Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“Quite a dream,” Abbie Wilson replied, resting her pad and pen down on her lap. “Did these dreams start after the tragedy?”

The tragedy. Angela hated the way that sounded. She wished Abbie could reference what happened differently, but she couldn’t come up with anything better herself, so…

“Yes. But not like this. They stopped altogether when we were on Switch. Didn’t have a single nightmare while shooting.”

Abbie nodded, and then scooped up her pad and pen like she had suddenly remembered something important and pertinent. Hastily, she scribbled down her thoughts. “Let’s talk about Switch.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been back from Vermont for how long now? Two days?”

Angela squinted, trying to recall. The return home had felt like an eternity ago, but yes, Abbie was correct. They’d left Vermont and crossed the New York/New Jersey border just under forty-eight hours ago. “Yes. But God, it feels like years ago.” She felt a manic laugh creep into her throat but swallowed the outburst before the noise seized the opportunity to launch past her teeth.

Abbie offered a faint smile. “Yes, time seems to work differently on those who have a lot on their mind. How does it feel being back home?”

Angela shuddered, a chill in the room diving beneath her flesh. “It feels… different. But the same. Like I never left, but simultaneously, like I was never there to begin with. I know that makes absolutely no sense, but—”

“No, it does,” the woman assured her. She adjusted her glasses. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

“But I feel… jumbled. Out of place. Like the house is a puzzle and I’m the final piece that doesn’t fit no matter how you spin me.”

“That’s an interesting metaphor.”

Angela jerked her shoulders. “It’s how I feel.”

“Like a stranger in a familiar house?”

“Yes, I guess that’s another way of putting it.”

“How’s Terry taking the adjustment?”

Angela paused. She wondered about Terry. Worried, she thought, was more like it. You worry about Terry. He had left work about the same time as the start of her session and would be home by now. “Eh, you know Terry. If something’s wrong, you’ll never hear about it.”

“Has he gotten any better? I mean, when the two of you were on Switch, did he ever open up for the cameras? Speak his mind? Tell you how he felt? That was one of the goals you wanted to work on.”

“He did. Sort of. The cameras on us twenty-four-seven definitely helped. I mean, he had to be open. We had to discuss things. That’s what we signed up for. It was in our contract.”

“Was he candid?”

Angela thought back to a few weeks ago when the producer of Let’s Switch Houses!, Barry Harrison, pulled her aside and told her the Shepards were becoming a bit of a snoozefest, that they needed to produce some good material, quality footage, and fast, implying television ratings would surely dip if something interesting didn’t happen and soon. Barry begged her to quiz Terry on “the tragedy.” She doubted that conversation would go over well and, as it turned out, she had been right.

“Not as candid as the producers would have liked.”

Abbie nodded and recorded her response. “And how did it make you feel?”

“Like we weren’t… on the same team. God, I wish he’d just talk about it. I mean, it’s been almost eight months.”

“Must be frustrating.” Abbie swallowed. “Angela, might I suggest we try to bring Terry in. For a couple’s session.”

Angela shook her head. “No, I told you. I don’t want my husband to know I’m here.”

“I can pretend it’s the first time we’ve ever met. He won’t even suspect—”

“No, Dr. Wilson. Absolutely not. He doesn’t… he doesn’t believe in this stuff. He thinks he’s tougher than that. That he can deal with these emotions, these feelings, on his own. He doesn’t want help.” An intense burn seared her eyeballs. “I mean, he won’t even talk to me for Christ’s sakes.”

“What do you think about it? Do you think he would benefit from therapy?”

Angela twisted her neck and focused on the walls, the hanging abstract art. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know anything anymore.”

“You didn’t want to come home, did you, Angela?”

Tears set fire behind her eyes, and she pinched her eyelids shut to keep her face dry. “No, not really. I hate that house. I hate everything about it.”

“Has the realtor helped any?”

She shook her head. “No. She says, because of… of what happened, we’d have to basically give away the house.”

“That’s a tough thing to hear,” Abbie said, handing her a tissue. Angela sensed sincerity in her voice.

“Thank you.” She blotted away the last of her tears. “We simply can’t afford it. We can’t afford to take a loss.”

“I understand.”

“I feel stuck.”

Abbie tapped her pen on the pad. “None of this is your fault.”

“Of course it is. If I—”

Abbie raised her hand. “Don’t. Don’t push the blame on yourself. We’ve talked about this, Angela, there’s no need for self-accusations. What happened eight months ago was no one’s fault. This is something you need to work on. Understand? Pushing blame on yourself isn’t healthy, and furthermore, it’s a lie. You did nothing wrong. The authorities cleared you of any potential charges and no one in the D.A.’s office batted an eye.”

Angela nodded. Blame weighed heavily on her conscience, dragging her down like an anchor. She felt the pressure of the event (the tragedy) in her frontal lobe daily, an intense bass drum-like beat no over-the-counter prescription could erase.

Abbie sighed. “We have one more thing to talk about before our hour is up.”

“Oh? I can’t wait.”

“Sex.”

Oh. That. “Well, that’s an easy one, Doc.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. There isn’t any. End of story.”

Abbie looked like she wanted to laugh; however, the psychiatrist managed to keep her professional demeanor. “Did you and Terry try?” she asked. “During filming?”

“Yes,” she said, recalling the three instances where they had tried to make love. “It was…”

(Terry takes off her top and licks her nipples, giving each side a fair amount of attention. He moves on to her lips. She’s not into faking romance. He’s not either and she can sense his indifference, allowing his lethargic attempt to eat her thoughts and crush her spirit. Before their half-assed romp goes any further, she puts a hand on his bare chest and says, “Hey, I’m not—”)

“—in the mood.”

“Ouch,” Abbie said, jotting down more notes.

“Yeaaaah, and the other two attempts were just as good. Do you want to hear about them? It’ll make for a great laugh later when you’re out with friends.”

“No.” The psychiatrist waved her pen in the air. “No, not necessary.”

Angela filled her lungs through her nose, then exhaled. The slow exercise did nothing to calm her. Her nerves were in turmoil, actively running up and down her entire body. Her heart pounded. She knew the sessions would help in the long run but she hated that weekly hour. Divulging secrets exhausted her until she had no more emotion left, went home feeling like a husk of her former self. “What do I do, Doc?”

“Can you be honest with me?”

Angela narrowed her eyes. “Of course. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

“Do you still love Terry? And I don’t mean out of some false sense of obligation. I’m talking about real love. Deep down, in the depths of your soul, do you still love him?”