Page 53 of In a Haze

Taking the file in his hand, he asks, “Are you sure you wanna know?”

“Yes. Dammit, Joe, yes, I deserve to know.”

“Sit down.”

There’s only one chair on this side of the desk, and I refuse to move. Instead, I’m standing with my arms crossed. Joe, with a patient air about him, walks to the other side of the desk and brings the chair there over here, and so, when he sits, I relent.

“You sure you wanna hear this?”

“Yes.” My voice sounds snippier than I meant for it to, but that’s okay. I want him to know I’m serious.

“You remember when I told you about going to court?” I nod, but my lips are pursed closed as he continues talking. “Your husband was my lawyer. I was all of twenty when it happened. I wasn’t lying when I said I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“So why the hell are you?”

“I was put here to watch you.”

“Towatchme?”

He looks almost ashamed, and his eyes are focused on my hands in my lap. “When your husband defended me in court, the jury found me not guilty. It had nothing to do with insanity. He convinced the jury that I killed that guy out of self-defense. After that, I worked for him.”

“My husband?” It’s still hard to think of that man as my spouse.

“Yeah. He had me do a lot of spying-type stuff, gathering evidence and information for his cases. He got me off the street and working.”

“So was all that talk about all the jobs you ever worked a lie?” I’m beginning to think everything Joe ever told me was false. He’s a big fat liar, and I can’t believe I was falling in love with him.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Your husband didn’t have me working for him full-time. It was just on a case-by-case basis, even though he paid for an apartment for me for the first couple months and shit like that. I’d just do stuff when he needed it, and it was a great way to earn extra money. I worked other jobs the rest of the time.”

“So why are you here watching me now?”

He lets out a long breath and takes one of my hands in his, but I snatch it away, folding both arms under my breasts. He answers my question anyway despite my coldness. “Don called me a couple of years ago and told me he had his biggest job for me yet. I needed to go undercover and watch his wife.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said you tried committing suicide—but he said you were dangerous, not just to yourself, but to him and your kids. I was to report to Dr. Wilson if you ever started to remember your past.”

“So you’re telling me theyintentionallymade me lose my memory?”

“I think so.”

I’m quiet for a while. “So areyouthe reason why they watched me this morning? You know…taking my meds? Did you tell them I was remembering?”

“Look, Anna. I know you hate me right now and you probably don’t believe a goddamn thing I’m saying, but I hope you’ll listen to your heart. I’ve been with you for over two years. I started falling in love with you a long time ago and I know you’ve been drugged and out of it, but you had moments. Moments of sweetness, of kindness, even of compassion. Not just for me but for other people around here. Did you know you were the first person to ever talk to Cleo when she got here? Yeah, it was you,” he says when I raise my eyebrows. “And your husband pretty much left me in here to rot. He saw me less and less and I lost more and more privileges here. Wilson would deliver messages to me from him on occasion, but he stopped talking with me directly, and that was when I started wondering how much of what he’d told me aboutyouwas true.”

I’m wondering if this is all bullshit but, in the back of mind, I’m a little worried. If I’m truly dangerous, what will happen when the drugscompletelywear off?

I can’t worry about that right now.

“You’re skeptical. I don’t blame you. Pull your file again. See if there are any dates on there. Remember when you asked how long I’d been here and I told you I’ve been here longer than you?”

I nod, because that was definitely what he said.

“Pull the file and see what it says.”

I can’t remember if his file even had a date, but I’m willing to take the chance. I pull out my file and he’s already got his open. He’s pointing to a date written just above the green sticker. I look at my admissions paperwork and the day written there is actually a week earlier than Joe’s.

“So? That doesn’t prove anything.”

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