“Come back again, Anna. We’d all like to spend some time with you.”

“I’ll do that.”

***

The details of the press conference spread like wildfire and it didn’t take long for our story to reach a worldwide audience. Unfortunately, most of the information was incorrect, embellished, and not even close to the truth.

Everyone had an opinion about my actions, and they discussed and debated my relationship with T.J. in chat rooms and on message boards. I provided many late night talk show hosts with monologue material, and I was the punch line of so many jokes that I stopped watching television altogether, preferring the solitude and comfort of the music and books I missed so much on the island.

T.J. took his share of ridicule, too. They laughed about his tenth grade education but said that maybe it didn’t matter considering the other things he must surely have learned from me.

I didn’t want to go out in public, worried that people would stare. “Did you know you can buy almost everything you need on the Internet?” I was sitting on the couch next to T.J., typing on Sarah’s laptop. “They’ll ship it right to your doorstep. I may never leave the house again.”

“You can’t hide forever, Anna,” T.J. said.

I typed ‘bedroom furniture’ into the Google search box and hit enter. “Wanna bet?”

The insomnia started a few weeks later. First, I had trouble falling asleep. With Sarah’s blessing, T.J. spent the night often, and I’d listen to his soft breathing, but I couldn’t relax. Then, even if I managed to fall asleep, I’d wake up at two or three in the morning and lay there until the sun came up. I had frequent nightmares, usually about drowning, and I’d wake up drenched in sweat. T.J. said I often cried out in the middle of the night.

“Maybe you should go back to the doctor, Anna.”

Exhausted and fraying, I agreed.

“Acute stress disorder,” my doctor said a few days later. “This is actually very common, Anna, especially in women. Traumatic events often trigger delayed onset insomnia and anxiety.”

“How is it treated?”

“Usually with a combination of cognitive behavioral therapy and drugs. Some patients get relief from a low dose antidepressant. I could prescribe something to help you sleep.”

I had friends who had taken antidepressants and sleeping pills and they’d complained about side effects. “I’d rather not take anything if I can help it.”

“Would you consider seeing a therapist?”

I was ready to try anything if it meant getting a full night’s sleep. “Why not?”

I made an appointment with a therapist I found in the yellow pages. Her office was in an old brick building with a crumbling front step. I checked in with the receptionist, and the therapist opened the door to the waiting room and called my name five minutes later. She had a warm smile and a firm handshake. I guessed her to be in her late forties.

“I’m Rosemary Miller.”

“Anna Emerson. Nice to meet you.”

“Please have a seat.” She pointed at a couch and sat in a chair across from me, handing me one of her business cards. A lamp burned brightly on a low table next to the couch. A potted ficus tree stood near the window. Boxes of Kleenex were scattered on every available surface.

“I’ve followed your story in the news. I’m not surprised to see you here.”

“I’ve been suffering from insomnia and anxiety. My doctor suggested I try therapy.”

“What you’re experiencing is very common, given the trauma you suffered. Have you ever seen a therapist before?”

“No.”

“I’d like to start by taking a full patient history.”

“Okay.”

She droned on for forty-five minutes, asking me questions about my parents and Sarah and my relationships with them. She asked about my prior relationships with men and when I told her the bare minimum about John, she probed further, asking me to go into more detail. I fidgeted uncomfortably, wondering when we were going to get to the part where she fixed my insomnia.

“I may want to revisit some of your patient history in the coming weeks. Now I’d like to discuss your sleep habits.”

Finally.

”I can’t fall asleep or stay asleep. I’m having nightmares.”

“What are the nightmares about?”

“Drowning. Sharks. Sometimes the tsunami. Usually there’s water.”

Someone knocked on the door and she glanced at her watch.

“I’m sorry. We’re out of time.”

You have got to be kidding me.

”Next week we can start some cognitive therapy exercises.”

At the rate we were going, I might not get a good night’s sleep for months. She shook my hand and walked me to the lobby. Once outside, I dropped her business card in a garbage can.

T.J. and Sarah were sitting in the living room when I got home. I plopped down on T.J.’s lap.

“How did it go?” T.J. asked

“I don’t think I’m a therapy person.”

“Sometimes it takes a while to find a good one,” Sarah said.

“I don’t think she’s a bad therapist. There’s just something else I want to try. If it doesn’t work, I’ll go back.”

I left the room and returned a few minutes later, dressed in running tights and a long sleeved T-shirt layered under a sweatshirt and nylon windbreaker. I pulled on a hat and sat down on the couch to lace up my Nikes.

“What are you doing?” T.J. asked.

“I’m going for a run.”

Chapter 54 – T.J.

I carried the last box up the stairs to Anna’s new place, a small one-bedroom apartment fifteen minutes from Sarah and David.

“Where do you want this one?” I asked when I walked through the door, shaking the rain from my hair.

“Just set it down anywhere.” She handed me a towel and I stripped off my wet T-shirt and dried myself off.

“I’m trying to find the sheets,” Anna said. “They delivered the bed while you were gone.” We searched until we found them, and I helped her put them on.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. She returned with a small object and set it on the nightstand, plugging it into a nearby outlet.

“What’s that?” I asked, lying down on the bed.

She pushed a button and the sound of ocean waves filled the room, almost drowning out the rain that beat against the window.

“It’s a sound machine. I ordered it from Bed, Bath, and Beyond.”

She stretched out beside me. I reached for her hand and kissed the back of it, then pulled her toward me. She relaxed, her body melting into mine.

“I’m happy. Are you happy, Anna?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

I held her in my arms. Listening to the rain and the crash of the waves, I could almost pretend we were still on the island and nothing had changed.

She didn’t ask me to move in; I just never left. I spent a few nights at home, because it made my parents happy, and Anna and I stopped by a lot to hang out or have dinner. Anna took Grace and Alexis shopping a couple of times, which thrilled them both.

She wouldn’t take any money for rent so I paid for everything else, which she barely allowed. I had a trust fund my parents set up when I was younger. I would have had access to it when I turned eighteen and the money was mine now. The balance in the account would easily cover living expenses, a car, and the cost of my college education. My parents wanted to know – and they asked me all the time – what my plans were, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Anna hadn’t said anything, but I knew she wanted me to start working on my GED.

People sometimes recognized us, especially when we were together, but Anna slowly became more comfortable being out in public. We always went outside, to the park and on long walks, even though spring was still weeks away. We went to the movies and sometimes out for lunch or dinner, but Anna liked eating at home. She cooked me anything I wanted, and I slowly gained weight. She did, too. When I ran my hands over her body, I didn’t feel bones anymore. I felt soft curves.