Free False Memory by Dean Koontz Page B

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 such thoughtful treatment was not common to the profession, and she was still charmed by it.
    The coffee was rich but not bitter. The biscotto was excellent; she would have to ask Jennifer where to buy them.
    Funny, how one good cookie could calm the mind and even elevate a troubled soul.
    After a while, she was able to concentrate on the book. The writing was good. The plot was entertaining. The characters were colorful. She enjoyed it.
    The second waiting room was a fine place to read. Hushed. No windows. No annoying background music. No distractions.
    In the story, there was a doctor who loved haiku, a concise form of Japanese poetry. Tall, handsome, blessed with a mellifluous voice, he recited a haiku while he stood at a huge window, watching a storm:
    “Pine wind blowing hard, quick rain, torn windpaper
    talking to itself”
    Martie thought the poem was lovely. And those succinct lines perfectly conveyed the mood of this January rain as it swept along the coast, beyond the window. Lovely—both the view of the storm and the words.
    Yet the haiku also disturbed her. It was haunting. An ominous intent lurked beneath the beautiful images. A sudden disquiet came over her, a sense that nothing was what it seemed to be.
    What’s happening to me?
    She felt disoriented. She was standing, though she had no memory of having risen from her chair. And for God’s sake, what was she doing here?
    “What’s happening to me?” she asked aloud this time.
    Then she closed her eyes, because she must relax. She must relax. Relax. Have faith.
    Gradually she recovered her composure.
    She decided to pass the time with a book. Books were good therapy. You could lose yourself in a book, forget your troubles, your fear.
    This particular book was especially good escape