Caleb hadn’t spoken and I had almost forgotten he was in the room. “Why would someone try and drug me to erase memories or make people think I’m crazy?”
“You know something you shouldn’t,” Hutton answers him matter of factly.
Eden turns to Hutton. “How can you be sure that they’re alive? One of their bodies was found in a car fire.”
He ignores her question and looks at Dean, “Can we get on with it?” Dean takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the lockbox. Inside are gloves and some testing equipment.
“What’s that?” I ask Dean as he pulls out long cotton swabs.
“Eden, can you put this in your mouth and run it up and down each cheek ten times. Each side.” I start to object, but Blaine beats me to it.
“Whoa… no, wait. What for?” He grabs the swabs from Dean’s outstretched hand.
“It’s a theory… we don’t know unless Eden is tested.” I really hate where this is going. It would make the most sense.
“Theory?” she asks with her head tilted and mouth open slightly.
“You might very well be Eve.”
31. KEIR
Numb. I feel like a shell of a person.
Jolie thinks talking to Dr. Vargas isn’t needed anymore. She wants me to have sessions with her. She says for the study, but the film crew hasn’t been around. I don’t fight her on it, partly because I just don’t care. About life, about me, about anything. I want it all to be over. The torture of the nightmares makes me dread closing my eyes at night.
“Keir? Pay attention, please.” It’s hard to focus on what she’s saying. “Now… you said that you’ve been reliving your attack?” She taps her pen against her lips. “Tell me what you can remember?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I put my head down on the table onto my arms. When I’m not reliving the grief of finding out my mom is gone, I’m thinking about how she could have died. Scared, alone, and broken.
Yesterday, Tempest and Amora took a walk with me. They talked the whole time, communicating on Tempest’s notepad. I don’t even remember what they were saying, but they warned me that Jolie isn’t a nice person. I’m sensing more and more that she’s like every other person I’ve met and only wants to use me. For the study.
“Oh, sweetie,” she croons and runs her hand though the hair on the back of my head. “You must be so upset.”
I don’t like her touching me, there’s something about it that feels wrong. Unbidden, too personal, and like an expectation. I’ve had too many hands touch me without permission and it feels shameful. When she tries to hold onto my arm, I slide away. A flash of anger crosses her face and then she smiles at me. “Look what she’s done to you.”
I space out while she talks more about traumatic memories and how they can affect people. She uses a lot of academic terminology and talks down to me. Does she think I'm dumb? The more I hear her say, the less I want to be sitting here. “I’m going to take your advice and call someone about the attack.” I don’t wait around to hear her response. It doesn’t matter. I’m not sure if I’ll follow through with it anyway. When I returned to the Center, I realized that there was no phone in my room. Caleb said that it’s strange I don’t have one.
I sit in the patient lounge located past the meeting rooms. There’s a phone to use here. Pulling out the agent’s card from my pocket, I debate whether I should call him. The tipping point is the realization that I’ve spent almost my entire life not sticking up for myself. I dial and get his voicemail. “Agent Scholl, this is Keir Marcus... uhhh…” I chew at my bottom lip and try to get my thoughts together. “You gave me your card when I was in the hospital and said to call if I remember anything about the attack. I’ve been having nightmares. A lot of them. Today in therapy.” It’s a stretch to refer to my talk with Jolie as therapy. “I found out there’s video of the attack. It was a graduate student. I don’t have a phone; do you think you could meet me at the Wellness Center? Thanks.”
The message was too long. I didn’t sound sure of myself, and I don’t even know who has the video. I’m so busy beating myself up for making the call, I almost miss one of the nurses looking in. “Dr. Vargas has been looking for you.” She gives me a smile and shrugs a shoulder. “She’s a better alternative than your new friend.”
Almost everyone that’s talked to me has commented on Jolie and the fact that she’s a bad person. I’ve only seen glimpses of it, but I’m getting progressively more distrusting of her. Louis had a way of talking when he was manipulating a person and Jolie’s persuasive nature is too reminiscent of that. I’m conflicted. Do I only feel this way now after the attack, because of what happened? Jolie says we were friends. I can’t remember any of it.
Most of the residents at the Wellness Center seem to keep to themselves. Occasionally, I’ll see a couple gathered in the atrium having coffee or playing cards. I feel drawn to Tempest and Amora, both have been kind and concerned about me. Tempest reminds me of my mom at times. A soft concerned look, checking in on me with notes on her notepad. Once I leave the resident lounge, I purposely avoid the area that the graduate students occupy in the meeting rooms. I wander into the gym. The doctor at the hospital told me to ease back into doing strenuous workouts.
I put some weights on a barbell and spot one of the nurses on the grounds near the pond on a cellphone. She’s pacing back and forth and by the look on her face, she’s not happy. I almost drop the twenty-pound weight on my foot when my eye catches the sight of what looks like a gun tucked into her scrub pants by her hip. Why would she have a gun on her?
A constant thought that would pass through my mind for too many years was that I’d get free and never be a victim again. No one would use me, hurt me, or hold me captive ever again. If I managed to live and make it out… never again. I take a few deep breaths to calm my thundering heart. Something feels off here at the Horizon Wellness Center. Maybe I knew that before I was attacked and that’s why I was. I’m paying Dr. Vargas a visit. Besides the agent, I have a good feeling about her. The two of them may be the only ones I trust right now.
“It’s good to see you, Keir. Please come in and have a seat.” Dr. Vargas looks up from her tidy desk after I knock at her partially opened office door. “How are you feeling physically?” I close the door behind me and make my way to a leather office chair positioned near a shelf of plants.
“Okay?” I don’t want to talk about the lack of sleep, the headaches, or the way my anxiety is making me sick to my stomach.
She frowns slightly and places her hands intertwined on her desk. “Keir, I don’t like talking about diagnoses with patients. I feel it can make them feel boxed in, but in this case I want you to understand what’s happening to you. You’ve been diagnosed as having Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Do you remember what Dr. Hardin told you about that?” Her tone is careful and measured. Like she isn’t sure how I’ll handle hearing the label slapped on me.
I nod. “That prolonged traumatic exposure can perfect dissociation? Is that why I can’t remember years of my life?” If I sound disbelieving, it’s because I’d be more likely to accept brain damage.
