Page 16 of Dark Ugly Places

Nicola’s voice is loud against my temples, insistent, and angry.

I know, I tell her. Shhh, Nicola. I know.

She doesn’t want me here.

7

Nicola

It’s the ring of my cell phone that wakes me, pulls me back. Nubia. I don’t have time to answer. My hands shakily reject the call. Checking the time—I always check the time—I realize it’s been about ten minutes. Shit.

Oh yes, and I got fired, didn’t I? The reminder is quick and harsh, the pull of nails over my skin. Traipsing to my car in the employee parking lot, I remember the roughness of the security guards, the way they threw me out without question, without much warning. The way he appeared and almost hit me.

Almost, I think bitterly. I suppose that’s an improvement from the last time.

I get to my car and drive straight to see Dr. Constance in the high-rise building on Wilshire. When I arrive, I don’t bother sitting down in the waiting room and go straight to her office. Silvia, the gray-haired assistant, runs after me, calling my name.

Dr. Constance is on the phone when I burst into her office. She looks up, mildly concerned but not alarmed, and gives a wave to Silvia, signaling it’s okay that I’m here. Reluctantly, she leaves. I take a seat and realize I’m breathing heavily. Sweat has formed across my brow. I shut my eyes and hold my head for a moment, trying to relieve the pressure in my skull.

“I’ll have to call you back,” she says, staring at me, and hangs up. “Well, this is a surprise.” Dr. Constance pauses, waiting for me to elaborate.

“I saw the man. The driver,” I blurt. “I know who he is.”

For a moment, Dr. Constance looks alarmed. Then her quiet composure returns. “You seem very upset, Nicola. Let’s take a few deep breaths together.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” I demand. “I saw him! I saw his car. He drives the same white Rolls-Royce. The Wraith!”

Dr. Constance nods and listens for a moment. She makes some notes in her file. “You’re saying you believe you saw the man who hit you?”

I sit forward in my seat, a thread of frustration climbing into my chest. “Yes.”

“How do you know it is the same car, the same man?” Constance replies, her voice steady.

I pause, my voice catching in my throat. How do I? How do I?

“I just know it. It’s the same car.” I feel suddenly desperate and at a loss. “It’s him,” I repeat, aware of my voice breaking. Tears start to form, and I try to suppress them. “The shoes …” I say helplessly. How to explain something so simple that I feel, that I know in my bones to be true?

Dr. Constance writes something, and I think I see the word irrational upside down. “You know the police don’t have a record of what color or make the car was. No one saw it, and no one saw the driver either, remember?”

I slam my fist on her desk, my voice growing angry. “I saw it!”

Her head tilts to the side. “But Nicola, you yourself told me only in our last session that you don’t remember everything from that day, do you?”

“I—” my voice falters. “I don’t remember everything,” I admit. “But I know it’s the same car. It has the same emblem, the lady with wings.” My hand finds the scar beneath my shirt and feels the indentation in my skin. “And he—the way he drove, his mannerisms, everything … it’s him!”

Dr. Constance shakes her head. “Nicola, we’ve talked about this. Your anger and eagerness to place blame are understandable. This is part of your PTSD, remember?”

“That’s not what this is,” I tell her.

“Oh? Then what is it, Nicola? You tell me. What is happening here?”

“What’s happening is the driver is out there, scot-free, and someone needs to do something about it. We’re suffering, and he’s not. He just goes on and on, living his life like nothing has happened. No consequence, no nothing.”

“What kind of consequence would you like to see?”

I know what she’s really asking. It’s the same question, asked another way to gauge my level of rage, my volatility. And of course, how bad my PTSD might be getting. Yet I still can’t help it when my voice rises, and my hands slam down against the surface of her desk, hard. “I want him to pay!”

Dr. Constance nods once and starts scribbling something down on a pad of paper. “The panic attacks are getting worse,” she says flatly. “We can no longer rely on therapy alone to deal with them and your PTSD.” She tears off the paper and hands me the sheet. “I’m going to recommend some medication. Take this when you feel yourself becoming overwhelmed or upset. Or angry. You don’t take it every day. Do you understand?”