Mind Over Matter

scent of coffee eased the beginning of flutters in her stomach. She took a moment to brace herself, then walked into the light.
    He was standing by the window. There was a cup of coffee in his hand, but he wasn’t drinking. Something was simmering on the stove. Perhaps he’d forgotten it. A.J. crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her hands over the sleeves of the robe. She didn’t feel warm any longer.
    “David?”
    He turned the moment she said his name, but slowly. He wasn’t certain what he should say to her, what he could say. She looked so frail. He couldn’t have described his own feelings at the moment and hadn’t a clue to hers. “The coffee’s hot,” he told her. “Why don’t you sit down?”
    “Thanks.” She willed herself to behave as normally as he and took a seat on a stool at the breakfast bar.
    “I thought you could use some food.” He walked to the stove to pour coffee. “I heated up some soup.”
    Tension began to beat behind her eyes. “You didn’t have to bother.”
    Saying nothing, he ladled out the soup, then brought both it and the coffee to her. “It’s an old family recipe. My mother always says a bowl of soup cures anything.”
    “It looks wonderful,” she managed, and wondered why she had to fight back the urge to cry again. “David…”
    “Eat first.” Taking no food for himself, he drew up a stool across from her and cradled his coffee. He lit a cigarette and sat, sipping his coffee and smoking, while she toyed with her soup. “You’re supposed to eat it,” he pointed out. “Not just rearrange the noodles.”
    “Why don’t you ask?” she blurted out. “I’d rather you just asked and got it over with.”
    So much hurt there, he realized. So much pain. He wondered where it had its roots. “I don’t intend to start an interrogation, A.J.”
    “Why not?” When she lifted her head, her face was defiant, her eyes strong. “You want to know what happened to me in that room.”
    He blew out a stream of smoke before he crushed out his cigarette. “Of course I do. But I don’t think you’re ready to talk about what happened in that room. At least not in detail. A.J., why don’t you just talk to me?”
    “Not ready?” She might have laughed if her stomach wasn’t tied up in knots. “You’re never ready. I can tell you what she looked like—black hair, blue eyes. She was wearing a cotton gown that buttoned all the way up to her throat, and her name was Jessica. She was barely eighteen when her husband killed her in a jealous rage, strangled her with his own hands, then killed himself in grief with the pistol in the table beside the bed. That’s what you want for your documentary, isn’t it?”
    The details, and the cool, steady way she delivered them, left him shaken. Just who was this woman who sat across from him, this woman he’d held and desired? “What happened to you has nothing to do with the project. I think it has a great deal to do with the way you’re reacting now.”
    “I can usually control it.” She shoved the soup aside so that it lapped over the edges of the bowl. “God knows I’ve had years of practice. If I hadn’t been so angry, so out of control when I walked in there—it probably wouldn’t have happened.”
    “You can block it.”
    “Usually, yes. To a large extent, anyway.”
    “Why do you?”
    “Do you really think this is a gift?” she demanded as she pushed away from the counter. “Oh, maybe for someone like Clarissa it is. She’s so unselfish, so basically good and content with herself.”
    “And you?”
    “I hate it.” Unable to remain still, she whirled away. “You’ve no idea what it can be like, having people stare at you, whisper. If you’re different, you’re a freak, and I—” She broke off, rubbing at her temple. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. “I just wanted to be normal. When I was little, I’d have dreams.” She folded her hands together and pressed them to her lips. “They were so incredibly real, but I was just a child and thought everyone dreamed like that. I’d tell one of my friends—oh, your cat’s going to have kittens. Can I have the little white one? Then weeks later, the cat would have kittens and one of them would be white. Little things. Someone would lose a doll or a toy and I’d say, well, your mother put it on the top shelf in your closet. She forgot. When they looked it would be there. Kids didn’t think much of it, but it made some of the