Alice’s Reality 

For my thirtieth birthday I thought l would treat myself to a lottery ticket, not just one of those scratch-off kind but one where you actually select your numbers. I had never been an adventurous girl but figured, hey, you only turn thirty once. I’d give it a shot.

After a long day of re-shelving books at the Talbot Public Library I stopped into the QuickTime station on Silverton and Croft. I purchased a tank of gasoline, a Diet Coke and the ticket. The gas was so expensive. I could not believe how much it cost to fill up my little car.

The realization that I won $293.3 million took a while to sink into my brain. I stared at the television screen in awe as announcer Vance Herland drew each number. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. My breath came in shallow spurts and gasps. My eyeglasses fogged. My heart jumped into my throat as I jumped to my feet.

What was I going to do with all that money? I had never been much of a dreamer. I figured there was no point. I was just your average, ordinary person. Ordinary doesn’t come close to achieving dreams. You have to be someone spectacular for that to happen, right?

I was just plain ol’ Alice Estelle Ingram. Even my name was boring. Alice. My hair was shoulder-length straight and the lovely color of poop. I had non-descript gray eyes that looked owlish behind my thick prescription lenses and my skin was so pale I practically glowed in the dark. No, I would never be asupermodel. I was too short. Too chunky. Too frumpy. I tended to gravitate toward long skirts and long sleeves. Beige or tan. Always. And I can’t forget those sensible shoes.Momma said sensible shoes were the way to go because high heels gave women headaches. I never really understood her logic but didn’t question it.

I never questioned anyone or anything, not in much of a serious manner anyway. Things were the way they were and that was that. Makeup had never touched my face. I didn’t believe in playing make-believe. I was who I was. I went to my librarian job everyday. I went home to my one bedroom apartment everyday. I watched the same TV shows, ate the same foods and spoke to Momma and Daddy. Everyday. Life was routine. I was routine. And I liked it that way. Nothing else was in my world. No husband. No children. And no boyfriend. Actually, I had never even been out on a date.

So what was someone like me going to do with money? I had everything I needed. I hit the OFF button on the remote control and walked into the kitchen. Taking a small spiral notebook and a pencil from the junk drawer, I hovered over the counter, deep in thought. What to do? What to do?
A list is what I needed. A list of practical and responsible possibilities. A new car? Yes, that would be practical. Pay off credit card debt? Yes, that would be responsible. I had more than a few maxed out charge cards. I bought a lot of books. A lot. Books were my friends. l had no others. I had workacquaintances. I was polite and friendly to library patrons but I had no real friends. The characters in my many books were friends. The princesses. The detectives. The heroes and heroines. There were never any shy, timid thirty-somethings like myself though. Why couldn’t someone write a character with my personality traits, or lack thereof? I would certainly root for her to succeed. My chewed up fingernails drummed a steady beat on the pale green countertop.

Could I write a story like that? Could I write a novel like that? I had read somewhere to ‘write what you know’. Believe me, I definitely knew introverted and withdrawn. I could do that. Yes, I knew I could do that. But l would need a quiet place to think, to brainstorm. My apartment complex was relatively quiet but you could hear the occasional bass of a car stereo or the chaos of the typical weekend college party. That environment just wouldn’t do.

Authors from Mark Twain to Virginia Woolf had writer’s cabins. They went into seclusion to compose the words that would change the world. The words that readers would voraciously devour. I wrote CABIN in bold letters on my list. But where? Where would this writing cabin be located? It would have to be somewhere inspirational. I turned the question over in my mind. Cabins are out in the woods. Check. Mountains are beautiful and could pique inspiration as well. Check.

Ding. Ding Ding. New Mexico. I would buy a cabin in the mountains of New Mexico. My heart began to beat faster again. As soon as my lottery ticket was confirmed and all thenecessaries were cleared away, I would pack sentimental keepsakes and head for solitude.

Momma and Daddy were both upset about my decisions but I explained to them my desires to be somebody. I was tired of being a puny nobody with no goals, no ambitions and no discernible purpose.

“Alice you have purpose. You are my daughter,” Daddy said. “Your purpose in life is to be a good daughter and running off willy-nilly halfway across the country to chase some cock-eyed idea is not, in any way shape or form, being a good daughter.” He crossed his thin arms over his chest and set his jaw.

Momma nodded her premature graying head in silence, a grimace on her haggard, sunken face.

“Daddy,” I jutted my chin and planted my feet firmly on the floor. “Have you ever wanted to be something other than a CPA?”

Sylvester Ingram leaned back in his old Lazy Boy recliner. “Absolutely not. My father was a Certified Public Accountant as was his father before him. It’s tradition. We’ve each had an aptitude for numbers.” He smirked. Subject addressed and closed.

“Are you disappointed that I don’t have that aptitude for numbers? Are you disappointed that I didn’t become a CPA?” I heard my voice become shrill.

“Don’t speak to your father that way, Alice.” My Momma’s delicate ivory hand flew to her throat.

“No dear, it’s fine.” Daddy waved her remark away. “You’re a girl. Librarian is fine for you. It’s a career in the realm of your comfort. Novel writer? It’s too far-fetched for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” I screamed. “Someone like me?”

Momma rose from the sofa. “Please calm down, Alice. Daddy’s right. You just aren’t the type.”

“I’m tired of being calm. I have been calm all my life. I’m so damn calm I’m almost brain dead. I do everything l’m told. I always have. I’m tired of being the wallflower nobody notices. Do you understand I have won the lottery?” I whirled back toward my father. “I have no friends but now I have money. Lots of money, Daddy, and I need a change.”

“Buy a cat.” He jerked his head toward the pristine living room window as l fled from the room and slammed the front door behind me. Momma never uttered a word.

Celestine Welkin was a tall, voluptuous, young woman with long, honey-blonde hair and riveting turquoise blue eyes. As I walked into Montis Realty she stood to her full height from behind her office desk. She was broad-shouldered and carried herself with a confident air that should have been bottled and sold. Her white pantsuit was form fitting and low cut but her handshake was that of a little girl; dainty and delicate.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?” Her smile displayed perfect white teeth between plump persimmon lips.

My throat tightened. She looked like she should be on the cover of a fashion magazine. Could I trust her with my new money? Could I trust her to locate my now-coveted writer’s cabin? What if she was one of those airhead blonde types?

I had few requirements for my new living arrangements. Solitude. Solitude. And more solitude. Celestine laughed. A tinkly, tiny laugh that put me instantly at ease. She tapped her chin and exclaimed that she knew just the right place.

The cabin was on the outskirts of town. Old Foster Road was long, winding and half-dirt, half-gravel. Pine trees lined each side of the glorified trail in a fragrant attention. I breathed in the beauty as I hung my head from Celestine’s Jeep Wrangler window. I felt like an excited Beagle puppy with its floppy ears blowing in the breeze.

Nestled back in the woods, the hand-hewn, cabin overlooking a nice-sized pond sat regally atop the mountain. The wooden porch swing beckoned. Birds chirped and squirrels skittered free. Oak and pine trees seemed to interlock one another as we both ambled toward the front entrance, hints of sunshine gleaming on our shoulders. I could almost smell the aromas of homemade apple pie.

“This unique log cabin sits on fifteen acres and is an idylic country retreat.” Celestine Welkin flipped her long honey hair over her right shoulder. “The first floor consists of the Master bedroom and a secondary bedroom. The second floor offers two additional bedrooms. The entire property is surrounded by barbed wire fencing. There are two-and-a-half baths, and, as you can see, a cozy wood-burning fireplace.”
She need not say more. I was already sold. I was busy imagining a few potted plants in one corner, comfortable, upholstered sofas and chairs in front of a crackling fire and, perhaps, a humble table along the west wall like Hemingway might have used.

“I can just see it for you, Ms. Ingram, a stack of fresh, white paper and your favorite pen.” Long, dark, curly lashes batted across deep gold eyeshadow as Celestine described her vision. “And an old-fashioned typewriter that makes real clickety clack sounds with each brilliant word you capture.”

“l’Il take it.”

Before long, my new home was filled with Southwestern decor. From cacti to cowhide, the look was rustic and cozy. I absolutely loved my Aztec print pillows and my light-washed wood console entry table. My living room became a perfect blend of mid-century modern and Southwestern decor all rolled into one. The earthy tones gave it a major desert vibe, while the leather couch and a nearby bench played well witha retro theme. I turned the large area rug that was originally a thought for the floor into a beautiful piece ofart as a wall hanging.

The vintage bar cabinet that held a wide variety of liquors didn’t shy away from patterns, giving the corner a wonderful eclectic feel. I interspersed each wall with a number of woven baskets in earthy hues, animal skulls and terra cotta pots that held air plants and succulents. Each bedroom now boasted a Buffalo motif and the bathrooms held deep, soaking tubs laden with large, oak-scented candles. The entire home was understated yet displayed a huge, bold personality.

As I sat for the first time at my new-to-me 1938 Underwood Champion I felt a flutter in the pit of my stomach. The machine was muscular and solid. The key tops were big. This gloss black, handsome guy was certainly something to die for.

I rolled a piece of thin white typing paper into the carriage, scooted my chair closer, cracked my knuckles and sucked in lungs full of air. And stared at the blank page.

And stared
And stared.
And stared.

Umm, l needed to go to the grocery store. I had been so busy shopping for furniture, a new car, clothes and arranging and re-arranging my life I had forgotten all about food. Who does that? Okay, l knew I was procrastinating with getting my book started but food was important too. The book could wait until tommorow.

‘The Foodstore’ was a dumpy litle place with cream-colored brick walls and a faded red lettered sign announcing fresh eggs for 99 cents. The doors whooshed open to a row of metal shopping carts with bright yellow handles. Walking in, produce was the first thing I could see. Rows and rows of colorful fruits and veggies were easy to access and looked quite yummy.

The center of the store had large kiosks for meats, dairy and bakery products. A bulk section was provided for nuts, grains and dried fruits. Samples were encouraged. Anything that was packaged and processed was on the far back wall of the store. Those interested in that sort of thing would have to do some walking in order to get their cookie fix.
As l rounded Aisle Four an older woman with a deep brown wizened face and wild gray hair stood behind a small, white plastic table. Her gnarled fingers quickly rolled something mouth-watering into small fingertip-sized balls.

“Are you bored with your go-to healthy recipes? Tired of salads? Do you feel like eating healthy tastes like cardboard or that it gets super complicated and is not worth the trouble? Have you given up control of your diet to the fast food fare that’s popping up everywhere you turn?”
I looked down at my chunky thighs. Next on my to-do list would be to join a gym. l grinned at the woman, politeness in my eyes.

“Do you see the supermarket as a place to pick up frozen meals and bags of snacks instead of fresh healthy ingredients? Do you walk into a grocery store and feel overwhelmed right away?”

Overwhelmed to purchase groceries? No, I never really felt that way. I continued with my grin.

“Grocery shopping can be overwhelming and confusing, especially when you’re starting to make positive changes to your diet and lifestyle. It can be hard to know what to put in your basket but it doesn’t need to be.”
She was correct about one thing, I was starting to make positive changes to my lifestyle. I certainly didn’t want to become overwhelmed — with anything. “What are you making here?”

The old woman seemed perturbed that I would interrupt her memorized spiel. “These are No-Bake Peanut Butter Treats.” She lowered her bushy eyebrows and flared her nostrils.

“Good,” I said as I popped one into my mouth. “lt’s nice to meet you. I’m Alice lngram and I’m new in town.”

“Lydia. We have chunky peanut butter on sale. Aisle Six. Honey on sale. Aisle Seven and Graham crackers on sale in Aisle Nine.” She waved her hand to the right in an obvious dismissal.

How rude. So I moved on.

Coffee. Creamer. Diet Cokes. Laundry detergent. Tissues for each bathroom. As I contemplated soups on Aisle Eight a bald man with a clipboard emerged at the other end from where I stood. I cut my eyes in his direction. He wasn’t much taller than myself, yet a bit rounder and had bony, slumped shoulders. He looked to be in a bad mood. Had I selected the wrong town? Was everyone going to be rude today?

“Excuse me, sir? Which soup brand do you consider the best? Campbell’s or Progresso?”

“Personally, I prefer Progresso.”

“Say that ten times fast,” I snickered.

He laughed; a deep, hearty, jovial laugh. lt was nice, genuine.”Are you new around here? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before and l know everyone in town.”

“Actually, I am new. l just recently moved into a cabin right outside of town.”

The man’s brow creased. “Where’s that?”

“Out at the end of Old Foster Road. Actually, it’s the only home on Old Foster Road.”

“Really? Are you renting?”

“No. I bought the place.”

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Alice lngram.”

He placed his clipboard atop several boxes of instant rice and extended a beefy hand. “I’m Les Harmon, manager here. Pleased to meet you. May I ask you a bit of an odd question?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Why would you buy that cabin after the horrific murder that happened there? I would be too creeped out to sleep in the place.”

“Murder? What murder?” I dropped my can of chicken and rice soup and watched it roll down the aisle.

“What realtor did you go through? I’m surprised they didn’t divulge that kind of information.” Les picked up his clipboard and clicked his ink pen nervously.

“Montis Realty.”

His shook his shiny cue ball head. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with them.”
“Their office is on Main, right across the street from First National Bank. A smallbookstore is on one side and an insurance business is on the other.”
“A smallish red brick building with large plate glass windows in the front?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“I drive by that building every single day. The old brick is crumbling. The windows are cracked and the parking lot has so many holes it’s embarrassing. lt’s the town eyesore. I don’t know why they just don’t tear it down.”

“You must be thinking of the wrong place. It’s a very nice building. The interior is quite exquisite. Modern. Gorgeous paintings. Beautiful cherry wood office furniture and my realtor Celestine Welkin is just the sweetest thing.”

Les shook his head again. “Celestine Welkin. Celestine Welkin. He rolled the name around on his tongue and his face contorted like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “I don’t know of anyone by that name but I do know the building you’re talking about. It’s been vacant for, oh, about fifteen years or so.”

“That can’t be right. She gave me her business card.” I rummaged through my cavernous purse and extracted my wallet. “It should be right here in this slot,” I announced. It wasn’t there. I opened the coin pocket. Not there either. I pulled a small mirror, a hair brush, three butterscotch candies and a nailfile from among the contents. Still no business card. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find it.”

The grocery store manager shrugged. “l’ve lived in this town my entire life, Alice. I’ve never heard of Celestine Welkin or Montis Realty for that matter.”

I shoved everything back into my purse and zipped it up. “You said there was a murder in my cabin. Can you tell me what happened?”

He shuffled his feet on the checkered green-and-white tile and cleared his throat. “Old Foster Road is named after Warren Foster. He was pretty well off and donated a lot of money to the school systems here. No one really knew why. He and his wife Clementine didn’t have any children. But old plus rich equals eccentric, right?” Les Harmon rubbed his bulbous nose and shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Anyway, Warren Foster passed away in 1973. Clemmy, as people called her, stayed on in the cabin, aloneuntil just about a year ago. She was a familiar face in town. Active in her church and ladies’ groups. She was an amateur artist but sold several paintings in art shows around the area. She was in my store quite a bit too. As a matter of fact, she was in here just the day before her death.”

“How old was she?” My eyes widened as the story unfolded before me.

“Clemmy was eighty-nine years old. Would have been ninety the following week.”

“Could she have died of natural causes?”

Les hesitated, seemingly trying to decide on how to answer my question. “Ain’t nothing natural about being hacked to death with an axe, Alice Ingram.”

The cabin somehow looked different to me now. Had I let Les Harmon spook me with his tall tales? Were they tall tales or were they truth? lf they were truth, why hadn’t Celestine told me about the tragedy? Surely it wasn’t true.

‘Ain’t nothing natural about being hacked to death with an axe, Alice Ingram.’ There was something about the way he said my name. Something ominous. Something, unnatural. l laughed aloud at how absurd it sounded. I reached for my cell phone. NO reception. l would just have to return to the realty company in the morning and ask if anything was on file concerning the murder of Clementine Foster. I had failed to ask Les, had they found her killer?

After warming a can of beef stew and downing a glass of milk I stepped out onto the deck to gather already split and stacked pieces of wood for a fire. It was almost dusk and a light snow was beginning to fall. A coyote howled off in the distance and an owl hooted somewhere. I needed to be inside, safe and warm.

When the fire glowed its oranges, reds and yellows I turned toward the back window. The wind was whipping, the barbed wire fence swaying, the pond rippling. With nowhere to go and nothing to do relaxation washed over me. I snuggled on the sofa and covered myself up to the chin with one of my bold-patterned blankets. I could watch a movie or maybe an old sitcom. Gilligan’s lsland? I Love Lucy? Bewitched? But I couldn’t reach the remote and I didn’t feel like moving.

But when the groaning started I flew off the sofa like a rocket on steroids. It had to be the winter wind fanning through the treetops. No, it had to be an animal. An injured animal? I gazed through the window into the darkness. How had the sky turned to night? Had I dozed off?

It screamed. “Aaaaalllicccee.”

The hair on my arms stood up. l pushed my face closer, my hot breath fogging the glass.

“Aaaaalllicccee.”

A shadowy figure appeared at the edge of Foster’s pond. Not a deer or a wild horse or a black bear. What on earth was the thing? I swiped my shaky hand over the tiny droplets of condensation and squinted. Was that a person? Out here in the middle of crazy nowhere? It couldn’t be.

Snow swirled around the being and then it turned. It seemed to be looking right at me. Or through me. With bright, glowing, elongated eyes.
I grabbed the fireplace poker, ran up the stairs, two steps at a time, and hid beneath the king-sized guest room bed. Go away, axe killer. Go away, axe ķiller. I repeated my wish, eyes shut tight, over and over and over all night.

The next morning I awoke with a start. My muscles were tight. My neck ached. The poker was still clutched in my death grip. Death. Clemmy Foster. I needed to find out more about Clemmy Foster. I needed to find out more about my cabin. There had to be a reasonable explanation for it all. I could not get the story out of my mind. Maybe a bit more information would quell my fears. I dressed quickly, toofrightened to take a shower. I had read enough books and seen enough movies to know what happened during shower scenes. The only thing missing was the sinister music.

Wary of my surroundings, I made my way to the car and maneuvered my way down Old Foster Road. My bloodshot eyes scanned every rock, every tree, every nook and cranny. I was determined to get to the realty office … in one piece. Celestine would help me. She could put me at ease. l would be laughing about my predicament by noon.

My car skidded a bit on the slush as I turned the corner. My heart jumped into my throat but I was able to correct the steering wheel position and straighten myself out. I found I was in front of ‘The Foodstore’. Could the thing from last night, whatever it was, be Les Harmon? Could he have been trying to scare me? Perhaps he saw me as a stranger trying to overtake his town. Sometimes that happened with people who lived in one place for a long time. Newcomers weren’t welcome.

I pulled into the parking lot. There were more vehicles than there had been the day before. l would make him admit to his antics, embarrass him in front of his customers. He would learn not to mess with Alice Ingram again.

A young teenaged couple sat holding hands on a bench outside the entrance. Had it been there yesterday? I shook my head. Never mind. An elderly man, a plaid scarf knotted around his neck, was trying to pull apart two seemingly welded together shopping carts and a toddler with curly red hair was beating his chubby hands on the dirty floor begging his mother for candy, I bypassed them all and headed to the cashier furthest from chaos.

“Is the manager here?” I demanded. “It’s urgent that I speak with him.”

The freckle-faced girl with mousy brown braids popped her chewing gum. “No, ma’am, Les isnt’ in today. We’re not sure when he’ll be back.”

Maybe he got caught trespassing on my property. Maybe he was in jail. I laughed inwardly. “Where is he? I looked at her name tag. Destiny.

“His wife Patsy Anne had their baby girl last night. She was premature and had some kind of heart condition. They flew her to Dallas.”

“Oh my, is everyone okay?”

“I believe so. Les brought the boys over on the way to the hospital around eightish, I guess. My Momma’s taking care of them. She hasn’t called to give us an update. What did you want to see Les for? I can pass on a message.”

Guilt rose into my cheeks. I had accused a hard-working family man of deception, harassment and stalking. How could I have done such a thing? He had told me the truth about my new home. He had tried to save me from red tape and heartache.

“Or I can page our assistant manager Dwight for you?”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” I quieted my voice. “There’s no message. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Destiny replied. “Are you new in town? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Did everyone know everyone here?

Montis Realty was no more. Bricks on the building were crumbling into pot-holed, faded parking spaces and the large plate-glass windows were cracked beyond repair. The sign announcing the business name was gone. I exited my car and peered through one of the grimy panes. Rubble filled the area. Dust. Cobwebs. A broken office chair. A rusted desk lamp toppled on its side.

There was no cherrywood furniture. No gorgeous paintings. No Celestine Welkin. What had happened? The place looked like it had been vacant for, oh, fifteen years or so. Just as Les Harmon had said. What the hell?

Dejected, I returned to the cabin with my tail between my legs, so to speak. Was I going crazy? How had l purchased this beautiftul place through a defunct company? Where was Celestine? She wasn’t just my realtor, I felt like she was a friend. Or had been. She wouldn’t be after this, that was for sure. I thought about going to the police to report, a, umm, what, a missing business? A missing person that no one intown appeared to know? They would think l was ludicrous.

A couple of aspirin would help my headache. I was thinking too much and my thinking wasn’t solving a thing. A nap might help. l was tired. So tired. I hadn’t gotten enough sleep. I could at least solve that problem.

The mattress suddenly seemed so uncomfortable. I tossed and turned and turned and tossed. My eyelids were heavy but sleep eluded me. I thought about the reasons I came to New Mexico. To write. I thought of my parents. Sylvester and Ramona lngram didn’t think I could write. I couldn’t let them get to me. I couldn’t let the killing of an old woman get to me either.

I rose from the bed and padded, barefoot, over to my desk. The same blank sheet of white paper stared at me from the typewriter. Again, I stared back.

And stared.
And stared.
And stared.

What was wrong with me? Is this what they called writer’s block? I didn’t like it. Not one bit. l walked to the bedroom window and pulled back the curtains. It had started to snow again. Big fluffy flakes. The stormy sky had developed dark streaks like a smudged ink across white paper. Like a poor blocked writer’s paper.

Back to the typewriter, I sat. A romance? No. What did I know about romance? Historical fiction? Nope. Mystery? Hmm. Maybe. Maybe I could write about the murder on Old Foster Road? I didn’t know the details but I could fill in the blanks. I could change the names. I didn’t know what ol’ Clemmy looked like so I could make that up. l was excited now. Almost giddy.

MURDER ON OLD FOSTER ROAD

I glared at my title. Good but it seemed too long. Would it look good on a book cover?

CABIN CREATURE

Just didn’t capture my attention. lf it didn’t sound intriguing to me it certainly wouldn’t to my readers. MY readers. l did like the sound of those two words together. How wonderful to think that one day, one day soon, I would have readers. I would have fans and attention and become famous. My breath came in short and shallow gasps. I had to remove my glasses to wipe my eyes.

“Aaallicecee.”

I almost didn’t hear it. The voice was faint and wispy but definitely there. I froze.

“Aaaallliccceee.”

Louder. lt sounded like it was coming from somewhere out front. Perspiration formed on my upper lip and my hands were shaking. l grabbed my phone and proceeded to dial 911. Nothing. l had forgotten I couldn’t get reception out in these woods. My spine straightened and I gulped down my fear. No one was going to chase me away from my home and my new-found dreams.

Teeth gritted, I stepped lightly, still in my bare feet, to the front door. “Who is it?” I called. “Who’s out there?” I knew I didn’t sound brave at all.
I opened the door just a crack. Flakes continued to fall, oblivious to my trepidations. I saw no footprints in the snow, fresh or otherwise. And then I saw it. Propped up against the porch railing. An axe. A big tree chopping bloody axe. The blood was bright red, dripping down the handle and pooling onto the ground. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Purse and keys ended up in my hands somehow and I ran to my car. I screamed longer and louder than I ever had in my life. I put the car in reverse and backed out of the drive. I hit a tree. Or a deer. Or maybe the cabin creature itself. Hell, I didn’t care who or what it was. I slammed myself forward and drove out of New Mexico. I never looked back.

###Three Months Later

My therapist Dr. Elliott Reynolds, crossed his legs and steepled his long fingers. “Alice, I have done much thinking and much research on your, uh, experience.”

“Research?”

“Yes, I believe this has transpired as a manifestation of your imagination.” He leaned forward causing his chair to squeak. “You were angry with how your father spoke to you so you invented winning the lottery. You invented moving to the mountains. You wanted to be elevated or superior to your parents. You created a place you called Montis Realty. Montis means mountain, by the way.”

“No, I didn’t invent or create anything, Dr. Reynolds. It all happened.”

“You don’t have a picture of your cabin. You can’t produce a business card either. I called the bank and although they can’t relay financial information they were able to tell me they had no account under your name. Did you have a bank account under a different name, Alice?”

l lowered my head. My hands were fidgeting in my lap. “No, sir. But I don’t have any pictures of anything because I lost my phone. I told you I probably dropped it in the snow as I was leaving.” Desperation clutched my throat.

“There is no real estate agent by the name of Celestine Welkin, Alice. You made her up. You want to be someone exactly like her. Tall, blonde, great figure. A self confident person. You want a friend like her as well. Someone who listens and knows exactly what you want.”

“That’s not true. She was real. She was as real as you are, as real as I am. We had conversations just like me and you are having a conversation right now.” My temples were pounding.

He made a small clucking noise with his tongue. “The name Celestine means ‘heavenly’, Alice. Did you know that? Welkin also means ‘heaven’ which leads me to believe you dreamed her up. Heaven will be better than the life we have here on earth. You developed her in your mind because you want something better, isn’t that so?”

“Of course not. l, uh, no. l have a good life, Dr. Reynolds. Really, I do. l have a good job and a nice apartment.”

“Had, Alice. You had a job and an apartment.”

“Had.” I blinked behind my eyeglasses. “Had.” My fingers kneaded the folds of my brown skirt.

“Just as there is no Celestine Welkin there is no grocery store manager named Les Harmon.” The counselor scribbled out something in a notebook as he spoke.

“But why would I create a dumpy little bald man in my mind? lf I was going to envision a man he would be more than attractive. He would be downright beautiful. Les Harmon was, is, a sweet man but not very physically attractive, Dr. Reynolds.” Let’s see him come up with an explanation for that. I rolled my eyes.

“Think of the name Les. Less is more, correct?” He clicked his pen. “Somehow you came to the conclusion that not all men are perfect, i.e. your father’s harsh words. In a romantic sense, you don’t have to date Prince Charming or marry the male model.”

“I wasn’t attracted to Les and besides, he’s married.”

“Plain and ordinary can be the marrying kind, Alice. You see that in yourself now, right?” He paused but I did not answer.

“You also developed a premature baby girl with a heart condition. She represents the fact that you are Daddy’s girl. You aren’t ready to be out on your own. When your father did not agree with your opinions and statements, deep down it broke your heart, didn’t it, Alice?”

For long moments there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Okay, I don’t agree with you at all but let’s just say that l do for argument’s sake. I’ve lost everything. No cabin. No home at all. No money. I sank it into the cabin, and furniture and clothes and just walked away. I have no friends. Apparently Celestine ghosted me. Yet I still feel I need a change. What do you suggest? What should I do?”

“Take your father’s advice, Alice. Buy a cat.”