Just then, a man in the adjacent aisle was opening a register. “I’ll take the next person in line.”
Lauren moved her cart over and the checker began to scan her items as a young female bagger popped open a plastic sack.
“Chilly out there tonight, isn’t it?” the man asked.
Lauren forced herself to look at him, nodded, then looked away. Her heart began pounding and she could feel a drop of perspiration course down her spine.
“Cash, check, or—”
“Cash.” Lauren handed him a twenty, avoiding eye contact, and pocketed the change.
“Need help with that ba—”
“I’ve got it,” Lauren said, scooping up the sack and heading away from the mass of people.
“Have a nice day,” the man called after her.
Lauren’s agoraphobia had begun four years ago when her attempt at running her own practice had come to a screeching halt. A friend of hers, another psychologist who had moved to Placerville, California, several years earlier, had suggested the two of them form a partnership and go into practice together. Wanting desperately to get out from under the rigors of institutional care, Lauren had jumped at the idea.
Two years later, with their practice growing slower than anticipated, Lauren’s partner announced she had purchased a thriving practice from a retiring psychologist. She informed Lauren she was dissolving their agreement — and that, effective immediately, she was taking the staff and her patients with her. With a decimated practice, the next three months proved devastating for Lauren.
Now, as she drove her car, she thought of the day Michael had sat her down and helped her see what had to be done.
“You’ve given it everything you have, honey,” Michael had told her. “But things are out of control. We need to make a change.”
“Close the practice?” Lauren asked, fidgeting with her gold necklace, trying to maintain control.
“What’s left of it, yes. The lease is coming due in five weeks. I just don’t see things turning around overnight.” He stroked her hair. “I know this is not what you wanted to happen, but your ex-partner abandoned you. None of this is your fault.”
Lauren buried her face in her husband’s chest and cried.
Over the next few weeks, Lauren fell into a deep depression. Michael bore the burden of handling the closure, selling off what few assets she had — furniture and various pieces of office equipment — and finding another psychologist in town who would assume care of Lauren’s remaining patients. Had it not been for Michael’s constant attention, she would never have gotten through it.
As she exited the freeway, she realized for the thousandth time today just how much she missed her husband. She made a few turns and headed deeper into the rural area of Placerville. The headlights of the car that had been behind her since she had exited the freeway were annoying and distracting. On such dark roadways, the lights stood out painfully against the background, poking at her eyes like needles.
Lauren made a left turn and the car stayed with her. She made another left and then two rights, and each time, remaining a good two blocks back, the other vehicle shadowed her moves.
Perspiration began trailing down her back again, and her breathing became labored. Here it was, the day after her husband had failed to return home from a ski trip, and she already had more stress than she was equipped to handle. Now, a car was following her. Or was it? Was her propensity for anxiety making simple coincidence into something more significant?
Her heart began pounding and her mouth was so dry it felt as if her throat had closed down on her. She knew these symptoms well, and she fought them hard. Though she had given up her dependence on antidepressants a year and a half ago, the occasional Xanax remained her sole residual crutch. And although it should have reached full strength by now, she felt as if she had never taken it.
Just then, something exploded in the rear of her vehicle. The car swerved right, but she steered into the slide and quickly regained control. She had only felt this sensation once, many years ago, but it was unmistakable: she had a blowout. She accelerated hard, but the car responded sluggishly.
She glanced up at her rearview mirror. The headlights seemed to be bearing down on her. As she slowly gained speed, she started having more difficulty controlling the car as it thumped along, yawing left and right. But there was no way she was going to stop.
She knew the streets in this neighborhood of Placerville like the layout of her house, and twenty yards ahead was a one-lane dirt road that was nearly impossible to see at night if you did not know it was there.
Going forty-five miles an hour, she pulled the steering wheel hard to the right. The car’s wheels left the pavement as they, too, were surprised by the sudden turn. Lauren swerved wide into a narrow ditch along the left side of the shoulder-less road. She floored the accelerator, but the rear wheels spun aimlessly in the loose gravel and dirt.
Lauren cut her lights and quickly got out of the car. She glanced over her shoulder for the headlights, but didn’t see them. Was she just being paranoid, like one of her patients?
Not willing to take the chance, she scampered up the slight embankment, pushing the brush aside with frantic hands. As she ran, she struggled to maintain her balance on the hard-packed underlying ground that was pocked and uneven. She caught her toe in a crevice, and before she could adjust, her other foot landed in a deep indentation and she plunged forward, face first, slamming her chin into a large rock half-buried in the ground.
Sharp pain shot through her jaw.
Lauren shook it off and got to her feet again, moving with purpose toward her house, which sat about a stone’s throw up ahead on the hill that was now visible.
Before she had gone ten feet, a flash of light hit her in the back and silhouetted her form against the tall brush. She spun and saw a car turning onto the road, approaching the spot where her disabled vehicle was parked. She stumbled forward, pieces of the high, prickly thistles slicing at her lips and cheeks as she ran by.
Twenty yards to go, ten until she reached her backyard, where Tucker, her black Doberman, would be standing watch. Maybe her pursuer would see the dog and leave her alone.
Off to the left was the back of the Andersons’ house, but Lauren knew they were out of town. Beyond the Andersons’ property sat an older one-story ranch where an elderly couple resided. The house was dark — but even if they were home, the man was ill and the woman was nearly deaf. They probably wouldn’t be able to render any substantial assistance.
As Lauren climbed the low wooden fence that lined her property, she whistled. “Tucker, come!” she said in a frantic whisper. But the dog did not appear. “Tucker!” she called again, somewhat louder, to no avail.
She reached the back door and fumbled with her keys, finding the correct one but having difficulty inserting it into the lock. She let out a whimper of frustration as she repeatedly stabbed at the metal cylinder with a nervous hand. Lauren took a breath, calmed herself, and made one more attempt. The key slid in and she turned the knob.
Lauren slammed the back door behind her and flipped the locks shut. Tears were running down her face and her lungs were burning from the run through the cold January air. She pressed her back against the door and rested for a moment as her mind cleared. Was someone really following her, or could it have been a neighbor — someone who lived on the same block or even a block or two over?
She should’ve made a few nonsense turns, just to be sure — but she hadn’t. She took a breath to calm herself. She suddenly felt foolish. This whole situation with Michael was getting to her, putting her on edge. Get a grip, she told herself.