The Never List

was only halfway ready for myself.
    I didn’t have the courage to tell Dr. Simmons that after ten years of our psychological struggle together—the tears, my long stares off into the distance while she waited patiently, the circles and circles we spun in as we churned through the facts of my life, picking over every memory except the ones I still couldn’t touch, the ones she most wanted to delve into—she couldn’t do anything more for me. We were at a dead end. I needed to do something real.
    After the first year of therapy, I was able to recite the facts ofmy captivity by rote. It was as though they had happened in some alternate universe, to some other person. A litany of terrible things I could mumble out across the room to keep Dr. Simmons at bay. New details whenever the conversation seemed stale, whenever she started demanding more of me.
    It was a history I revealed in isolated images. Me, blindfolded, my feet in chains hanging from the I-clamp bolted to the ceiling. Me, on the table, spread out like an insect for dissection, a catheter running to my bladder, filling me up milliliter by milliliter. Me, in the corner, strapped to a chair with my wrists cuffed behind me, a surgical needle piercing my tongue.
    Facts. Details. Specifics.
    Things that happened to someone else. Someone not here anymore.
    Ostensibly, I was opening up to Dr. Simmons, telling her my darkest secrets. But she always seemed to know that in reality I was pulling away. I could tell the stories, but I couldn’t feel them anymore. They were like poems repeated over and over until all the meaning had drained out of them.
    So for years now we had stood at a stalemate. Hours of sessions wasted, while she waited for me to make a move forward. But now, maybe, that’s what I intended to do.
    On the fourth day I called McCordy. He answered on the first ring.
    “McCordy here.”
    “Are you sitting down?”
    “Car—Sarah, is that you?”
    “It is. Listen, I wanted you to know that I am fine. I read the letter. You were right. Mumbo jumbo. I promise not to freak out like I did before, okay?”
    “So why wouldn’t you answer your phone?” A hint of suspicion sounded in his voice. “A second longer, and we would have sent inthe paramedics. You would not have liked it if we’d had to break down your front door.”
    “Why didn’t you then?” Silence on the end of the line. “You talked to Bob, right? You knew I was still ordering in and therefore not dead. Clever. Anyway,” I began, trying to sound carefree, “I’ve been thinking about what you said and … I’m going on a little trip.”
    “I’m glad I am sitting down. That’s … wonderful news. But are you sure you’re ready to do that? Shouldn’t you start with something simple, like the grocery store?”
    When I didn’t answer, he went on. “May I at least ask where you are going?”
    I sidestepped his question.
    “I need to think, and to do that I need to get away. I’m taking some time off from work. I happen to have a lot of vacation days left.”
    “Not surprising. About the vacation time, I mean. Have you, um, talked to Dr. Simmons about this?”
    “N-n-no. Not yet. But she’s my next call.”
    I took a deep breath as I hung up. After all, I was not a prisoner. They were not my jailers. I could go on a trip, and I did have a lot of accrued time. These things were all true.
    What was not true was the actual vacation part. I had an idea. The letter had not given me any distinct clues, even though something about it tugged at the back of my mind. I decided, however, that three days was enough to wait for the memory to jog, and since nothing was forthcoming, I had to move on to Plan B. I would listen to Dr. Jack Derber. His wife, Sylvia, was supposed to “show me the path.” Well, maybe he was on to something. Though not necessarily what he intended. Sylvia, show me , I whispered resolutely as I put the phone in its cradle. Show me.
    It took all of three-tenths of a second for Google to tell me Sylvia’sfull name and the town where she lived. The benefit of having a famous archenemy was that he couldn’t get married without the world knowing the details. Sylvia Dunham, Keeler, Oregon . She lived not too far from the prison, convenient for her but unfortunate for me, because I believed I would be able to feel his presence through reinforced concrete and steel bars as easily as I had through the cellar door.
    I ran a Google Earth search on the penitentiary and