The Patient

by Steena Holmes

  For a minuscule moment, Ella was more alive than I’d ever seen her. Vibrant. Glowing. Animated.

  I wrote everything down, everything she said.

  “The mom, I wasn’t too sure about her. She would drop her daughter off, then leave, not even pretend to be interested in any of the books her daughter found.” A scowl replaced the earlier smile. “She’d come back thirty minutes later with a cup of coffee in hand and want to leave.”

  Ella’s hands fisted on the tops of her legs now, her tone filled with disdain and disgust.

  “I started to keep the little girl with me. I’d call her to my side, ignoring the mom, making her wait longer and longer each time until eventually she was forced to talk to me. At first I thought she was one of those moms who viewed her child as an inconvenience, but the more I talked to her, the more I realized that wasn’t the case.”

  There was an inquisitive tone to Ella’s voice, like she really did try to figure the mother out.

  “What did you realize?” I asked.

  “She didn’t know how to parent.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “The last week or so, she would actually stay and sit off to the side, listening in during story time. She’d walk through the aisles and pick out a few books for them to read at home. She was actually quite nice, the more I got to know her.”

  “You sound surprised.” How I managed to keep my voice steady was beyond me.

  She shrugged. “I am, I guess. Or I was.” The creases of her forehead knitted together in the shape of a W. “I shouldn’t have been, though. We were handing out treat bags to kids all last week. It was my job one day to ensure that every child who left the library had one in their hand.” She shook her head. “That little girl, you’d think she’d just been handed a treasure when I gave her a bag, but her mom, she gave it back to me. No explanation. No reason. Just no thank you, and then she pulled her daughter out of the building.”

  Ella sucked in her lips and bit hard, leaving dent marks. She had a faraway look in her eyes. Her forehead creased with wrinkle lines, and the frown on her face wobbled. I wasn’t sure if she was angry or sad.

  “That’s bad parenting. I don’t care what anyone says.”

  I thought back to that day outside the library when I’d watched a similar scene play out. I understood the anger, the irritation, the sense of wrongness, but Ella’s reaction was almost . . . personal.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? Maybe something had happened and this was a consequence,” I suggested. “You just said it seemed as if she’d been trying.”

  Ella’s expression didn’t change.

  “A gift is a gift.” A muscle in her cheek pulsed.

  “Why are you so upset, Ella?”

  I tried to think back through the tidbits of history she’d told me from her childhood. I didn’t recall anything having to do with deprivation of gifts, though.

  She looked away, unable or unwilling to look me in the eye—I wasn’t sure which.

  I didn’t press. Didn’t prod. Didn’t push. As much as I wanted to. I remained quiet and waited. Waited for her to open up, to share something new, to reveal why she seemed so provoked by a behavior she’d only witnessed.

  “I . . . I didn’t have a lot growing up,” Ella said. “But when gifts were given, they were never declined. Never. No matter what. No matter who gave it to you.” Her voice lowered at least two octaves. “You say thank you. You appreciate the gift. You never appear ungrateful. Never.”

  I made a note.

  “That feels like a trigger, Ella. One we haven’t discussed before.” It’d been a while since we’d discovered something new.

  Ella looked like she’d drunk molasses.

  “I guess so.”

  “How does this make you feel?”

  I watched the thought process filter through her head. Ella needed to think things through, to analyze and find a conclusion before she could accept it as fact.

  “Right now I feel anger. Toward the mother.” She stopped and looked to the side. “Toward you.”

  She squinted as I caught her glance.

  “I see.” It was harder to keep the surprise from my voice than I thought. “Why?”

  “Why the mother or why toward you?”

  “Whichever you’d like to start with.”

  Ella’s chin rested almost on her chest and stayed in that position for three minutes. I would have assumed she’d fallen asleep, except this had happened in the past as well, whenever we touched on a harder subject.

  “It’s hard to watch a child be mistreated. Accepting that gift would have taken her nothing. It was free and would have made Robin happy. There is a part of me that feels she deserved whatever came her way, you know?” Her voice was low and rumbled as she spoke. Her chin inched higher until she stared me straight in the eye.

  “I feel anger toward you for forcing me to do this. We’d gotten to a good point, right? I felt better. But discussing this . . . those old feelings, the memories . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about my past. You know that.”

  I needed time to respond, so I wrote this down, but in the back of my mind, all I could think about were the notes. Someone knew about Ella’s past—knew what she’d done—and now placed blame on me for the murders.

  Why haven’t you stopped them?

  Those words haunted me.

  “By discussing your past, you’re proving it doesn’t hold power over you. Not anymore.”

  Ella’s shoulders slouched.

  “My past will always hold power over me,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  We’d discussed this over and over. The past and the power it held over us. Ella believed she could never run from her past, that one day it would hold her accountable.

  “You still don’t forgive yourself, do you?”

  The sound that came from Ella’s mouth was something between a snort and a laugh.

  “I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

  “Everyone deserves forgiveness, Ella.”

  She shook her head. “Not me. Not for what I did. I’ve accepted that. But maybe . . . maybe I can atone for it? Make it right, even if a little bit.”

  “You atoned by losing ten years of your life in prison. Wasn’t that enough?”

  “For what I did? No.” She worried her lip. “Should I go to the police?”

  “What would you tell the police, Ella?”

  I measured my words carefully. I wanted her to know I supported her, but at the same time, I was cautious. It felt like we were talking in circles. There was something we needed to get at, but each time we took a step closer to the truth, she shied away.

  “About what I know.”

  “What do you know?”

  She scrunched her face until it resembled a raisin.

  Her gaze flitted about the room as if it followed the flight path of a moth. She didn’t respond, and I wasn’t sure she would.

  “Ella.” I smothered a sigh. “Let’s go back to what you mentioned earlier. You believe it’s your fault the parents are dead. Why?”

  That was the part I couldn’t wrap my head around. Just because she recognized the woman from the library, had interacted with the child, it didn’t mean she was at fault.

  She’d be at fault if she’d killed them.

  Which she hadn’t. I knew that like I knew I’d be drinking more coffee by the end of the day.

  “I didn’t think they would die.” Ella covered her face with the palms of her hands. “I didn’t like how Robin was treated, but they didn’t deserve to die.” Her chest heaved as she wiped away the tears that gathered in her eyes.

  “How is it your fault?” I asked again.

  “I’m going to be there for her, for Robin.” It was as if she hadn’t heard me. “I don’t know how, but I want to be there for her.”

  Unhealthy relationship. I underlined that twice. That could be dangerous.

  “She will have family wh
o will take her in and help her through this.” I wanted to dispel any responsibility Ella carried.

  She thought about that for a moment. I watched her work through it. The smile that graced her face, however, filled me with dread.

  You know a murderer.

  Who knew? How had they gotten in? What did I do now?

  “I can make it right.” Her voice forced my attention back on her.

  “What do you mean, Ella?” I leaned forward.

  With wide eyes, she inhaled sharply and then let out a slow exhale, her chest deflating like a balloon with the air escaping.

  “Robin’s life has been changed forever.” Ella buried her head between her arms. “Killing them was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. They could change—they could have. They just didn’t know.” She chanted to herself as she rocked back and forth, back and forth.

  “Ella.” I called her name a few times. “Ella, it’s going to be okay. That little girl will be okay.” I wanted to hold her in my arms, to rock her as a mother would a grieving child. I refrained.

  I had to.

  “Another family destroyed because of me,” she said. “Another set of parents killed.” Tears flowed down her cheeks, her face streaked black from her mascara.

  “Did you kill them?” I asked point-blank.

  “Yes,” she whispered. A whispered confession with power that destroyed lives.

  She was the killer. Something grabbed my heart, squeezed until it resembled a twisted rag. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything.

  Someone knew. Someone had known Ella was the killer, and what? Warned me? Wanted to see what I would do? What could I do? Doctor-patient confidentiality stated she was protected from crimes of her past if she confessed them to me. Unless she admitted she was about to carry out a crime, her secret was safe with me.

  Tami would kill me. She would blame me. I would blame myself.

  “It’s my fault,” Ella said again. I wanted to yell at her. Scream for her to shut up, that I didn’t want to hear more, that I couldn’t hear more.

  “I killed my parents. I killed them. I murdered them just like Robin’s parents were killed.”

  Her head lifted, and I looked into eyes full of something that scared me.

  “I’m the reason they’re dead.” She repeated what she’d said earlier, but it didn’t make sense. Especially now. “It’s all my fault.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 10

  WE’RE ALL MAD HERE.

  The café offered safe haven from the shrill children and crowded streets and sweltering sun, and I escaped as fast as I could. Cheshire was a madhouse this weekend.

  I pushed open the door to the Mad Hatter’s Tea House to find Sabrina’s head half-buried in a large bin. Her messy bun of wiry gray curls, which created a sort of halo, spilled out over her neck. She jerked up, her look similar to a small child caught red-handed in her mother’s sewing cabinet.

  “Oh God, Danielle.” Her hand fluttered over her chest, her smile wobbly. “I’m not a young woman anymore, girl. You could have given me a heart attack.” She brushed her hair back and smoothed those wayward pieces of hair.

  There was no one else in the café.

  “I’m surprised you’re not out there.” I pointed over my shoulder.

  “Are you kidding me? This is the only quiet time I’ll have today. I’ve seen enough parades to last me a lifetime. Come here,” she said, her fingers urging me to hurry. “Come see what just came in.” By the excitement in her voice, you’d think she’d discovered a rare painting of Alice and the Red Queen.

  Instead, she showed me a teacup and saucer.

  It was no ordinary cup and saucer.

  They were bone china with a sketched black design of Alice, hands folded behind her back, and the words Curiouser and Curiouser twisting along the rim. Inside the cup was a key with a tag, and the saucer was full of characters from the story. Where the cup rested was the saying We’re All Mad Here.

  Just like the sign as you entered her store.

  Just like the framed saying in my living room at home. I’d once been tempted to place it in my therapy room, but that wouldn’t have gone over well.

  “I’ve been waiting forever for these to arrive. I ordered them from the UK.”

  “Are they for sale, or will you be using them in the café?” I couldn’t tear my gaze from the cup in my hand.

  “For sale. Want one?” She pointed to the display cabinet off to the right. “I even managed to snag the last cake stands.”

  Every Saturday afternoon, Sabrina hosted a reservation-only high tea party that was centered around the books with pocket-watch macarons and drinkable potions. Her restaurant was always packed and booked out at least a month in advance.

  I left her and headed to the display. I took my time mentally cataloging the new items. My fingers trailed over the cotton dish towels, the white tablecloth, the glazed teapots.

  I wanted them all.

  Until I saw the one thing I wanted the most.

  “That’s not for sale.” She might as well have said, I got it, you didn’t.

  I ignored her.

  I stopped short of touching the worn spine of the book she’d placed up there. It sat alone, not grouped with the other versions she had stacked. This one leaned against a teacup, the spine and cover visible.

  It was old. A collectible. Not rare, but old.

  I recognized the book.

  She gave me one of her you-snooze-you-lose looks.

  “That’s the last time I mention another online auction to you.” Sabrina hadn’t been a collector until we’d met and I’d infused her with my addiction.

  “I have a gift for you.” She squatted down, opened a cupboard drawer, and pulled out a wrapped box.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know.” The smile she gave me was real, genuine, and full of excitement. “But I saw this and just had to get it for you.”

  I unwrapped the box, opened the lid, and gasped.

  “Where did you find this?” My hands trembled as I lifted the item out of the box.

  It was an old set of cards, forty-eight pictorial cards for the New and Diverting Game of Alice in Wonderland. The box of cards was rough, worn, torn, and aged but the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  “I’ve seen photos of this but never—” My voice caught. I engulfed her in a hug, so thrilled by what I held in my hand.

  “I found them at an estate sale. I knew you’d appreciate them more than anyone else.” She hugged me back just as hard. “Plus, I felt bad for bidding against you on the book.”

  “Okay, you’re forgiven.” I gave her a wink.

  Sabrina showed me a few other items she’d procured. Almost everything was Alice related, and a few were about reading and books, but there wasn’t one item that I didn’t like and wish to have.

  “It’s so horrible what’s happening,” Sabrina said. I knew she was talking about the recent murders. “My heart just breaks for the children left behind.” Her hands covered her chest. “I want to do something to help, but I’m not sure what.”

  “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around what’s going on as well.”

  Sabrina looked around, then leaned in close. “I’ve never been in favor of the death penalty, but in this case . . . it hits too close to home. These are our people, part of our community. I’ve had these kids in my shop. I’ve served these families. I just—” Her whispered voice broke. “Whoever did this, they’re crazy. A psychopath or something.”

  I leaned away, shocked by her words. Death penalty?

  “I mean, who in their right mind would even consider killing parents and leaving the child alive? They have to be sick. There’s talk that it’s someone with unresolved parent issues. I heard that the police are reaching out to local psychiatrists to see if they have any high-risk patients.” Sabrina continued to talk in a low voice. “Have they talked to you yet? I’ll be honest, Danielle,
the idea kind of scares me. That someone in our town with mommy issues is sick enough to murder . . . Just lock them all up. They deserve it.” Her body shook as if a tremor full of unfettered anger wound through her.

  I shook my head. That was all I could do. If I opened my mouth, something vile and malicious would come out, I was sure of it. I couldn’t believe I was hearing garbage like that from Sabrina. In times of crisis, like now, filters tend to get pushed aside in the heat of the moment. Filters that would normally keep our true thoughts and feelings inside.

  I backed away, one step at a time, swallowing whatever words were there on the tip of my tongue. She may have felt safe enough with me to let words and emotions slip, but I didn’t.

  “Danielle? Are you okay?” I heard the worry in her voice and realized my anger must have been showing.

  “I’m fine.” I snapped the words faster than a crop against a racehorse about to cross the finish line. “I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t agree with all your thoughts, and I . . . It’s probably best I leave before I say something I’ll regret.” I didn’t wait for her reply, didn’t bother to see if she’d apologize or have the decency to take back her words.

  “I’m just going to go.” I left her café and pushed my way through the crowds on the street. I just wanted to head home. I needed to be at home.

  The moment I opened my door, a blanket of exhaustion dropped on me. It was all I could do to make it to the couch, my steps heavy, my head pounding. Sabrina’s words hung over me like a black cloud. I collapsed on the couch, and the moment I closed my eyes, I welcomed the darkness.

  A gentle breeze brushed across my skin. I wanted to open my eyes, but the energy was gone. The sun warmed my body, and the sounds of a school band filled the air.

  I pried my left eye open.

  I was outside.

  I bolted up.

  I wasn’t in my house anymore. Or on my couch. I was outside, on my front porch. My feet were propped on a white wicker stool. There was a glass of iced tea on the table beside me and my journal.

  Why was I out here? When had I come out?

  I’d never sleepwalked during the day. Never. It had always been at night, in the middle of the night, when I was a child.