Page 42 of So Close

“The past six years of her life are known as a dissociative fugue,” he says. “Essentially, her trauma was so great her mind performed a complete reset. Returning to the life she’d lived before wasn’t seen as a viable option.”

You clear your throat. “She hasn’t seemed uncomfortable in our home or with me.”

“Your wife’s seeming indifference to such an extreme experience is a well-documented reaction.” His dismissal is casual; he’s firm in his diagnosis. “It’s as normal a response as distress or confusion. Even without knowing the source of trauma, we can presume some approximate responses. She may have nightmares and/or flashbacks. She may develop eating and sleep disorders. She may exhibit self-destructive behavior. Depression and suicidal ideation are very real concerns, especially if she doesn’t resurface the trauma in the safety of a clinical setting.”

“None of that has been an issue thus far,” I argue.

Dr. Goldstein straightens abruptly and leans over the table. “Have you had the sense of being detached from yourself or your emotions? Has your perception of your surroundings or the people around you seemed unreal or distorted? Do you feel your identity doesn’t fit properly or is askew or blurred?”

My blood runs cold. Fear sinks into the pit of my stomach like a boulder.

“I’m six years behind, Doctor,” I say as calmly as possible. Damned if I’ll show too much emotion and be called hysterical. “The world has changed in many ways. I feel like a time traveler, but I’d venture to say that’s not unexpected or unreasonable.”

“How is something like this treated?” you query.

“We’ll attempt to retrieve her memories through hypnosis. Administering drugs can also facilitate the process. Then we work together to unpack the trauma and address it.”

I laugh silently. Mental health care is still medieval in so many ways. To say nothing of how he addresses you as if I’m not here or am incapable of understanding his advice. Joseph Goldstein isn’t going to dig around in my brain for his edification.

You glance at me, and I turn my head toward you. I let you read my thoughts through the window of my gaze. Your white-knuckled grip on me loosens, then you give me a reassuring squeeze as the blood rushes back into my fingers in a prickling wave.

“Thank you for the explanation, Doctor,” you say. “And thank you for your exceptional care of my wife, Dr. Hamid. I’m in your debt.”

“Yes,” I concur. “Thank you so much.”

She smiles. “Every once in a while, we experience miracles. That you suffered no broken bones or internal injuries is certainly one of them. It’s been my pleasure to do what I could, Lily, and to see you looking so well.”

“When would you like to schedule an appointment?” Dr. Goldstein presses. “I can clear some space this afternoon. We really should waste no time.”

You stand with easy grace, and then offer your hand to assist me. I need the help. My legs are weak, my thoughts tumbling. Nothing said here was a surprise. I was avoiding the consequences and can no longer.

“We’re leaving the city for a while,” you tell him. “We’ll call your office when we return.”

Goldstein’s mouth purses. “I repeat that I don’t recommend that you and your wife try and cope without the support of therapy. Individuals with your wife’s condition have tremendous difficulty maintaining relationships. Resuming intercourse may impede emotional reconnection in your marriage, rather than strengthen it.”

“Duly noted.” You thank the doctors again, shake their hands and lead me out of the conference room.

You don’t say anything as we wait for the elevator, even though we’re alone, but you keep me tucked firmly into your side as you type out a quick text on your phone with one hand. Once we’re inside the car and descending, you step behind me and wrap your arms around me. “He’s aggressive,” you murmur, “and made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry he was the one to administer the battery of tests you’ve been subjected to. You should’ve said something.”

I tense, my breathing turning shallow. Your closeness now versus your distance when we left the penthouse leaves me reeling. “It’s not a subject I felt like discussing with Witte.”

The warmth of you burns into the chill within me. Your richly masculine scent envelops me, shielding me from the hostile odors of powerful disinfectant and illness cloaked in dread.

Your chest expands against my back as you grip me more securely. “I’ve handled everything poorly, haven’t I? I’ve been overly cautious.”

“That’s one word for it,” I retort. I try to ease out of your embrace, but you don’t allow it.

“I couldn’t risk pushing you too far too fast, especially when every medical professional is warning me to limit your stress. Nothing I feel for you is delicate.”

“Or maybe it’s that you feel nothing.”

“Setareh.” You press your lips ardently to my temple, clutching me tightly. “I want you too much. I always have. I’m sorry.”

Not knowing if you’re being honest is an insidious form of torture. “You didn’t have to lie about going out of town. Iwantedto tell him he didn’t have a shot in hell at accessing my mind with drugs, hypnotism or anything else. He wants a case study to publish and lecture on. I’m not letting someone harvest my memories for personal gain.”

“I didn’t lie to him. And I agree, he’s a pompous ass.” A smile enters your voice. “Although his arrogance worked in our favor when the detectives questioned him. He’ll argue the validity of his diagnosis to his grave.”

I bite my lower lip. Was Dr. Goldstein the best choice for me or the most advantageous in the circumstances? It’s impossible to know the truth, even if I ask and you deign to answer.

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