Mercy

By Barbara Cutrera

Daniel Nash needs to receive mercy from his family, his friends, from God, and from himself. Now in his mid-forties, he’s spent most of his life suppressing memories and his rage regarding the severe abuse he suffered during his first twelve years. The situation for Daniel is critical: He’s finally reached his breaking point. His downward spiral into mental instability threatens to rob him of his stable home life with his loving wife and children, his successful career, and his sanity. However, his breakdown also promises to release repressed memories that may lead him to a younger brother, one he hadn’t known survived. While fighting the demons in his mind, Daniel also fights with his body, which causes him constant pain due to the passage of time and the multitude of injuries that had gone without treatment before he was rescued from his childhood hell.
Daniel’s wife, Sarah, does what she does best – whatever she can to help those she loves. Despite her own emotional struggles and visual impairment, Sarah is the woman who always manages to keep her family going. However, she finally decides that it’s time to take care of herself as well. As she tries to deal with rejection from her former stepmother and the results of Daniel’s breakdown, Sarah begins therapy and returns to work. She regains a life purpose outside of her dedication to her husband, children, and other family members. Watching Daniel suffer brings forth the inner strength she always manages to find in times of strife, regardless of her own emotional turmoil.
Tristan Maes, Sarah’s biological father and Daniel’s de facto one, draws upon all of his own tragic life experiences and his resolve to persevere in an effort to save his two eldest children. He works with his family and Daniel’s new therapist as he attempts to keep connecting with the rational part of Daniel’s mind. In the midst of his stress and worry regarding Sarah and Daniel, Tristan unexpectedly finds love with a fellow architect. However, the perplexing circumstances of his ex-wife’s departure, combined with her odd behavior, have him and the rest of the family searching for answers. Tristan holds onto hope but knows his grasp is tenuous.
Mercy is what Daniel, Sarah, and Tristan need most. It’s also what they provide for each other and what they receive from those closest to them. Although many things are beyond their control, their overwhelming love and devotion to one another are their strongest assets in the most difficult battle of their lives -- a battle to stay together and find their own version of living happily ever after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Cutrera
• Release date: Aug 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310348037

Barbara Cutrera

Barbara Cutrera has been a writer since childhood but didn’t begin writing novels until 1999. She decided to pursue publication in 2012. Cutrera is an author who likes to write in various genres – fiction, mystery, contemporary romance, fantasy romance, and romantic suspense. A member of the Romance Writers of America, the Florida Writers’ Association, and the Tampa Area Romance Authors, Cutrera was born and raised in Louisiana and moved to Florida with her family in 2004. She works with the visually-impaired and is visually-impaired herself. She believes that our minds are only limited by the restrictions we place upon them. Her literary credo? “Transcending reality by exploring it one story at a time....”

Book preview

March 11-12, 2004

On the eve of his forty-sixth birthday, Daniel Nash fell asleep sitting at the desk in his office and woke up in Hell. He instantly knew where he was. He’d lived there for the first dozen years of his life and was finding himself returning there with alarming frequency every time he slept. It made him uneasy, not only because of what he dreamed but also because he could sense that something terrible was about to invade his waking hours.

You think I like to do these things? his burly, gray-haired stepfather asked before taking another swig from the whiskey bottle in his hand. I never want to hurt you. You just can’t quit, can you? Shit, Danny, I love you.

Twelve-year-old Daniel vomited water onto the bathroom floor and wished he had the strength to get up and run away. As it was, his wet, black hair was plastered to his face, and his clothes were soaked. His temples throbbed, and his lungs ached from too little air and the introduction of water. The muscles in his limbs were trembling from the exertion of trying to free himself from the man who’d attempted to drown him in the tub.

You shouldn’t have moved my stuff, his stepfather muttered. Zachary Samuels didn’t raise his kid to be a nosy little son of a bitch.

No, you’re raising me to be a drunk and a wife beater, Daniel mumbled tiredly before shutting his dark eyes.

The pain in his belly was sudden and all-encompassing as the tip of Samuels’s shoe connected with Daniel’s gut. The victory in his battle for air seemed a distant memory as he gasped for breath. He wished he were twenty instead of twelve, so he could teach this monster of a man what true pain felt like.

Goddamn it, Danny! Look what you made me do!

Unable to respond, Daniel lay limply on the linoleum floor wondering how his mother had endured the constant torture for ten years. He’d witnessed beating after beating and more, and he knew she often provoked her husband despite the inevitable consequences. Why had she done it, and why was he doing it now that she was long dead and he was the victim?

Oh, God, Samuels moaned. I’m sorry, Danny. I’m so fucking sorry.

There was a hand on his shoulder and –

Dan, wake up. Daniel?

He jerked awake and tried to remember where he was. His father-in-law, Tristan Maes, was standing beside him, looking worried but calm. The man’s hand rested on his shoulder, and it was all that Daniel could do not to knock it away.

Please, move your hand, Daniel said evenly.

Tristan complied without question and took a seat in the chair on the other side of the desk. He was six foot seven and had his Native American father’s features and skin tone but his Irish mother’s auburn curls and green eyes dotted with black flecks. An architect, he was fifty-seven and in surprisingly good physical shape for someone who’d led a hard life and suffered through two serious bouts of substance abuse. After several minutes had passed, he asked, You had a dream about Samuels?

Daniel nodded and volunteered, Yet another repressed memory revealing itself to me. You’d think that after all these years I’d be fresh out, but no. The bastard tried to drown me and…and….

And what?

Daniel raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper-colored hair and shrugged. Tristan sat patiently, never taking his eyes from Daniel’s face. Eventually, he pulled the black cord from the base of his neck and gathered his shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail before asking again, And what?

And I don’t know. I woke up before I could remember.

But you had some idea, Tristan suggested soberly.

With another shrug, he admitted, Not really. By the way, what are you doing in my office at…let’s see…10:00 p.m.?

I was working late, was heading home, and saw your car in the lot. I told Phil I wanted to see you. He sent me up. I like Phil.

Daniel agreed that he, too, liked the security guard very much before asking, Did Sarah call you?

If my daughter had called, then I’d have told you before, Tristan insisted. You know that.

As Daniel got to his feet and reached for his jacket, he asked, You want to come to the house with me and have a bite? Sarah said there was lots of beef stew in the fridge.

While he waited for a response, Daniel reflected idly that the only time he got to look down at Tristan was when the man was in a sitting position. Daniel was only six feet tall and had always looked up to Tristan, both literally and figuratively. Tristan was his friend and had been a better father to him than both his biological father and his stepfather.

Dan –

Are you coming?

Rising from the chair, Tristan said, No, I don’t think I am. Let me know when you’re ready to talk. You haven’t seen a therapist in the six months since Isabelle died. I know it’s hard to start over with a new psychiatrist, and she was great with you. It was wonderful that she’d known all of us for so long before you started having sessions with her, but you have to try to find someone new now that she’s passed away.

I’m doing all right with things, Tris.

Are you? Sarah says she wakes up in the middle of the night, and you’re working at your desk downstairs or reading in the living room. She knows something’s wrong, and it’s making her uneasy. You’re not talking to her either.

Goodnight, Tris.

Call me, Tristan said, as he walked towards the door. Enjoy the stew.

Feeling miserable and frustrated, Daniel left for home. When he drove up the long, winding driveway towards the seventy-five-year-old, two-story, white house, he found it dark. Once inside, Daniel climbed the stairs and walked to his son’s room. The small bedside light was on, and fifteen-year-old Kris held a copy of Lord of the Flies in his hands. He was sound asleep. Daniel carefully removed the book and lightly kissed the golden hair before switching off the light.

His nine-year-old daughter, Gabrielle, was hidden inside a pile of blankets and animal-shaped pillows. Knowing that straightening the controlled chaos was pointless, he brushed some of the brown hair away from her forehead and gently kissed her temple before heading for the master bedroom.

He’d expected his wife to be in bed but not asleep. However, she appeared to be sleeping very soundly. Disappointed, Daniel debated about whether or not he should go back downstairs and eat something. Deciding against it, he went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, stripped off his clothing, and got into the shower. He emerged feeling marginally refreshed and donned a t-shirt and boxers before climbing into bed next to his wife.

Turning onto his side, Daniel fingered a long, loose, auburn curl and marveled at how peaceful Sarah appeared when she slept. There was no evidence of the stresses that had shadowed her for most of her forty-one years of life nor of the resultant anxiety. There was no sign of the daily difficulties she faced regarding the effects of a genetic condition that had gradually destroyed her retinas, leaving her with only peripheral vision. He wanted to wrap himself around her small body and feel her soft skin underneath his hands. As he reached out to touch her face, she opened her hazel eyes and whispered, Happy birthday early.

He smiled, and the tension that had held him so tightly in its grip was temporarily pushed aside. She kissed him, and the pain and uncertainty faded as their bodies came together and rational thought ceased to be important.

The suspension of reality was short-lived. The final moments of sheer joy and contentment were followed by the return of apprehension and a simmering anger. Daniel lay still and tried not to think about beatings, near-drownings, and other more nefarious events.

Relax, Sarah directed, as she rolled over and lowered her mouth onto the skin above his heart. Let me take it away like I used to.

He stared at the ceiling and concentrated on the sensation of pleasure his wife’s tongue evoked as she traced the web of scars that snaked across his torso. The rhythm of her ministrations was hypnotic and undeniably arousing, and he wondered once again what he’d done to deserve the love of the former Miss Sarah Maes.

She lifted her lips to his. Her mouth tasted like honey, and her full breasts were heavy in his hands. Daniel rested his palms on her rounded hips and allowed himself to become lost in the ebb and flow of the waves of passion as they made love again.

When the spell was broken, they held each other in the warmth of their bed and spoke of inconsequential things that translated into expressions of love. Sarah eventually drifted into a deep sleep, but Daniel held onto wakefulness a little longer in an attempt to guard against the memory of things frightening and vague.

Chapter Two

March 13, 2004

Tristan sighed and threw back the covers. It was 4:00 a.m. He rose from the bed and went downstairs to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Perhaps later he would attempt to take a nap.

In the three years since his divorce, he’d been plagued by an increase in his usual recurrent bouts of insomnia. Compared to the alcoholism and drug addiction that had followed his first wife’s death, his frequent inability to get a good night’s sleep seemed trivial.

Deciding that work was the only way he was going to distract himself from the restlessness that always accompanied these episodes, Tristan showered, dressed in a pair of jeans and a comfortable shirt, and then filled a thermos with coffee before leaving the house and driving downtown to his office. The Saturday pre-dawn streets were empty.

He was soon at his desk, engrossed in a design plan his assistant had submitted regarding the renovation of a nearby hotel registered as a historic landmark.

He worked steadily throughout the day, finally stopping to lie down on the couch in his office. He awoke from a dream that involved a sexual encounter with the girl who would become his first wife. The culmination of their lovemaking had brought with it the most intense climax of his promiscuous young life and had also resulted in the conception of his first child.

Tristan put away his work and left the building. Once in his truck, he started the engine, pulled out his cellphone, and dialed his eldest daughter’s number.

Hi, Daddy, Sarah answered. I was wondering when you’d call. Do you want to meet us at the restaurant tonight for Daniel’s birthday dinner or are you coming here first?

I’m heading for your house if that’s okay. I need to talk with you alone for a minute.

That sounds ominous, but it’ll work if you come now. The kids took Daniel to lunch and a movie for his birthday. They won’t be back until 6:00.

I’ll see you in about ten minutes then. I love you.

Tristan spotted her pacing on the front porch when he pulled up next to the house. He’d barely gotten out of his truck before she appeared beside him asking, What is it? Are you okay? Did Vaughn call?

I’m okay, he assured her. And no, I haven’t talked to your ex-stepmother recently. Why? Have you?

She shook her head and admitted, Katie e-mailed me and said that her mother left a message on her machine saying how sorry she was for leaving you and for not being in touch with any of us since the divorce.

Tristan’s heart sank, even as his temper flared. It was bad enough for his children that their mother had refused marriage counseling and had chosen to walk out on him, but her abandonment of them, her parents, and her grandchildren had added insult to injury.

His youngest daughter, twenty-five-year-old Katie, had channeled her hurt into her work and had gained a new maturity that amazed her family and friends. That same pain had led his thirty-year-old son, Will, into one bad relationship after another. As for Sarah, her former stepmother’s absence seemed not to affect her, but Tristan knew better. It worried him.

I can’t believe Vaughn did that. What was she thinking?

Whatever it was, it backfired. Katie called her and let her have it. She said Vaughn was so shocked at how self-possessed Katie was that she got all flustered and didn’t know what to say. Katie hung up on her.

I’m proud of Katie for speaking her mind, although it bothers me that her mother would do that in the first place. I wish it hadn’t come to this. You know Vaughn and I didn’t have the best of marriages for the last couple of decades, but I never thought she’d up and leave the entire family one day.

Taking his hand, Sarah urged him towards the house and asked, If it’s not Vaughn, then what did you want to talk to me about? Do you have a new girlfriend?

Her tone was hopeful, yet hesitant, and Tristan suspected that she feared his involvement with any new woman would compromise his relationship with her. Their unusual closeness had been accepted by her stepmother in the beginning, but Vaughn had grown increasingly jealous of it over the years. In the final month of their marriage, Vaughn had returned to that point of contention many times, although Tristan had never shared that piece of information with Sarah.

No new girlfriend, he told her. Actually, it’s about Dan.

Oh, was all she said as they entered the house. He followed her to the kitchen and accepted a cup of coffee before taking a seat at the table and waiting for her to join him.

I know I have a tendency to worry a lot, but that’s the least of my shortcomings, he began. You can be the same way, so this may be a foolish thing to ask you. I’ll ask anyway. Is Dan okay?

Sarah surprised him by responding with tears. It had never been easy for her to lower the protective walls that her mind had erected in order to cope with a childhood that was often filled with instability and disappointment. She rarely cried, preferring instead to grapple internally with emotional turmoil. She was aware that this was unhealthy but found herself unwilling to relinquish this modicum of control.

Honey, what’s wrong? Tristan asked gently.

I don’t know, she admitted tearfully as she got to her feet. That’s the problem. He usually confides in me, but he won’t this time. I don’t think he knows exactly what his problem is, and it’s terrifying him. Well, maybe he does and it’s terrifying him. Nothing I do makes it better, and he won’t see anyone about it. Whatever it is, it’s tearing him apart. It’s like he’s slipping away from us.

She allowed Tristan to pull her down into his lap as if she were a child again. He held her and tried to reassure her that everything would be all right, even though he wasn’t certain himself.

I’m over forty, and I’m acting like a big baby. I can’t be like this.

Why not? I’m fifty-seven, and I cry sometimes. Nothing bad happens to me when I do. And I usually feel better afterwards.

I hate it, she declared. It makes me want to throw up.

He refrained from telling her that she needed to get over her fear of perceived weakness, knowing full well she’d have to come to terms with it in her own time. The fact that she was crying now in spite of her protestations was an encouraging sign.

Sarah confided, I feel lost. I wish I knew what to do.

We can’t force Dan to get help. It has to be his choice.

She straightened and wiped at her cheeks with a tissue. It was unnerving to see how quickly she could regain her composure, and Tristan attempted not to worry about what she was suppressing in order to stay strong. His previous suggestions that she speak to a professional had fallen on deaf ears, and he wasn’t up for an argument regarding her hypocrisy on the subject.

When his daughter went to wash her face, Tristan withdrew his cellphone and searched through the listings until he located his ex-wife’s number. He was disappointed when her answering machine clicked on.

You’ve reached the home of Vaughn Gillebert. Sorry I missed your call, but I promise I’ll get back to you.

When he heard the tiny beep, Tristan said quietly, If you want to hurt me, then do it directly. He switched off the phone and slipped it back into his pocket seconds before the back door opened; then his son-in-law and grandchildren entered the kitchen.

Grandpa, you’re here! Gabrielle exclaimed before skipping over to him and throwing her arms around his neck. Are you coming to dinner with us?

He assured her he was and accepted a hug from Kris and a smile and a nod from Daniel. Sarah returned to the room in time to hear her daughter’s excited explanation of the afternoon’s events. When she finished, both children went to their respective rooms for a few minutes before it was time to leave for dinner.

So, you had a good time? Sarah asked her husband.

It was nice. It’s been a while since I’ve done that with the kids. I should do it more often. Looking back and forth between his wife and father-in-law, he asked, Did I miss anything?

Vaughn called Katie, and Katie called her back, Sarah said casually. Vaughn hasn’t called the rest of us, yet.

I don’t know if she will, Tristan remarked. However, I’m beginning to think maybe I should call Jim and Helen and find out if she’s been in touch with them. They are her parents.

You’d never know it from the way she’s ignored them since she left, his daughter put in.

Tristan anticipated that some sort of sarcastic comment would follow, but the reappearance of the children brought with it a sudden end to their discussion.

Later that night, Tristan stared up at his bedroom ceiling and remembered Vaughn as she’d been in their early years together. She had been so unpredictable and innocent, quite the opposite of Tristan himself. It hadn’t mattered to her that he was a twenty-four-year-old widower who’d recently emerged from a life-threatening battle with liquor and heroin. She didn’t care that he often suffered from anxiety and depression. His young daughter was welcomed with open arms.

When had things changed? The first few years had been so promising. Tristan began his career as an architect; they bought a home they loved; and their son, Will, was born. It wasn’t until Vaughn became pregnant with Katie that their happy existence had turned into a nightmare. In the end, mother and daughter had survived the dangerous pregnancy, but the collateral damage done to the family was insidious and permanent.

The ringing of the phone interrupted Tristan’s remembrances, and he groaned aloud before lifting the receiver and offering a greeting.

I got your message, Vaughn said coolly. I didn’t call Katie to hurt you. I just wanted to talk with her.

After three years of not giving a damn? Sure.

I did so care, she retorted. I thought about her and everyone each day.

Did you tell her that? I’m certain it meant a lot to her that you were thinking about everyone when she was in the hospital two years ago and almost died of pneumonia. At one point, her fever was so high that she kept asking for you every few seconds. So, where were you? When she was silent, he continued, Kris and Gabrielle ask me where you are and why you left, and I don’t know what to tell them. Will broke off his engagement and has had one bad girlfriend after another since you left. And Sarah –

Sarah what? She’s probably thrilled I’m not around to take up any of your precious time.

What’s happened to you? You’ve been her mother since she was eight. She loves you.

And you? Do you love me?

I love the naïve artist whom I married thirty-three years ago. I don’t have any idea who you are.

He listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before hanging up and getting out of bed. It would be another long night.

Chapter Three

March 13, 2004

Sarah woke, finding herself alone in the bed. Reaching for her long, green robe, she put her feet into the soft, pink slippers her daughter had given her the previous Christmas and went to search for her husband.

Not surprisingly, he was nowhere on the second floor. As she descended the stairs, Sarah fully expected to see him working in the study or reading in the living room. Instead, she found the lights on, the rooms empty, and the front door ajar. The alarm system had been shut off.

Sarah considered her options. She could call 911 and tell them her husband was missing and that a stranger may have been in their home. She could call her father and ask him to drive over immediately. In the end, she reset the alarm before stepping out onto the porch, closing the door behind her.

Giving herself a moment in order to allow her eyes time to adjust to the darkness, Sarah drew her robe together and questioned her sanity. She was alone and unprotected in the yard. She was partially blind. Their house was set back from the street, and the closest neighbors would never hear her scream if she should be attacked. Woods bordered the back of the house. A predator could easily go undetected until it was too late.

She steeled herself against the fierce gusts of wind and made her way across the grass. The clouds in the dark night sky conspired with her damaged vision to hinder her progress. Sarah edged her way towards the garage and tried not to think about burglars, rapists, or murderers.

Daniel’s car was parked in its usual spot. Relieved, Sarah decided to circle the house. Halfway around, she tripped over a hose and landed on her hands and knees. Doubt began to wheedle its way into her resolve. She had almost decided to admit defeat and call her father when she heard the gate to the garden swing open and shut.

As tiny drops of rain began to fall, Sarah moved as quickly as she could towards the garden. She followed the narrow, gravel path and strained to see what lay ahead and on either side. She was so concentrated on her efforts that she almost bumped into Daniel, who was standing in the middle of the path near the bench where his father, Max, had liked to sit with them when they were children. Sarah was about to ask him what he was doing in the garden at 11:30 at night when she noticed that he was seemingly awake, but obviously not aware.

This must be sleepwalking, she thought. But why now? Why never before?

As she struggled to recall what she’d heard about not waking a sleepwalker, Daniel mumbled something unintelligible and continued down the path. Sarah hurried after him, as the heavens opened and blanketed them with gentle chilly droplets.

Daniel, please. It’s cold and wet. Let’s go inside where we can get you warm.

No, no, no, he muttered. I can’t until I make it stop.

Not knowing what to say, Sarah reached out to touch her husband on the arm. She yelped involuntarily when he roughly grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed hard.

Make him stop! he pleaded.

Ignoring the pain in her wrist, Sarah asked, What is he doing?

I have to tell, he declared. But he’ll hurt me worse if I tell.

Your stepfather’s dead, Sarah said firmly. He can’t ever hurt you again.

He hurts me all the time, and I can’t make it go away. If I talk about it –

There was a flash of lightning, followed by a loud clap of thunder, and Daniel started awake and released her. He glanced around in confusion before uttering a series of oaths and wiping raindrops from his face.

Did I hurt you? he asked worriedly.

No, she lied and fought the urge to tuck her left arm behind her back.

Shit, he swore, as lightning flashed again. What’s the matter with your wrist?

Nothing, she answered quickly. I tripped over the hose when I was looking for you.

You don’t get finger-shaped marks by stumbling over something, he pointed out. Was that the only thing I did to you? Are you sure?

Positive. You don’t remember?

Nothing. How in the hell did I get out here?

As they trotted towards the house, she explained. By the time they had reached the master bath, Daniel’s expression was unreadable. As they removed their rain-soaked nightclothes, Sarah observed his scrutiny of her bare flesh. They showered in silence and were soon back in their bed. When Sarah made to lay her hand on his chest, Daniel wrapped his fingers around hers and raised her arm so that he could kiss the purple bruises that snaked around her wrist.

Talk to me, she whispered. Say something.

Tomorrow I’m going to pick up some rope or some handcuffs. That way, I won’t be able to wander around like I did tonight.

As if, she responded hotly. And who’s supposed to tie you up? Me? I don’t think so.

And if I sleepwalk again?

So, talk to someone about it.

I thought I was.

Extricating her hand, Sarah glared at him and said, I’m not a therapist, and I can’t seem to do anything to help you this time. For God’s sake, get some help!

You don’t believe in God any more than I do, he asserted.

I’m willing to consider the possibility, which is a notion you won’t even entertain. But that’s not the point, is it?

"You want to tell me what the fucking point is?"

You could have hurt yourself or one of us tonight. Maybe the kids and I should go to Daddy’s for a few days until you think about what you really need.

Sarah turned away from her husband and listened as he got up and dressed. She’d been hoping for another reaction and was concerned that her suggestion had not brought about the desired response.

This is the right thing to do, she reasoned. If I don’t force his hand, then who knows what might happen? Someone has to watch out for the kids so they don’t have to stand by and see their dad destroy himself like I had to when I was younger.

While she listened to the sounds of the back door opening and closing, Sarah continued to repeat these words over and over until she finally lulled herself into a restless slumber.

Chapter Four

March 14, 2004

The longer Daniel drove aimlessly around town, the more tense he became. He had been deeply shaken by the sleepwalking incident, the injury he’d unknowingly inflicted upon his wife, and her threat to leave and take their children with her. In retrospect, he wondered what she’d ever seen in him and couldn’t fathom how she had tolerated the periods of emotional upheaval for so many years.

Not understanding why, he drove to the building that had once housed his stepfather’s bar and their apartment upstairs. The apartment had been the scene of so much violence and degradation for his mother, stepfather, and himself. For the last nine years, Daniel had donated the space to his friend and spiritual sparring partner, Father Frank Randall, so it could be used as a place to help those children who suffered from domestic abuse. The priest had recently been called to work in Rome, but Daniel had been comfortable with the arrangement that Randall had put in place at Hope House before his departure. Both men had agreed that the operation must continue in Randall’s absence.

Daniel unlocked the back door and walked through a darkened playroom towards the stairs leading up to the second floor. He climbed them slowly. Once upstairs, he moved from the kitchen to an office that had been his bedroom. Refusing to linger, he walked across the hall to what had been his parents’ room and switched on the light.

In that fraction of a second between darkness and light, Daniel saw the room as it had been with heavy, old-fashioned furniture, liquor bottles neatly arranged on the top of the dresser, and the large bed with its blood-stained sheets. That image stayed with him as he scanned the caramel-colored walls, the couch and chairs, the desk, the bookcases, plants, and aquarium. The unreality of these two completely different scenes in the same space made him feel dizzy. The tension grew worse, and he staggered to the corner – his corner – and leaned against one wall for support.

After taking a few deep breaths, he went to the desk and rummaged through the drawers until he found a stack of business cards. Picking up the phone, he jabbed the buttons as he dialed the number printed in the right-hand corner of the top card. The ringing was quickly answered by a man who said sleepily, Ethan Banks, M.D., Ph.D., A.D.H.D.

You have your home number on your card? Daniel asked incredulously. I figured I’d get an answering service.

You must have one of my special ones. I don’t usually give that card out to clients. By the way, I have caller ID. How’d you get in my office?

Your office, my building.

So, you’re Dan Nash.

Yeah. Look, I know it’s early, but I need some help. Frank said you’re the best.

Frank is prejudiced. I’m just a guy who’s got all the qualifications and is willing to work for a lot less money than most.

Why?

Banks laughed and said, I like you already, Mr. Nash. Frank told me you were a handful, but your friendship means a lot to him. He always said we should meet. There was the rustling of sheets, and a female voice murmured something in the background. To get back to your question, I do what I do because there are people in the world who need intensive therapy but can’t afford it. Some of the best candidates are abused women and children. Hope House pays me a decent wage, and I get the satisfaction of knowing I can help people in real need. It makes me feel a little better when I think about how no one helped me when my dad was busy beating the shit out of my brother and me.

Daniel was momentarily at a loss for words. Because his own abuse had been so extreme, he often forgot that anyone he encountered might also have been the victim of domestic violence. Once he’d regained control over his vocal cords, he said, I have to talk with someone right away. If you’re not interested, then I’d appreciate a recommendation.

I’m interested. Have you had breakfast?

What?

You know that meal most folks eat every morning. Have you eaten it?

I’m fucked up, not hungry.

It’s possible to be both. Stay there, and I’ll pick us up something on the way.

As he waited, Daniel dialed his home number. To his relief, his wife answered and asked him whether or not he was all right.

I’m meeting with a therapist in a few minutes. I may be a while.

Take as long as you need.

Sarah, if you think you should stay at your dad’s with the kids, then do it, he offered nervously. Maybe that would be best. I have no right to ask you to stick around for this crap.

Daniel, I may be one of the world’s best co-dependents, but I didn’t marry you out of pity or some screwed-up idea that I could replace taking care of Daddy with taking care of you. I married you because you have such a beautiful soul.

And all this time I thought it was for the sex. Encouraged that he was beginning to feel better, he added, Well, that and the yard work.

The yard work not so much, she said with a laugh. Oh, Daniel. I do love you!

I love you, too. More than you can know.

Ethan Banks appeared not long afterwards carrying two bags from McDonald’s and a cardboard holder filled with two large cups of coffee. As they sat at the table in the small kitchen, Banks extended his hand and said, I’m Ethan.

Dan.

They shook hands and proceeded to remove copious amounts of food from the bags. Daniel glanced at Banks in what he hoped was not an obvious manner. The man was younger than he, but not by many years. He was short and slight with blonde hair. His left eye was green, while the right one was violet.

Daniel had never met anyone with two different colored eyes. He also had not known that violet was an eye color. He wondered if it was some sort of genetic mutation. He wanted to ask but kept silent.

The psychiatrist seemed to sense what he was thinking. As he unwrapped an Egg McMuffin, Banks volunteered, No, I wasn’t born that way. Both of my eyes used to be green.

Is your vision different in each eye?

Only the color. Blunt trauma tweaked something in my brain and permanently altered my right eye. My father introduced my skull to the corner of the fireplace mantel. Several times, even. I was unconscious for a week. It was worth it. The bastard went to jail, and my brother and I were sent to live with an aunt and uncle far, far away.

What about your mother?

She stuck by my dad.

You forgive them?

I understand them, but that doesn’t excuse what they did to us.

I understand a lot about my parents, but I definitely don’t forgive them. I hate them.

More than you hate yourself?

With a wry smile, Daniel answered, Most of the time.

They finished their breakfast in silence. Once the debris of their meal had been thrown away, Banks led Daniel back to his caramel-colored office and gestured for him to have a seat. Reluctantly, he obliged and sat stiffly on the couch.

You don’t want to be here, the psychiatrist observed. I need you to trust me. I’m not going to do anything you don’t okay first.

It’s not you per se. It’s hard to be in this room. This is where most of it took place when my mother was still alive.

Most of what?

"Their arguments. Sometimes, he’d wail on her just because. Other times, she’d goad him into a fight even though she knew what would happen once it started.

And what was that?

He’d yell and hit and occasionally force himself on her.

And where was your place when you were witness to it?

Daniel pointed to the corner and said, I can’t explain it all. I’m so tired of talking about their perversions.

Then we won’t right now. I have a few questions, then we can move on. If you don’t like my style after an hour we’ll quit, and I’ll recommend another therapist. I do have one request, Banks said, as he sat in one of the chairs across from Daniel. You have to be totally honest with me from the beginning. No secrets and no lies.

As long as that’s reciprocal.

Of course, Banks assured him. You ready?

Yeah, I am.

Good. As the psychiatrist threw one leg over the arm of his chair and slouched sideways, he asked, Why did you call me this morning?

I told you. I need help.

When’s the last time you talked to a shrink?

My therapist died in October.

So, why didn’t you call me then?

I didn’t want to have to start over with a new person. Stupid, I know. You’d think I’d have figured out a long time ago that everything eventually goes to hell in a hand basket when I don’t have a good psychiatrist working with me.

You’re here now. What changed in the last twenty-four hours?

I got scared.

Of what?

Daniel twisted a loose piece of thread that hung from the pillow next to him. He wished the psychiatrist could simply read his mind so that he could avoid rehashing the revelation of the newly remembered repressed memories, the sleepwalking incident, and the harm he’d done to his wife. Knowing that ESP was probably not a factor in his therapy, he went over the basics of what had happened as the thread was wound tighter and tighter around his index finger.

Banks nodded and said, Give your finger back some circulation and tell me about the memory you had the evening your father-in-law woke you in your office.

Samuels…um, my stepfather…thought I’d moved some of his porn magazines. He was drunk and pissed, and the son of a bitch tried to drown me. At the last minute, he pulled me out and settled for beating me instead. The whole time he’s whining about how I make him do it and how he loves me.

He probably did in his own fucked-up way, the psychiatrist put in. Did you love him?

I despised him.

I got that. I asked if you loved him.

Daniel mulled over this question for a long time before quietly answering, If I did, I’m not ready to let myself admit it.

Then we’ll go on to what happened in your garden.

Rising from the couch, Daniel began to wander around the room. Ostensibly examining the books on the shelves and the fish in the aquarium, he was trying to ignore the unfamiliar sense of claustrophobia and the feeling of terror that had resurfaced within him.

It was suddenly impossible to breathe or to swallow. Daniel’s skin was clammy, and he was becoming disoriented. He felt Banks’s hands on his arms and blindly allowed the man to guide him out of the room.

It’s okay, Banks assured him calmly. You’re okay.

Shaking his head, Daniel forced himself to take one breath after another. He continued to have trouble swallowing and tried to tell himself that it was all psychological and that he should stop thinking about such a reflexive bodily function.

You’re all right, Banks continued. You’re fine.

Daniel choked out a bitter laugh and said, I’m fine?

We’re out of there, and you’re near the stairs. You can breathe again, can’t you? You could go out of here if you wanted or you could go back to my office. You have the control. That makes things all right. It’s your choice. Where do you want to go next?

They sat on the floor of the playroom. Banks opted to prop himself up with a bean bag chair, while Daniel leaned his back against the wall behind him.

I can’t tell you about it, Daniel said quietly. What a joke. I’m forty-six years old, and the son of a bitch has still got a hold on me.

The things that were done to you were obviously terrible. The fact that you’re not in a psych ward or jail is pretty damned impressive. Don’t feel guilty for the results of someone else’s cruelty and insanity. How about if I try to make it easier for you to explain? Maybe ask some questions instead of making you come out with it all at once?

What if I can’t answer you?

Then we’ll deal with that. How old were you in the second dream, the one you woke from in the garden?

Twelve.

Where were you?

Pressing the heel of one hand against his forehead, Daniel said, I can’t, Ethan. I have to, but I can’t. I don’t know how to cope anymore, and I hate experiencing this kind of anxiety and panic. It makes me feel so out of control.

That usually means you are out of control. Avoiding it will only make it worse.

Daniel nodded slowly and struggled to evoke the explanation the therapist expected. Fighting the physical reaction that came with the emotional stress, he clenched his jaw and tried to ignore the insidious fear spiraling throughout his body.

You hanging in there? Banks asked evenly.

Barely. Can we come back to this?

Not unless you want to check into a mental health facility until you work it out. If you don’t, you’re going to be worried about what you might do to yourself or your family in the meantime. As Daniel continued to grapple with what he needed and what he wanted, Banks suggested, Try to start small. You were twelve. Were you standing, sitting, or lying down?

Standing.

And what were you doing?

Trying not to scream.

Why did you want to scream?

Because he was breaking my arm, Daniel answered wearily.

And why was he breaking your arm?

Because I said I’d tell.

Tell what?

That he raped somebody.

Your mother?

No. She’d been dead for a while.

Who then?

A girl.

Someone you knew?

No. I wasn’t sure where she came from. Her crying woke me up that morning. She was begging for him to stop, and he wouldn’t. By the time I got to the bedroom, she was curled in a ball on the floor. She looked so young.

Where was he?

Suddenly enraged, Daniel kicked at the leg of the large table near him and said, "Sitting on the edge of the bed drinking