by Sara Shepard
Chapter 11 Not Your Typical Mother-Daughter Outing
As soon as Spencer stepped into the lobby of the Fermata spa, a smile flitted over her lips. The room smelled like honey, and the soft, burbling sounds of the fountain in the corner were soothing and tranquil.
“I booked you for a deep tissue massage, a carrot body buff, and an oxygen facial,” Spencer’s mother said, taking out her wallet. “And then after that, I made us reservations for a late lunch at Feast.”
“Wow,” Spencer gushed. Feast, the bistro next door, was Mrs. Hastings and Melissa’s regular lunch spot.
Mrs. Hastings squeezed Spencer’s shoulder, the smell of her liberally applied Chanel No. 5 perfume tickling Spencer’s nose. An aesthetician showed Spencer the locker where she could stash her clothes and change into a robe and slippers. Before she knew it, she was lying on a massage table, melting into a puddle of goo.
Spencer hadn’t felt this close to her parents in a long, long time. Last night, she and her dad had watched The Godfather in the den, her dad quoting every line by heart, and later, she and her mother began planning the Rosewood Day Hunt Club benefit that would take place in two months. Plus, when she checked her grades online this morning, she’d seen that she had aced the last AP econ test. Good news like that called for an appreciative text to Andrew—he’d been her tutor—and he wrote back saying he knew she could do it. He also asked if she wanted to go with him to the Valentine’s Day dance in a few weeks. Spencer said yes.
Her conversation with Melissa still nagged at her, though, as did A’s note about a cover-up. Spencer couldn’t believe her mother would make Melissa blame Ian for Ali’s murder. Melissa must have misinterpreted their mother’s concern. And as for A . . . well, Spencer certainly didn’t trust anything A had to say.
“Honey?” The masseuse’s voice floated down from above. “You’ve suddenly turned to stone. Let go.”
Spencer forced her muscles to relax. Crashing ocean waves and cawing seagulls swelled from the sound machine. She shut her eyes, huffing three short yoga fire breaths. She would not overreact. That was probably just what A wanted.
After the massage, the carrot buff, and the oxygen facial, Spencer felt loose, soft, and glowing. Her mother was waiting for her at Feast, drinking a glass of lemon water and reading a copy of MainLine magazine. “That was wonderful,” Spencer said, flopping down. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Mrs. Hastings answered, unfolding her napkin and placing it neatly on her lap. “Anything to help you relax after everything you’ve gone through.”
They fell silent. Spencer stared at the hand-thrown ceramic plate in front of her. Her mother ran her pointer finger around the lip of her glass. After sixteen years of playing second fiddle, Spencer had no idea what to say to her mom. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d been alone together.
Mrs. Hastings sighed and stared absently at the oak bar in the corner. A couple of customers were sitting on high stools, nursing lunchtime martinis and glasses of chardonnay. “I didn’t mean for it to get like this between us, you know,” she said, as if reading Spencer’s mind. “I don’t really know what happened.”
Melissa happened, Spencer thought. But she just shrugged and tapped her toes to the beat of “Fur Elise,” one of the last pieces of music she’d learned during her piano lessons.
“I pushed you too hard in school, and that pushed you away,” her mother lamented, lowering her voice as four coiffed women carrying yoga mats and Tory Burch purses followed the hostess to a back booth. “With Melissa, it was easier. There were fewer standouts in her grade.” She paused to sip her water. “But with you . . . well, your class was different. I saw how you were satisfied with being number two. I wanted you to be a leader, not a follower.”
Spencer’s heart sped up, yesterday’s conversation with Melissa fresh in her mind. Mom wasn’t exactly Ali’s biggest fan, Melissa had said. “Do you mean . . . Alison?” she asked.
Mrs. Hastings took a measured sip of her sparkling water. “She’s one example, yes. Alison definitely liked to be the center of attention.”
Spencer chose her words carefully. “And . . . you thought I should have been?”
Mrs. Hastings pursed her lips. “Well, I thought you could have asserted yourself more. Like that time Alison got the spot on the JV field hockey team and you didn’t. You just . . . accepted it. You usually had a little more fight in you. And you certainly deserved that spot.”
The restaurant suddenly smelled like sweet potato fries. Three waiters paraded out of the kitchen with a slice of cake for a stately, graying woman a few tables over. They serenaded her with “Happy Birthday.” Spencer ran her hand over the back of her neck, which was a little sweaty. For years, she’d hoped someone would say out loud that Ali wasn’t all that, but now, she only felt guilty and slightly defensive. Was Melissa right? Had her mom disliked Ali? It felt like a personal criticism. After all, Ali had been her best friend, and Mrs. Hastings always liked all of Melissa’s friends.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Hastings said after the waiters had stopped singing, lacing her long fingers together, “I worried that you were settling for being second best, so I started pushing you harder. I realize now it was more about me than it was about you.” She tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear.
“What do you mean?” Spencer asked, gripping the edge of the table.
Mrs. Hastings’s gaze fixed on a large Magritte Ceci n’est pas unepipe print across the room. “I don’t know, Spence. Maybe it’s not worth getting into right now. It’s something I haven’t even told your sister.”
A waitress passed, carrying a tray of Waldorf salads and focaccia sandwiches. Out the window, two women with Maclaren baby carriages were chatting and laughing. Spencer leaned forward, her mouth dry as paper. So there was a secret, just like A said. Spencer hoped it had nothing to do with Ali. “It’s okay,” she said bravely. “You can tell me.”
Mrs. Hastings pulled out a tube of Chanel lipstick, coated her lips, and then shook out her shoulders. “You know how your dad went to Yale Law?” she began.
Spencer nodded. Her dad dutifully donated to the law school every year and drank coffee out of his Handsome Dan the Yale Bulldog mug. At the family’s annual Christmas party, he always drank too much eggnog and sang that “Boola Boola” Yale fight song with his old school buddies.
“Well, I was at Yale Law too,” Mrs. Hastings said. “It’s where I met your father.”
Spencer pressed her hand to her mouth, wondering if she’d heard her mother wrong. “I thought you guys met at a party on Martha’s Vineyard,” she squeaked.
Her mother gave her a wistful smile. “One of our first dates was to that party. But we met the first week of school.”
Spencer unfolded then refolded her linen napkin on her lap. “How come I never knew?”
A waitress arrived, handing Spencer and her mom their menus. When she flounced away, Mrs. Hastings continued. “Because I didn’t finish law school. After my first year I got pregnant with your sister. Nana Hastings found out and demanded that your dad and I marry. We decided that I’d defer Yale for a few years and raise the baby. I planned to go back. . . .”
An expression Spencer couldn’t gauge flickered across her mom’s face. “We fudged the date on our marriage certificate because we didn’t want to make it seem like it was a shotgun marriage.” She pushed a pale blond strand of hair out of her eyes. A BlackBerry beeped two tables over. A man at the bar let out a loud guffaw. “It was what I wanted. But I’d also always wanted to be a lawyer. I know that I can’t control how your life turns out, Spence, but I want to make sure you have every opportunity in the world. It’s why I’ve been so tough on you about everything . . . grades, Golden Orchid, sports. But I’m sorry. I haven’t been fair.”
Spencer stared at her mother for a long beat, speechless. Someone dropped a tray of plates in the kitchen, but she didn’t flinch.
Mrs. Hastings reached across the table a
nd touched Spencer’s hand. “I hope it’s not a burden to hear this. I just wanted you to know the truth.”
“No,” Spencer croaked. “It explains a lot. I’m glad you told me. But why didn’t you go back to school after Melissa was old enough?”
“I just . . .” Mrs. Hastings shrugged. “We wanted you . . . and that time had passed.” She leaned forward. “Please don’t tell Melissa,” she urged. “You know how sensitive she is. She’d worry I resent her.”
Inside, Spencer felt a tiny thrill. So she was the daughter they’d planned for . . . and Melissa was the one they hadn’t.
And maybe this was even the cover-up A had been talking about, although it didn’t have anything to do with Ali, or Mrs. Hastings not liking her. But as Spencer reached for a piece of flatbread, a tiny, buried memory from the night Ali vanished twinkled in her mind.
After Ali ditched them in the barn, Spencer and the others decided to go home. Emily, Hanna, and Aria called their parents for rides, and Spencer went back into her house and up into her bedroom. The television had been on downstairs—Melissa and Ian were in the den—but her parents weren’t anywhere to be seen. That was odd, because they typically didn’t allow Spencer or Melissa to be alone with boys in the house.
Spencer had slid under her duvet, miserable at how badly the night had gone. Something woke her much later. When she stepped into the hall and peered over the railing, she saw two figures in the foyer. One was Melissa, still wearing the gray flutter-sleeve top and black silk headband she’d had on earlier. She was whispering heatedly with Mr. Hastings. Spencer couldn’t hear much of what they were saying, only that Melissa sounded angry and her father sounded defensive. At one point, Melissa let out a frenzied cry. “I can’t believe you,” she said. And then her father said something Spencer couldn’t discern. “Where’s Mom?” Melissa asked, her voice rising with hysterics. “We need to find her!” Then they hurried toward the kitchen, and Spencer shut the door quickly and scuttled back into her room.
“Spence?”
Spencer jumped. Her mother was staring at her with large, round eyes across the table. When Spencer looked down at her hands, cupped around her water glass, she realized they were trembling uncontrollably.
“Are you okay?” Mrs. Hastings asked.
Spencer opened her mouth, then shut it fast. Was that a real memory, or a dream? Had her mother been missing that night too? But it was implausible that she’d seen Ali’s true killer. If she had, she would’ve gone to the cops immediately. She wasn’t that heartless—or lawless. And what would be the point of covering up something like that?
“Where did you go just now?” Mrs. Hastings asked, her head tilted.
Spencer squeezed her softened, paraffin-soaked palms together. Since they were being honest with each other, maybe she could talk about this. “I . . . I was just thinking about the night Ali went missing,” she blurted.
Mrs. Hastings twirled the two-carat diamond stud in her right ear, letting this sink in. Then her forehead wrinkled. The lines around her mouth looked etched as though with a chisel. Her eyes darted down to her plate.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asked quickly, her heart rocketing to her throat.
Mrs. Hastings’s mouth snapped into a tight smile. “That was a terrible night, honey.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Let’s not talk about it ever again.”
And then she turned away, flagging down the waitress to take their orders. She seemed nonchalant enough as she asked for the Asian chicken salad with sesame dressing on the side, but Spencer couldn’t help but notice that her hand was clenched tightly around her knife, and her finger was slowly tracing the sharpened edge of the blade.
Chapter 12 Even a Nuthouse Needs an in Crowd
Hanna stood in the cafeteria at the Preserve at Addison-Stevens, a tray of baked chicken and steamed veggies in her arms. The cafeteria was a large, square room with honey-colored wood floors, small farm tables, a glossy black Steinway grand piano off to one side, and a wall of windows that looked out onto the shimmering meadow. There were textured, abstract paintings on the walls and gray velvet curtains on the windows. On a table near the back were two shiny, expensive-looking cappuccino makers, a long, stainless-steel cooler full of every kind of soda imaginable, and platters upon platters of divine-looking chocolate cakes, lemon meringue pies, and toffee-fudge brownies. Not that Hanna would be partaking in the desserts, of course. This place might have a James Beard Award-winning pastry chef, but the last thing she needed was to pack on ten pounds of fat.
Admittedly, her first day in the loony bin hadn’t been that bad. She’d spent the first hour or so staring at the plaster swirls in the ceiling of her room, ruminating on how badly her life sucked. Then a nurse had come into her room, handing out a pill like it was a Tic Tac. Turned out, it had been a Valium, which she was allowed to take whenever she wanted here.
Then she’d had an appointment with her therapist, Dr. Foster, who promised she would contact Mike and tell him that Hanna wasn’t allowed to use the phone or send e-mails except for Sunday afternoons, so he wouldn’t think she was ignoring him. Dr. Foster also said Hanna didn’t have to talk about Ali, A, or Mona in session if she didn’t want to. And finally, the therapist reiterated over and over again that none of the girls on Hanna’s floor knew who she was—most of them had been at the Preserve for so long that they’d never heard of A or Ali to begin with. “So you won’t have to think about it while you’re here,” Dr. Foster said, patting Hanna’s hand. And all that took up the entire therapy hour. Score.
Now it was mealtime. Everyone else in the girls’ wing was gathered at tables of three and four. Most patients were wearing hospital scrubs or flannel jammies, their hair mussed, their faces without makeup, their fingernails without polish. There were, however, a few tables of pretty girls in skinny jeans, long tunics, and soft cashmere sweaters, their hair shiny, their bodies toned. But no one had noticed Hanna or welcomed her to sit with them. They all seemed to look through her, as if she were just a two-dimensional image drawn on tracing paper.
As Hanna stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, she felt transported back to the Rosewood Day cafeteria on the first day of sixth grade. Sixth graders were officially part of the middle school, which meant they ate lunch with kids in seventh and eighth. Hanna had stood at the edge of the room just like this, wishing she were pretty and thin and popular enough to sit with Naomi Zeigler and Alison DiLaurentis. Then Riley Wolfe bumped Hanna’s elbow, and Hanna’s spaghetti-and-meatballs lunch splattered all over her shoes and the floor. Even today, she could still hear Naomi’s high-pitched laugh, Ali’s demure chuckle, and Riley’s apathetic and insincere “Sorry.” Hanna had run out of the cafeteria in tears.
“Excuse me?”
Hanna turned around and saw a short, dumpy girl with dull brown hair and braces. She would’ve mistaken her for a twelve-year-old except that the girl had enormous boobs. Her melon-colored hoodie stretched tight across them, making them look rather like melons themselves. With a sad twinge, Hanna thought of Mike. He’d probably make the same boobalicious remark.
“Are you new?” the girl asked. “You look kind of lost.”
“Uh, yeah.” Hanna wrinkled her nose at the sudden, grandmotherly smell of Vicks VapoRub. It seemed to be wafting from this girl’s skin.
“I’m Tara.” The girl spat a little as she spoke.
“Hanna,” Hanna murmured apathetically, moving aside to let an aide in pink scrubs pass.
“You want to eat with us? It sucks to eat alone. We’ve all been there.”
Hanna lowered her eyes to the polished wood floor, considering her options. Tara didn’t seem crazy—just dorky. And beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Uh, sure,” she said, struggling to be polite.
“Great!” Tara—and her boobs—jiggled up and down. She wove through the tables, leading Hanna to a four-top at the back. A rail-thin girl with a long, hangdog face and goth-pale skin was picking at a plate of plain penne noodles, and a pudg
y redhead with a noticeable bald patch above her right ear was nibbling furiously on an ear of corn. “This is Alexis and Ruby,” Tara announced. “And this is Hanna. She’s new!”
Alexis and Ruby shyly said hi. Hanna said hi back, feeling more and more unsettled. She was dying to ask these girls why they were here, but Dr. Foster had emphasized that diagnoses were not to be discussed except in private sessions or group therapy. Instead, patients were supposed to pretend that they were here by choice, like this was some kind of freaky camp.
Tara plopped down next to Hanna and immediately started cutting up the impressive pile of food on her plate—she had a hamburger, a square of lasagna, green beans bathed in butter and almonds, and a giant hunk of bread as big as Hanna’s palm.
“So this was your first day, right?” Tara asked cheerfully. “How was it?”
Hanna shrugged, wondering if Tara had overeating issues. “Kind of boring.”
Tara nodded, chewing with her mouth open. “I know. The no-Internet thing sucks. You can’t Twitter or blog or anything. Do you have a blog?”
“No,” Hanna answered, trying not to scoff. Blogs were for people who didn’t have lives.
Tara shoved another forkful of food into her mouth. She had a tiny cold sore at the corner of her lip. “You’ll get used to it. Most people here are really nice. There are only a couple girls to stay away from.”
“They’re bitches,” Alexis said, her voice surprisingly husky for someone so thin.
The other girls giggled naughtily at the word bitches. “They spend all their time at the spa,” Ruby said, rolling her eyes. “They can’t go one day without getting a manicure.”
Hanna almost choked on a broccoli stalk, certain she’d heard Ruby wrong. “Did you just say this place has a spa?”
“Yeah, but it costs extra.” Tara wrinkled her nose.
