Two Feet Above

That was enough. James led us to his study, and in the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk, he pulled out an old leather booklet. Inside were those clear plastic business card holders. He handed it to me skeptically. There on the fourth page from the back, was Margaret Bachman's card.

"You know her how?" James was right to ask.

"This is Theodore's sister," I explained. "She's also the therapist that brought all the information to me, besides being the person who set up our psychological treatment team."

"And you don't trust her, for some reason?" he continued his line of questioning.

"At the moment," I shrugged, "I'm trying to prove her trustworthiness."

James and I talked further for a bit and then I headed home. He told me to keep the card. Rebecca looked at me curiously as I entered. I could tell she was nearly bursting to start firing questions at me. I'd had some time to think and plan on the drive from her father's house.

On the drive home, I called an attorney that I'd found through a friend at work. If a logical explanation for all of these unsavory coincidences came to be, then I'd just be a laughing stock for a while. That would be a small price to pay for Rebecca, Trinity and I to have a future filled with joy and love.

Zachary Thorton was about fifteen years my senior, and if ever there was an attorney who got straight to the point, it was him. We spoke for nearly thirty minutes. He not only agreed that I needed an attorney, he told me he'd go pro bono if my fears were unfounded. That wasn't what I'd expected. Zach gave me the number of a psychotherapist he'd worked with in the past and told me to call the next day. He told me he'd call his acquaintance after we hung up and get an emergency appointment and would text me the number.

My wife and I ate mostly in silence. Then she asked about my day. I lied and told her I needed to help finish up a project I'd been on the day Margaret first came to see me. Told her my boss had begged me to spend just two hours updating my replacement and he would pay triple-time plus put into the county for an overnight hotel stay on the riverfront. She was studying my face when I answered, and she looked frazzled.

That night, I held her once more. It occurred to me that this may be one of, if not the last time we cuddled in our bed. I hoped not. I also hoped I was wrong because I would miss her terribly. I'd miss Trinity as much or maybe even more. Getting to the truth, no matter how painful, was my only option.

In the morning, I was gone before Rebecca got out of bed. I texted her to keep her off my back and said that I needed to finish two quick things at the office, and then I'd be focused on us. I called the therapist's office given to me by Zach and was asked to come over at eleven.

Douglas Dupree was a kind man of short stature. He was a good listener, and besides the obvious, I felt... unburdened telling him my sad tale. I held nothing back and paused several times so he could ask questions or bring something to the conversation. He mostly asked questions, and really good ones, too. After I'd finished we were past the hour by fifteen minutes, but he told me we would continue.

"I know why Zach asked you to see me," he said. "There's a lot of puzzle pieces floating around in this situation, and I can tell you, my first instinct is not to believe there's a conspiracy between three or four of my colleagues. That said, what do you personally want to get out of your sessions with me?"

"Well," I answered with a wry smile, "that might become clear in a moment. Mr. Dupree, what is your professional assessment of me after what I've told you?"

He was milling that question over, looking me in the eye as the silence filled the space between us. Finally, I saw the half-smile on his face.

"If you're asking me, are you losing your mind," he carefully stated, "my professional opinion is inconclusive. Listen Marshall, you've been through a remarkable tragedy. If what you're telling me is correct, then you have at least some right to be apprehensive, if not extremely cautious. If you're wrong, no one would blame you for a paranoid episode or two, they'd just go about helping to treat you."

That took a load off, and Dupree noticed my shoulders relaxing. I stared out the window, taking in the sunlight playing on the glass building across the way. Douglas gave me the appropriate time to decompress.

"I have a suggestion if you'd care to hear it," he said. "It seems to me that you could always claim to be worried about paranoia, the confusing and constant things eating away at you all the time. You could ask - demand, even - that to solve your painful dilemma and start moving forward, you'd like your wife to take a lie detector test. You should do that your couples' therapy, and not request it from Margaret."

That was the best advice I'd heard in a very long time. I thanked Mr. Dupree for everything and promised to schedule another appointment soon. He surprised me by suggesting we put something on the books right then, so I could use him as my therapist of record.

I lied to Rebecca again from the car. I called to tell her I had finished the report later than I thought and would meet her at Dr. Tom's office for our appointment. Amy always watched the baby on our couples' days, so arriving and leaving separately wasn't any big deal.

Rebecca was already sitting in her normal spot in Tom's office, looking worried or nervous. It was hard for me to tell anymore. Robert seemed anxious to get right into things.

"Good afternoon, Marshall," he said, convivially. "It's been a few busy days, I hear?"

I nodded, and took a few deep breaths, asking for a beverage. Rebecca got up and grabbed a Coke from his mini-fridge. She sat down closer to me on the sofa, acting attentive.

"I thought we'd start with you today, Marshall," he continued. "Is that alright?"

"Sure," I told him. After just a few seconds I began without any further questions or prompting. "I'd like to talk about some... trepidations I'm having."

"And do these trepidations have anything to do with you accidentally putting your wife under the other day?" He was playing a part, I was sure of it. At least I think I was sure.

Yeah," I replied quietly. "The thing is, I think I'm going to need some proof of certain things before we continue working on our relationship."

Robert Toms looked like he'd been expecting my response. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "And what exactly happened to cause you to need this proof?"

That was an odd way to ask, in my thinking. I'd expected him to ask what action spurned my need for it. I purposefully made myself relax and take a moment. Depending on what I answered here, things could begin to quickly unravel and I wanted to be sure I had the time to do things in the proper sequence. On the odd chance I was just a nut-job, I also wanted an out that would allow my wife and I to move forward with minimum damage.

"I, uh... It's been nagging at me for a while," I stuttered. I was acting, of course. "I guess I don't understand the concept of hypnosis, or I can't wrap my head around it."

"That's fair," Toms said. "What happened the other day with Rebecca that increased your concerns?"

He was going to push in that direction, which shocked me a bit.

"I... I put her under," I answered, "with the wrong command. It wasn't the right words. That has heightened my worries and my suspicions." I looked at Rebecca to see her expression. She looked at me with pity, which wasn't what I expected either. Toms chuckling made me look back at him.

"Ah," he said. "That's a perfect word, Marshall. Paranoia often presents as a result of trauma. Unfounded suspicions, that's what you are experiencing, and it's all perfectly normal.

"It's perfectly reasonable to have these feelings and mixed emotions, while in recovery. Left unchecked though, they can... coalesce. Paranoid episodes can lead to delusions and then depression, which in turn becomes schizophrenia." He left that to sink in. Rebecca had said not two words.

"I don't think so, doc," I stated evenly. "There are too many unanswered questions for me. Things about my wife. Things about Rasmussen and his sister."

Rebecca quietly gasped then. I had to keep going. I'd purposefully left out any concerns about our therapy team, including prince charming in front of me.

"Alright, Marshall," he said with a new smile. "Relax a moment, and think about what I'm going to say. Really think it through. Can you do that Marshall?" He was condescending if not belligerent. I nodded.

"The words themselves," he hesitated, ensuring I was paying attention. "They don't mean that much. Possibly, Mr. Rasmussen had used more than one command in your wife's past. It could even be inflection..." I cut him off.

"Then you do it," I dared him. "Put her under right now." Rebecca's look of pity was suddenly gone. Dr. Toms sat, undaunted.

"I can't," he told me. "I'm not Rasmussen. Besides, that kind of hypnosis isn't a skill in my wheelhouse. Therapists require a controlled setting."

I stared at my wife. She was very worried. "Two feet below," I said it as a command. Nothing happened, as she just continued to stare at me.

"Oh," I said sarcastically. "Cured, I see?"

Toms felt the need to regain control. "Marshall. Settle down. Right now." He was making commands of his own. "This isn't helpful. I'm going to write you a prescription to allow you to relax later. If we can't get you settled, I may recommend a short-term stay at Mercy Behavioral. With all that's happened, you may need a clinical doctor - a psychiatrist - to help you, so this doesn't become a disorder."

Rebecca was bawling now - either because of the hurtful things I said to her - or because her husband was on his way to a straitjacket. There was a big voice in my head, telling me to do exactly what Toms had just told me to do. But settling down would require me to stop with my plans and it would only appease Margaret and Rebecca in the long run. With a sigh, I asked for a five-minute break.

When we all sat down again, I spoke softly, yet succinctly.

"Rebecca," I began, looking directly at my wife, "I'm sorry. Honestly, I'm not trying to upset you. I'm not trying to hurt you. There are things I need to square, so we can move forward. You understand, don't you?" The waterworks started again, which told me she didn't. Or it was something else.

I turned to face Dr. Toms. "Dr. I apologize to you as well..."

"When did you stop calling your wife 'Becca,' exactly?" he interrupted. I had to concede; at least he was paying attention. I'd gone as far as I could in one session without getting myself sent to the loony bin.

"Dr. Toms," I concluded, "I'm going to need you to help Rebecca schedule a polygraph test. I'll email you the bare minimum of questions I expect to be asked, along with their control questions, of course. Once that's completed, we can discuss the results here at our next session. If you can get it done this week, then we won't miss an appointment."

With that I stood up, looking at my wife and putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'll see you at home, love." Toms looked bewildered and remained silent as I left.

Twenty minutes later, and two-thirds of the way through one hell of a day, I sat in my car preparing to call Zach Thorton, my attorney. I'd parked at the very far end of our neighborhood park, past the baseball and soccer fields. My car was hidden behind the tall reeds that grew in the pond-like water feature. No one could see me, unless they ran to the far boundary of the park, or drove all the way down here to use the turnaround.

Yeah, I felt pretty damned crazy about then. Paranoid, skitzo, whatever disorder they wanted to throw at me. I was mentally drained from the day, but I was resolved to complete the tasks at hand. I kept telling myself, doing so was the only way that I could end up sane. It's what kept me going, and it's what would over the next - however much time it took.

In between my feelings of resolve, though, were the other thoughts. The ones screaming at me to go home. To go home and wrap my wife in a tight embrace and just... love her. To stop acting crazy and just accept the horrible hands we'd both been dealt. The feelings to simply 'give in' for the sake of normalcy were at least as strong as my need to get to the truth.

I explained my day to Zach, and he asked some specific questions about how it had played out.

"Alright, Marshall," he said taking a deep breath. "I want you to go home and get some rest. But, stop and get a meal first. I do not want you eating anything your wife is making for dinner. Tomorrow, I'll file the papers, after I speak to Mr. Dupree."

"Go home," I started to ask incredulously, "but don't eat my wife's cooking? Should I lock myself in the guest room?"

"Perhaps," he said shortly. "Listen, by your own admission here, there's a strong possibility that Rebecca could still be under the influence - by Margaret - or by Rasmussen, through association. Your best case scenario is that you're wrong - about everything - in which case, Rebecca comes to terms with your suspicions and you work through therapy, finding a way to rebuild your lives. The worst case, though, to me, involves actual crimes. Prosecutable crimes, Marshall. They may involve Rebecca directly, or as an accomplice - willing or unwilling. We can't begin until we know that part. That's where the polygraph comes into play. If things get tense, or you find yourself being pressured by any of these therapists, I want you to promise to leave the home and call me right away, no matter the time. Have an overnight bag prepared just in case."

Zach Thorton told me a few more things and added words of encouragement, but my mind was shut off by then. I could have fallen asleep in my car listening to the birds and the sound of the fountain bubbling over the pond. I dared not close my eyes too long for that exact reason. What I'd expected to take days developing, all happened in one very long day.

The day had given way to dusk as I pulled into my driveway. I was so worked up, I'd gladly let my wife cuddle again tonight to release the tension in my shoulders. That wasn't going to be, and the day was most certainly not winding down. As I walked into my home, Amy was gone, and Margaret sat in the living room with my wife.

"Hello, Marshall," Margaret tried to be cordial as she stood to welcome me. Rebecca told me there was some lasagna being held in the oven for me. I declined, which brought a sour look to her face.

"Let me change and get a beer," I told them. "Then I'll join you."

Once I got into something more comfortable, I quickly tossed enough clothing for two days into a gym bag. I stopped in Trinity's room and softly stroked her cheek as she slept comfortably. Then I kissed her forehead. I wasn't feeling very good at all about what I was in for once I started my conversation with Margaret and Rebecca.

I sat in my chair, cracked the beer can, and waved my arm without a word, giving the two ladies the floor. Rebecca looked to the good doctor to start.

"Okay, Marshall," she said. "I'm going to get to the point so we can discuss it. I know it's been a long day for everyone." That didn't make any sense. I'd had a long day, but neither of them knew that.

"Why did you stop seeing Frank Williams?" she asked point blank.

"Because I asked for simple answers that he decided not to supply." My curtness matched hers.

"I see," she said undeterred. "I was under the impression you left his office because he DID provide answers, and you just didn't like them." She paused. "Marshall, I'm very worried about you - we all are. I've told you many times, that with what my brother did to you, and your family, you have every right to have doubts. These doubts, although healthy, are morphing into something entirely unhealthy. We see it all the time, so while unhealthy, they are not abnormal. We're trying to help you, Marshall. I don't want to see you having to be treated for a disorder, while you and Rebecca are trying to make progress. Let me help you. Think of little Trinity and your wife."

"I explained," I replied undaunted, "what will help me when we were at Dr. Tom's office. Are you willing to make that happen? We can remove all the doubt or paranoia or whatever fancy words you choose to label it, by simply indulging me - the patient - with a set of undeniable facts. I don't think I'm being unreasonable, do you?"

Margaret was taken aback but recovered quicker than I expected. I realized at that moment, that she saw me as broken, and perhaps easy to manipulate.

"What I think, Marshall," she braved ahead. "Is that you're breaking the heart of the person you love. She's a victim here, the same as you. This only works if you both face it together. Totally - physically and mentally - together. Now, how can I help you? Ask away."

I couldn't help it. The right corner of my mouth curled up in a satisfied smile. I don't know what Rebecca saw, because I was staring Margaret in the eye.

"Explain," I waved at my wife, "how she could be hypnotized by ME? And using the wrong words? Explain why Frank did not know what your fucking brother did to her before we met?"

"Alright," Margaret sighed as she started. "The paperwork with Mr. Williams was simply a mistake. It was my mistake. Not simple - a big mistake, that I fully admit to. I should have checked the backgrounds before sending them to each therapist. In my defense, I was a little busy trying to help both of you through a grave situation.

"As far as what happened in your kitchen the other day," she added, "that's still a mystery that we need to solve."

I looked at my wife. "You care to explain it?" I asked with an edge in my voice. "You're the one who'd know best. I doubt it will take a bunch of poking and prodding."

Rebecca flew off the chair, suddenly sobbing, and ran to the bathroom. Margaret studied my face.

"Good God, Marshall," she admonished, "please stop it! You aren't helping her. You aren't helping yourself either." She reached into her purse. "Here, take these. They'll at least help you calm down enough to have a productive conversation." I took them but set them on the side table.

"I have another question," I said reaching into my pants pocket, for my wallet. I tossed her business card onto the coffee table, but still closer to me. "What is that?"

Margaret leaned forward in her seat. I saw the horror there, but like everything else she did, her recovery time was simply remarkable - stunning really.

"That's my business card," she stated flatly. "One of my older ones by the look of it." What she didn't say or ask was more telling. I just raised an eyebrow, trying to force the issue. It didn't work.

"Aren't you interested in where I found that?" The tone of my asking told her instantly that she didn't. "Seems to me," I continued, "you've got plenty of explaining of your own to do."

Rebecca was tentatively returning to her seat as that last exchange happened. I picked up the card, returning it to my wallet, as my wife tried to get a look at what it was. With Margaret finally silent for once, I stood, dumped my empty beer can in the trash, and headed for the restroom.

When I returned I had my overnight bag. I looked from one to the other, as they just hung on my next move.

"Rebecca," I told her. "I'll keep in touch. Please do what I ask so we can try to get beyond this mess."

Looking at Margaret, "It needs to be done. I'm pretty damned sure I'm not paranoid. Don't look for me, Margaret. Just do what you're told to do, these next few days."

>>>>

Zach put me up in a hotel two towns over from ours. He told me to use Door Dash the first few days for food and groceries. That particular extended stay had a kitchenette. Once I was settled, everything hit me and I broke down. Honestly, I needed that, with everything I'd been keeping inside. I was glad that it hadn't happened in from of Margaret or my wife.