bangin’ the other chick. We was bad.”

  “In the dream,” Grace reiterated.

  Tiny looked away. “I can’t say.”

  “All right. How long have you been having the dreams?” she asked.

  Tiny Burton was in his early forties. Why would reality be catching up with him now?

  “I don’t know. ‘Bout three months.”

  “Anything significant happen before that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Grandma die? Lose your job? Something that would cause you stress?” His innocent expression turned to despair.

  “I got fucked.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  He turned away. When he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, Grace understood. She let him grieve.

  “How did it happen, Tiny?” Her voice became soft, soothing. “You’re in a safe place where you can talk about anything that’s bothering you. Can you look at me?”

  Tiny’s eyes revealed his pain.

  “We’re going to get through this together,” she said with conviction. But her stomach flipped, and her head crowded up with voices from the past. She held them at bay. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  “I got sent to Folsom twenty-two years ago. My brother JD was in there doin’ life. He kept me from—
” Tiny looked at the ceiling; he puffed out his cheeks, shuffled his feet and checked his cell phone. His eyebrows were drawn together so taught, they touched.

  “My brother died of AIDS the week before my parole,” he shied away.

  “Your brother had been protecting you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Grace heard a voice inside her head whisper, liar.

  “What were you sent to prison for?” she asked.

  “Got in a fight with some dude. We both got messed up. He died.” Suddenly, Grace’s commiserating smile became a slash across her face. Her eyes froze in their sockets.

  “Don’t be scared, Miz Simms,” he said. “It was self de-fense. Besides, I’m a changed man. I found Jesus! I don’t do no bad shit like that no more.”

  “Let’s talk more about your dream, shall we?”

  He stared over her shoulder. Tears ran down his cheeks. He didn’t speak. When Grace handed him a tissue, he snatched it from her hand, blew his nose, and squeezed the wad of paper in his fist.

  “They happen every night. I can’t sleep.”

  “Do they start when you close your eyes to sleep? Or is the dream there when you wake up?”

  “It’s there when I try to sleep. What’s the fuckin’ difference?”

  Grace sat still and waited for his answer. If the dream formed when he started to fall asleep, she could conclude his conscious thoughts were at play. If he had the dream upon waking, his subconscious was trying to purge a suppressed memory.

  “Both, I guess. Now what?”

  “Let’s go back to why you were imprisoned, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 3

  WILDE DEFOE

  S al looked at the spot where her Betty Boop candy dish once sat on the counter. She didn’t want to be reminded of the horror that had taken place months before when a lunatic was stalking Grace. She needed to stay positive. She had another battle to fight, one far more contentious.

  You’re the mother of five boys. She had breastfed every one of them. You’re going to be fine, said a nagging voice inside. It was good to be doing something other than watching game shows, cooking shows, daytime soaps. She was tired of the drama in her life. I am tired. Her thoughts were interrupted. Grace came up behind her to fetch a mug from the small kitchenette behind the desk.

  “I’m taking you to lunch today,” Grace announced. “Wilde is my eleven o’clock. We can go to Banderas.”

  “I was thinking about taking off early,” Sal said, “if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking?” Grace sucked in air. This is worse. She would rather face a thousand stalkers than lose her best friend to cancer.

  “Don’t you start walking on eggs shells now, Grace, or I’m gonna scream!”

  “I’m sorry. How should I act?”

  “Like nothing is wrong. If you think there’s nothing wrong—” Sal didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she threw the file on the counter and slammed the drawer. Annoyed, she pulled up the waistband of her slacks. She had lost another three pounds.

  “Would you like to go shopping tomorrow?” Grace asked. She thought Sal would feel better in clothes that fit her shrinking frame. Perhaps then she wouldn’t constantly be reminded of the disease ravishing her body.

  “Yes,” Sal replied.

  “It’s a plan then.” Grace poured herself a cup of coffee, added Sal’s new creamer, and took a sip. “Good stuff,” she said. Sal seemed happy Grace was pleased. After all, Sal was about pleasing.

  ***

  The twenty-eight-year-old musician, accustomed to awakening drenched in sweat, brushed at his skin, confirming he wasn’t covered in dirt. Nothing. He launched out of bed, lit a cigarette, and paced back and forth. He tossed the cigarette into a coffee cup. Tzsst. Shower. Yeah, shower. He turned the faucet on full blast and waited for plumes of heat to fill the stall. He stripped out of a damp pair of drawstring pants and planted himself directly under the spray. The force of the water parted his hair, and he bent forward until water pummeled his spine. He hated this feeling: falling, smothering, darkness. He thought he was doing better. The dreams were less frequent, yeah, that was good, but the foreboding remained. What the fuck.

  He dressed in black—black busted jeans, black T-shirt, and black boots. He combed through his wet black hair, the red streak becoming more prominent as it dried. He wasn’t in the mood to gob it up with gel and spike it, his usual routine. His array of studs and hoops remained untouched. He wasn’t in a “rock star” kind of mood, just a little “glam,” nothing more. He wasn’t himself this morning.

  ***

  At eleven o’clock, Wilde strolled into Grace’s office. The first thing she noticed? His outlandish spiked hairdo had been replaced by a more casual look: straight, black, shiny hair hung past his shoulders. A bright red streak flanked one side, complimenting obsidian lines edging beautiful green eyes.

  “Hey, Grace,” he said, his voice dripping honey.

  “It’s been awhile since we’ve seen one another, Wilde. What’s been going on?” she replied.

  “The band just came back from tour,” he said.

  “That’s right. Where did you go?”

  “We played gigs in Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta.”

  “How did it go? Play well? Have fun? Any record deals?”

  “It was great. We were tight. Our fans loved us. We were approached by a promoter in Chicago, but…we’ll see. A lot of those guys are asshole blood-suckers.”

  Grace glanced at Wilde’s chart.

  “Any more dreams?” In their last session, Wilde told Grace he was having recurring dreams about dying. Her advice was to write his dreams down, like a story, and then change the ending.

  “I had a couple. First nights out of town. Strange places, parties and all, but I did what you said. I wrote them in my journal and changed the ending. The part where I’m in the grave and see the dirt coming at me? I changed the dirt to money.”

  “Good! And?”

  “I won $7,000 in Atlanta!” His laugh was infectious.

  “So, have the dreams stopped?”

  “They’re different.”

  “Different? In what way?”

  “Now I dream that I’m in a cellar. The door closes. It’s dark.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “I feel like I’m smothering, I wake up gasping for air.”

  “Let’s talk about your childhood, shall we?”

  Wilde had told Grace he was adopted by a Japanese-American couple when he was three. Before that, he said he lived in a foster home with four other children. He couldn’t remember much about his childhood, except that he wasn’t exactly unhappy.

  “I don’t think I was ever depressed. I just didn’t feel like I fit in. The best thing my parents did for me was buy me a set of drums when I was eight. They were always shoving culture down my throat. I remember feeling sad once because I couldn’t go to a birthday party— I had a piano lesson that day.” Wilde shook his mane and smoothed his hands over the legs of his tight, denim jeans. A smile filled his face. “I banged on the piano with mom’s wooden spoons. They thought I was so creative, they bought me drums.” He laughed.

  “So, was the banging creativity? Or was it anger?”

  “It was anger,” he admitted. “I hated that freakin’ piano.”

  “What other kinds of things did you do when you were angry?”

  “I used to hide a lot. Under the bed. Behind my dresser.”

  “For how long?”

  “Many years.”

  “No,” she chuckled, “I meant how long would you hide for? Minutes? Hours?”

  “Hours,” he reflected. “Sometimes I would—” He stopped talking to revel in his epiphany. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then closing his eyes, he said, “I pretended like I was dead, so I wouldn’t have to pee.” His eyes popped open. “Oh my God!”

  “Progress,” Grace agreed, nodding her head

  W
ilde continued, “I remember this one time I hid in the hamper. My mom didn’t know I was in there. She opened the lid and threw dirty clothes on top of me.” He began to giggle until he was teary-eyed.

  “That would account for your feelings of being buried, don’t you think?” Grace was amused by his revelation. She tried hard to think of funny moments from her own childhood. None came to mind.

  “Do you think we nailed the problem, Wilde?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Me too,” she said, feeling good about what they accomplished.

  “I didn’t remember those incidents until now.” Slender fingers pressed his lips to contain his mirth. Too late; a smile escaped.

  “How do you feel?” Grace watched the animation disappear from his face. His complexion turned from pink to pasty.

  “Like I’m going to die.”

  Grace held her breath. He isn’t joking.

  ***

  Sal left for the day. Grace sat in her office, staring out the window. She couldn’t pry her thoughts away from her misery. I need a diversion.

  She dialed Jess.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said, recording her message, “I’m at work today. Can we talk?” She hung up and resumed her staring. The sky was still blue; the sun still gleamed high above the rooftops.

  Nothing had changed. She still felt miserable. A minute later, her phone rang.

  “Grace Simms,” she answered demurely.

  “Yeah, it’s Jess. What’s up?” He sounded cold.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls, Jess. I deserve the attitude.”

  “Yes, you do.” Seconds ticked by. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I think I need some greasy food and a margarita.”

  “I’m busy tonight, Grace. Jenna and I are having dinner.”

  “I see. Good. I’m glad you’re getting things worked out.”

  “It’s not like that,” he explained. From his tone, Grace sensed he had more than just an attitude.