The Dark Road

The Dark Road

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Kathleen Rhodes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in critical articles and book reviews.

ISBN 979-8-9908030-0-8 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9908030-1-5 (ebook)

Published by Type Eighteen Books

www.typeeighteenbooks.com

…for Eleanor

"I am not what happened to me,

I am what I choose to become." —Carl Jung

"After a cruel childhood, one must reinvent oneself.

Then reimagine the world." —Mary Oliver

Part 1

Chapter One

Should we proceed? Dr. Frazier-Velli asked. He sat with legs crossed and a notepad balanced on his lap. The sharp line pressed into his gray pants led to argyle socks and deep brown, shiny Oxfords. His head angled down, and he looked at her over the top of his glasses, waiting.

Shelly sighed. I need to try. She’d made this declaration before, many times.

The room was hazy and darker than usual. She wondered if he noticed the change. Shadows peeked from the corners—behind the gray couch, tucked into the leaves of the drooping plant.

For the last six months, she’d been working through horrible recollections that threatened to fling her into a panic attack during the day or disturbing nightmares drenched in sweat. The window over the doctor’s shoulder drew her attention; it worried her that the only shift occurring during their sessions seemed to be the seasons passing outside. Today, the glass streaked with drips of rain. Typical November in Oregon.

Okay. Let’s go back in.

In the slow transition from the present to one of her altered moments, she’d relax her body while the doctor gently prodded her with questions. She’d hold on to his melodic tone, like a rope through a maze, until Dr. Frazier-Velli faded into a blur and her mind would spin. Smells generally came first, followed by obscured images that became clearer as time passed. Then sounds.

She breathed in deeply and allowed her senses to take over. The foul, urine-soaked smell coated the air, burning hot through her sinuses and needling the back of her throat.

Focus. Go forward.

It’s pulling me. The closer I get— Her voice was near a whisper. I’m so scared.

Where are you? he asked.

A trick question. She was at the beginning, where she always started.

The hall.

In each session, she began in a darkened hallway, facing a familiar door. Today, the walls were painted an ugly muted yellow that hinted at tobacco stains. Sometimes, the walls were grey or blue. The paint was brittle under her fingers and bubbled in sections.

And the room? the doctor asked softly.

Not the room. The closet.

Excellent, Shelly! Can you take a step?

I don’t want to see. I need to hide. I can’t be here.

Why hide? he asked, slightly louder.

Is he talking, or am I? She gripped the arms of the chair, her breaths quickening, and thoughts jumbled.

Because someone’s coming.

Muscles jumped inside her legs as she bent forward. The effort nauseated her; the walls turned like a kaleidoscope, cascading toward a distant door. In the hall, the carpet was a darker green than she remembered, discolored with murky stains. Mesh showed through, with rough fibers extending like angry fingers, ready to catch a toe and pull her to the ground. Then she noticed the stench. How could a smell be so intense in a memory? It crashed over her like a frothy, churning current of filth, strong enough to wash her away to an even darker place.

Warm puddles lurked in the rug under her bare feet, splashing and suctioning with each step. God, she wanted shoes. Her steps slopped through an inch or so of wetness, leaving deep imprints, and she didn’t dare look down. She tried to stay centered and follow the clues. She squeezed her eyes, shutting out the office, the window, the sound of the rain.

I can sense it in my chest. The tight feeling, like my throat is going to close. She massaged the muscles at the front of her neck. My palms are sweaty. So sweaty. Her lower back ached, and her breathing grew shallow. She felt the sticky cling of the liquid between her fingers. Then, raising her hand, she saw it—not sweat but blood.

The panic spiraled up from her stomach. Hide. Hide. Do it now! Shelly cried out.

She spun around, waiting for something or someone to come for her. As if reorienting out of a free fall, she shot forward, her breathing rapid, her hands trembling. With her head between her knees, she stared at her feet, which were still safely contained in black flats on the doctor’s pristine white rug.

Dr. Frazier-Velli caught her hand. Breathe, Shelly. Breathe.

Tears welled up and coursed down her cheeks. She moved her hand across the green velvet armchair, back and forth. She hated the chair, along with the countless, awkward disclosures that happened while sitting in it. Staring at the soft, plush surface, like swirling, melted chocolate underneath each fingertip—how many times had she repeated this same pensive action?

Shelly looked up to see the doctor’s brown eyes boring into her. He really did have a nice face, behind the glasses and sometimes, an infuriating, matter-of-fact demeanor.

Your expression changed just then, he said. Where did you go?

She was used to such observations. The good doctor seemed to notice instinctively whenever her mental dominoes tipped over. This can’t be my life, she said. I’m tired of being damaged and weak. Josie deserves more than a bat-shit mother. My head is full of this bullshit. She knows I love her, but she deserves a mother who can sit with her, carefree. I hope she doesn’t absorb any of this, my fears. I panic and hide over these violent scenarios, and I’m good at it. She chuckled. At least I’m good at something.

True to form, only solidarity and quiet compassion filled Dr. Frazier-Velli’s eyes. He also knew how to handle her episodes of self-pity.

Shelly continued. When I hold Josie, I see only death. Her eyes, her beautiful hair, but my mind flashes to her body, dead and blue. The images are dark, and I freeze. These thoughts don’t end. They just don’t end. She fell back into the chair.

Until therapy, she had fought the memories on her own. She fantasized about attacking anyone who tried to hurt her child, always with the same ending—fighting to the death, ripping out eyes, biting necks in a horrible barrage of violence, her daughter witnessing everything. The rage left her paralyzed, exhausted. With Josie now seven years old, the battle had been endless.

Dr Frazier-Velli scribbled in his notepad. It sounds like you’re trying to affirm safety at all costs. He looked up. Is this possible?

Her mind churned. It wasn’t just possible, but necessary.

We’ll get back to that, he said after a moment.

Shelly hugged her shoulders. He had never written as much in a session before, had he?

Are you having flashbacks or panic attacks? he asked.

What’s the difference? She shrugged. The ocean image has come up. That’s not a flashback, I guess, but it’s scary. Paul wants to go to the beach over the weekend. We haven’t gone in a year. She thought back to the last time—when she took a sedative to get over her fear. Josie should see the water and play in the sand, she said. She’s missing out on so much because of me. She remembered her daughter’s golden hair catching the sunset as the chilly water soaked her toes.

The ocean could bring up considerable worries, Dr Frazier-Velli commented. You’ve talked about the fear of water, how uncontrollable it is. Does Paul know the level of anxiety it causes you?

Shelly smiled. He had used her words from a previous session almost to the letter.

Paul might know what it means, but he doesn’t show it. If I resist or hesitate, he won’t let up with the pressure. Her shoulders pinched and tightened, and she adjusted in her seat. We’ve talked about what scares me before. I don’t think he understands. I’d hate for him or anyone to know what this is like. I’d rather spare them.

It’s my burden.

I see, said Dr Frazier-Velli. Difficult as it may seem, you should let Paul know how you feel. As you said, he may not understand your level of worry and its effects. Without more context, he might see your behavior as a choice, not one your mind is forcing you to make.

His tone implied it would be easy to talk it out with Paul, and that irritated Shelly. He should know enough about their marriage to know how complicated that would be.

Have you been sleeping? Any nightmares? he asked.

Yes, some. She shifted again, adjusting against the velvet.

And what about the little girl? He paused. What was her name?

A hot wave flashed through her veins. Red. Her feet shuffled underneath her. No, Red’s been gone a while, and I’m glad. I’d rather not deal with her right now.

Red, he scribbled. Where do you think that came from?

Did the name embarrass her? Why not something more common, or even a child’s name? She imagined the doctor thinking of Clifford the dog, or cinnamon gum.

I can’t remember, she lied.

When he straightened up in his chair, Shelly read the cue. It was time to wrap up the session.

Let’s finish with some closing relaxation, he said. We’ve covered a lot. He set down his notepad on the nearby table.

Shelly found his session-ending rituals annoying, an abrupt transition as she sat in the clammy velvet chair with her tear-stained cheeks and stiff shoulders. She fantasized about throwing his always-offered glass of water in his face and running out of the room. But good judgment prevailed.

Reluctantly, she planted her feet on the floor. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Find the sound of the clock, he said softly. Allow your breath to go in and out as your mind follows the rhythm.

Shelly complied. Once again, she followed the rain against the window. The clock. The focus. She tried to believe better days were coming.

Chapter Two

Fuck whoever said it gets worse before it gets better. Shelly turned off her car engine, punched paperwork into the bottom of her tote bag, and banged her elbow on the door as she exited the car. She saw them across the street, waiting for her. Probably parked there for an hour despite Shelly being right on time. She feigned a polite smile and waved.

The only thing missing from this puppet are strings, she muttered through clenched teeth, not breaking her grin. She had scheduled a walk-through with potential buyers, but her neck felt like a thatch of bound cords, initiating a migraine. Her irritation grew as she wrestled with her purse, infuriated with the foreign keys and unfamiliar lock box. Once inside the three-bedroom craftsman, she opened a folder and thumbed through the listing, tax history, and disclosures, alongside a riot of Shelly Blake business cards. Everything you needed for a real estate showing.

Her day had already been full of annoyances, and it was only eleven in the morning. Aware of looming deadlines, she’d endured her daughter’s protests while slathering peanut butter on bread and planning open houses for four different families. After that, she threw herself together enough to get Josie out the door and to school. She’d almost forgotten her psychiatrist’s appointment.

At every therapy session, she’d start with the best intentions. Life had drastically changed after she lost her parents, and much of her childhood remained clouded, hidden from her. Even her mother’s face was a mystery. At times, she remembered a soft expression or the bend of her smile, but nothing more. Only violent traces—torn images and fragments of sounds and smells—occasionally surfaced.

A voice roused Shelly from her thoughts.

I love the house! It’s exactly what I want—in the middle of everything, and you can’t beat the view. Judith Turner, tax attorney and would-be buyer, turned to the window alongside Shelly. She was a tall woman with a thin build. Her peachy complexion suited her vibrant auburn hair.

It’s priced too high, Roger Turner chimed in. Slightly shorter than his wife, he resembled Al Pacino with glasses, short dark hair, and a raspy voice. He straightened up next to his wife, folding his arms in defiance.

No, we’ll do it. Let’s make an offer. Judith nodded at Shelly, ignoring his objection. 

Are you sure? Shelly had been here before, drafting and sending offers only to have them yanked by Judith. It’s the tenth offer, but— She searched for something encouraging to say. You’ve put a lot of consideration into this one, and the house has all your priority items. Shelly struggled for words. These clients often disregarded all logic and were constantly changing their list of deal-breakers.

I know we’ve taken up a great amount of your time, Shelly, but it’s such a hard decision. Judith crossed her arms.

Roger, you’re rather quiet. Shelly turned to him. If you think the price is too high, I’m not here to persuade you. However, the offer should be solid. It’s a sought-after neighborhood, and the property affords plenty of space.

Roger said nothing, and Judith was probably already planning the paint color. They were on totally different planets, as usual.

She lowered her voice. Okay, I’m going to be straight with you. The seller has multiple showings this morning, and more scheduled later. This house will be sold by the end of the day. Ready to call it home, or will you give it up to another couple with a taste for teal walls and leopard print rugs? Maybe she could appeal to Judith’s design sensibilities.

Judith’s eyes widened in alarm, and she glanced at Roger. Reluctantly, he nodded.

Okay, I’ll write it up. Shelly pulled her laptop from her purse and propped it on the kitchen counter. Her fingers rushed across the keyboard. Then she stopped, her breath catching in her throat. 

Blood covered her trembling fingers, now hovering over the computer.

I can’t see what’s there. Her breath faltered. The blood, the door, the carpet. It’s always the same. I can’t leave and can’t go in. She clamped her eyes closed and shook out her hands. Dr. Frazier-Velli’s face floated before her, suspended like a ghost, still waiting for answers.

Shelly? Are you listening?

She regained focus on Judith’s grin. Over the edge of her laptop, she watched as her client held up color swatches and swooped around the room.

Don’t kiss it on the mouth, Shelly warned Judith, a phrase she stole from her favorite Julia Roberts movie. Too many overzealous buyers dive into a purchase only to be outbid and wilt in defeat. Judith ignored her and continued sashaying around the island.

Shelly added the details of the offer on her laptop. It wasn’t complicated, simply copying and pasting from the other ten she had filed. Her mobile fluttered in her hip pocket. She pulled it out and answered.

Hey, Paul said. I don’t know if we were going to—

What do you think about the color of the walls along the stairs? Judith tapped Shelly’s shoulder. It’s off-cream but looks like water damage. Needs to be painted.

Shelly ended the call, disconnecting without thinking. She cringed, knowing her husband would be annoyed. Lately, he only called or texted for practical reasons. Usually, reminders and cues for her to prioritize. Thoughtful, sweet calls to check on her and her day had faded a long time ago.

One more thing, Judith said. We want to make an offer twenty above asking. 

Shelly smiled and nodded obediently. For once, she agreed with Judith. Then, it hit her—she needed to grab Josie from school. That’s probably why Paul had called.

Judith, I’ll email you the documents, but I have to run. She flipped her laptop closed. After a few condensed assurances for Judith, she made it to the car. She picked up her phone to ring Paul, but another client’s name popped up. She answered the call and pulled onto the street, hoping she wouldn’t be late collecting her daughter. 

At school, Josie was waiting for her at the curb. Her white pants and green and yellow striped shirt were hard to miss. In a manic, pixie-girl way, she spun in a circle with her arms outstretched, simulating an airplane. 

There’s my girl. Shelly smiled to herself, relieved. Josie was right where she should be. Hey, kiddo!

Josie slid into the back seat. She also wore a knitted hat Paul’s mother had sent last Christmas. Handmade, it had uneven ties and flamboyant shades of teal.

Josie had always been a genetic mystery in some ways, not entirely resembling either one of them. Shelly thought she resembled a young Jodie Foster, rather than her or Paul, with wind-blown blonde hair, light freckles, and blue eyes. Beautiful, of course. Her locks were nothing like Shelly’s horsetail—as she called her almost-black hair, secured back on most days to tame the waves. Paul had once referred to her as Jennifer Connelly-esque, but that seemed like a reach.

Shelly smelled bubble gum and heard Josie smacking away in the back. The sound burned into her brain. Mouth closed, please. 

Lately, Josie had become a master of eyerolls. Slouched shoulders and ignored requests were her new norm. Even a trip to Disneyland would probably be met with a refusal—that’s how contrary she could be. Although after a day at the park, she might also crumple to the floor until they hauled her back to the car kicking and screaming. Traces of Josie’s toddler self still emerged occasionally, as did the snuggles and kisses of earlier days.

The Oregon road ahead, wet for nine months of the year, glimmered briefly as light punched through the trees, creating steam that hung above the street. Shelly squinted and adjusted her hands on the wheel of the car. Everyone in the northwest corner of the United States needed a little sunlight on their face, which made the rays all the more pleasing. But the beautiful colors of the landscape—the greens, reds, and sparkling yellows of early fall—required a healthy supply of water.

As if on cue, the clouds crept in, and specks of rain dotted the windshield.

Mom! I think I left my tablet. In the rearview mirror, Josie’s blue eyes were alarmed.

You’ll have to grab it tomorrow. We need to go home to Dad, Shelly said. She prodded the steering wheel again, reminding herself to send Judith’s offer.

Mom! What will I use tonight? I have assignments. I’m supposed to write something. Josie’s voice had raised an octave. 

Shelly’s shoulders tensed up again. She tried to read her texts while keeping the car on the road. There were missed calls from Paul and several messages from Judith. He had been trying to reach her, but the morning’s chaos had spilled into the afternoon. Eyes on the road, she gasped at her car straddling the line. Swerving back into her lane, she checked the rearview mirror to see if others had noticed. Her pulse jumped, and she tossed the phone out of reach on the passenger floor. 

Mom. Another whine. 

Jooosssie. Shelly let out a howl, playfully mocking her daughter. She just wanted to get home without losing her mind. I’m not sure what to tell you. The school has likely locked it up. We can access your homework on the laptop. She held her breath, hoping that was enough.

I hate the laptop, and Dad doesn’t let me take it upstairs. Josie folded her arms.

Her daughter’s upturned lip and furrowed brow gave Shelly a twinge of relief. Josie worried over missing laptops and seven-year-old melodrama. At the same age, Shelly’s life had been quite different.

Shelly always thought she’d have more children—until the mood swings and paranoia made her rethink everything. Paul witnessed her dark days, the first six months of motherhood, the deepest of her depression.

They had met in a coffee shop a few months before she became pregnant, had connected over their hatred of Weird Al Yankovic, whose music blared overhead as they sipped their tall Americanos. Shelly recalled beaming in agreement as they established their bond early. They agreed that out-of-towners were easy to spot, and that Oregon isn’t pronounced Or-E-gon.

Paul was a hospital operations manager and, sometimes, a consultant; he dealt with complex medical complaints for a hospital district that extended across the Pacific Northwest. He used to talk about his job more but had stopped at some point over the years. Perpetually drained and often in a bad mood, he had become less tolerant with her, less adventurous and spirited in general—much less likely to sit through Weird Al on a random Sunday.

The car music died, startling Shelly as she glanced at Paul’s name on the dash display. He had called three times in the last forty-five minutes, each time out-prioritized by needy buyers and a seven-year-old. She picked up.

Hey. Sorry I missed your call—

He cut her off. I thought I was picking up Josie today. Didn’t we talk about it?

She gripped the steering wheel.

I thought I was doing it, he said, his voice growing louder, and you were going to take over the rest of the week.

Shelly racked her brain but had no memory of such a decision or conversation. When did we talk? Shit! Did you go to the school?

Don’t say shit, Josie yelled from the backseat.

Paul exhaled. Yeah, that’s why I called. I didn’t see Josie. 

Hi, Dad. I forgot my tablet!

Bummer, kiddo!

Sorry I worried you, Shelly said. I got my wires crossed. She hated giving him more to throw back at her later. Her mind was always so clouded. Had they talked about the pickup schedule?

I didn’t realize I needed to remind you, Paul said.

She rolled her eyes. He wouldn’t let it go so easily. She kept her voice steady. I’m heading home to make some dinner. Is there anything you want?

No, he said. Well, I’ll stop distracting you. See you at home. He hung up, no goodbye or check-in, just a click.

Shelly stared through the windshield separating her from a vast sky growing darker by the minute. Rain fell heavier against the glass, and her wipers sped up in response.

Doesn’t he know I’m trying? The question lingered inside, yet persistent and deafening. Does he know anything about me at all?

Chapter Three

John left work, tired but ready to exchange the cherry red shirt and black khaki pants for sweats and a T-shirt. A longtime bike commuter, he knew all the quick routes that zigzagged through neighborhoods and avoided traffic. The streets between work and home were lined with small bungalows wrapped with broad porches. Three coffee shops with pubs next door were on his regular route. A double shot of espresso in the morning, and a glass of stout in the evening. Very Portland.

It was approaching four-thirty in the afternoon when John walked out the rear door of the camera shop into a service hallway. He tied back his shoulder-length hair for the ride and loaded up his bike. He put on his helmet and clipped on flashers. From October to July, Oregon’s weather was perpetually unkind, with heavy rain and gloomy clouds. He’d heard on public radio that serial killers often get their start in the Pacific Northwest. He’d often thought about whether that was true, having lived in Oregon his whole life.

That morning, as he biked to work, John’s mood had lifted at the sight of cherry trees lining the streets. It would be months before they’d bloom, but he longed for when the pink petals would fall, and their sweet, subtle scent would waft through the air.

But today, the downpour had not let up, and he expected little change on his way home. As he pushed through the heavy metal door and squinted through the deluge, water dripped from the roof and splashed from the rain spout overhead. Here we go again. His efforts to save the environment hadn’t been easy. And affording a car hadn’t been easy either. Starting off on his bike, he crossed the parking lot of the strip mall—boxy storefronts lined up next to endless concrete. Eventually, his path took him to a two-lane country road leading to Portland’s nicer residential spreads.

He hated biking to work in heavy storms, but using public transport held less appeal. The bus would be full of foul, damp air, drenched passengers, and a guy gesturing and talking to himself in the back. 

John gripped the handlebars and leaned into the rain, predicting erratic drivers and white-knuckle turns ahead. Undeterred, he pushed down on the pedals, mentally preparing for deep potholes filled with water and splattering spray. He aimed straight through the parking lot, a diagonal dash to the street. The puddles were massive and by the time he reached the exit, he was soaked despite his so-called waterproof jacket. John spit away the rain droplets hanging from his top lip. Water clung to the lenses of his glasses, distorting his view. He slowed his pace to wipe them, then pushed down on the pedals again, anticipating the hill ahead.

For some unknown reason, everyone in Oregon forgot how to drive when it rained. Cars clustered together, suspended in blackened water over a breached levee that swirled and spun. Some motorists honked; others rushed forward, ignoring the conditions. On his bike, it sometimes felt like a game of chicken, or Russian Roulette. 

John and his girlfriend, Sophia, had made plans to meet up with a friend for drinks. He’d been looking forward to getting out of the house despite having to work in the morning—the result of a shift trade with a coworker. A rather tedious routine, working five days a week, sometimes six during the holidays, but it paid the bills.

He’d dropped out of high school and had long made peace with having a GED—even if Sophia’s family never missed an opportunity to remind him that working a commission job in a strip mall