29 Addison

The stitching on her white coat said Dr. Marcy Bledsoe but Addison had her doubts. She seemed more like just another one of Dean's lies, the woman coming again this afternoon to the small windowless room to talk about addiction and hallucinations. She looked to be in her early sixties, half-glasses down on her nose, a jeweled chain around her neck. Her skin was a blanched white with little or no makeup, just a smear of lipstick. Her hair was cut short, man short, and had been dyed a bright coppery red not to be found in nature.

"You're awfully calm for a woman involved in a kidnapping," Addison said.

"We've covered this yesterday, Addison," Dr. Bledsoe said. "You came here voluntarily. Or don't you remember?"

"I don't know today's date or the state I'm in," Addison said. "Where am I exactly?"

"It's been a rough week for you," Dr. Bledsoe said. "Your mind and your body have been through a lot of trauma."

"You're evading the question, Marcy," Addison said. "I asked you where the fuck am I and you tell me that I've had a hard week. That's not an answer. That's you continuing to be evasive while you and my husband keep me locked up."

Dr. Bledsoe stood as Addison sat cross-legged on a single mattress covered in only a white top sheet. The room had lacquered pine walls, a few pieces of institutional furniture, and a television, the reception something horrible. She was only able to watch this awful channel called MeTV with reruns for geriatric people.

The room had a small bathroom outfitted with toiletries like you'd find in a Motel 6 and a closet with two white towels, two hand towels, and a change of blue medical scrubs she'd been forced to wear. Addison had no idea what had happened to her clothes.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Dr. Bledsoe said.

"I'd like for you to give me back my clothes and my phone," Addison said. "I'd like to call my children and my sick father to make sure they're okay and then let them know I've been kidnapped."

"Addison, Addison," Dr. Bledsoe said. "You signed yourself in. We have you on video giving us permission to begin your treatment."

"Treatment?" Addison said. "What fucking treatment? Locking me up and taking away my rights. What part of my husband is a lying murderous sociopath don't you understand? He put me in this craphole so I'll shut up. How much did he pay you? I can pay you more. Just let me out."

Dr. Bledsoe shook her head. She pulled a penlight from her coat and flicked it on as if performing a magic act. Without asking permission, she stepped forward and checked Addison's pupils and ears and then asked for her to please open her mouth. Say ah. Addison didn't even think about it.

"I'm not sick and I'm not crazy," Addison said. "If you let me go, I promise not to sue the shit out of you and whatever facility I'm in."

"Magnolia Treatment Center."

"Located where?"

"I know you have a lot of questions." Dr. Bledsoe smiled again. She had such little yellow teeth, like pebbles in her mouth. "Let's get some fresh air."

They walked out of the room into a short hall lined with more lacquered pine leading to a kitchen where a skinny Black woman stirred something in a large silver pot. The woman waved, as if they were old friends, while Addison followed Dr. Bledsoe out a side door and onto the covered porch of the cabin, which faced a big lodge made of logs and topped with a green tin roof. They passed by two more cabins along a path filled with river stones. Narrow flower beds on each side of the path had only dead flowers and brown tomato plants.

"What if I make a run for it?" Addison asked.

"Be my guest," Dr. Bledsoe said. "But I wouldn't recommend it. We're located within three hundred acres along a national forest. I don't think you want to navigate the woods in this cold."

The first thing Addison remembered after Dean had caught her in the safe room was being held down on a gurney and a large Black woman tightening the straps on her wrists. A white woman, much skinnier and with a skeletal face, was probing her. She jabbed her for an IV drip. Later, the big woman made her bend over the bed while the skinny woman lubed up her hand and checked all her orifices. It was the most degrading experience of her entire life.

"Since when is violating a person considered rehab?" Addison asked. "One of your people stuck their fingers up my ass."

"Checking for contraband," Dr. Bledsoe said. "You'd be surprised how many of our patients try to bring in pills and dope. We can't take any chances that you might overdose."

Addison followed the woman toward a decent-size pond with a pier leading out to a gazebo. Beyond the pond, as promised, were the big, bad woods. As she turned in every direction, Addison only saw more woods, a single gravel road disappearing into the pines.

"How much is this setting Dean back?"

"We are a very exclusive center," Dr. Bledsoe said. "Your family is very worried about you."

"Did my husband tell you what kind of shit he put into my drink the other night?" Addison said. "I ended up in a house of mirrors at the goddamn Memphis Zoo. I thought I was coming out of my skin. I could hear the monkeys chittering up in the trees. And then that bastard dragged me through all our phony friends to make it look like I was the one with the problem. Marcy. Fucking listen to me. I saw my husband shoot a man in cold blood. I have a big stain all over my Persian rug."

"Have you tried mineral water?"

Addison took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Dr. Bledsoe was headed out into the gazebo. A sign read "Quiet Area. Please Respect Others." Addison wondered what would happen if she just started to scream at the top of her lungs, You fucking assholes. He's fooled you. He's fooled everyone. He's a lying, devious bastard.

In the gazebo, Addison took a seat on a bench and rubbed her forearms covered in goose bumps. Was it against regulations to loan her a damn jacket? "You don't believe me," Addison said. "Do you?"

"This is a circle of trust, Addison," Dr. Bledsoe said. "The more you accept our help, the more your world will grow. I want you to be able to leave your cabin and meet our other guests. I want you to have meetings with your husband and with your family. I know they are all pulling for you."

"Awesome." Addison looked up at her. "My father is dying."

"Yes," she said. "We know. I'm so very sorry."

"Are you a real doctor or just somebody Dean has paid?" she said. "He's done that to me before. He paid some country woman down in Southaven to act like his personal secretary."

Dr. Bledsoe placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled. "We better get you back," she said. "Your lips have turned blue."

Two days later, Sara Caroline came to visit. Addison assumed Dean was there but too chickenshit to actually come in and face her. She'd been brought into the big lodge that was starting to remind her more and more of a roadside Cracker Barrel. All it needed was some rusty iron skillets and farm equipment hung over the big stone fireplace and they'd be in business. Sara Caroline looked gaunt and absolutely drained, her blond hair pulled back tight into a ponytail. With her fresh-scrubbed face, she looked so young that Addison's heart hurt.

They hugged. They cried. They did all that business until Sara Caroline whispered in her ear, "I know what Dad did."

Addison let out a very long breath. Oh, thank god. A little more crying and then a glance back to see the big woman who'd held her down when she first arrived guarding the door. A dozen or so folding metal chairs had been arranged in front of the fireplace hearth. Pamphlets with the header "How to Listen to God. Overcoming Addiction through Practice of Two-Way Prayer" were laid out on each seat.

They took a seat. Addison leaned forward and held Sara Caroline's hand. The fire felt nice and warm after being stuck in the airless room all morning. It popped and crackled in the stones. Except for being held against her will and given a body cavity search, the center was homey as hell.

"Where's your father?"

"Outside," Sara Caroline said. "I know he stuck you in this place. Uncle Branch and Aunt Libby had a huge fight about it last night while I was in the kitchen. Dad says you've gone crazy and have started seeing things."

Addison held her hand tight. It felt so damn good to have someone listening to her for once and believing in her. She knew she could rely on her kids. All week she'd heard nothing but how she was an alcoholic with delusions. You hear that enough and you start to doubt your own reality. Addison reached up and patted her daughter's face. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you."

"Dad said he had to do it," Sara Caroline said. "That you gave him no choice."

"He's lying," she said. "He dropped something in my prosecco at the Zoo Boo and after I saw him shoot a man, he wanted to shut me up. Did you know he has a damn safe room up under our house with all these guns and maps? It's crazy, Sara Caroline. But it's all true. I need you and Preston to get as far away from him as you can."

"Dad said you'd say something like that," she said. "He brought over a counselor to help us all understand. I hate Dad for putting you in here. But I also understand that you gave him no choice. I know you're not thinking straight, but it's not your fault. I'm okay with it. Really. I want to tell you that I'm not mad at you. I just want you to get well and come home."

Addison looked back to the big woman guarding the door. Her crossed arms were as big as smoked hams. Making a run for it wasn't going to be happening today. The thought of being held down, screaming into a pillow, and those rubbery fingers made her want to puke.

"I want you to call a man named Porter Hayes and tell him where I am," Addison said. "You can find him online or you can ask Granddad. Porter Hayes. Can you remember that?"

"Oh, Dad told me all about him," Sara Caroline said. "He said that guy was just some downtown con artist trying to take our money. I can't call him, Mom. Dad would kill me."

"Don't say that."

"Don't say what?"

"That Dad would kill you."

Sara Caroline just rolled her eyes and reached out and gripped her hand tighter. "It's just an expression," she said. "I understand rehab, Mom. Remember us watching that show with Marcia from The Brady Bunch? She said she'd once traded sex for cocaine in Malibu.You're not like that. You're a strong woman. Okay? Just don't worry about us. We've been staying with Aunt Libby and everyone is fine. Even ChaCha."

Sara Caroline smiled at her and then reached over and gave her a hug. Addison felt as still and cold as a stone. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move.

"Mom?"

That's just when Dean timed his grand entrance in his tailored gray flannel suit with black silk tie and Italian shoes that Addison knew cost more than two thousand dollars. They'd been a Christmas gift and he'd been so proud of them, wearing them all morning with his ridiculous kimono. The Submariner on his wrist gleamed in the firelight.

"Baby," Addison said, "I'd like to speak to your father alone."

Addison prayed.

She hadn't prayed in a good long while but that afternoon and into the evening, she prayed and prayed like a goddamn nun. She got on her knees, clasped her hands together, bowed her head. The whole nine yards of what she'd learned at Our Lady of Perpetual Help. She prayed to Jesus, Mary, and Saint Charbel. She didn't remember much about Saint Charbel other than he kept on bleeding and bleeding long after he was dead. But he was Lebanese and revered by her father, and at the moment, that was enough for her. Most of her religious training as a kid amounted to the boys in her Sunday school class using their textbooks as an excuse to draw enormous penises on the saints with cartoon bubbles coming out of their mouths saying things like: "And for my next miracle..."

Dean had been so damn smug with her. He spoke in loud, condescending tones to make sure everyone in that lodge heard him. He used words like understanding, faith, family, and trust. He told her that she was getting the best treatment money could buy. She told him he was lying. That she had seen him shoot a man in their library. She didn't mention the rug. You'd think he would've disposed of the rug along with the man, rolled up his big one-armed ass like a burrito. The rug had been a good one, a couple thousand dollars from some antiques mall on Summer Avenue, but not worth going to prison.

Who the hell are you?

Who are you, Addison?he'd asked. I've been with you fifteen years.

I know you're not Dean McKellar.

If I'm not Dean McKellar, then you're not Addison McKellar. And what does that make our kids?

You drugged me and then I saw you fucking kill a guy. You told me your name was Dean McKellar, but Dean McKellar died back in nineteen ninety-two. You've lied about everything since the day I met you.

Dean shrugged. Doesn't everybody? Don't you lie to me, Addy?

I never lied to you.

Dean nodded. He clasped his hands together and looked at her hard. The stubble on his chin had been artfully trimmed and shaped. He'd worn the good cologne today for some reason. It always made Addison's eyes water.

He said: I know where you've been.

Addison knew it before he said it. But despite everything, he had the balls to actually look hurt. That's how good of a liar Dean could be. He gave her a good long stare and said, You should've never gone to Alec Dawson about me.

Addison was ready to run.

She knew she didn't have time to think about it or plan it. She just knew the next time that she was let out of her locked room, she'd bolt right for the fucking woods, absolutely sure neither of the women who'd held her down could keep up. Addison had been a runner most of her life. She'd run track at Hutch and had done her best to keep in shape at Ole Miss. In her New York days, she'd jogged in Central Park every chance she got, even in winter, and after Sara Caroline and Preston had been born, she had spent a lot of time in the gym. She didn't give a shit what Dr. Bledsoe had said about the retreat being so fucking remote that she'd never find her way out. What else was she supposed to do, just lie in this awful wood-paneled room with her mind churning over nothing but worry for her kids and wondering if she'd ever see her dad again? And if she were to make any legal moves against Dean, she'd have to be back in Memphis and representing herself. She could just imagine him now at the Club. Oh, yes. Addison has pretty much hit rock bottom. We're all praying that she makes it through. But you know, substance abuse runs in her family. So awful.

Someone knocked on the door, and before she could even respond, the dead bolt turned and the big woman entered the room with a tray. She stared at Addison as she walked past her and set the tray on top of a chest of drawers. The skinny woman who'd violated her stood in the hallway with a smile on her face, a smug look like she owned this rich bitch from Memphis. Addison stared right back.

She sat on her bed and didn't move.

The big woman opened the lid, like it was trout almondine at Arnaud's, pointing out steaming beef Stroganoff and peas. Some iced tea and coffee cake for dessert, baby. Addison would rather eat dirt.

The thing about being cooped up and told you might not see your kids again was that it could make you do things that you never even thought possible. Addison was the kind of person who tried to always do the right thing. Always said please and thank you. She was kind to animals and held doors open for old people. And said excuse me before interrupting a conversation.

So what came next felt like watching someone else.

Addison, shoeless and still dressed in the hospital scrubs, reached out for a fork as if she was hungry as could be. Mmm. Mmm. Brown slop and peas. She looked up at the big woman, smiled, and then stuck the fork right into the center of her hand. The woman let out a horrible howl as Addison darted, not even looking back as she ran from the room and shouldered the skinny woman to the ground. The woman floundered before Addison reached for the back of her shirt, pulled her into the room, and dead bolted the door on both of them.

They started to bang on the door just as she made it to the kitchen. A grizzled old woman wearing a world's greatest mamaw T-shirt stood at the countertop. She was eating a greasy cheeseburger with a handheld radio carelessly left out of reach. Addison snatched it up, ran for the front door, and tested the lock. It was open.

She turned back to the woman and looked down at her feet. "Give me your shoes."

The woman turned her head toward the banging and then back to Addison.

"I took kickboxing for three years," Addison said. "Give me your shoes, Mamaw, or I'll punch you right in the tit."

The old woman bent down and quickly removed her ragged pair of Nikes. Addison picked them up without taking her eyes off her. They were a few sizes too large but would work fine. She slipped them on her bare feet, gripped the radio, and bolted outside into the night.

As she ran, she looked up at the big lodge. She spotted a few figures standing by the windows, so she was careful to make sure she wasn't seen as she made a run for the shadows. She crossed a gravel parking lot, ducking behind parked cars and trucks before finally deciding to head around the pond, where she tossed the radio and then ran deep into the woods.

After the first hour, guessing it had been an hour, she wished she'd at least snatched up that coffee cake from the tray or had something to drink. This was going to be a long, hard hike, and soon, her mouth felt bone dry. The moon was high and bright overhead when sometime after midnight, surely it was after midnight by then, she came to a lake. The surface shimmered a bright silver and far into the water she heard the honking of geese and flapping wings. On the opposite shore, she spotted an old farmhouse with smoke trailing from the chimney.

She closed her eyes and thanked both God and Saint Charbel. The lake was pretty damn big but she could circle it and make her way to the house.

But soon she entered a soggy marsh. She kept trying to make the loop to the house but she became trapped by stubby cypress trees and thick mud that sucked at her Nikes. At one point, she got up to her knees in sinking ooze, her body feeling nearly frozen as she tromped on ahead. God, she was so cold. She hadn't been so cold since that trip to Telluride three years ago. Dean had wanted to rent a fucking sleigh to a little cabin where so-called cowboys cooked steaks over an open fire. Then, like now, the cold was so bone-deep, it hurt to even take a breath. At least now there wasn't some hippie cowboy breaking out his fucking guitar and going through his catalog of Eagles songs. She could still hear his sad, spoken word rendition of "Hotel California." Such a lovely place.

Oh god, thinking about Telluride made the cold worse. Addison was shivering so hard now her teeth hurt.

Her breath clouded before her as she kept on trudging around the lake to the house. But as she got closer, she could hear the zooming of cars along a highway. She could take a chance at the house. But what if the asshole who lived there was Dr. Bledsoe? She'd open the door in a fuzzy robe with a coffee mug in her hand, that dumb, deadpan look on her withered face. Addison, Addison, she'd say. I thought we made real progress this morning.

Seriously, fuck that woman.

Addison headed for the road, a longer hike than she expected. She knew she looked like a crazy swamp creature with mud splattered up on her pants and across her chest and arms. She could feel the wet clumps in her hair, wild and loose across her face, and even taste the mud in her mouth.

If she'd been driving down a highway and saw a woman in hospital scrubs splattered in mud and covered with welts, she wouldn't have stopped. She'd have sped up.

Addison made it to a hill overlooking a four-lane highway. She was out of breath, resting her hands above her head to suck in some cold air. Across the road a big billboard lit up for a Kentucky Fried Chicken in nineteen miles. She did her best to wipe the dirt from her face and blood off her bare arms from the swatting branches. She had to get back to Memphis and get Dean, or whoever he was, for what he'd done. She didn't know how she'd do it. But she knew that turnabout was going to be a bitch.

Along the roadside, she jumped and waved. Car after car passed her. One big rig lit up in bright white and orange lights honked its horn but didn't stop. She tried to flag down cars for what felt like hours, although probably was just minutes. Addison was so fucking tired. She began to think about Dean taking her kids away to god knows where and that maybe she'd never see them again. Or her father. Was he still alive? Would she see him again?

She sank down to her knees and started to cry. Maybe she could just walk home. She got up and started walking again, going maybe a half mile until she saw signs for Highway 78 West, ten miles from Holly Springs. Her legs rubbery as she kept moving forward, praying again that someone would stop. If not, she would make it to Holly Springs. Soon, she was encompassed in flashing blue lights and the quick sounds of a police siren. She kept walking along the shoulder, unable to stop until she heard a man behind her asking if she was all right. "Ma'am?"

Addison turned and saw a nice man in a khaki uniform. He was an older guy with gray hair and had a friendly, pleasant face and an old-time country accent. "Looks like you've been through hell, young lady."

"Yes, sir."

"Then how about we get you out of this cold and back home?" he said. "That okay by you?"

"That would be more than okay."

The deputy opened his trunk, retrieved a thick army blanket, and spread it over her shoulders before opening the back door and gently helping her in. The blue lights continued to pulse along the roadside, lighting up the rocky shoulder.

He put the car in gear and drove off fast, soon heading up onto an overpass and then turning around the way they'd come. Addison was just about to ask him just where in the hell she was when he picked up the radio mic and called into dispatch. "This is 34," he said. "Just found that mental patient that escaped tonight. En route to take her back to the facility."

Addison reached up and gripped the cage that separated him. She shook the cage and begged him to help her. She'd been locked away against her will. Her husband killed someone. He was the one who was crazy.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," he said. "I'll put it all in the report."

The deputy reached down to turn up the police radio. Every word she said drowned out by static.