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Afraid of the Light

By Cynthia Ruchti

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That acrid, choking smoke smell. Cam caught a whiff of it—or her mind did—every time she walked a path from the curb to a client’s home. Paper, cloth, wood, shingles burning. She couldn’t let herself consider anything else beyond that.
She rechecked the address she’d been given. It wasn’t often she crossed a mowed, relatively tidy lawn when approaching a new client. The address was correct. And the drapes were drawn tight or shades pulled down on all the windows. All of them. It must be the place. Another client afraid of the light.

A frequent chat guest on Camille’s Let in the Light podcast—her producer Shyla’s favorite—Allison Chase had finally agreed to engage Dr. Brooks’s services. From their introductory phone call, Camille suspected what she’d see when Allison opened the door today. If she opened the door.

But that lawn—freshly mowed and tidy. Curious. Empty, barren window boxes hung beneath smudged windows on either side of the centered front door of the ranch-style home.

The paint color, faded blue, made it look like tired, bleached jeans. Probably built in the eighties. Probably not updated in the almost forty years since.
Camille tossed the judgmental thought and drew a steadying breath before knocking. Here we go again. It wasn’t a prayer, exactly. More like a rallying cry. If God was listening, all the better.

She waited. Her stomach growled. She should have eaten lunch an hour ago. Now, depending on how the appointment progressed and what she found behind the door, she might not eat for hours.

The lined drape for the window on the left moved. Others might not have caught the movement. Camille knew to look for it. Her knock had been heard. She’d been observed. Steps one and two in gaining entrance. She adjusted her quilted— machine-washable, a necessity—purse on her shoulder. Its bright turquoise and pink pattern should seem less threaten- ing than a black attaché or alligator-print laptop case. It had worked to break down barriers before.

Click. Click. Click . . .

Camille counted five deadbolt clicks before the door opened an inch.

“State your name.” The voice sounded more apologetic than demanding.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Chase. I’m Dr. Brooks. Camille Brooks. I’m so glad to finally meet you.” Tone down the exuberance, Camille. Too much happy can scare off a person in this woman’s state of mind.

“Allison. My first name’s Allison.”

“Yes, I remember. From our chats. You said I could come over today and talk with you face to face. Is that still okay?” Podcast listeners had described Camille’s voice as soothing, comforting, that her midnight broadcasts helped them sleep, of all things. She hoped it came across as nonthreatening now.

“You won’t stay long?”

Camille smiled. Textbook question. “Not today. Not unless you want me to.” Textbook answer.

The door swung open a little less than the width of Camille’s hips. She turned sideways and shimmied through the space. It closed quickly behind her. Five clicks.

The darkness wasn’t unexpected, deeper and thicker than merely stepping from outside to inside. The smell surprised her though. Lily of the valley. Her olfactory system had been prepped for rancid, moldy, or at best, stuffy. It wasn’t prepared for lily of the valley.

The diminutive woman stepped away from the door. “Let me turn on another light.”

Another?

Allison reached across a tower of mismatched boxes, angled her body to avoid a pile of a dozen or more blankets, and flicked on a table lamp. It stood four feet tall or more. Only the top of the shade was visible behind the stack.
Camille hadn’t expected lily of the valley. Or a client who looked like her mother.

Same pale eyes rimmed in darker blue, the outer corners tilted down as if already halfway to a frown. Same wispy shoulder-length blond hair that seemed unsure of its role on the woman’s head. Same—Yes. Same open button-down sweatshirt cardigan. Different shade of gray.

Allison flicked at her hair.

Camille made eye contact and reined in her renegade thoughts. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Chase.”

“You too.” Allison tugged her cardigan closed. “You’ll need a place to sit.” She moved through the room without waiting for an answer, surveying the stacks, rejecting several possible options, and moving to the next.

“Where do you usually sit, Allison?”

She brightened. “Over here. I keep all my things handy.” She pointed to an upholstered glider rocker and ottoman surrounded on three sides by walls of magazines and books. Many of them cookbooks, Camille noted. And well-worn classics. “You take your favorite chair then, and I’ll . . .”
This next step wouldn’t be easy. She considered moving a plastic tote closer to where Allison now sat—a makeshift place to sit—but for her client’s anxiety’s sake, she couldn’t disturb the disordered order. “Would it be okay if I used this straight-backed chair? I can set these books right over here for now.”
“Can’t use that chair.”

This could get interesting.

“It only has three legs.”

“This one then?” Camille rested her hand on the back of another, not a match to the first.

“Three legs. I’m kind of partial to chairs with three legs.” Allison shrugged, as if that were all the explanation necessary.
Camille bent to look. Both chairs were propped with piles of bricks where a leg should be. “I don’t mind standing for a while.”

“That might work.” Allison’s chin quivered.

“For now.”

The woman offered a barely there smile. “For now.”
Smoke. Camille smelled smoke again. And that persistent lily of the valley. A candle burned somewhere in the room. There it was. On top of the aged television. Not safe. But a whole lot of trust building would have to come first before Allison was ready to have Camille warn her of the danger.

Camille shifted her position so she couldn’t see the candle’s flame and the way it danced awkwardly, mocking her. One woman’s anxieties at a time. Allison’s first.

“I suppose you want me to tell you I’m ready to get rid of this stuff,” Allison said, gaze fixed firmly on her hands in her lap.

“I’d be surprised if you were ready, Allison.”

Camille focused on the hands too. Pale and soft, with short, even nails. Like her mother’s. Allison’s fingernails sported the remnants of what looked like weeks’-old pink polish. The woman picked at what little remained.

“I’m honored you invited me in, Allison.”

The woman looked up. “Funny word. Honored. Not one I would have chosen.”

“What would you have said if our roles were reversed?”

She waved off the question.

“I’d like to know.”

Allison surveyed her domain. Camille watched as Allison took note of every tilting pile, every stain, every stack and bundle and nameless bag. One barely navigable path wove through the chaos, and even it was littered with remains of past days. How was there room for tears to form and stay?

“Mortified.”

“What?”

The cardigan sides overlapped. “I’d be mortified to step into a place like this.”

“It’s your home, Allison.” Camille tiptoed carefully with her words. Her work with a client like Allison hung on fragile threads of trust.

“Don’t know many who would call it that. They’d call it a disgusting mess. It isn’t normal.”

“Is that why you listen to the podcast? Why you allowed me in? Because you’re looking for normal?”

Lily of the valley fought for dominance over a rancid smell wafting from what Camille assumed was the kitchen beyond a sheet-curtained doorway. Waiting for Allison’s answer would be easier if she didn’t have to breathe. Outsiders assumed Camille had gone nose-blind to the odors in the homes of her hoarder clients. Desensitized, maybe. But certainly not nose-blind.

Something scritched across metal in a nearby room. Cam had long ago trained herself not to flinch.

“Mice,” Allison said. “Not proud of that, but what’s a person going to do? My cat used to take care of them.”

She had to ask. “You have a cat?”

“Had a cat. She . . . disappeared.”

Well practiced, Camille kept her facial expression in check. Somewhere in the rubble of a decaying life lay a decaying feline that might never be found.

“Freedom,” Allison said softly. “I don’t want normal. I want freedom. But . . .”

“But what?”

“No amount of letters behind your name can give me that, Dr. Brooks.”

Camille would have argued. But she was right.

“Can I change my answer?” Allison’s tears glistened in the underachieving light from two small lamps and one struggling candle.

“Sure.”

“My children. I want my children back.”

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