SESSION ONE

You know, Doc, you’re not the first shrink I’ve seen since I got back. The one my family doctor recommended right after I came home was a real prize. The guy actually tried to act like he didn’t know who I was, but that was a pile of crap—you’d have to be deaf and blind not to. Hell, it seems like every time I turn around another asshole with a camera is jumping out of the bushes. But before all this shit went down? Most of the world had never heard of Vancouver Island, let alone Clayton Falls. Now mention the island to someone and I’m willing to bet the first thing out of their mouth will be, “Isn’t that where that lady Realtor was abducted?”
Even the guy’s office was a turnoff—black leather couches, plastic plants, glass and chrome desk. Way to make your patients feel comfortable, buddy. And of course everything was perfectly lined up on the desk. His teeth were the only damn thing crooked in his office, and if you ask me, there’s something a little strange about a guy who needs to line up everything on his desk but doesn’t get his teeth fixed.
Right away he asked me about my mom, and then he actually tried to make me draw the color of my feelings with crayons and a sketch pad. When I said he must be kidding, he told me I was resisting my feelings and needed to “embrace the process.” Well, screw him and his process. I only lasted two sessions. Spent most of the time wondering if I should kill him or myself.
So it’s taken me until December—four months since I got home—to even try this therapy stuff again. I’d almost resigned myself to just staying screwed up, but the idea of living the rest of my life feeling this way . . . Your writing on your Web site was sort of funny, for a shrink, and you looked kind—nice teeth, by the way. Even better, you don’t have a bunch of letters that mean God only knows what after your name. I don’t want the biggest and the best. That just means a bigger ego and an even bigger bill. I don’t even mind driving an hour and a half to get here. Gets me out of Clayton Falls, and so far I haven’t found any reporters hiding in my backseat.
But don’t get me wrong, just because you look like some-one’s grandmother—you should be knitting, not taking notes—doesn’t mean I like being here. And telling me to call you Nadine? Not sure what that’s all about, but let me guess. I have your first name, so now I’m supposed to feel like we’re buddies and it’s okay for me to tell you stuff I don’t want to remember, let alone talk about? Sorry, I’m not paying you to be my friend, so if it’s all the same to you I’ll just stick with Doc.
And while we’re getting shit straight here, let’s lay down some ground rules before we start this joyride. If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be done my way. That means no questions from you. Not even one sneaky little “How did you feel when . . .” I’ll tell the story from the beginning, and when I’m interested in hearing what you have to say, I’ll let you know.
Oh, and in case you were wondering? No, I wasn’t always such a bitch.
I dozed in bed a little longer than usual that first Sunday morning in August while my golden retriever, Emma, snored in my ear. I didn’t get many moments to indulge. I was working my ass off that month going after a waterfront condo development. For Clayton Falls, a hundred-unit complex is a big deal, and it was down to me and another Realtor. I didn’t know who my competition was, but the developer had called me on Friday to tell me they were impressed with my presentation and would let me know in a few days. I was so close to the big time I could already taste the champagne. I’d actually only tried the stuff once at a wedding and ended up switching it for a beer—nothing says class like a girl in a satin bridesmaid dress swilling beer out of the bottle—but I was convinced this deal would transform me into a sophisticated business-woman. Sort of a water-into-wine thing. Or in this case, beer into champagne.
After a week of rain it was finally sunny, and warm enough for me to wear my favorite suit. It was pale yellow and made from the softest material. I loved how it made my eyes look hazel instead of a boring brown. I generally avoid skirts because at only a hiccup over five feet I look like a midget in them, but something about the cut of this one made my legs look longer. I even decided to wear heels. I’d just had my hair trimmed so it swung against my jawline perfectly, and after a last-minute inspection in my hall mirror for any gray hairs—I was only thirty-two last year, but with black hair those suckers show up fast—I gave myself a whistle, kissed Emma good-bye (some people touch wood, I touch dog), and headed out.
The only thing I had to do that day was host an open house. It would’ve been nice to have the day off, but the owners were anxious to sell. They were a nice German couple and the wife baked me Bavarian chocolate cake, so I didn’t mind spending a few hours to keep them happy.
My boyfriend, Luke, was coming over for dinner after he was done working at his Italian restaurant. He’d had a late shift the night before, so I sent him a can’t-wait-to-see-you-later e-mail. Well, first I tried to send him one of those e-mail card things he was always sending me, but all the choices were cutesy—kissing bunnies, kissing frogs, kissing squirrels—so I settled on a simple e-mail. He knew I was more of a show than tell kind of girl, but lately I’d been so focused on the waterfront deal I hadn’t shown the poor guy much of anything, and God knows he deserved better. Not that he ever complained, even when I had to cancel at the last minute a couple of times.
My cell phone rang while I was struggling to shove the last open house sign into my trunk without getting dirt on my suit. On the off chance it was the developer, I grabbed the phone out of my purse.
“Are you at home?” Hi to you too, Mom.
“I’m just leaving for the open house—”
“So you’re still doing that today? Val mentioned she hadn’t seen many of your signs lately.”
“You were talking to Aunt Val?” Every couple of months Mom had a fight with her sister and was “never speaking to her again.”
“First she invites me to lunch like she didn’t just completely insult me last week, but two can play that game, then before we’ve even ordered she just has to tell me your cousin sold a waterfront listing. Can you believe Val’s flying over to Vancouver tomorrow just to go shopping with her for new clothes on Robson Street? Designer clothes.” Nice one, Aunt Val. I struggled not to laugh.
“Good for Tamara, but she looks great in anything.” I hadn’t actually seen my cousin in person since she’d moved to the mainland right after high school, but Aunt Val was always e-mailing just-look-what-my-amazing-kids-are-up-to-now photos.
“I told Val you have some nice things too. You’re just . . . conservative.”
“Mom, I have lots of nice clothes, but I—”
I stopped myself. She was baiting me, and Mom isn’t the catch-and-release type. Last thing...