She calls out a name and wraps her arms around the person who drove up in the truck.
Daddy’s swearing because it’s Uncle. Daddy doesn’t like Uncle.
I want to get up off my chair and run into the house, hide myself in my closet beneath my blankets so no one can find me.
I can’t get off the chair, though. The wind makes the fire dance my way, the flames reaching out past the brick walls Daddy built around it. He said those bricks will keep the fire inside the circle, but those flames aren’t staying where they’re supposed to. They’re coming my way.
I curl my toes in as far as I can, pull my legs up to my chest, and push my face into my knees.
Maybe if the fire doesn’t know I’m here, it’ll forget all about me.
Maybe I have a superpower no one but me knows about.
I’m Invisible Girl.
Mommy and Daddy come back to the fire. So does Uncle.
I wait for Mommy to get upset at Daddy for leaving me here all by myself. Any minute now she’s going to scoop me up in her arms and have me sit in her lap. Her arms will be tight around me, like a big soft bear hug, and I’ll be okay.
I won’t be alone anymore.
But it’s not Mommy who scoops me up from my chair.
She’s not the one who digs her fingers beneath my arms, hurting me.
She’s not the one who holds me in her lap, wrapping her arms around me.
She’s not the one who is kissing the top of my head or running her hands down my arms.
She doesn’t even see my frown. Or notice how quiet I am. Or that I don’t want to be here, in his lap.
My daddy does, though.
He has his angry face on.
He holds out his arms to me, and I fly into them, ignoring the way the other man laughs.
“Oh, don’t be like that, love.” Mommy has a big smile on her face, but her voice says she’s upset with me.
“Don’t you worry, princess. I’ve got you,” Daddy whispers to me as he sits down in his chair and holds me close. “How about we do another marshmallow?” he says.
“I think she’s had enough.” Mommy is now frowning. “She’ll be up all night, hyped up on sugar.”
“One more won’t hurt.” Daddy’s voice is strong. Strong like a bear.
He’ll protect me.
I nod my head, not saying anything. Maybe if I don’t speak, I’ll be forgotten about again.
I would like that.
“You know you can stay as long as you need,” Mommy says.
I stare at the fire but stay really still so I can hear what he says.
I don’t want him to stay long. I hope he doesn’t.
Even Daddy thinks so, the way he mutters while handing me his branch. I stare at my marshmallow and hold it as close to the flames as I can.
Daddy helps to keep it steady, because I keep dipping the branch into the fire, and my marshmallow keeps going up in flames.
“Whoa, be careful there, princess,” Daddy says softly. So softly that only I can hear. “We don’t want it to get burned, now. The secret to roasting the perfect marshmallow is to hold it close enough to the fire but not too close. You want it to turn toasty brown.”
The man beside Daddy starts to laugh.
“Nah,” he says. “Let the girl burn her treat. The crispier it gets, the more she’ll learn. She’s getting to be a big girl now, aren’t you?” He leans over and touches my knee.
I jerk it away.
“Don’t you remember me, princess?” he says. “I’m your favorite uncle. The only uncle who loves you more than anybody else in the whole wide world.” He winks over at Mommy, and they both laugh.
“I love you more than anyone ever could,” Daddy whispers into my ear. “Don’t you ever forget that.”
I hold up my pinkie and wait for him to promise. A pinkie promise is the most important promise ever.
“She needs to go to bed now,” Mommy says.
Daddy pushes me off his lap and tells me to go get ready, that he’ll be there to tuck me in.
I walk back to the house, the grass tickling my legs and feet. I brush my teeth, wash my hands, get my pajamas on, and sit at the top of the stairs, waiting.
I wait forever, but no one comes. In my room, I can hear them fighting. Daddy doesn’t want Uncle here. Mommy does. She says he can watch me, and she can get a job. I don’t want Mommy to get a job. I don’t want Uncle to watch me. I want Daddy to come and tuck me in and tell me everything will be okay.
But no one does.
Chapter Eleven
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
It was midmorning, and I hadn’t showered, eaten, or even brushed my teeth. All I’d done was stare at Ella’s file while curled on my couch.
I wrestled with Ella’s declaration that she had a confession to make. We’d never gotten around to that confession because the timer had gone off, and she’d left my office as fast as she could.
My biggest fear was that I was not helping my patients, not like they needed. And if I couldn’t help them . . . what would happen to them? That responsibility weighed heavy. With Ella, we’d come so far, I worried about the backward steps we’d take.
Not being enough. It overwhelmed me. I’d walked the park, journaled my thoughts, meditated to relieve stress, yet the fear was always there, gnawing like a dog with its jaw locked around a bone.
Anytime I attempted to get to the root of that fear, something inside me growled a warning to retreat.
So I did. I retreated.
Was this avoidance? One hundred percent. I was my own worst patient, and I knew I needed to talk to someone about it. Maybe it was time.
It took Tami’s text message to get my ass off the couch.
She was going to stop by and was craving cake.
There was no comparison when it came to stress loads. She carried more than I did, which had me offering to bake that cake she craved.
By the time she knocked on my side door, I’d made a fresh pot of coffee, and her favorite Bundt cake was cooling on the counter.
“Oh my God, you made it. I could kiss you.” She went straight for the cake, dropped the mail she’d gathered from my mailbox on the table, and inhaled the cake’s sweet, warm scent.
The smile on her face was real. Genuine. Beautiful.
“And coffee? Seriously, Dee, who do I have to thank for a friend like you?” She took the offered cup I held, closed her eyes, and inhaled.
I’d never met someone who enjoyed coffee more than her.
“You seem jittery,” she said. “Please don’t tell me this is your first cup today.”
“More like my second pot,” I confessed. We took our coffee and cake into the living room and settled on the couch.
I watched as Tami inhaled her piece of cake before I managed to take a few bites.
She was exhausted. I could see it on her face. From the black circles beneath her eyes to the double tap of her lashes as she blinked and the effort it took for her to raise the fork to her mouth, open, and chew.
“When was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?” My therapist hat went on.
“I look that bad, huh?” She yawned, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. “I’ve caught a few hours here and there, but there’s been no time.”
“Why don’t you try to rest? I want to go over a patient file before this afternoon, and I promise to wake you if anyone calls.” She wasn’t going to be any good to her partner or her case if she didn’t get some sleep.
I thought about the note I’d found yesterday. I wanted to tell her, confess that I felt unsafe, that I was worried about how easy it had been for someone to enter my house without my knowing.
But then I’d have to be honest about the headaches and the sleepwalking, and there was no way I could keep from revealing the words on the note, which meant I’d have to tell her about Ella’s past, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
“A few of these”—she lifted her coffee—“and I’ll be
fine. Talk to me, will you? Tell me something interesting.”
I wanted to insist she take a nap, even just a power one, but maybe if I talked in a low tone, she’d fall asleep anyway.
I pulled my knees tightly to my chest, my fingers laced around them, and thought about what I could tell her.
I had so many stories, but not all could be told. Not all were mine either.
I thought about what I hadn’t told her, the stories about myself, my own life, that I’d kept secret. I could trust Tami; I knew this, just like I knew I could tell her the things I would never have shared with anyone else.
Maybe it was time to start.
“I’ve never really told you much about my parents, have I?”
Tami leaned her head on the couch and looked toward a photo on the wall across from us.
“There’s not much to tell.” I stared at the photo as well. Two lovely people, arms wrapped around one another with picture-perfect smiles on their faces. “I generally tell people they were good parents and leave it at that.”
What I hadn’t told were the stories of the endless fights late at night, the militant schedule Mom kept for cleaning and meals. Or the fact that I barely knew my father because he was never around. I was never honest about my lonely childhood, how I wasn’t allowed many friends because my mom didn’t trust the neighbors.
I never told the truth. Only what people expected to hear.
“You lived a fairy tale, then?” Tami’s disbelief was as clear as the moon on a cloudless night. “I wish I had your life. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother worked two jobs just to keep food on the table. I grew up realizing that if I wanted the world, I’d have to fight like hell every step of the way.”
Is this the part where I tell the truth? The real truth?
“It wasn’t a fairy tale, but it could have been worse. My parents were middle class and lived below their means. My father worked hard, and my mother knew how to stretch a budget.” The meals my mother cooked were simple but filling, the same meals I made now and considered to be comfort food.
“They sacrificed so I wouldn’t have to,” I continued. “I knew they had their faults, but compared to the stories I’ve listened to over the years, I had nothing to complain about.” The words spilled out, unplanned, but the twisted worm that wound its way up my throat whenever I thought about them and my past, it wasn’t there.
That surprised me.
“Tell me about your birthday parties and what Christmas was like for you as a child. Paint me a picture of what that type of life looks like, and don’t leave a single detail out.”
A smile slid across my face as I thought about her request. I waited a split second for that worm to appear, but nothing.
“Birthdays were family events. Not the big parties kids have nowadays. My parents never rented out the library and requested my favorite princess to read me stories or organized roller-skating events or booked the local park for hours on a weekend. Mom would make my favorite cake from scratch, letting me lick the bowl afterward.” I held my coffee between my hands. “Dad would take the day off work, pull me out of school, and we would go on an adventure—a hike in the woods, a drive through the countryside—it didn’t really matter where. By the time we made it back home, dinner would be ready and the cake iced. She always made chicken potpie, my favorite, with fresh buttermilk biscuits on the side.”
It was always the perfect day, spending that time with my father. There were nights when I still dreamed of those drives, when we would come to a stop sign, and I would get to choose which direction we headed. A lot of times we’d end up lost. A few times we didn’t make it home in time for dinner. And many times I caught the forced smile on Mom’s face when we walked through the door and the whispered voices when they thought I couldn’t hear.
“I would get one gift for my birthday. Three for Christmas.”
The skepticism on Tami’s face reminded me of my mom’s when I told a giant fib.
“Yes, one gift. When I was younger, it would be a doll, then a bike, then new shoes or a book I couldn’t wait to read. For a few years, I’d ask for a baby brother or sister and would get a doll or doll furniture instead.”
“Did you mind being an only child?” Tami asked, her voice sleepy.
How could I miss what I didn’t have?
“I was one of those kids with an active imagination, so even when I was by myself, I was never alone. I had an imaginary friend until I discovered books.”
“I never pegged you for one of those kids.” Tami’s eyes were closed, the edges of her lips lifted into a smile.
“One of those kids?” I smothered the anger that rose from her innocent remark.
“You know, the ones who were always a little weird, didn’t have many friends, somewhat shy on the school grounds.” She opened one eyelid. “You know the type, right?”
“Those . . . types”—I spat the word as if it were poison on my tongue—“happen to be very creative, gifted, and probably the most productive members of society, I’ll—”
Tami sat up, reached for my leg, and squeezed my knee. “Whoa, I didn’t mean it as an insult.” Her eyes were wide with worry, and when she swallowed, I watched the awareness settle on her face.
“Ah, I’m sorry.” I ran my fingers through my hair, knowing I’d overreacted.
I didn’t want to look at her, to see the pity or concern on her face.
Why? Why had I lashed out like that? At Tami, the one person who knew me better than anyone else.
That was so unlike me. The headaches were clearly affecting me more than I’d realized.
“Honestly, Dee, I didn’t mean to push a button.” She rubbed the area on my knee, like a mother would with a young child. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . exhausted, and there’s no filter.”
“No, no, it’s my fault. It’s a sore spot, obviously.” I let out a long breath, one that came from deep in my belly. “You’re probably right. I was lonely. I just never thought of it that way. I’ll be honest—I didn’t have very many friends.”
Tami sat back, placed her head back on the couch, eyes barely open.
“In that we’re alike,” she said with a yawn. “I never had many friends either. Funny how that happens, isn’t it? Two kids raised on the opposite sides of the tracks, and yet here we are, best of friends with more in common than we probably want to admit.”
I often thought about that too, the unlikelihood of us meeting, and yet, here we were. Which meant keeping secrets from her was killing me.
“It’s not funny.” I infused my voice with warmth. “It’s destiny. It doesn’t matter how we were raised—we were meant to be in each other’s lives.”
For the next thirty minutes or so, she slept while I went over Ella’s notes once again. It was good to see her rest. I thought maybe I should ask her to stay the night on the pretext that I wanted to make sure she rested and not because I was too scared to be home alone.
I kept my fears to myself when she woke up, filled a coffee mug, and headed back to work.
I was tempted to have another piece of cake, but then the mail Tami had tossed on my table caught my attention. I flipped through some flyers until I noticed a plain envelope with no writing on it.
Curious, I opened the envelope.
Five words written in black ink.
Shock, anxiety, fear, they all collided with the nausea in my stomach—burning, rolling, clashing—and my hand fell to the table for support. A chill wrapped around my spine and wound its way upward, one tendril at a time, as I read those five words.
Why haven’t you stopped them?
Chapter Twelve
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
PATIENT SESSION: ELLA
“Ella.” I’d finished reading another section from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I was exhausted and ready to crawl into bed. Ever since the second note, I hadn’t had a moment to relax and really think things through like I needed to.
&nb
sp; The killer. The notes. My sleepwalking.
That wasn’t fair to Ella. Especially after what had happened at the end of our last session. I needed to be present and on track.
“When you were here on Tuesday, you admitted you had a confession to make, but then our session ended. I’d like to pick up where we left off if that works for you. Do you think you’re ready to tell me today?”
Ella’s lips trembled, her lashes fluttered against her porcelain skin, and I wasn’t sure she’d be able to.
“It’s my fault,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s my fault they’re dead.”
“Your parents?”
“No.”
My pen dropped onto my lap.
“Who?” I licked my dry lips. “Who is dead, Ella?”
A million scenarios went through my head at her confession. Who had died? Her fault? What did she mean? How? I knew Ella, and despite her past, she wasn’t a killer. Not anymore.
And yet her words planted a seed of doubt.
“Who, Ella?” I asked again.
“I . . .” She cleared her throat and fidgeted in her spot. “The parents.”
“Parents? What are you saying, Ella?” Panic rose in my voice as I struggled to understand her words.
“I knew them. The parents. The mother. That’s why they’re dead.”
Her words sucked all the air from the room.
Ella knew the parents?
Questions were glued to my tongue. I lowered my gaze so she couldn’t read them in my eyes.
“The library. That’s how I knew them . . . or of them.” Her broken voice wobbled. “The news right now . . . the mother . . . she . . . she brought her daughter in for our morning programs.” She leaned away from me, her fingers tapping like crazy on her knee.
Ella tapped her fingers against her arms, her thighs, her knees—any part of her body—when she was wound up with nervous tension.
I had never felt so confused during a session with Ella as I did now.
“Her daughter is a little butterfly, comes out of her shell the moment she steps into the library, arms open wide as if trying to gather all the books close. The smile on her face each time she finds a new book is contagious. I wanted to scoop her up and bring her home with me, you know?”
The Patient Page 7
