“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.
For a moment it even seems she might say something to me, but he nudges her, so she thinks better of it. Yet every few moments she tries to cover up that she’s peeking. There is nothing on my clothes; my hair is messy, but none of it is standing up straight. The selfie mode on my camera phone doesn’t reveal smeared dirt across my cheeks or mascara down my face.
It’s as though she wants me to recognize her and I scroll through my internal black book. She does seem slightly familiar, but then again, she is a pretty woman in a city with a million pretty women.
At one point the boyfriend holds his phone in a position on his knee that seems to point straight at me. Is he taking pictures? She subtly hits his arm with hers, so he stops and looks away. I begin to fidget—running my fingers through my hair and bouncing my heel so fast I might dig a hole in the floor with my toe.
When the train slows at my stop, I stand up and let my phone accidentally fall to the floor. She swoops down and grabs it with strong hands before kindly smiling as she gives it to me. “Here.” Her voice is slightly husky.
“Thank you.” And with a nod I jump out.
Moments later, I look back to see them escape out the second door. Yet when they see me turn it’s obvious that they pretend to be uninterested in me.
That’s it. There’s no doubt in my mind that they are there for me. But why?
\/\/\/
Later that day, I stand in my classroom, staring out the window.
“How are you, Miss Willow?” many of my students ask.
“Fine,” I lie.
Yet I can tell their intuitive little eyes don’t quite believe me. Especially when they all jump up to go to recess and find that I’ve locked the door. For a classroom of children, this is a safety hazard, yet my instincts seem to be controlled by my fear, as of late. I do these things now without thought.
After the end of school when nearly every child is sent away, the last yellow bus sends a cloud of exhaust as it drives down the street. A white car is all that is left, parked against the brick wall on the other side of the circle drive. Standing there, leaning against the car wearing dark sunglasses, is a man and woman—both breathtakingly beautiful with smooth black skin. The man has long dreads down to his waist and the woman’s hair is nearly shaved, which makes their tall, statuesque, athletic bodies stand out in their perfectly tailored clothing. I look around, but there aren’t any more students left and most of the teachers have disappeared.
“Hi,” I call out, raising a hand to wave.
Before I can walk closer, they jump into their white high-end car and disappear down the road.
“Whoa!” The rough but small voice surprises me. I look to my right where DeSean stands with his backpack on. “You know them, Miss Willow?”
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s too bad. That’s an Aston Martin. My dad says he’s gonna get one of those.”
“Speaking of your dad, what are you doing? How are you getting home?”
He looks up with a grin. “I missed the bus.”
