Put on The Red Dress

By Sandy Raschke

Veronica Eberly woke up in a hospital bed in Santa Barbara with broken bones and a bad concussion. The nurse said she had been hit in a crosswalk by a drunk driver and had undergone surgery to reduce the pressure on her brain. Veronica remembered nothing of the ordeal—or her past.

             A few days later, the hospital's young social worker, Kevin Lawrence, interviews her and uses her driver's license to find out where she came from so he can search for emergency contacts.

             Kevin shows her a photo ID from a mental health clinic in Pomona, California he found in her wallet. He is surprised to learn that Veronica, at age twenty-three, has been a practicing clinical psychologist for two years. Veronica said she had resigned her position after disagreeing with the clinic manager about the use of antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds for young patients. She came to Santa Barbara to contemplate her future then decided to stay and look for work. She was on her way to her first interview when the hit-and-run occurred.

             Six weeks later, after regaining her mobility at a short-stay convalescent hospital, Veronica is offered a position at the Babcock Family Clinic. The clinic manager, Henry Babcock, a psychiatrist, agrees with her "no drugs/talk therapy/physical activities" approach and welcomes her to the practice. But first, she needs to return to Pomona to pack up her belongings.

             As she fills the moving boxes, she finds three, thigh-length red dresses, a purple and red-streaked wig, spike heels, high black boots, and skimpy red lingerie—and has no idea where they came from or why she would buy such revealing outfits. She also discovers jewelry and receipts for the dresses and lingerie in the drawer of her bedside table which jog her memory. But other finds are a mystery to her. What did she do in her free time during those two months she looked for work in L. A. and failed?

             With the help of Dr. Wilkins, a Santa Barbara hypnotherapist, Veronica is able to retrieve a number of memories previously lost to her. The session reveals she did some odd things, totally out of character. Aided by Dr. Wilkins, Veronica discovers why. She makes another appointment to suss out what she knows about her parents—and last, to confirm the name and location of her aunt who became her legal guardian when she was five years old.

             What did her aunt tell Veronica about her background and her father's death when she visits her in Los Angeles? And after Kevin's untimely death, how did Darwin Seager, a former Navy Lieutenant and now assistant manager of the swim club Veronica joined, help to uncover the mystery of her mother's disappearance?

             Veronica's struggle to recall what she had forgotten results in both success and tragic disappointment, tests her ability to weather grief, and opens her heart to love again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandy Raschke
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224762170

Book preview

Prologue

Tony gave her flowers and friendship. Daniel gave her three, two-pound boxes of Sees dark chocolates. Nate gave her a citrine pendant on a gold chain. Robert gave her a silver bracelet with several small turquoise stones embedded in it. Bill gave her a miniature tool kit. Mallory invited her to a weekend in Lake Tahoe and, when they left, gave her a 1991 white Ford Mustang convertible with red leather seats. 

Sal took her to dinner and the movies then gave her a night of love. The next morning  as she slept, he stole her credit card before sneaking out the door—an unfortunate mistake soon rectified by one of Veronica’s friends.

Veronica couldn’t walk down the street without a man admiring her bold, brassy beauty. The purple hair streaked with red, short skirts to her thighs, the high black boots and low cut tops caused men to stop and stare, and sometimes whistle. And—for a short while—she appreciated their attention. If she stopped on a corner waiting for a light to change, or moved through a supermarket check-out line, went to a club or the mall—a man would come up to her and ask her out for lunch, dinner, or a night of dancing. A few of them solicited her for sex, but she wasn’t a sex worker. She didn’t need to be. Men were drawn to her as if she were a siren.

There’s something about you... a few of them said and gave her gifts after their encounter. Then they never saw her again...

Chapter 1

Veronica Eberly led an ordinary middle-class life, raised from age five by her Aunt Jeanne. She grew up in West Los Angeles, California. She was a gifted student, skipped a few grades, entered Pomona College at the age of sixteen and majored in Psychology. She came out four years later with a Masters Degree in Behavioral Psychology. After completing an internship and the requisite hours of practice, she became a licensed psychotherapist, specializing in child and young adult counseling. Her first job was at a nearby not-for-profit mental health clinic. At twenty-one, she was the youngest psychotherapist the clinic ever hired.

Veronica had always considered herself homely. She had dull, dark brown hair cut short, large gray-green eyes, and eyeglasses with a tortoise-shell frame to accommodate her nearsightedness. She dressed conservatively, usually in a suit or pant suit: a pencil skirt or slacks, and matching jacket in a beige or dark blue, sometimes black or gray. Low heels. Clothing that wouldn’t intimidate a patient but give off a neutral or benign look.  And other than a light application of lipstick, she wore no makeup.

Most of her assigned patients were almost as young as she was—in their late teens to early twenties, and came from neighboring communities—most suffered from anxiety and depression, but also drug, alcohol, and sexual abuse. Veronica tried to avoid recommending a drug regimen to treat them, and suggested exercise, music, hobbies, or a good long walk to dispel their fears and anxiety. And she had science on her side to prove physical activity beat antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds close to fifty percent of the time.

Generally, her advice worked, but the patient’s recovery took longer than a prescription, which bothered her superiors. They wanted her to speed up the therapy with the use of drugs then move on to the next patient. The average visit was supposed to be forty-five minutes, but Veronica would spend at least an hour with her patients, talking, offering alternatives to risky or bad behaviors, but never recommending drugs.

Why the rush? she thought and continued on with talk therapy. Her clients needed time to learn how to appreciate their individuality and realize anxiousness and depression were only minor aspects of one’s entire life experience.

One afternoon, the clinic manager reprimanded Veronica for taking too long to treat a patient and told her to start recommending the drugs detailed in their treatment protocols. Loud words were exchanged and when she walked out of the clinic manager’s office, the manager’s administrative assistant told Veronica she had some vital information: the clinic was getting kickbacks from several pharmaceutical companies.

Veronica went back to the clinic manager and resigned. Unfortunately, when she applied for other positions in the area, she quickly discovered her previous employer had trashed her reputation. She had been described as being unstable and unwilling to work with her colleagues and management. A dozen interviews later, she hadn’t received one job offer.

She could have applied to private clinics, but didn’t like the sky-high fees they charged their patients, whether insured or not.

Chapter 2

After two months of fruitless searching, Veronica decided to spend a week in Santa Barbara and contemplate her future. It was easier to think and reflect in a beautiful setting away from her urban environment, and memories. She liked the coastal community, its beaches and parks, the various museums and the nearby University of California-Santa Barbara campus. She had a comfortable hotel suite, ate at various restaurants and bistros, swam in the hotel’s pool, and by Sunday had made up her mind to relocate to Santa Barbara.

She hadn’t touched the bequest left to her by her paternal grandmother two years ago, but when her health insurance expired in three months, she hoped to have a new job by then so she wouldn’t have to dip into her investment account. She gave thought to starting her own practice but soon changed her mind. The cost of establishing a practice would be prohibitive and students from UC-Santa Barbara were eligible for free therapy from the clinic on the campus. On Monday, she would check out mental health clinics and private practices and see if any of them needed an experienced behavioral therapist with a sympathetic ear for young people.

Chapter 3

Veronica opened her tablet and looked up not-for-profit mental health providers and practices in Santa Barbara and the surrounding area. She found eight clinics, several specializing in counseling young people and families, and contacted them. A few hours later, she had been offered interviews at three facilities.

On Tuesday at 8:00 a.m., she left the hotel for her first interview. The clinic was within walking distance. As she crossed the street on the green light, a car came out of nowhere and hit her. She came to rest like a rag doll, flung close to the curb on the other side of the intersection. The car sped off but a few bystanders jotted down the license number.

Several people ran to her aid. One person called 9-1-1 and an ambulance arrived within minutes and took her to the emergency room. After several x-rays and scans were taken, she was rushed into surgery.

The surgeon and his assistants sedated her and, far in the distance as if her ears had been stuffed with cotton, she heard low voices, one issuing commands and the others repeating what the voice said.

She had no pain, but felt as if she were floating upon a calm sea, tickled by a school of fish wafting over and around her. She struggled to open her eyes but lost.

When she did open her eyes, she could barely see anything. She knew she was lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors and an IV drip. Her lower left arm and leg were in casts, the fourth finger on her right hand secured by a metal appliance. Her head was wrapped in a bandage and bolstered on each side so she couldn’t move it. Every time she took a breath, it hurt and so did her head—with the worst headache she’d ever had.

A nurse arrived to take her vitals. How are you feeling, Ms. Eberly? Are you experiencing any pain?

Yes. What happened? she asked. Why am I here?

According to the traffic cams and eye witnesses, you were hit by a car while in a crosswalk. The driver took off, but was arrested yesterday, the nurse said. As you can tell by the casts, your left tibia and ulna were fractured along with the fourth finger on your right hand. She looked at the chart again. Also, you suffered a bad concussion and have two cracked ribs. The surgeon had to relieve the pressure on your brain and you’ve been in a medically-induced coma for three days.

What did you say my name is?

Veronica Eberly. You don’t remember?

No. I remember whispering voices and floating, but nothing more.

It’s common to have temporary amnesia after a severe accident like this, the nurse said with empathy in her voice. The memories will come back to you, eventually. Where are you feeling pain?

I can’t see well, and my head and ribs hurt, she said. My head feels about to explode and I feel a sharp pain when I breathe...

The nurse looked away for a moment, not wanting to alarm the patient. I’ll have the doctor check you over, she said, and left the room.

Veronica blinked a few times then drifted off into a black void.

Chapter 4

The doctor arrived within a half hour, gave her a gentle shake and she woke up. He used an instrument to prick her arms, hand, fingers, legs and feet. Do you feel anything? he asked.

Yes, pinpricks, she said.

Are they painful?

Like being stung by a bee.

That’s a good sign, he said. I’m Dr. Ralph Perez, the hospital’s chief neurologist, and will be checking on you from time to time. He took her vitals. You appear to be recovering well. As for the headache, it is common in concussions, but we’ll do another scan later today and make sure you don’t have any brain swelling or clots.

He smiled. The two cracked ribs will eventually heal without medical intervention, but we can give you a mild painkiller for the headache.

Okay, she said, taking shallow breaths. Then a monitor went off.

Low oxygen level, Dr. Sanchez said. Try to breathe normally.

Okay, but what about my eyesight? It’s blurry.

He looked at her chart. Ah! We had to remove your contact lenses so the doctors could check your eyes and retina.

Contact lenses?

Yes. Do you want us to call anyone for you? The intake staff couldn’t find any emergency contacts listed anywhere in the purse or wallet recovered at the scene. Your cell phone was also inside, slightly damaged when the drunk driver partially drove over your purse. I’ll see if it can be fixed.

She looked up at him. My parents live in West Los Angeles, I think...

You’re not sure?

No. I’m trying to visualize the home I grew up in, but can’t form an image.

You still have amnesia, he said. I’ll have one of our social workers visit you and see if he can find out your next-of-kin and notify them.

Could I see my purse, please?

Of course. All your personal items are in a plastic bag. I’ll have the nurse bring them to you. He patted her hand but, before he left, he removed the head bolsters so she could sit up and eat.

The arm cast started right above her left wrist and ended below the elbow. Veronica was able to wiggle her fingers on the left hand, but the broken finger on her right hand made holding utensils, drinking or eating awkward.

The LVN assigned to her ordered scrambled eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice then helped her eat. Veronica was hungry and ate everything on the plate. She was able to drink through a straw by herself. Then the LVN checked the catheter, emptied the urine bag and replaced it with a new one. See you later, she said to Veronica and went on to the next patient.

Shortly after breakfast, Veronica dozed off but was awakened later by a soft tap on the hand. She opened her eyes and was able to put on the pair of glasses she found in her purse. Fortunately it was in a hard case and survived the hit-and-run. She looked up at the face of a smiling young man.

The neurologist asked me to stop by and see if we can find your next-of-kin or an emergency contact. He pointed to his ID badge: Kevin Laurence, LMSW.

The only thing I found in my purse which might provide a clue is my driver’s license. I also found a pack of contact lenses, and these tortoise-shell glasses, still intact, she said. Using her thumb and second finger on her right hand, she plucked out a plastic box and her phone. "Hmm... I don’t remember wearing contact lenses."

He looked into her unusual gray-green eyes, magnified by the glasses. I’ll have the nurse help you to insert another pair.

And the phone? I either need a new cell phone or get this one fixed.

I’ll look for someone to fix the phone. For now, we can check your name against several databases and see if you have any relatives in California, Kevin said.

He was tall, slightly muscular, with slightly curly dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and soft features. He didn’t look like a social worker, although she couldn’t remember what a social worker was supposed to look like.

Suddenly she laughed.

Remember something? he asked.

I think I’ve worked with people like you, Veronica said. But I don’t remember where.

Like in the mental health field? Counseling?

Her eyes brightened. "Yes, that’s it. Counseling. A clinic. I remember a clinic..."

Any idea where? He sat down in the chair next to her and gently held her left hand.

Ah...let me think, she said as he poured a glass of water, stuck a straw in it and set it on the bedside tray. She took a long sip. Didn’t realize I was so thirsty.

The antibiotic drip, he said, and the fact you spent three days in a medically-induced coma, according to your chart.

Did you look through my wallet? she asked.

Not really, just the driver’s license. Why?

Let me look. Maybe it will jog my memory.

He handed her the leather wallet and, with the limited use of her hands, she awkwardly thumbed through the inserts: a credit card, a debit card, and behind one of them, a photo. I’m too clumsy at the moment. Could you pull the photo out for me, and any other cards or photos behind the credit and debit cards?

My pleasure. He pulled out the photo, a photo ID and an insurance card, and handed them to her.

She looked at each photo. That’s me with, I think, my parents. And the ID came from where I used to work—I’m sure of it.

He rolled the ID over a few times. The title below your photo says ‘Psychotherapist.’ And you are wearing those glasses, he said. So, from what I can tell, you were working in the therapeutic community.

Her eyes widened at the word. "Yes, Kevin. I was a therapist...in... ah... um... southern California."

You’re pretty young to be a therapist, he said and glanced at the name of the clinic. Could I make a copy of this and notify your employer?

She shook her head. Ouch, I shouldn’t have done that... But I remember now—all of it—coming back in a rush.

You look flushed, he said. Breathe.

I also feel woozy...

Take another deep breath, he said. She did and grimaced. Sorry, I forgot about your cracked ribs. Now take another, slowly, in and out until the wooziness dissipates. He motioned for her to drink more water.

Thank you, again, she said, taking another breath. "No, don’t contact them. They wanted to can me for... for... um... not recommending antidepressants or anti-anxiety meds to my patients. But I resigned instead—maybe two months ago? The management blackballed me, so I came here to recover and look for another position. She gave him a cautious look. Sorry for babbling." 

You weren’t. How amazing to remember all of that at once—it’s one of the fastest recoveries I’ve seen in a long time, he said. You must have a highly-disciplined mind.

I’d like to think so, she said. Now what?

I’ll have the intake clerk check your insurance information, then we’ll try to find your family or an emergency contact and let them know what happened to you, he said. The neurologist has scheduled another scan after lunch, and your assigned physician will most likely refer you to a rehab facility, if needed.

"How long before the casts come off