Taphophobia
"The first thing I notice is the darkness. It's not the normal darkness of night where, if you squint your eyes and look closely, you can distinguish the outlines of familiar objects in the shadows. It's not a world with a palette of colors chosen from the darker end of the gray scale spectrum. It is total and completely unmitigated darkness. Am I asleep or awake? I don't know."
As psychiatrist Lionel Penn listened to his new patient, he jotted down notes in an old-fashioned steno pad. It was a preference he developed while in medical school. Even though shorthand was a vanishing skill, the top-bound notebooks were still available for sale.
"The next thing I notice is that I'm reclining on something hard," the young woman on his couch continued. "Perhaps I've fallen and hit my head. That would explain the overwhelming sense of disorientation I feel. And it might explain the darkness, as well. Don't people sometimes temporarily lose their vision when they hit their heads?"
"Sometimes a concussion can do that."
"At first, I'm afraid to move. I didn't know what is wrong with me, and I don't want to risk further injury. I slowly raise my right hand, which had been resting on my chest along with the left one. I immediately touch something hard that's hovering above me. I then feel with both hands. Something is all around me. I'm in some sort of a box, and I can't get out."
"Then what happens?"
"I wake up."
Her narrative having come to an end, Belinda Walburn looked at the psychiatrist with expectation on her face and hope in her eyes. It was obvious she expected a quick solution to her problem.
"When did you first start having these nightmares?"
"About six months ago."
"Dreams are often triggered by an event or problem in our lives. Was there something unusual that happened six months ago?"
"Other than my birthday party, no."
"A surprise party?"
"No. In fact, it wasn't really a party at all. Just some friends from work took me out to dinner at the Sons of Liberty Tavern. Normally, I don't celebrate my birthdays, but thirty is a big year."
"And how soon after you turned thirty did these dreams begin?"
"It was about the same time, actually. Do you think my age is what's causing the nightmares?"
"Historically, that specific birthday is a milestone. Many people joke about being 'over the hill' at thirty."
"Well, I never felt that way," Belinda insisted. "I'm the same person I was at twenty-nine."
"Perhaps your subconscious mind feels differently," Lionel suggested. "Single women, in particular, find it a difficult age. Some think their biological clocks are about to wind down."
"That's ridiculous. Even if I did want a family, lots of women have babies in their thirties."
Dr. Penn could sense his patient was becoming defensive. It did not take a trained psychiatrist to know that many women found their age and marital status a touchy subject. Since he did not want to alienate Belinda on her first visit, he tactfully steered the conversation in a different direction.
"When you were a child, were you afraid of confined spaces? Did you ever experience any claustrophobic reaction to them?"
"Quite the opposite. Whenever I was upset, I'd empty my toybox and crawl up inside it with a security blanket. I always felt safe there."
Lionel glanced at the clock on his desk and noticed the patient's hour was nearly up.
"That's something we might want to explore during your next appointment," he announced. "Meanwhile, are you having any difficulty sleeping?"
"Not really. I usually fall asleep moments after my head hits the pillow. Even when the nightmares wake me up, I go right back to sleep afterward."
"Good, but if anything changes, feel free to call me, and I'll write you a prescription."
Shortly after Belinda's session came to an end, Lionel turned off the light in his office and closed the door behind him as he left. Judy Stanfield, his assistant, was cleaning off her desk.
"Thank God it's Friday!" she exclaimed. "I'm beat!"
"And now you've got to go home and cook."
"Not tonight. I'm going to order pizza instead."
"Sarah and I are going to that new Asian buffet in Copperwell."
"Speaking of Sarah," Judy said with a mischievous smile, "isn't this the big weekend?"
"Yes, it is. The movers are bringing her belongings to the house tomorrow morning."
"So, instead of being out on your boat all weekend, you'll be unpacking boxes."
"Ah, my boat!" the psychiatrist said with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm afraid once Sarah moves in, I won't be spending as much time on it."
"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"
"None at all. Sarah's the one. I have no intention of letting her get away."
As Lionel drove home, he thought about his last patient of the day. He wondered if he had been too quick to assume her nightmares were brought about by her still being single at age thirty.
Am I projecting my personal concerns onto her? he wondered. Just because Sarah and I have been thinking a lot about marriage and children lately doesn't mean Belinda is worried about turning thirty.
His second-guessing his assessment of his patient's mental state abruptly came to an end when he saw Sarah's Subaru parked in his driveway. It was a nice sight to come home to.
* * *
When Belinda returned to his office for her second appointment, Lionel was surprised by the change in her appearance. She looked thinner, and her pale face looked gaunt.
"Are you feeling all right?" he asked.
"No. I don't sleep well anymore."
"Because of the dreams?"
"Yes. I get them every night now. And that's not all. I think I've got claustrophobia. Whenever I go into my walk-in closet, I keep imagining I'm inside a box, buried alive."
"You might be suffering from claustrophobia, but I wouldn’t rule out taphophobia."
"What's that?"
"It's the fear of premature burial."
"And how do I combat such a fear?"
"Therapy often helps find the causes of phobias, but it doesn't happen overnight. Also, lifestyle changes can help reduce stress and depression. In more severe cases, I can use hypnotherapy. For now, though, you might want to increase your level of physical exercise or try yoga, deep breathing exercises or meditation."
Over the course of the next four sessions, Belinda shared her childhood experiences with the psychiatrist.
"I was a happy little girl," she insisted. "There were no childhood traumas. No loss of a loved one. I never had any serious injuries, no surgery, stitches or broken bones. I wasn't bullied by other kids, and my parents never hit me."
"What about your experiences as an adult? Surely you must have had relationships? Did one or more of them end badly?"
"I've had several boyfriends, but, frankly, I'm a workaholic. I don't have much time for dating."
"And what is it you do?"
"I'm a court stenographer."
"I understand that's a stressful profession."
"It can be at times, but I've always been able to handle it."
"Sometimes we 'handle' stress by suppressing it. Over time, it builds up and has to be released. Have you been following my advice about those lifestyle changes?"
"I've been going on long walks whenever I can fit them into my schedule. I tried meditation, but it usually makes me fall asleep. Perhaps I'll look into a gym membership."
"That's always a good idea."
Lionel believed the stress of her job might be getting to Belinda. Why it took the form of taphophobia he had yet to discover. Hopefully, with time and therapy, patient and doctor would arrive at an answer.
* * *
"Where's Sarah?" Rebecca Coffin asked when she saw Lionel attaching cornstalks to the lamppost in front of The Quill and Dagger bookstore and coffee bar.
"She's on duty," he replied as he secured the stalks with a length of wire.
"Want to come inside for a cup of latte?" the shopkeeper asked her old friend.
"Thanks. I could use some caffeine about now. Sarah had to be at the hospital at six, so she woke up at four. I'm used to sleeping in on Saturdays. That's one of the perks of being in private practice. You get to set your own hours."
"Other than that, how do you like your new living arrangements?" Rebecca asked as she stuck a macaron on his saucer and handed it to him.
"It's great! I never thought I would enjoy those little domestic moments, but I do. I can't imagine ever living on my own again."
"I know how you feel. I was the same way when I moved in with Dylan."
Dylan Osborne, a graduate of MIT, was a computer genius who designed video games. He and Rebecca had met on a ghost tour in Salem and immediately hit it off. After dating for six months, they moved in together. A year later they were married. Rebecca kept her surname, though, believing Coffin was more suitable for the owner of a bookstore that specialized in mysteries, thrillers and horror.
As he nibbled on his macaron, Lionel saw Ezra Graves, owner and editor of The Puritan Fall Gazette, escort Abigail Cantwell to her New Age shop, the Bell, Book and Candle. After he unlocked the door for her, he leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Did you see that?" Lionel asked with a surprised smile on his face.
"You mean Ezra and Abigail? Yes, I did. You never saw that coming, did you?"
"No."
Both were in their sixties. Abigail had been widowed for ten years, and Ezra was a lifelong bachelor.
"I thought Ezra was married to his newspaper."
"Shawn told me Ezra had a crush on Abigail when they were in high school, but after he went off to college, she married Jim Cantwell. I suppose something recently fanned the old flame and rekindled those old feelings."
"I can't wait to tell Sarah."
"I have a feeling she already knows. Women pick up on these things faster than men do."
"Rebecca!" the psychiatrist said in mock shock. "What a sexist thing to say. I'm surprised at you."
"Want another macaron, Doc?"
As he was about to answer, his cell phone rang. He knew from the ringtone that it was Sarah.
"Yeah, honey?"
He ended the call several moments later.
"I gotta go. A patient of mine was just brought into the emergency room."
Rebecca handed him a small bag with several macarons inside.
"Here take these," she said. "And make sure you share them with Sarah."
When he arrived at the emergency room, he found Belinda Walburn sedated and strapped to a gurney. Her arms were bruised and there were lacerations on her hands.
"Where's Dr. Ryerson?" he asked one of the nurses.
"She's with another patient. I'll go tell her you're here, Dr. Penn."
"What happened to her?" Lionel inquired when Sarah entered the room.
"Miss Walburn was at the gym, and she suddenly freaked out. She began screaming and pounding on the walls with her fists. Those cuts on her hands are the result of breaking a mirror. The owner of the gym found her in the women's dressing room, naked and soaking wet. He called the police, and Shawn brought her here. I had to sedate and restrain her for her own protection."
"Did she say anything?"
"She just kept screaming, 'Let me out! Let me out!' When Shawn looked in her handbag for her ID, he found one of your appointment cards. That's why I called you. I assume she's one of your patients."
"Yes, she is. Is she going to be out long?"
"No. She should be waking up soon, in fact."
Lionel waited by Belinda's bedside. Ten minutes later, she opened her eyes.
"W-where am I?" she asked, fear and confusion clouding her pretty face.
"You're at Puritan Falls Hospital."
"Dr. Penn? What happened?"
"Do you remember being at the gym?"
"Yes. I went there to work out. Why? Did I fall off the treadmill and hit my head?"
"No. Apparently you had an episode in the ladies' changing room."
"I slipped and fell? I always was a klutz."
She seemed relieved, believing that it was only a minor accident that sent her to the hospital.
"No. You didn't fall. You had some sort of panic attack."
Belinda then noticed that her arms were pinned at her side, and she pulled against the straps.
"Just calm down," Lionel told her. "I'll have someone remove the restraints."
Once the patient regained her composure, the psychiatrist continued his questioning.
"Do you remember taking a shower after your workout?"
"When I went to the locker room to change, I took off my workout clothes and opened the door to the shower stall. That's all I can remember."
"Being in the enclosed space must have triggered your taphophobia."
Lionel was about to question her further, but he was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor.
"Are you all right?" Erma Walburn asked when she saw the patient's injured hands. "What happened?"
"I had a little accident at the gym. It's nothing to worry about, Mom."
Lionel made a discreet exit, allowing the two women their privacy. After a few words with Sarah, he went back to Essex Street where he continued to help Shannon and Liam Devlin decorate the streetlights in preparation for the village's annual harvest festival.
* * *
There was a chill in the air Monday morning when Lionel drove to his office.
"I come bearing gifts," he announced when he saw Judy sitting at her desk, wearing a heavy sweater.
"Pumpkin spice latte?" she asked, her face aglow with anticipation.
"I know you love them."
The phone rang just as Judy was about to take her first sip of coffee. She rolled her eyes, put the cup down and answered it. Meanwhile, Lionel hung his jacket on the coatrack and headed for his inner office.
"One moment, please," his assistant said before putting the caller on hold. "Lion. Mrs. Erma Walburn is on the line. She would like to come in and talk to you about her daughter."
"I'd like to talk to her, too. Can you squeeze her in sometime today or tomorrow?"
"Yes, I can. Your eleven o'clock had to cancel."
"Good. See if she can come in then."
At ten to eleven, Belinda's mother arrived at the psychiatrist's office. She nervously thumbed through a three-month-old issue of Good Housekeeping magazine as she waited to see him. Promptly at eleven, the door to the doctor's office opened, and his patient left.
"You wanted to talk to me about Belinda," Lionel said once Erma was sitting on the other side of the desk from him.
"Yes. I learned from the hospital staff that she didn't get those injuries to her arms and hands by accident. I was told she had some kind of nervous breakdown."
"It wasn't a breakdown. It was, what I prefer to call, an episode, similar to a panic attack."
"I also learned she's been coming to see you on a regular basis. Why? Is she mentally ill?"
"Let me assure you that your daughter is ...."
"Belinda is not my daughter," she blurted out.
"I'm sorry. When I met you at the hospital the other day, Belinda called you 'Mom.'"
"What I mean is she's not my biological daughter. My husband and I adopted her when she was an infant. And we never told her she was adopted. We preferred to have her believe she was ours."
"Do you know anything about the biological parents?"
"No. That's what worries me. Aren't there mental illnesses that can be inherited? I was under the impression schizophrenia runs in families."
"Put your mind at rest, Mrs. Walburn. Belinda shows no sign of schizophrenia or any other serious mental or emotional disorder. Although doctor-patient confidentiality prohibits me from discussing the particulars of her condition—even with you—I can tell you there's nothing for you to worry about."
"Thank God!"
"While you're here, I was hoping you might answer a few questions for me."
"Anything I can do to help."
"Has Belinda ever expressed any concern about being single at her age?" Lionel asked, still trying to ascertain if her marital status was causing the nightmares.
"No. None at all."
"Has anything else been bothering her? Something that occurred around the time of her last birthday?"
"Her birthday? Has she been having these episodes that long?"
"No. This was actually the first one that I'm aware of," the psychiatrist replied, deciding to bend the confidentiality privilege just a bit. "That's when her nightmares began."
"Not those nightmares again!" Erma cried.
"You mean she's had them before?"
"When she was small, she did. She used to wake up screaming almost every night. Her pediatrician insisted there was nothing to be concerned about, that the dreams would go away eventually."
"And did they?"
"Yes, thankfully. At about the same time she started kindergarten."
"Do you know what the nightmares were about?"
"She told me she dreamed she was locked in a box and couldn't get out."
The taphophobia, then, must have begun at a very young age. That clearly pointed to an incident in her childhood as the initial cause. It meant the psychiatrist had to delve deeper into his patient's past.
* * *
"I understand my mother came to see you, Dr. Penn," Belinda said at her next appointment.
"Yes, she did," the psychiatrist admitted.
"My parents and I had a long talk after she met with you. Imagine my surprise when, after thirty years of believing I was their daughter, I learned I was adopted."
"I hope the news didn't upset you too much."
"It was quite a shock, but at least I didn't freak out and wake up in the hospital, strapped down to a bed in the emergency room again."
"How are the nightmares?"
"I still get them every night. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding in my chest."
"I can prescribe something ...."
"No. I don't want to start taking any pills. But I was wondering," she said, hesitating briefly before continuing. "During my first visit, you mentioned hypnotherapy. Do you think it would help me?"
"It might. I've had some success with it in the past. Several of my patients have revealed things under hypnosis that enabled me to get to the root of their phobias. And since your mother told me you had similar nightmares when you were a young child, the answer is most likely buried deep in your subconscious mind. Hypnotherapy might bring it to the surface. If you're serious about this, I can attempt to hypnotize you at your next appointment."
"I'm willing to try anything at this point."
The following week, Belinda did not lie on the psychiatrist's couch but sat on a chair across from him. The room-darkening shades were drawn, and the lamps were turned off. The only light came from a candle placed in the center of the desk.
"You're walking down a long hall," Lionel said in a low monotone as his patient stared at the flame. "You can see a door at the very end. Keep walking toward it. It's getting closer. Closer. Closer."
Belinda's eyelids grew heavy, and she desperately wanted to close them and go to sleep.
"Reach out your hand and grab hold of the knob. Now open the door."
"What is this place?" the patient asked, her eyes darting from side to side.
"You've gone back to your past. Tell me what you see."
"I can't see anything! Darkness is all around me. I want to get out of here. I ...."
The patient raised her fists and began pounding on an invisible barrier.
"Let me out!" she screamed.
"There's nothing for you to be afraid of," Lionel said, trying to reassure her. "Whatever is in that room existed a long time ago. It can't hurt you now."
The screaming continued.
"Let me out! Let me out!"
"You have to calm down. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's in that room."
"Let me out!"
"All right. When I count to three, you will wake up. One. Two. Three."
"Let me out!"
"I said wake up. Can you hear me, Belinda?"
The patient suddenly stopped screaming and announced, "I'm not Belinda."
"You're not? Who are you then?"
"I don't have a name. No one even bothered to give me one. Instead, I was cast aside and forgotten. Not like her. She was the lucky one."
"Who are you referring to?"
"Her ... Belinda. She got everything. I got nothing, not even a name."
The flame of the candle on the desk sputtered and died. Moments later, the patient woke up.
"Am I having another nightmare?" she asked. "Everything is dark."
"No. The candle went out," Lionel explained, turning on his desk lamp.
He could see from the expression on her face that the young woman was no longer under a trance.
"Did I reveal anything important?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. You claimed to be someone else."
"Who?"
"A person without a name."
"Well, I suppose it was worth a try."
"We can always try again, not today but in the near future. Perhaps at your next appointment."
"Let me think about it."
It was clear to the psychiatrist that his patient had little faith in hypnotherapy and would probably not be willing to attempt it again.
* * *
It was a rare occasion for Lionel to arrive at the office before Judy did. That October day was one of them. She had called him on his cell phone earlier that morning to explain that her husband's car would not start and that she had to drive him to work.
After turning on the overhead lights, he placed the container of coffee on her desk, knowing she would be in before the latte had a chance to get cold.
The place seems so empty when she's not around, he mused as he hung up his jacket. It's like our house when Sarah's on duty.
The telephone rang and rather than let the machine answer, he picked up the receiver.
"Lionel Penn's office," he announced.
"Is that you, Dr. Penn?" the caller asked excitedly. "It's me, Belinda Walburn."
"Hello. Are you calling to ...?"
"I had a dream last night," she cried, interrupting her doctor's question. "But this one was different."
"I really can't discuss this now," Lionel apologized, knowing his first patient of the day was due to arrive any moment. "Judy will be in soon. Why don't you call back in about ten minutes and ...?"
"I wasn't alone in my dreams," Belinda continued, ignoring the psychiatrist's attempts to end the call. "There was someone with me. We were together in that box."
"Look, I'm sure Judy can squeeze you in for a few minutes sometime today, but ...."
"I know who she is, the one with no name. She's my twin sister!"
The door opened, and Judy walked into the office. Several steps behind her was the doctor's first appointment of the day.
"Sorry I'm late, Lion."
"Belinda," the psychiatrist said into the phone. "I have to go now. My patient is waiting. I'm going to let you speak to Judy."
He quickly handed the receiver to his assistant.
"What's up?" she asked.
"It's Belinda Walburn. She's upset. See if you can calm her down."
As usual, his assistant worked a miracle. She rearranged her employer's schedule, allowing him half an hour of free time, during which he could meet with the distraught woman. After taking only ten minutes to eat his lunch, Lionel ushered Belinda into his office.
"I'm sorry I didn't have time to talk with you this morning," he apologized.
"That's quite all right. I know you've got other patients. I'm just grateful you could fit me in this afternoon."
"So, what's this about your having a twin sister?" he asked once the young woman made herself comfortable on his couch.
"She was in my dream. It was like we were one person. I could feel her feelings and think her thoughts. They say there's a close bond between twins, don't they?"
"There have been studies that show that's the case."
"I think she's attempting to contact me. She might be in some kind of trouble."
"Did your mother say you had a sister?"
"No. She told me she doesn't know anything about my biological family."
"If you're convinced what you experienced in this recent dream is real, then that's an avenue you might want to explore."
"You mean see if I can find my real family?"
"Yes. You can start with your birth mother. She'll be able to confirm or deny the existence of a twin sister."
"I wouldn't even know how to go about looking for her."
"You work at the courthouse. Someone there ought to be able to point you in the right direction."
One of the attorneys, who specialized in family law, gave Belinda the name of a nationwide organization that assisted adoptees in looking for their biological parents. After contacting them, she met with Pauline Slidell, one of their most successful investigators.
"And what are your adoptive parents' names?" Pauline asked.
"Ferris and Erma Walburn."
Neither name appeared on any of the organization's databases.
"There's no record of the Walburns having adopted a child in any of the fifty states."
"How can that be?" Belinda asked.
"The adoption was most likely handled privately, not through an accredited agency. I don't suppose you have any of the paperwork that was completed back then?"
"No. To be quite honest, I never knew I was adopted until just recently."
"Hopefully, there was at least a lawyer involved, someone who drew up a contract between the adoptive and biological parents."
"I'll ask my mother and father. I'm sure if there were any legal documents, they would have kept them."
Once Belinda had the name of the lawyer, she took action on her own rather than contacting Mrs. Slidell again. As a court stenographer, she worked with attorneys all the time. Unlike many people, she was not intimidated by them. Thankfully, not only was Hubert Lonsdale still alive, but he was also still practicing law.
When she arrived at his office, the lawyer had an old file folder on his desk. It contained fewer than a dozen sheets of paper.
"I don't know how much help I can be to you," he admitted. "The adoption was pretty much cut and dry. Your biological mother was a fifteen-year-old runaway who got pregnant and agreed to give you up in exchange for five thousand dollars."
"You mean she sold me?"
"It happens all the time. People like the Walburns, who are desperate to have children, are often willing to do anything to get one."
"Can I see that file, please?"
"Of course."
When she read her mother's name on the contract, a chill went down her spine.
"Allison Doane. It says here she lived in Boston, but there's no address for her."
"She didn't have one. She bounced from shelter to shelter and often found herself out on the streets."
"What a horrible childhood she must have had."
"You should be thankful the Walburns came along to give you a good home."
"Oh, I am! I love them both dearly, but I still want to know about my birth mother."
Belinda thumbed through the pages in the file. Most of what was there was legal mumbo jumbo meant to cover Hubert Lonsdale's ass in case a problem arose. There was nothing to indicate where the delivery took place or if Allison Doane gave birth to one baby or two.
"There's no mention of the name of the hospital I was born in."
"That information wasn't relevant to the terms of the contract. All I can tell you is that you were delivered right here in Boston. Two days later, both parties appeared in my office, and Miss Doane handed you over to the Walburns."
Belinda thanked the lawyer for his time and then, armed with her mother's name, scheduled a second visit with Pauline.
* * *
Lionel Penn looked at his list of appointments for the day and noticed that Belinda Walburn's name was crossed off and another patient's was penciled in.
"Was this an emergency?" he asked Judy, pointing to the two o'clock time slot on the calendar.
"No. Belinda left a message on the machine that she was going to be in Boston for a few days, so she cancelled her appointment."
Since, during their last session, he had suggested she try to locate her biological mother, he assumed she was doing just that.
Meanwhile, his patient sat in Pauline Slidell's office, nervously tapping her fingertips on the chair's armrest while the other woman searched vital records for Allison Doane's name.
"Here it is," she announced. "Oh, I'm sorry."
"Why? What is it?"
"It's a death certificate. Your mother died of a drug overdose in '93."
Belinda experienced several emotions, the strongest being disappointment. Surprisingly, what she did not feel was grief. How could she? Allison Doane was a stranger to her.
"I don't suppose there's mention in the records of any other children she might have given birth to?"
"You want to know if you have any siblings?"
It was not an unusual request. Adoptees often wanted to reach out to blood relatives.
"Yes," she answered. "Specifically, I'd like to know if I had a twin sister."
Pauline checked the birth records but could find only one birth certificate in the name of Baby Doane. The lack of a twin was more disturbing than learning her mother had been dead for twenty-seven years.
Seven days later, Belinda returned to Lionel Penn's office for her next appointment. Unlike her previous visit, she was no longer optimistic about discovering the cause of her nightmares.
"I really thought I had a twin sister," she said, despondently.
"I take it the dreams haven't diminished any?"
"No, they haven't. And this second person has become a permanent part of them."
"It could be this other 'identity' is actually your subconscious mind trying to break through."
"Well, I wish it would succeed already! I don't know how much more of this I can take."
"Look on the bright side," Lionel said. "At least you don't have a twin sister that's calling out to you for help."
* * *
"How was your Thanksgiving?" Judy asked when Lionel walked into the office the Monday after the four-day-long holiday.
"Good. My parents went on a cruise this year, so we had only Sarah's family over. And you?"
"Pretty much the same as every year. I cooked a big meal and then watched Christmas movies on Netflix with the other women while the men watched football downstairs."
"And now all that remains is the leftovers," the psychiatrist laughed, holding up the brown paper bag that held his turkey sandwich.
Belinda, who was scheduled for nine o'clock, never showed. Judy tried both her cell phone and land line, but there was no answer.
"Did you try her at the courthouse?" Lionel asked.
"Yes, but she was a no call-no show at work, too."
"I hope nothing's happened to her. Why don't you contact Shawn and see if he can do a welfare check?"
Within the hour, Officer McMurtry got back to them.
"I'm at the house now," he informed them. "There's a car in the driveway, but no one answers the door. I peeked through the windows and saw nothing out-of-the-ordinary. Is there any reason to think Miss Walburn might have harmed herself? If there is, I can enter the house."
"Maybe you should," the psychiatrist suggested. "Even if she's not suicidal, she might have fallen or hurt herself some other way."
Shawn searched every room of the house including the basement and attic. There was no sign of the homeowner. Lionel next phoned the Walburns. They were not aware that their daughter had gone missing.
"She was here with us on Thursday," Erma explained.
"Did she mention any plans for today? Maybe getting an early start on her Christmas shopping?"
"No. I just assumed she would be going back to work."
For the next few weeks, people in Puritan Falls scoured the area for the missing woman but found no sign of her. It was as though she had vanished off the face of the earth. In his search of the house, Detective Stan Yablonski discovered a binder containing notes on Belinda's research into her biological family. He shared this information with Lionel Penn.
"I'm not asking you for any confidential information on your patient," the policeman explained. "I just thought this might give you some insight into her frame of mind."
"I can tell you Miss Walburn recently learned she was adopted," the psychiatrist said after examining the handwritten notes and computer printouts, "and she was searching for her biological mother. Apparently, she traced her to this hospital in Boston. I know a few people on the staff there. Let me talk to them and see if they can shed light on where Belinda might be."
On Saturday, while Sarah was working her shift at the emergency room, Lionel drove to Boston and had lunch with an old college friend on the waterfront. Dr. Ramsey Gamble, a cardiologist, had obtained copies of Allison Doane's records from the hospital archives, which he shared with the psychiatrist.
"I don't see how this can help you locate your missing woman, but here you go," he said, as he handed over a folder containing photocopies of records from Miss Doane's 1990 hospital stay.
"At this point, I'm grasping at straws," Lionel replied as he glanced at the records. "I've exhausted all other ...."
The psychiatrist abruptly stopped speaking. His eyes widened in surprise, and his grip on the file folder tightened.
"Did you find something?" Ramsey asked.
"There was a second baby," Lionel said, more to himself than in response to Dr. Gamble's question. "But there was no birth certificate on record because the second child was stillborn."
"And do you think your patient found out that she had a dead twin?"
"Honestly?" Lionel replied, closing the file as the waiter approached their table. "I don't know what to think."
* * *
Lionel and Sarah strolled through Boston Common on a chilly December evening, a week before Christmas, admiring the lighted tree and enjoying the holiday festivities.
"While we're in the city," Sarah said, "I'd like to stop at the Christmas store over by Quincy Market. I want to buy an ornament to commemorate our first Christmas together—or at least our first Christmas spent living under the same roof."
"It's not too cold out. Why don't we walk?"
As they neared the site of the Boston Massacre of 1770, Lionel saw a familiar face pass by him.
"I don't believe it!" he exclaimed.
"What is it?"
Ignoring Sarah's query, he abruptly turned around, ran after a woman in the crowd and grabbed her arm.
"Belinda! Everyone in Puritan Falls has been looking for you!"
"You obviously have mistaken me for someone else," the woman said.
The same face. The same voice. He was positive he was not wrong.
"Are you having difficulty with your memory? It's me, Lionel Penn. And you're Belinda Walburn, a patient of mine."
"I don't know you, and my name is not Belinda."
Sarah caught up to Lionel and recognized the woman from her visit to the emergency room.
"Miss Walburn, you're alive! Thank God! You had everyone worried."
"I've never met either of you," the woman insisted. "Now leave me alone or I'll call for the police."
As she pulled free from his grasp, Lionel noticed the sapphire earrings she wore. They were the same ones given to Belinda by the Walburns for her thirtieth birthday.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"I haven't decided yet," she said with a smirk that could not qualify as a smile. "Goodbye, Dr. Penn. Dr. Ryerson."
"What was that all about?" Sarah asked. "Was that woman Belinda Walburn or not?"
"No, I don't think it was."
"Then how did she know my name?"
"Just forget about it. Come on, let's go get our Christmas ornament."
Although Lionel had a theory, he did not share it with Sarah. Doctor-patient confidentiality had nothing to do with his not telling her what Belinda had told him during one of her therapy sessions: that she and her twin had shared the same thoughts and emotions during her nightmares.
That was how the stillborn twin recognized Sarah and knew her name, he theorized.
As they passed by the Old State House, he wondered if the two siblings were now sharing the one body that had survived birth. Or had Belinda Walburn ceased to exist when her dead sister's unborn soul finally emerged?
Salem normally enjoys sleeping in boxes, but he did freak out once when he found himself in an old archive file box that was about to be crushed and recycled.
