Twenty
The first thing Paul did when he got up was head straight to his office. Charlotte was still under the covers when he slipped out of bed and trotted barefoot down to the kitchen in his boxers.
He hadn’t heard any more typing noises in the night, but it was possible, he told himself, that he’d slept through them. If the keys of the typewriter had—somehow—been touched in the remaining hours of the night, the evidence would be on that sheet of paper he had rolled into it.
This is crazy, Paul told himself. Why am I even doing this?
He swallowed and felt his heart flutter as he slowly pushed open his office door.
The Underwood sat there.
The page was blank.
Paul put a hand on the jamb for support and took a breath. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved, or disappointed.
“I really am losing it,” he whispered.
In the light of day, the events of the night seemed clearer. As much as he had fought Charlotte’s conclusion that he’d been dreaming, what other possible explanation was there?
Think about it. Does it make any sense at all that someone would sneak into your house in the dead of night to tap on the keys of an old typewriter?
Paul knew the answer.
He’d mention it today at his session with Dr. White. He’d ask some questions. Could someone be half-awake and half-asleep at the same time? When he thought he was awake and hearing chit chit chit was it possible he was not fully conscious? Could it be a kind of sleepwalking?
That, he had to admit, made more sense than anything else.
He went back up to the bedroom and slid under the covers as Charlotte was waking.
“Hey,” she said groggily. She blinked a couple of times, pulled herself up into a sitting position and said, “How are you doing?”
“Good,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“How I acted last night. I was short with you, and you were only trying to help.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
When he told her what he was going to ask Dr. White, Charlotte nodded with enthusiasm. “That could explain everything,” she said.
Paul looked down as his face flushed with embarrassment. “I went down and checked.”
“Checked?”
“To see if anything had been typed onto that page.”
“And?”
He looked up. “I think you know the answer.”
_________________
PAUL FELT OPTIMISTIC ON THE WAY TO HIS SESSION. HE COULDN’T wait to tell Anna White that he not only had made a good start on his writing project, but also had come up with a theory about the noises in the night.
He’d decided to pop into Staples for some printer cartridges and the Barnes & Noble for a quick look at new fiction releases first. He was heading south on River Street when he saw the Volvo.
It pulled out in front of him from Darina Place, just ahead of the underpass below the railroad tracks. The driver either didn’t see Paul, or didn’t care. Paul had to hit the brakes to avoid broadsiding the vehicle.
Paul didn’t get to see who was behind the wheel, but that might have been because he was consumed with looking at the entire vehicle.
The Volvo was a station wagon. It was dark blue. It was the same vintage as Kenneth Hoffman’s.
Paul felt his heart starting to race. His hands almost instantly began to sweat. His breathing became rapid and shallow.
As the car settled into the lane ahead of him, Paul looked to see if one of the taillights was broken. But as he tried to focus, he found his vision blurring.
I’m having a panic attack.
I’m going to pass out.
Paul hit the brakes and steered toward the edge of the road. Behind him a horn blared. He got the car stopped under the bridge and huddled over the wheel, his head resting atop it. He closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness.
Suddenly, overhead, the roar of a passing commuter train.
Paul’s heart was ready to explode from his chest.
“Breathe,” he told himself. “Breathe.”
It took him the better part of five minutes to pull himself together. Slowly, he raised his head from the wheel, propped it against the headrest. He released his fingers from the wheel and wiped his sweaty palms on the tops of his legs. When he was confident his heart rate and breathing were back to normal, he continued on his way.
_________________
ANNA WHITE WASN’T IN HER OFFICE.
Paul peeked in from the waiting area and did not see her behind her desk or seated in the leather chair she used when they had their chats.
He allowed a couple of minutes to go by before he poked his head into the main part of the house and said, “Dr. White? Anna?”
He thought he heard the sound of clinking cutlery, as though someone was doing dishes in a sink. He followed the noises to the kitchen, where Anna, her back to him, was standing at the sink.
“Anna?” he said.
She whirled around, her eyes wide and fearful. In the process, a wet glass slid from her hand and hit the floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Paul said, moving forward. He scanned the floor to assess the level of risk. “Don’t move your feet.”
Anna surveyed the bits of glass around her feet. “Shit.” She looked apologetically at Paul. “You startled me.”
As he knelt down to gather up the larger pieces of glass he said, “When you weren’t in your office I . . . I should have just waited.”
When she started to kneel down to help pick up glass, he said, “No, I’ve got this. As long as you don’t move you won’t step in any of it.”
But she ignored him, crouching and gathering pieces around her feet.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she said, holding up her index finger. Blood trickled down the side.
“Hang on,” Paul said. “Hold it over the sink. I’ve got almost all of it.”
With a dish towel, he swabbed the floor of any shards that were too small to pick up with his fingers.
Standing, he said, “Where do you keep your first-aid stuff?”
She pointed to a drawer. Paul found a package of Band-Aids and peeled one from its wrapping. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Anna, he gently took her wrist in his hand and ran some water over her bloody finger.
“You’re trembling,” Paul said.
“I’m . . . a little on edge today is all.” She shook her head. “I don’t even know why I was doing this. I have a dishwasher. I just . . . needed to clear my head.”
Paul turned off the tap and gently dried her finger with a paper towel. He studied the cut closely.
“I don’t see any glass.”
Paul wrapped the tiny bandage tightly around her finger. “If it’s none of my business, you don’t have to answer, but what’s got you on edge? Is it your father?”
“No,” she said. “Well, some.”
“What happened?”
“A fake 9-1-1 call. The police came, guns drawn. My father was pretty shook up.”
Paul held on to her hand a few more seconds before letting go. “There. You should be okay now.”
_________________
IN THE OFFICE, IN THEIR RESPECTIVE CHAIRS, ANNA SAID, “I REALLY am sorry. I should have been in here when you arrived.” She took a breath.
“We don’t have to do this today,” he offered.
She raised a hand, waving away any further debate. “I’m good. Go ahead.”
“I actually thought I was going to be late,” Paul said. He told her about what had happened when he saw the car that looked like Hoffman’s. “I don’t know all the symptoms of a panic attack, but I think I might have had one. I know it wasn’t Hoffman, and I don’t even think it was his car, but seeing it triggered something. I’ve really felt like I’ve been moving forward these last couple of days, but that was a real reminder that I’ve got a way to go.”
Anna wanted to be sure that he was okay now, and that he would be okay to drive home. Paul said he was confident that he was.
“But I should tell you . . . it happened again.”
“What happened?”