Angel Face by Suzanne Forster Page A

word please. When I say a word, you say the first thing that comes into your mind, all right?”
    Angela nodded. She wasn’t particularly comfortable with this exercise, but despite her qualms, the answers had come easily. Perhaps it would help after all. She hoped so.
    “Men?”
    “Fear. No, wait—”
    “Your first response.”
    “All right then . . . fear.” But Angela didn’t fear all men. There were a few she’d learned to trust: Sammy, Peter Brandt.
    “Adam?”
    The word hung in the air.
    Angela’s response was hesitation, a palpitation.
    “Angela, I said Adam. ”
    “Eve?”
    “Was that the first word that came to mind?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Very well then, let’s end there.” The pen clicked again, and a tablet slapped shut.
    Angela opened her eyes to the blue and maroon plaid walls of Dr. Mona Fremont’s office. Her psychiatrist of the last year was seated across the room on a blue velvet couch that matched the one Angela was lying on. Her smile was reassuringly familiar, but Angela had sensed the doctor’s agitation when she’d arrived. She’d clicked her pen several times during their free association session and now she was absently flexing the metal stem of the eyeglasses she’d just removed.
    For as long as she could remember, Angela had been ultrasensitive to mood shifts in the people around her. Some emotions were so distinct they seemed to carry a faint scent. Sadness had always smelled damp and steamy. It was the fog that rolled in at twilight, or a wool coat, wet from the weather. Sudden anger was the snap of a hot iron. Resentment was dying flowers.
    Dr. Fremont was redolent of peppermint, the kind that burned your tongue. Angela had been surprised when the psychiatrist suggested free association exercises. Normally, they stayed with the more traditional talk therapy, and what Angela had wanted to talk about today was the terrifying violent impulses she’d felt in the grocery store. But when she brought it up, Dr. Fremont had quickly reassured her that it was normal for someone with a background like Angela’s to feel sudden and unprovoked episodes of anger or even rage. It wasn’t driven by a desire to hurt anyone so much as a way to let off steam, a release valve, she’d called it. And then she’d suggested they try something different.
    Angela hadn’t been sure about the free association. As much as she wanted to be free of the panic that ticked inside her like live ammunition, she also feared allowing the doctor access to the recesses of her mind. Some things were best not remembered, she’d come to believe.
    Dr. Fremont settled the glasses on the cushion next to her and folded her hands in her lap. She was a pleasant-looking woman, probably in her midforties and roughly twenty pounds over what the insurance actuarial tables said was the ideal weight for a woman of average height. In fact, average would have described her in most ways, except for her clothing. She was head to toe in blue. Today, it was a silk blouse and slacks set, but Angela had never seen her when she wasn’t wearing something blue, including the metal frames of her eyeglasses.
    Most people would have called it royal. What Angelasaw was the hue of a peaceful brain. Blue was a good color. It meant less abnormal electrical activity.
    “Angela, how did you feel when I asked you about Adam?”
    “Adam?” Angela brushed at her temples, flicking away the strands of hair that were forever drifting into her eyes. “Did you say that? I didn’t hear you.”
    The psychiatrist went quiet, gazing at her. Angela wondered if she were looking for some sign of evasion, an eyeblink or a shallow breath. But Angela merely gazed back.
    “Yes, I did say Adam. But you don’t remember me saying it? Or your response?”
    “Did I respond?” There was something wrong here. Angela sat up slowly. She shook her head. “Doctor? Did I respond?”
    The psychiatrist moved on. “When I said doctor, you answered with