Page 38 of Give Me Strength

“I’m her legal guardian.”

That curious brow lifts again. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”

“I told you, it’s complicated.” Reaching into my drawer, I pull out Ashlynn’s file and hand it over. “I had Terri pull her file, plus the notes from her sessions with Dr. Kaplan. I’ve read it, and before you ask, I have Ashlynn’s written consent to access all of her medical records. That doesn’t mean I’ll abuse it.”

“I wasn’t implying that.” She takes the file, glancing through it. “You realize you can’t force someone to go to therapy, right?”

“Her father died recently.”

Sheila’s lips part, then close. She studies me, and eventually, that warm smile returns. “Alright, Gilbert. I’ll take her on. It goes without saying that?—”

“You don’t need to finish that sentence, Sheila. I’d like to think that you know me better than that.”

“I do know you. So, loathe as I am to ask, does she know?”

I know what she’s asking, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for her to pry that information out of me. So I counter with, “Does who know what?”

“About her mother and your wife?” My lips thin out, and Sheila sighs again, shaking her head slightly. “Even in death, you’re still protecting her.”

I point to the folder in her hands. “Can we please get back to that?”

We spend a few minutes discussing the next steps, ensuring a smooth transition. When she leaves, I feel a sense of relief mixed with the sting of Sheila’s words. I know Ashlynn will be in good hands with her, just as I know how important it is to maintain those professional boundaries and transparency at Aspen Grove, where we always put the patient’s well-being first.

Personally, though?

That remains to be seen.

17

GILBERT

The soft glow of the nightlight in the hallway barely penetrates the darkness of my room. It’s quiet, the kind of deep silence that settles over the house late at night, wrapping everything in a peaceful hush.

I’m caught in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, where dreams feel vivid and real. In my dream, I see Ashlynn at Rachel’s grave again, her face lit with a radiant smile as she dances gracefully, her movements fluid and ethereal, her eyes closed as she loses herself in the music. .

It’s a scene I’ve witnessed in real life, but here, in the dream, everything feels heightened — her joy and beauty, even the way she seems to defy gravity. She’s a vision of strength and elegance, and I feel a warmth in my chest watching her. There’s a sense of peace and contentment, a moment of perfect tranquility that I want to last forever.

Suddenly, the scene shifts.

The warmth fades, replaced by a sharp, jarring sensation. Ashlynn’s expression abruptly changes from joy to fear, and a sudden, inexplicable dread seizes my body. I hear a scream, distant and muffled, and my eyes snap open, my heart jolting awake.

I sit up, disoriented, the remnants of the dream still clinging to my mind. For a moment, I think I imagined it, the echoes of the dream and the scream mingling in my half-awake brain. The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the clock on my side table. I lie back down, trying to shake off the unease.

Then, I hear it again — louder and clearer this time — a desperate cry that pierces the quiet, raw and filled with terror.

Ashlynn.

My heart lurches, and I’m out of bed in an instant, my pulse racing, my bare feet quiet on the wooden floor as I make my way to her room. I’m fully awake now, adrenaline surging through my veins. The sounds of her distress grow clearer as I approach, her door slightly ajar. Another scream, raw and desperate, echoes through the halls. My heart aches at the sound, a mix of professional concern and something deeper, more personal.

Pushing the door open gently, I step inside. The room is dimly lit by the soft glow of a nightlight, casting long shadows on the walls. She’s thrashing in her bed, tangled in the sheets. Her usually serene face is contorted with fear, her eyes squeezed shut, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. Her dark hair is splayed across the pillow, also damp with sweat.

She mutters incoherent words between cries, her hands gripping the blanket as if holding on for dear life. I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the labored, panicked breaths she’s taking. She looks so small, so vulnerable, caught in the grip of whatever horror her mind has conjured.

Seeing her like this, so vulnerable and distressed, sends a pang of concern through me. I know how real these nightmares can feel, how they can pull someone into a dark, terrifying place. As a psychiatrist, I’ve helped patients navigate their fears, but it’s different when it’s someone you care about. The professional detachment I usually maintain is hard to hold onto.

I approach her cautiously, aware of how careful I need to be. Waking someone from a nightmare can be disorienting and sometimes even frightening.

“Ashlynn,” I call softly, my voice calm and steady as I sink to my knees beside her bed.

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