Thirty-one-year-old Grace Holloway was, by every public measure, a lovely woman.
People used that word often. Lovely.
Lovely smile.
Lovely manners.
Lovely home.
Lovely to work with.
Lovely to have at dinner.
She remembered names, birthdays, dietary restrictions, anniversaries, children’s allergies, preferred wine, and exactly how long to hold eye contact before looking modestly away.
She sent sympathy cards on thick cream stationery.
She volunteered suggestions where photographs might be taken.
She touched forearms when speaking, leaned in at the right moments, laughed without showing too much gum, and could make almost anyone leave a conversation feeling slightly improved.
Grace had spent years becoming indispensable.
No one noticed that no one really knew her.
---
The headaches began in late October.
A bright, needling pain behind the left eye. Brief at first. A pulse. A stitch. Then gone.
She blamed backlit computer screens. Stress. Weather.
Then came the lost minutes.
Standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open and no memory of walking there.
Sitting in her parked car three streets over from home, engine running, purse on the passenger seat, one shoe missing.
Finding a glass in the sink with lipstick on it after a night spent alone.
Grace was not alarmed.
Grace did not alarm easily.
She bought vitamins, increased hydration, reduced caffeine, and mentioned none of it to anyone.
---
At work, she remained impeccable.
At the charity board luncheon, she charmed three donors and gently humiliated a rival without leaving fingerprints.
At brunch, she comforted a friend whose husband was cheating while mentally ranking the women he would likely choose next.
At her niece’s birthday party, she knelt to tie balloons and told a six-year-old girl she was so brave for wearing glasses.
The child cried in the bathroom ten minutes later.
Grace never understood why.
---
The blackouts worsened.
She lost an entire Thursday evening.
One moment she was leaving the office.
The next, she was alone in a motel room twenty miles away, half-dressed on top of the covers, television on mute, a pounding in her skull and dirt under her nails.
There was no sign anyone else had been there.
Only a Bible in the drawer.
And on the bedside notepad, in her handwriting:
STOP DIGGING
Grace stared at the words for a long time.
Then tore off the page, folded it neatly, and placed it in her purse.
---
That night she slept badly.
At 3:17 a.m., she woke in the bathroom.
Standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror.
Her reflection watching her.
Not mimicking.
Watching.
Then it smiled first.
The next morning, Grace Holloway did what sensible women do when frightened.
She became efficient.
By 8:12 she had showered, dressed in soft navy, applied light concealer beneath the eyes, canceled a lunch, rearranged two meetings, and secured an appointment with her physician for 10:40.
By 8:30 she had convinced herself the mirror incident was exhaustion.
By 8:45 she almost believed it.
---
The waiting room was beige, tasteful, and expensive looking in the way places are when they wish to reassure people before disappointing them.
Grace smiled at the receptionist.
“Good morning, Dana. New frames? They suit you.”
Dana brightened instantly.
Grace had met her once.
---
Dr. Ellen Mercer had known Grace for four years.
Annual physicals. Seasonal sinus infections. A sprained wrist from tennis she did not actually play.
“Tell me what’s been going on.”
Grace gave the edited version.
Headaches. Fatigue. Some dizziness. Stress.
She omitted motel rooms, moving reflections, and notes written in the dark.
Dr. Mercer ordered bloodwork, checked vitals, asked routine questions.
Any nausea?
Sometimes.
Visual disturbances?
Perhaps.
Mood changes?
Not particularly.
Memory lapses?
Grace smiled. “Only the usual female ones. Why I walked into a room, where I put a man, things like that.”
Dr. Mercer gave a polite laugh and wrote something down.
Grace watched the pen move.
Without meaning to, she said:
“You should leave your husband.”
The room went still.
Dr. Mercer looked up. “I’m sorry?”
Grace blinked.
“I - goodness. That was rude. I meant...stress can come from home and work. I don't know why I said that.”
“It’s alright.”
But the doctor wrote again.
Neurological exam normal.
Pupils reactive.
Strength intact.
No facial droop, no slurred speech, no obvious deficits.
Blood drawn.
MRI scheduled “out of caution.”
Grace thanked everyone on the way out.
At the desk she told Dana, warmly:
“You’re wasting your best years.”
Dana’s smile faltered.
Grace frowned. “Did I say that aloud?”
The tests came back normal.
Blood normal. Thyroid normal. No anemia. No infection. MRI unremarkable.
Dr. Mercer used words like reassuring and encouraging.
Stress response. Migraine variant. Sleep hygiene.
Hydrate. Reduce alcohol. Journal symptoms.
Grace nodded at all the correct times.
The headaches intensified.
Not pain now. Not exactly.
Pressure.
As though something behind her forehead wanted out.
The blackouts lengthened.
Twenty minutes.
An hour.
Nearly three on a rainy Thursday.
She came back to herself seated in a pew in a church she had never entered before.
Hands folded.
Lipstick fresh.
An elderly woman beside her was weeping softly.
Grace heard herself saying, in a low soothing voice:
“He knows what you did.”
Then awareness rushed in.
The woman recoiled.
Grace stood so quickly the pew slammed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
But the woman only crossed herself.
That night Grace opened her medical portal.
Under Office Visit Notes she read:
Patient pleasant, oriented, articulate. Intermittent disinhibition noted. Possible stress-related dissociation. Monitor for progression.
Below that, added later:
Patient may minimize symptoms.
copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger
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