Page 64 of In a Haze

I knew I wouldn’t have to look at the phone logs again to find that they did chat. Then the text messages return to what they were before. Every few weeks, there is a message from Don that saysPackage incomingfollowed by the other party sending a text back that saysconfirmed.

Until, about six months later, the other party sends this message to Don:You need to visit your wife. Looks suspicious if you don’t.

Like a jolt of lightning, a shiver crawls down my spine as I wonder if this is my supposed psychiatrist from the facility, Dr. Catherine Wilson.

Now my heart’s thudding in my chest again and I find myself taking deep, calm breaths to keep myself steady. I scroll through faster and there’s nothing else other than the usual package delivery messages. I also can’t help but notice that there are lulls, and those just so happen to coincide with times when I know Don would have been in Washington.

When I close that particular thread, I choose the last number he’s texted with. It’s pretty stale, meaning he hasn’t texted this person for a couple of years—and I wonder if I know who this person might be. Scrolling to the top of the thread, I see that Don sent a message to this person that says,I have a job for you.

The other person says,Okay. What are the details?

Come by the office to discuss.

This sort of exchange happens every once in a while but then there’s over a year with no communication—until a day after my admissions date.J, is this still your number? If so, call me. I have a huge job for you.

That’s the last text between them, and I don’t need a college degree to know for certain that this exchange was with Joe. I also know why there are no other messages between them.

Just as I get ready to look at the other texts with other numbers, my head starts pounding. It hurts so badly, I press my hand into my temple, trying to relieve some pressure. Swallowing, I move across the room, first leaning on the table against the wall and, finally, sitting on the floor, just holding my head in my hands.

And the memories come flooding in again.

23

The blonde teenager is frantic. I look at all the duct tape and know I’ll need scissors to cut her loose.

But, more importantly, I need the police. And possibly an ambulance. I don’t know how badly she’s hurt.

She’s screeching, screaming words that I can’t understand, so I shout at her, hoping she understands.“I’m calling the police! I’ll be back.”

She’s frantic, panicking, using the force of her body weight to sway back and forth, but the chair is almost like a part of her, bound together with an entire roll of tape. I consider pulling the chair upright, but she might just pull it down again. There’s glass all over, though, so I start to pull the chair away from the area by tugging on the top part by her head—but she’s turned her head and it’s loose enough that she tries to bite my arm and almost succeeds.

She doesn’t understand I’m trying to help her.

I then grab a chair leg and try pulling it that way, but it’s hard, especially when she’s fighting, wiggling, writhing.

The police will be able to help me.

I bound up the basement stairs, still not thinking beyond the present moment, her screams following me, amplified as I get closer to the door, and I suddenly wonder why the girl smells like cows, like a field of them standing in puddles of shit. When I open the door, I begin rushing toward the kitchen where there’s a landline.

And there stands my husband.

Don says, “I thought you were shopping tonight.”

Can’t he hear those screams? “I was tired after the gym.” Besides, how many clothes do I really need? “There’s a girl in the basement—”

“I’ll take care of it, Anna.”

“I just need to—” It dawns on me then that he alreadyknowsshe’s down there. He knows.

How did he know?

Fear like I’ve never felt before constricts my throat. “What is she doing down there, Don? Who is she?”

His face contorts, again becoming a man I’ve never seen before. “You don’t need to worry about it, Anna. I’m taking care of it.” He takes a step closer. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

I don’t dare run, but I sense danger. Still, that girl downstairs—she needs my help. What if that weremydaughter? Wouldn’t I want a stranger to help her in her need?

“I’m calling the cops, Don. They need to take this girl to safety.”

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