Free False Memory by Dean Koontz Page B

last she starts to identify the
real
trauma she’s trying not to face, then sometimes, in denial, she will cling to the agoraphobia more fiercely. An intensification of symptoms usually means she’s making a last-ditch defense against the truth. When that defense fails, she’ll finally face the thing she
really
fears—not open spaces, but something more personal and immediate.”
    The doctor’s explanation made sense to Martie, yet she couldn’t easily accept the idea that an ever steeper decline would inevitably lead to a cure. Last year, her father’s battle with cancer progressed along a relentless downward spiral, and at the bottom there had been no joyful breakthrough, only death. Of course a psychological illness could not be compared to a physical disease. Nevertheless…
    “Did I set your mind at rest, Mrs. Rhodes?” A twinkle of humor enlivened his eyes. “Or do you think I’m full of psychobabble?”
    His charm won her over. The impressive array of diplomas in his office, his reputation as the finest specialist in phobic therapy in California and perhaps in the nation, and his keen mind were no more important to building patient trust than was his bedside manner.
    Martie smiled and shook her head. “No. The only babble is coming from me. I guess…I feel like I’ve failed her somehow.”
    “No, no, no.” He placed a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. “Mrs. Rhodes, I can’t stress strongly enough how important you are to Susan’s recovery. Your commitment to her means more than anything I can do. You must always feel comfortable about expressing your worries to me. Your concern for her is the rock on which she stands.”
    Martie’s voice thickened. “We’ve been friends since we were kids, most of our lives. I love her so much. I couldn’t love her more if she were my sister.”
    “That’s what I mean. Love can accomplish more than therapy, Mrs. Rhodes. Not every patient has someone like you. Susan is so very lucky in that regard.”
    Martie’s vision blurred. “She seems so lost,” she said softly.
    His hand tightened slightly on her shoulder. “She’s finding her way. Believe me, she is.”
    She did believe him. Indeed, he had comforted her so much that she almost mentioned her own peculiar rushes of anxiety this morning: her shadow, the mirror, the mezzaluna, the point and the serrated edge of the car key….
    In the inner office, Susan was waiting for her session. This time was hers, not Martie’s.
    “Is there something else?” Dr. Ahriman asked.
    “No. I’m all right now,” she said, getting to her feet. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Doctor.”
    “Have faith, Mrs. Rhodes.”
    “I do.”
    Smiling, he gave her a thumbs-up sign, went into his office, and closed the door.
    Martie followed a narrow hallway between the doctor’s private office and a large file room, to a second waiting area. This was smaller than—but similar to—the first.
    Here, a back door led into Dr. Ahriman’s office, and another door opened onto the fourteenth-floor corridor. This double-waiting-room arrangement ensured that arriving patients and their companions, if any, wouldn’t encounter departing patients, thus guaranteeing everyone’s privacy.
    Martie hung Susan’s raincoat and her own on a pair of wall hooks beside the exit door.
    She had brought a paperback book, a thriller, to pass the time, but she couldn’t focus on the story. None of the creepy things happening in the novel was as disquieting as the real events of this morning.
    Soon Jennifer, the doctor’s secretary, brought a mug of coffee—black, without sugar, as Martie liked it—and a chocolate biscotto. “I didn’t ask if you’d rather have a soft drink. I just assumed, on a day like this, coffee was the thing.”
    “Perfect. Thank you, Jenny.”
    When Martie first accompanied Susan here, she had been surprised by this simple courtesy; although having no previous experience with psychiatrists’ offices, she was sure that