FEAR OF FEAR: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Acknowledgments

  Fear of Fear

  PJ Nakfoor

  Copyright ©2021 by Patti Nakfoor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design and formatting by Poole Publishing Services, LLC

  In Loving Memory of my mother, Patricia A. Waier Nakfoor, who was a woman born ahead of her time, and who taught me that our challenges can be overcome, and in fact, push us to become the best version of ourselves.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MICHIGAN, 2020

  “Mom, I just texted Dad, and he said he won’t be home for at least two more hours. I need to get the ingredients for our fundraiser,” Faith said, an adolescent snark in her tone.

  “Okay, okay. Give me ten minutes and I’ll take you,” I answered, with a bit more bravado than I felt.

  Faith’s high school Drama Club was planning to host a final bake sale in order to purchase last-minute props for the spring production of The Crucible. Faith won the part of Susanna Walcott, the servant girl to Abigail Williams, the play’s antagonist. As a fourteen-year-old freshman, she was ecstatic to be cast alongside juniors and seniors. Carl and I were thrilled for her.

  I trudged to our small but orderly walk-in closet, grabbed my purse and dug through its contents. I was comforted by the sound of pills rattling in their small plastic container. I stepped into the cramped bathroom, removed and swallowed a five-milligram Valium, washing it down with a gulp of water from the sink. After a moment’s hesitation, I swallowed another half tablet.

  “Mom, can we go?” Faith yelled from the living room.

  “Five more minutes, Faith. I’m in the bathroom,” I called from upstairs.

  I sat on the closed lid of the toilet and took five cleansing breaths. Vivian, you’ll be fine. The store is only a mile away. After counting to sixty a couple of times, I stood and looked in the mirror. I looked older than thirty-eight because of my tired, troubled brown eyes. Even my best feature, my smile, wasn’t working today, and my tawny-colored hair needed a trim.

  * * *

  We entered the Gem Grocery store, which, thankfully wasn’t crowded. A harried mother pushed a cart full of groceries and two grubby toddlers down the nearby cereal aisle. They whined and pointed at the colorful boxes, the smallest one nearly falling out of the cart. It startled me and cranked my apprehension up a notch. Faith pulled a tattered list from her jeans pocket and read off the items.

  “We need powdered sugar, three flavors of gelatin, unsalted butter, vanilla if we don’t have any, and I want to get some sprinkles. My friends love my jello cookies, so I was thinking lemon, cherry and orange. Oh yeah, and we need food coloring.”

  I felt a stirring of anxiety in my chest. When is the Valium going to kick in?

  Faith collected most of the items quickly as we strode through the aisles, but took several minutes perusing the decorations.

  “Hmm, I can’t decide if I should get the rainbow sprinkles, chocolate sprinkles or different colored sugar ones,” she said.

  With a flash of impatience, I said, “Grab one of each—c’mon, let’s get going.” The anxiety was escalating, and I felt my face flush and my heartbeat speed up.

  Probably sensing that my panic was increasing, Faith frowned as she chose the items and we headed to the checkout. The elderly lady in line ahead of us couldn’t get her credit card to work.

  “I think you have it in backwards,” said the ruddy-cheeked, pudgy clerk.

  “Oh dear. There—how’s that?” the woman said, fumbling with her card.

  “Good. Is it credit or debit?”

  “What?” the woman looked perplexed. “I never had to choose before.”

  C’mon lady, we’re in a hurry. Can’t you see there’s a line starting to form?

  “Oh, then it must be credit. Push the credit button,” said the clerk.

  “Which one is that? Oh, there, I found it.”

  I picked at the remaining nail polish on my thumb. Seven and a half milligrams of Valium and nothing. Really?

  The woman slowly opened her billfold and put the credit card back in place and then more slowly, situated the billfold back into her purse and started to leave.

  “Ma’am, wait. Here’s your receipt.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear.”

  Finally.

  * * *

  I was sweating profusely once we got back in our gray Chevy Cruze. Faith’s dark eyes filled with worry.

  “Mom, are you going to be able to drive?” Her features appeared more childlike when she was troubled. Her freckles became nearly palpable, and her maturing face lost its angles.

  “Yes, I just need a moment,” I said as I started the engine. We sat idle for a couple of minutes while I closed my eyes, took some more cleansing breaths, and visualized lying on the beach in Siesta Key, Florida—my happy place—listening to the waves and being caressed by the radiant Florida sun. The visual techniques I’d learned helped to calm me over the years, but less so in recent months. Faith was silent except for the sound of her foot nervously tapping against the passenger door.

  “Okay, let’s head home,” I said.

  We pulled out of the parking lot and onto the busy street. I felt like I’d gained a sliver of control. Maybe the Valium was starting to take effect. I concentrated on driving, allowing myself a few more Siesta Key moments. Faith began to make small talk, and I knew she was trying to distract me from my fear, but it made my irritability resurface. I wiped perspiration from my forehead.

  As we approached a busy intersection, the light turned yellow. I couldn’t bear to sit idly
at a red light during five-o’clock traffic. Suddenly, my heartbeat pulsated through my body.

  “My chest…” I said, massaging it with my right hand.

  “Mom, you are not having a heart attack. Remember, your doctor said that panic can give you the same symptoms, but he told you that your heart was strong. We’re almost home,” Faith said, a forced composure in her voice.

  As adrenaline flooded my nervous system and the traffic light changed to red, I jammed my foot on the accelerator.

  “Mom! What are you doing!” Faith screamed.

  My arms stiffened as I gripped the steering wheel and sailed through the intersection. Horns blared and brakes squealed. A pick-up truck veered sharply to avoid hitting us broadside as I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for a crash.

  “Oh my God, Faith! Hang on!” I yelled.

  Faith shrieked. But no crash came.

  The truck came to a stop, miraculously avoiding us and the other nearby cars. We were safe. Faith became hysterical. Her face was blotchy and her eyes huge with fear.

  She sobbed and shouted, “Dammit, Mom! You almost killed us!” Then she clenched her teeth and sneered at me with hatred, lowering her voice. “What is wrong with you?”

  The disgust I’d heard felt more painful than her hysteria. She snatched a pack of tissues from the glove compartment and blew her nose. By now, I had pulled into a nearby strip mall parking lot to gather my wits.

  “Honey,” I said, my voice quivering. “I’m so sorry. I promise that something like this won’t ever happen again. I’m going to get help, I’m so sorry.” I gently patted her knee, but she jerked it away.

  “Don’t touch me.” She blew her nose a few more times, her dark curls bouncing with each effort. Then she let me have it.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to have a mother who can’t do normal things. You aren’t at my plays or soccer games. People constantly ask where you are, and if you’re okay. And I’m basically stuck because Dad works so much, and I can’t drive yet. I hate it. I just want to have a normal life.” She looked straight ahead with her arms crossed.

  I literally felt my heart breaking. I rubbed my chest, then propped my head in my hands and cried. The shame I’d stored inside for years burst out of me along with my tears. My love for Faith was beyond anything describable. I would do the unthinkable to keep her safe. But what just happened? I did the opposite. Because of my own fears, I had put my only child in harm’s way.

  As I waited to turn right out of the parking lot, a car slowed as it passed, the driver, a man, rolled down his window and yelled, “What the hell? Are you blind or just a terrible mother?” He sneered at me and sped off.

  I knew I’d never see the man again, but his words cut through me as if my husband had said them. I cried the rest of the way home, feeling as low as an elevator dropping from the penthouse to the basement.

  CHAPTER TWO

  2020

  We pulled into the empty garage—which meant Carl was still working. He was employed by Benson’s Lumber and Supply warehouse and held a steady and well-paying job there for years. Fortunately, the company offered its employees overtime hours depending on the demand and spring was their busiest season, as companies and residents took on remodeling projects or new builds. In the past month, Carl was getting home at seven o’clock or later. If Faith had drama or soccer practice, I’d wait for Carl to have dinner. Otherwise, Faith and I would eat together, while Carl’s plate waited in the oven for him. I knew how much he loved my cooking and how he looked forward to dinner after the long, physically grueling shifts.

  Earlier in the day, I had sautéed and sliced three strip steaks. I pulled them out of the fridge and combined them with chicken broth, sliced mushrooms, sour cream and chopped onions and threw the contents into my new Instant Pot. Once Carl was home, I would add the egg noodles, thyme, salt, pepper and turn on the pressure cooker. Quick and easy. I opened the small, crowded pantry cupboard and grabbed two cans of green beans, opened them, and emptied the contents into a saucepan. Carl wasn’t fond of fresh vegetables and preferred frozen or canned. It was an oddity that I hadn’t been able to change in our seventeen years of marriage. Carl was supportive of me, a good provider and father, so it was a compromise I was willing to make.

  But thinking about our marriage caused a twinge of guilt. Carl’s routine was to work a long day, come home, eat dinner, and then watch television or read hobby magazines. In the first year of our marriage, we belonged to a bridge club, played euchre with neighbors, went to movies, and planned camping trips on most weekends. I was able to work then and had a good job as a claims adjuster at an insurance agency. I was in a stable space emotionally and it was gratifying to contribute to our income, but I hadn’t worked outside the home in many years. Instead, I channeled my energy into making Carl and Faith feel as comfortable as possible in our modest home.

  I looked around the small, tidy kitchen. Its organization brought me relief and calm—clutter increased my anxiety. But the traditional oak cabinets and Formica countertops were nearing three decades in age. The serviceable Kenmore appliances would soon need replacing and the country-style dining set could be used on the set of an eighty’s sitcom. I felt another wave of guilt because I often told Carl how I wished for a more sophisticated home. We had put most of our savings aside to help Faith with college expenses, and I knew Carl was doing his best. The only modern touch in the room was a new faucet we’d installed after our old one leaked itself out of a job. It was a sleek brushed nickel model with a removable spray head but looked incongruous in our dated kitchen. I talked Carl into splurging and bought stylish, matching hardware to replace the antique knobs adorning our cabinets and drawers.

  “Faith, can you please set the table?” I called from the bottom of the stairway.

  “I will in a minute,” came the brusque response.

  I felt stung by her terseness. Maybe that man was right—it could be I was a terrible mother.

  I sat down at the table and picked up my latest romance novel. I needed a few minutes of escape after the awful afternoon.

  * * *

  “Delicious, Vivian. That’s the cooker I got you for Christmas, right?” Carl asked, pointing his fork to the Instant Pot on the counter.

  “Yup, I love it. There’s more if you want a second helping.”

  Carl pushed his chair away from the table. “Nope, I better not,” he said, patting his midline paunch. His gaze shifted between Faith and me. “You two have been quiet.”

  His statement caused me to burst into tears, my stockpiled emotions finally surfacing.

  Carl’s hazel eyes widened in astonishment. “What’s going on?”

  Faith spoke up. “Mom had a really bad panic attack today.” She glared at me indignantly, as if to say you tell him the rest.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a few moments, willing the tears to stop before I spoke. Carl looked at me expectantly and Faith sat with her arms crossed.

  “We went down to Gem for a few items. I was doing well until we came to the Fairfield/Tammany intersection. I sped through a red light and we were almost hit by a truck.”

  “Almost demolished!” Faith added. She seemed determined to punish me.

  “Carl, I nearly killed our daughter!” My shame flared. “I need help—real help this time. I’m willing to do anything.”

  Carl was quiet for several seconds. What did I see in his face? Sympathy, disgust, and a bit of relief if that’s possible. He gave Faith a stern glance and she got up to clear the dishes from the table.

  Before Carl could speak, I said, “I’ll put on a pot of decaf.” I went to the fridge, pulled out the can of Maxwell House, and filled my Mr. Coffee’s water carafe. While it brewed, I sat down and took Carl’s rough hand in mine. “I’ll do anything…”

  “Vivian, you know I want you to get better—to be the woman you were when we were first married. You’re miserable, and we both know how tough this is on Faith.” He nodded at her rins
ing off the dishes. “But you’ll need to see a psychiatrist, which means going to a new office. That didn’t work out so well last time. If you want to make progress, you have to follow through.”

  I had seen a psychiatrist years ago, but I got so anxious before each appointment that it was counterproductive, so I stopped going after three visits.

  Faith turned around. “Can’t you do virtual appointments?” she asked, shedding her previous attitude.

  “Virtual? You mean like Skype or Facetime?” I asked. I had read an article about telemedicine, but figured the reality was somewhere in the future.

  “Yes. There are also apps like Zoom and Join Me,” she said. Her posture straightened and she seemed proud to enlighten us. “I can do some research.” Faith’s spiteful demeanor was gone.

  Carl and I finished our coffee and went to the living room. He settled into his brown La-Z-Boy recliner and started flipping through the pages of his most recent Candy Container Collector Magazine. Carl had become fascinated with antique candy containers as a child. He started a personal collection, and now attended an occasional auction or convention, bought and sold unique finds, and read the magazine faithfully. Our den shelves were filled with tin, glass, ceramic, plastic, and every other imaginable type of container. I thought it was a quirky hobby, but it made Carl happy. He said his collection would someday break the bank. I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

  I stretched out on the sofa, emotionally bankrupt, closed my eyes and drifted into a merciful slumber.

  Thirty minutes later, I was awakened by an ebullient Faith.

  “I found four psychiatrists in the area who do video appointments. I checked out their websites and read some reviews.” She spoke with enthusiasm, “Mom, they all seem fine, but there’s one who will go to the patient’s home for a consultation if the patient can’t come to the office. That’s exactly what you need. His name is Dr. Wallace Buhari, and he specializes in phobias and panic disorder.”

  I swear, she’d matured five years in a half-hour. There was hope for our family.

  CHAPTER THREE

  2020

  The following morning while I sipped coffee in the sanctuary of my kitchen, I thought about Carl. He was ten years older than me and a hard-working man of simple tastes. He’d intended to get a bachelor’s degree in Packaging, but after his second year in college, took a summer job at the newly built Lumber and Supply warehouse, and never left.