CHAPTER THREE
1989 Words
CHAPTER THREE
Ilse sat upright in the airplane seat, feeling the rattle of turbulence. Her hands twisted uncertainly at the porcelain doll resting on her tray. One of the attendants was hurrying past, steadying herself against the headrests as she moved towards the front of the plane. The Buckle Seatbelts light blinked, and another passenger rushed from the bathroom, nearly colliding with the stewardess in his haste. And while Ilse wanted to focus on the turbulence, on the plane, even on the fear of the passengers around her who weren't used to flights, all she could really think about was her father.
The plane shook again, her tray rattling. Ilse tapped the porcelain doll against the tray; it portrayed a small child, with a little puppy. She had pieced the broken sections back together, though parts were still missing. A familiar doll. One she'd been sent in the mail by the same person taunting her with postcards. Hilda Mueller's name was on the postcards,the cities she had lived in on the front. Someone knew who she was.
That was why she'd come to Germany, to visit her father after all those years.
And that was why, sitting there, the plane shaking around her, passengers fidgeting nervously, she only focused on one obvious fact.
Her father hadn't recognized her.
He hadn't recognized her name. So how on Earth could he have been the one sending postcards to her?
She swallowed a lump in her throat.
Someone else had been in the memory of the truck. She remembered the way her hand had clasped the seatbelt, like someone gripping a lifeline. She remembered the cruel, cold tones of the gray figure in the front seat. She remembered the look of guilt on her father's face. And then the pain.
Someone else had been there.
Whoever the second person was, the one Heidi had warned her about, the one Ilse was starting to remember, it was the same person who'd been upstairs.
Had this person controlled her father?
Gerald Mueller had seemed like such a child in that memory. Whoever the second person was, were they the one tormenting her, sending her clues? But what did they want? And how could Ilse find them?
The turbulence slowly calmed, but Ilse remained upright, shoulders set, eyes ahead on some murky horizon. A gray horizon. But she would fill in the color.
Vaguely, as she sat there and listened to the other passengers beginning to breathe easy, she wondered what Dr. Mitchell wanted from her. And why hadn't he told her over the phone?
It seemed urgent, so she had managed to get the first flight back. It wasn't like there was anything left for her in Germany. At least nothing she could unearth without more clues, more information.
***
When the taxi from the airport turned into the city, instead of to the north, towards the suburbs, Ilse frowned reactively. It took her a second to remember she no longer lived in that lake home beneath the trees. Now, she had an apartment in Seattle.
The taxi pulled outside the curb, and in the distance, she spotted the Space Needle. Along the stretch of road, a couple of joggers were passing by. A man was walking a small dog no larger than his foot.
Ilse tipped the driver, grabbed her luggage and hurried out to the curb towards the front door of her new place. She buzzed herself in and then took the steps towards the second floor. Close enough to the atrium she could beat a hasty retreat if she needed to. Far enough, so her windows were off the ground. The second floor seemed perfect.
Her keys jangled, her breath coming rapidly, a thin film of sweat across her forehead from the small exertion and the long flight. She pushed into her new apartment, glancing around and smelling fresh paint. A few boxes still scattered the room. She still hadn't managed to set up her giant desktop computer. She didn't own a laptop—though, according to Agent Tom Sawyer, that was going to have to change. She didn't even own a smart phone.
The wood-burning stove in the kitchen was a black, iron thing; she hadn't let the manager hook up the gas to the actual stove. Ilse hated technology.
She hadn't yet unpacked everything either. And yet, she liked the apartment. As the door clicked shut behind her, she frowned, opened it, closed it again, opened it, and closed it again.
A small ritual, a small sacrifice for peace of mind. She then locked the door, chained it, and moved hurriedly over to the sink. She placed her luggage on the ground and hastily began to wash her hands and dab at her forehead. No time for a shower. She glanced at the clock above the never-used microwave.
Nearly ten AM. She'd managed to get some sleep on the flight, but Dr. Mitchell was due any moment now. He knew how much she valued punctuality, and so she knew he would show up on time. Only a few minutes remained before he'd promised to arrive.
She dabbed more water on her skin, wiped her face with a dry cloth over the stove, and then quickly shoved one of the unpacked boxes behind the couch by the time the door buzzed.
Ten AM exactly.
Her mouth curled into a dimpled smile. She hurried to the door, buzzed it and then went through the rigmarole of opening, shutting, and opening her door again. By the third time, the sound of footsteps had stopped, and as she opened the door a final time, a man with smiling eyes, and a large bushy white beard was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed. One of his arms was metallic, a prosthetic, his other was tapping against his metal elbow energetically. She knew that Dr. Mitchell preferred to bicycle everywhere, but since she'd moved to the city, he'd been forced to start driving.
"Hey Don,” she said, cheerfully, brushing her hair past her ear and stepping aside to allow her old mentor access.
But he didn't move. It took her a second to realize he was wearing black
She frowned at his suit. Complete with a bowtie. Normally, though Mitchell dressed well, he was more casual than this.
"Where's the funeral?" she said, half joking.
He didn't smile back. His eyes were still twinkling, but this seemed to have more to do with her than her comment.
"It's good to see you," Mitchell said in his grandfatherly way.
She hesitated, one hand on her hip. "You too."
"Did you just get back?"
"Yeah... Don, what's going on? Why do you look nervous?"
He sighed, passing a hand over his face. "Look, Ilse I didn't want to tell you when you were overseas. But I have something to say."
Ilse frowned now, feeling her blood pumping. Why was he looking at her like he was about to announce he had cancer or something? Her stomach tightened at the dread.
"Do you remember Claudia Rice?"
Ilse paused, confused. "Claudia? Wait, hang on, you mean my first client Claudia?"
Mitchell nodded once, sighing as he did now, the strange, dark atmosphere he was carrying had settled over the room.
"What's the matter?" she insisted.
"I'm guessing you haven't checked your emails, recently.”
“I—I mean, you know how it is. Computers...,” she waved a hand.
“Right. Right, I thought not. Well, I'm afraid I have bad news. I," he hesitated, and glanced off for a moment, his eyes vacant. "I never would've passed her onto you if I had thought she was...,” he trailed off.
“Don, you’re worrying me. Did something happen to Claudia?”
Dr. Mitchell looked at her, nodded once. Then, quickly, like tearing off a Band-Aid, he said, “She killed herself yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I knew you two had gotten close.”
Ilse was only half listening now. She took a couple of steps back, as if she’d been punched. She let out a long breath, stumbling onto the couch behind her and collapsing on the seat. “Suicide?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s not possible. She was doing well.”
“That’s what I thought too. I wouldn’t have handed her to you if I thought she was doing poorly. Especially not for your first client.”
Ilse shook her head, staring unblinking at the carpet. The smell of fresh paint seemed more acerbic all of a sudden. "That had to have been almost ten years ago," Ilse murmured. "Longer."
"Eleven," Mitchell said softly. "I remember the first couple of months with Claudia. I thought you two would be a perfect fit. And since you were looking for your first private client, I thought it was a great match. I didn't mean to overburden you."
Ilse looked up, frowning. "You didn't. She was fine. Really. She's one of the few clients who, in a way, graduated from our sessions."
Mitchell let out a little puff of air and shrugged once. "I know. I remember you telling me. And I believe it. But, unfortunately, she must've fallen back into some trouble." He massaged his temples and shook his head, looking off to the side. "I only wish she'd called me."
Ilse had the same wish. Claudia had first been Donovan's client. And then Ilse's. She'd been such a sweet woman.
Ilse could now feel the air leaving the room. Both of them, professional therapists, both of them dealing with trauma. A suicide was a slap to the face. The utmost failure for someone in their line of work. They had failed Claudia. Ilse had failed Claudia. For a moment, neither she nor Dr. Mitchell even looked at each other. A sense of shame lingered between them.
Suicide. After all of that. Years of work. Ilse could remember the first time Claudia had smiled. She remembered the first time Claudia had laughed in a session; it had taken three years. She remembered the first time Claudia had said she was feeling better. Remembered the pride Ilse had felt when she'd said goodbye for the last time to her client. Her first client. It had given her a lot of hope to see someone recover. It had taken her through some much darker sessions.
And now suicide?
"s**t," she muttered.
Dr. Mitchell cleared his throat. "Like I said, I didn't feel it was right to tell you over the phone. But also, Ilse, the wake is today. In a couple of hours, in fact. I can give you a ride, if you like."
She blinked, stunned, glancing at his suit and bowtie. Black.
Gray. Black.
Things were just getting darker.
"Today?"
Mitchell nodded. "I understand if you're jet-lagged. If it's too short notice. I just wanted to give you the opportunity to come in case—"
"Of course," she blurted. "Just let me get dressed. I'll be right there. Make yourself at home. Sorry about the boxes."
Ilse turned, numb, shell-shocked, hurrying back towards her luggage and dragging it to her bedroom. The door clicked behind her. As it did, she began to hyperventilate, her shoulders pressed against the wood.
Suicide. Dead. Gray to black.
The wake was today. Only two hours. She was glad Mitchell had called her. Glad she'd managed to get an early flight.
But now, her stomach twisting, she couldn't help but feel like her past was coming to catch up with her once more. The pieces were falling apart again. She had built something for herself here. Something good.
And though she couldn't see it directly, like a shadow out of the corner of her eye, it felt like a poison was spreading. Rapidly.
Dead. Gray to black.
Fingers shaking, she moved to her closet, looking for her own funeral clothing.
- Writer
