He quickly tosses it underhand. I catch it with ease in my left hand, which should be paralyzed. It takes a few moments for Dr. Richards to respond, and finally he smiles, “You were given amazing DNA.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I am in my psychologist’s office and I hope that the last six weeks since the attack aren’t announcing themselves by dark circles under my eyes. Who am I kidding, I’ve looked in the mirror. Fatigue is playing games with all the shadows on my face.

The green velvet couch where I’ve dropped myself sits just across from a wall-size window on the fourteenth floor, and I can see the Transamerica Pyramid on Montgomery Street. Abstract works of art line the office’s brick walls.

“How are you doing now that you’re home?” Dr. Stella asks. She’s a sixty-year-old woman with frizzy dark hair who manicures her nails with diamonds, yet she resembles a pit-bull trainer more than a psychologist. Her muscles bubble up around her neck and her boob job sits high on lean pecs.

“Fine,” I say immediately, but Dr. Stella’s face contorts, sending her left eyebrow high and the apple of her right cheekbone swells. After these many years, my poker face is painfully obvious. “For the most part I’m fine except for the large knife I keep just beside my bed. I’m obsessed with whether I’ve locked the door or not, even though I know I have. I check it a hundred times right when I get home, but that doesn’t seem to help. So even in the middle of the night, I check again. And I haven’t gone out much . . . actually I haven’t gone out at all.”

She’s searching for the best words to challenge me—of that I’m always aware.

“Do you feel that’s a good choice?” She scratches her head with her pencil.

“I feel like you don’t think it’s a good choice.”

“It’s not that. We just had a good discussion last week about why your mom always told you to get back on that horse.”

“At that moment my mom didn’t know that she would be dead soon, or that I would call off my engagement, and especially that this would happen.”

“You’re right . . . but you’ve told me enough about your mother, Willow, that I think I understand who she was. What did she say about fear?”

The sound of Dr. Stella’s dog—sleeping on a bed in the corner of the room—scratching his ear is suddenly very loud and my leg itches, which seems to be from these nasty ill-fitted pants that I shouldn’t have worn.

“She said that fear is worse than death.” The lights suddenly glisten in the bottom of my eye.

One thing Dr. Stella isn’t afraid of is “aha moment” silence, but right now there is rush hour traffic in my brain because of that sudden realization: “Fear is worse than death.” She finally repeats, then again lets the silence hover until I squirm. “Have you had many visitors?”

“Ian comes over whether I ask him or not, and his helicoptering drives me crazy.”

“Do you blame him?”

“Yes. Always. For everything,” I say in slight jest. “Just as I’ve said before, everything is about him. It always has been. We spent an hour the other day contemplating why he didn’t get the sergeant position on the police force. Meanwhile I’m having a panic attack about some sound I hear in the hallway. I’m sweating profusely, shaking . . . and he doesn’t notice. At all. I mean at all.”

“Well, we already figured out years ago that he’s a narcissist.”

“Yeah. And even though it’s nice to feel protected, I don’t need to take care of him right now.”

“As you shouldn’t. Anybody else? Somebody that makes you happy, comfortable . . .”

“Dr. Richards. He’s come by several times and there’s something about him that makes me feel safe.”

“That’s nice of him.”

Pooter, the dog, comes over and sniffs my sweating hands. His cheeks feel like suede, so without thinking I let out a large sigh and my exhausted arms wrap around his neck. Sweetly, the dog sniffs my ear, but doesn’t pull away. “Willow,” Dr. Stella quietly calls, “we’ll get through this. I promise.”

“I miss my life. I miss the kids . . . the schoolhouse.”

“Maybe it’s time to go back?”

Just this idea alone makes my breath stop. “Maybe. But . . .”

Dr. Stella takes a sip of her water, so clearly providing me time before her next question. “What’s going on, Willow? I know you. I can see that there’s something deeper going on here.”

Don’t say anything, I tell myself when my neck clamps as a warning. The smell of the pumpkin spice candle is slightly nauseating, so I reach over and pick up the metal lid. “Do you mind?” I ask her.

“Not at all,” she says, seeming proud that I am so straightforward. I quickly cover the candle and extinguish the flame.

“Everyone told me my whole life that my mom was crazy. Loving, yes, but also crazy. She saw and heard things that others didn’t.” I let out a long breath—my confidence hanging haphazardly on the end of my lips. “People have been watching me.”

Dr. Stella’s eyebrow raises, yet there doesn’t seem to be any judgement. “Really?”

“Since the attack. Every time I take BART, there’s a couple—a man and woman about my age, that are there. They won’t talk to me, but I’ve caught them watching me. Then in the store across the street from my apartment there’s a boy about sixteen. He seems to look at me the same way.”

Her tone is accepting and her eyes kind—almost curious—so she makes me feel okay. “So, what makes them different? You know? They might just think you are pretty or familiar?”

I rub my cheek until it’s warm. “The couple on BART? I haven’t gone back to work or even gone out except for doctor’s appointments and police information. Even though it’s never at any consistent time, these people are on the same train, always behind me . . . always watching . . . every time. I never saw them before the attack, but now the woman locks eyes with me as though she knows me.”

The doctor nods, taking it all in. “Okay. It’s a little odd. Yet could it just be that they use BART often and maybe moved in near you?”

“Six out of six times that I’ve been on BART? They enter just after me every time, almost as though they’ve been following.”

“Okay.”

“And the teenager? I’ve been in the store three times since I’ve been home and three times he’s been there. Last week I left the store and waited around the corner just to see, and he left just after me without buying anything.”

Dr. Stella, for the first time since all of this, suddenly shows her concern. She breathes heavily, looks away, taps her pen on her notebook, and then scratches her head. So, I don’t let her continue to say anything.

“I know how crazy I sound.”

“No, you don’t sound crazy. Just someone who’s trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not. It makes sense. What if . . .” she begins hesitantly, “what if you asked them a question?”

I chuckle uncomfortably.

“No, I’m serious. You’ve seen them six times now. It might be time to just prove that your mother wasn’t necessarily always right. She told you from the time you were born that someone you couldn’t see was watching. Now after a very traumatic event—one that would break most everyone—things are happening that you can’t explain. The brain is a powerful thing. Your bubble of protection and safety was aggressively taken away. Perhaps you’re just noticing more. What if this couple and this teenager have always been there? What if you went back in time just a few months ago and found that they were always there?”

I am sweating until my shirt is damp. She’s probably right. Could this really all be in my head?

“Time’s up, but I want you to think about going back to work. Integrate yourself back into a routine and stop trying to analyze the world around you. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s important.”

“Okay. I’ll try.” I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

\/\/\/

A week later, BART sways back and forth. I try to play on my phone, but I watch the world outside pass by instead. Dr. Stella seems to be right. No one followed me at the station or jumped on the train behind me. Yet why does this realization feel worse? I watch the lady next to me pull her mayonnaise and mustard out of her bag, which is entertaining for a moment and I can breathe.

The door to the right opens and the swishing sound pulls my eyes away; they connect with the woman and her boyfriend who have been following me. They seem frazzled, as if late for something, but the moment they see me, she calms down. She’s funny. Her body moves a bit boyishly. Her messy platinum hair frames wide and expressive brown eyes. She’s attractive, with a dose of humor. As they contort their bodies to get through the people this morning, she pretends to be a robot as she dances through. I smile, but she shrugs and laughs off her silliness. The man with her is terribly serious, yet there’s something about them that fits.