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On her own, she raised the level of her medication to what it had been when she'd first entered therapy. The pills made her groggy but they helped. She stopped dreaming, started sleeping through the night.
"I am fine," she told herself.
And she was. She started her new job—the interview she'd told Beverly about had gone well—and, a month later, she moved into a wonderful apartment in Soho. It wasn't the glass-walled, ultramodern sort of place that had once seemed so desirable. She'd looked at half a dozen of those, found them chillingly impersonal, and opted instead for an old, handsome duplex with a working fireplace, a brick-walled kitchen and wide-planked floors.
"A gem of the early 1800s," the realtor called it.
It wasn't a gem, not quite. The windows leaked, the floors sagged... but it reminded her of Charon's Crossing, and that was all that mattered.
The new job, the new apartment—both were great. Things went really well for a couple of weeks. And then, one afternoon, during a presentation meeting for a new client, she heard someone speak her name.
Kathryn?
She came sharply upright in her chair.
Kathryn, sweetheart. Where are you?
Kathryn's pen fell from her hand and clattered on the floor. The man next to her looked at her. Then he picked up the pen and nudged her in the ribs. She blinked and looked at him.
"You okay?" he whispered.
She nodded, took the pen and forced her attention back to the meeting.
I can't find you, love. I search and search, but I can't find you.
Kathryn's chair squealed as she shoved it back and shot to her feet. Eight pairs of eyes fixed on her wild-eyed, pale face.
"Miss Russell?"
She looked around the room. The CEO of the company they were trying to impress looked irritated. Her own boss was smiling but it was the sort of smile you saw on the face of a shark.
"I—I'm sorry," she said, "I thought I heard—"
Kathryn, my love. Where are you?
She flew from the room like a rocket, her assistant on her heels as she made for the elevator.
"Kathryn? Are you sick? Kathryn, what am I going to tell them?"
"Tell them anything you want," Kathryn said, as the elevator doors closed.
* * *
Dr. Whalen agreed to see her at once.
She listened. And listened. Then, finally, she spoke.
"What you're describing isn't uncommon, Kathryn," she said in her most soothing tone of voice. "We might describe these episodes as 'flashbacks.' "
"Flashbacks? I thought those had to do with real experiences."
Dr. Whalen looked momentarily flustered. "Not necessarily. I suspect this is your subconscious mind's attempt to come to grips with what happened to you."
"I don't understand, Doctor. Wasn't it my subconscious that created my hallucinations to begin with?"
The doctor cleared her throat. "It's complicated, Kathryn, too complicated for a layman." She scribbled something on a prescription pad, tore off the sheet and handed it over. "Have that filled and take one tablet three times a day."
"I don't want to take any more pills. They make me dopey. Isn't there something else I can do to stop these hallucinations?"
