“I gather you don’t want to be here.”
Really? Really? How brilliant. “Like you said, it wasn’t my idea. I don’t need to come.”
“Do you have any questions you’d like to ask me? It isn’t fair for me to be the one always asking questions. Is there anything you want to know? I’m open to talking about me.”
This was worse than being with her mother. Why were adults always trying to get you to talk? What’s on your mind, dear? Penny for your thoughts. Always prying and prying. Her mother staring at her like what she’d really like to do is grab a veggie peeler out of the drawer next to the sink and scrape back the covering of her skull and get a good look inside. Not that adults ever really listened even if she did talk. She crossed her arms, hugging her midriff, feeling a meanness rise inside. “So where do you get your clothes?”
“What?”
“Your clothes. I mean, it can’t be easy finding stuff small enough to fit.”
Dr. Mallory said nothing.
“Do you have to shop in the children’s department?”
“Sometimes. Why? Does fashion interest you?”
“Not particularly.”
“I see. What does interest you? Shopping? Music? Do you play sports?”
Rain shrugged. “I dunno.” What really interested her were rocks, not that she’d tell anyone. She liked the way the different kinds sounded, like poetry. Metamorphic. Sedimentary. Igneous. She knew the names of dozens of kinds of rocks. Her granddad told her there was even a name for the study of rocks. Petrology. When she was ten, he’d returned from a vacation in the Southwest and given her a polished rock that hung from a silver chain. It was called an Apache tear, he’d said, and then he told her about the legend, how all the men in an Apache tribe had been driven to the edge of a cliff, and rather than be taken prisoner or killed by their enemies, they had all jumped off the cliff. The women had been hiding in a cave, and when they heard what had happened they wept, and their tears had turned to stone. Rain tried not to imagine it, the women weeping while the men died. It was a kind of obsidian, her granddad told her when he gave it to her. When you held it in your palm it looked black, but when you held it to the light you could see through it. He told her life was like that—sometimes things seemed dark, but if you held them to the light, you could see your way clear. No. She wasn’t about to tell any of this to the shrink.
“What about school? Do you like school?”
“What difference does it make if I do or not? I have to go. Just like I have to come here.” As long as you live in this house, young lady . . .
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Now?”
“Yes. If you had the afternoon to yourself, what would you like to do?”
Rain thought of Christy and Jeannie shoplifting a tube of lipstick or a pair of socks. She recalled the thrill that ran through her body the time she’d taken a scarf and how she had tossed it in the trash on the way home so she wouldn’t have to explain it to her mother. She shrugged again. She was done talking. She’d just sit and wait until the hour was up and she could escape. The silence stretched on. She glanced across at Dr. Mallory, but the shrink didn’t seem to be pissed or frustrated. Unlike most adults Rain knew, she didn’t seem to need to fill every moment with words. Which suited Rain just fine. In the stillness, she listened for other sounds, the ordinary noises a house made—the humming of a refrigerator motor, the click and hum of a furnace or air conditioner, the scratching of a branch against a window—all the ticking, purring, creaking sounds of a house—and then she listened for the sounds from the world outside, a car passing in the street, a plane overhead on approach to Logan, but silence enveloped them. She wondered if this was what it was like before you were born, in the womb. But no, there would be sounds there, liquid, pulsating sounds. Her skin itched just thinking of it.
The dog—Walker—looked from one to the other, then sat up and crossed to Rain’s chair and gazed up at her. “What kind is he?”
“A King Charles spaniel. Would you like to hold him? He enjoys being held.”
Hold him? Seriously? She imagined leaving there covered with hair and smelling doggy. “No.”
“You don’t like dogs?”
“Not especially.”
“Do you have pets?”
“I had a couple of fish once. They died.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“They were just fish. Fish die.” The fish had been another gift from her granddad. Not regular goldfish like you might expect, but two iridescent blue fish with tails twice the size of their bodies that waved back and forth in the tank like fans. She had named them Fin and Min. Her granddad had said that sounded like a vaudeville team and then had explained what vaudeville was.
Dr. Mallory clasped her hands in her lap. Rain noticed a wedding band. She couldn’t imagine who would want to marry such a short person. But maybe the husband was freaky short too. She stared at her knees and plucked at a few gel-stiffened strands of hair. Until she’d chopped it off, she hadn’t realized how much her hair had shielded her from the world.
“I didn’t speak with your mother at length, Rain. She’s not my patient. You are. And what you and I share is confidential. But your mother is concerned for you, just as you’d be concerned for a daughter of your own.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to have a daughter.” She wasn’t like those stupid cows at school who were so proud of getting pregnant. “I’m never getting married.”
“Never is a long time.”
Another brilliant observation.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“A girlfriend, then?”
“What, like a girlfriend girlfriend? I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Would it bother you if I thought that?”
“Whatever. It’s a free country. I’m just saying, I’m not gay.”
Dr. Mallory nodded. “You mother told me you’ve been having a hard time.”
I bet she did. Probably couldn’t wait to tell you what a freak her daughter is.
“She told me a little about your friend who died last fall.”
Rain swallowed the tightness in her throat. Died. Like the true word—murdered—mustn’t be said.
Dr. Mallory leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Rain. Sorry about your friend.”
Her skin felt prickly, tight, and her throat ached. “There’s nothing to say.”
“The loss of a close friend would be enormously hard for anyone.”
Rain concentrated on breathing.
“I haven’t had exactly that kind of loss, Rain, but I’ve had other kinds.” Dr. Mallory paused, studied Rain for a moment, then continued. “Two years ago my husband died. The only thing that got me through was that I had people to talk with, people who were there to support for me at a very difficult time. I would like to offer that kind of support for you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need support. I’m okay. No matter what my mother told you.”
“Everyone feels what you’re feeling, Rain. That’s normal. And even people who are strong and well need other people.”
Rain glanced at the clock. “Aren’t we supposed to stop now? The time is up.”
“Is it?” Mallory smiled. “I don’t always go by the clock. Some sessions are shorter and some are longer. It depends on what makes sense. If you think this is enough for today, that’s fine. Do you want to stop now?”
An hour ago. I wanted to stop an hour ago. “Yes,” she said. She nudged the dog away with the toe of her shoe and rose.
In a surprisingly graceful movement, Dr. Mallory unfolded her legs and stood. She slipped on the ugly black shoes and crossed to the desk, where she flipped open her appointment book. “We can meet next week at this same time if that works for you.”
“Whatever.” What would work for Rain was to get the hell out of there.
Dr. Mallory came toward her, and for a horrible moment Rain thoug
ht she was going to hug her or something, but the shrink only held something toward her.
“Here’s my card, Rain.”
Rain made no move to take it.
“As you can see, this is my home, and I’m here all the time, days, nights, and weekends. I always answer the phone, and I want you to feel free to call.” She pressed the card into Rain’s hand. “If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m out briefly, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Right.” Rain shoved the card in her pocket.
“And I’d like you to call if something is troubling you or if you just want to talk.”
Like that was ever going to happen. “Sure.”
Mallory opened the door. “Take care of yourself, Rain. If you aren’t able to take care of yourself, please call me.”
“Sure.”
“Until next week, then.”
As she expected, her mother was waiting in the car. Rain opened the door and slid in the front seat, exhausted, as if she had been running sprints.
“How did it go, dear?” Her mother’s face was all expectant and hopeful. “How was Dr. Mallory?”
“Short. She was short.” She could sleep for a solid month. “Where did you find her anyway? The circus?”
The hope faded from her mother’s face. “Dr. Mallory is highly recommended, Rain. Mr. Clarke was very enthusiastic about her.”
“Mr. Clarke? You asked Mr. Clarke for the name of a shrink? Well, that’s great. Just great.” Now the whole school would know. The teachers weren’t supposed to talk about the students, but good luck with that. They were a nest of vipers, and the guidance counselor was the worst of all. “And I’m not going back.” She jammed her hand in her pocket, scrunched the card Dr. Mallory had handed her. “And there’s nothing you can do to make me. Nothing.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There was nothing I wanted to do but go home.
Yet I was glad for the walk, for time to shake off the memories that had risen in the Crow’s Nest and get my head straight from the two beers. But in spite of the walk and the evening air, the memories lingered and I still felt the effects of the alcohol, probably more than I normally would have had, either because I’d had the sherry with the priest first or because I’d had all of it on an empty stomach. Whatever the reason, there was a low buzz in my head, as if the A string on a guitar had been thumbed. Not entirely a bad feeling as it took the edge off, but this was not necessarily a good thing since the desire to deaden pain and quash feeling with booze had proved dangerous in the past. The trick was to hold steady at the buzzed stage before it flipped over to flat-out drunk, but that was a trick I hadn’t mastered. The best I could manage lately in spite of my best intentions was to try to stay away from the hard stuff.
I was a half block from home when I saw the car parked in my drive. In the glow cast from the streetlight, I made out a shadowy outline on the driver’s side. As I approached, a woman stepped out. She was in her midthirties, hair in a blonde bob, heavy makeup, gray slacks, black blazer. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
“In sight,” she called out.
What was in sight? Or had she said insight? One word. Who the hell was she? What did she want with me?
“Mr. Light?” she repeated.
Oh. “Yes?”
“I wondered if I could have a moment?”
I was still trying to place her, aware of the oily odor of tar in the air. I glanced over and saw that once again Payton Hayes had resurfaced his drive. The guy did it twice a year or something. Talk about overkill. I hated the smell of asphalt. If hell had a signature smell, it would be that emanating from his driveway, not sulfur.
“I’m Melinda Hurley. I’m a reporter with the Boston Herald,” the woman said.
Recognition snapped in. She wore her hair in a different style, had done something to lighten it, but it did nothing to soften the sharp features and searching gaze that were so suited to her work. She was one of the ferrets who had covered the story of Lucy’s murder. One of the cameras. Last fall, the press had practically moved into town, nosing about and invading every aspect of our lives, questioning Lucy’s friends and teachers, our friends, showing up at our neighbors’ doors. It had been beyond invasive, closer to cruel.
“I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”
Anger uncoiled in my belly.
“I’m working on an update,” she said.
The anger rose to my chest. Christ, how I hated these people.
“Earlier today I spoke with the chief, and he told me there’ve been no new developments on the case.”
The case. I felt as if an artery has just been ripped opened. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“It’s been seven months. Have you lost hope that your daughter’s murderer will be found?”
I brushed by her, circled toward the steps.
“Mr. Light. Just a few words. Our readers wonder how you and your wife are doing.”
I swung on her, shouted, “Just how the fuck do you think we’re doing?”
Instinctively she stepped back, then raised her hand, palm open, and made a calming motion. “Whoa. Take it easy. I’m just doing my job.”
“Your job?” Drops of spittle flew from my mouth.
The reporter recovered her poise. “I’m trying to help, Mr. Light. Keep the case in public consciousness.”
“Bullshit. You don’t give a flying fuck about us or our daughter. You just want a story. Now get the hell off my property.”
The reporter held her ground. “Mr. Light,” she said. “Just one more thing. I am also doing a follow-up story on the teenage pregnancies in town.”
“You people—” My heart was pounding. “You people have no sense of decency. No idea of how it feels to have your personal life invaded. Can’t you just leave us alone?”
“I have to ask. It’s my job. Many of the girls have now had their babies, and we are following their stories. I understand that some of these girls were schoolmates of Lucy, and I wondered if your daughter might have been—well, if she might have been pregnant when she was killed.”
A pain cut through with such thrust it might have been a hunting knife. In an action immediate and without thought, I shot my arm out and, palm against her chest, shoved her away from me with so much force that she stumbled and fell. That was the first time my rage escaped my control, but it wouldn’t be the last. Her tote and notebook arced through the air and landed in a puddle left from the earlier rain. I stared down to where she lay sprawled on the walk. She stayed there for a minute, mouth open in shock, and then she scrambled to her hands and knees and stood. One pant leg was ripped, and blood had already started to seep through. Her face was pale.
I turned away and strode toward the house.
“Wait,” she called. “Wait just a damn minute.”
I mounted the steps, breathing hard, as if I had been in a battle.
“Hey. You can’t do this. I don’t care what you’ve been through. You can’t do this.”
I just did. When I climbed the steps, she was still calling my name, demanding that I turn around, anger now in her voice. My hands trembled on the porch rail. Once safely inside, I didn’t bother listening for the sound of her car starting up. I rubbed my chest, as if I had sustained an actual wound. I wondered if your daughter might have been pregnant when she died. I headed straight for the kitchen, found the bottle of bourbon I’d shoved in the back of one cabinet, as if in spite of all intentions I had known I was going to need it. Think me a fool if you will. Or weak. But don’t judge if you yourself haven’t been lost, despairing. You may think you know how you’d behave, but the truth is we have no idea of what we will do when faced with a nightmare. We like to believe we will be brave, the person who jumps in the way of danger to save another, the person who will face horror with resolve and courage, who, when tested, will rise up. But believe me when I say we have no idea. I do know now that we are both stronger and weaker than we could ever imagine. And we ar
e capable of things we would never have dreamed possible. I filled a tumbler half full, didn’t bother with ice, and drank a good part of it down in one swallow. I remembered the bitch all right. Remembered them all, the way they had appeared at our home only moments after Chief Johnson arrived.
We had been in the kitchen when he came. It was ten thirty in the morning on the second week of Lucy’s disappearance. When the doorbell rang, Amy went to answer it. She still hadn’t returned to Maine, and we had come to rely on her to run interference for us. Moments later, she reappeared and told us the police chief was there and wanted to speak to me. Me, she had said. Not both of us. Sophie’s eyes met mine, and she came with me when I went out to the hall. Whatever it was he wanted to say, we needed to hear it together. Back then—Before—we were still a team, partners. His face telegraphed the message of bad news.
“You found Lucy?” Sophie said. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
“No,” he said. He turned toward me. “There is no easy way to say this.”
Sophie took hold of my arm, her fingers pressing hard. “What is it?” I said.
He swallowed once, looked at Sophie. “You might want to sit down.”
“Tell us,” I said.
“Your daughter is dead.”
“No.” Her word was a whisper, a long, low sound of denial, as if that single syllable could reverse time, make the chief evaporate.
I pictured, as I had the first night, a car crash, a metal frame twisted against a tree on some back road, our daughter inside.
“Her body was found this morning. A woman walking her dog found her in the woods outside of town. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report, but it looks like homicide.”
People say things like time stood still, and I always thought it was just a facile expression, but it is true. At that moment everything froze, and yet at the same time, I was aware of everything. Sophie clinging to me, the pale echo of her moan in the air. Amy standing in the background.
“How—” I began, but was interrupted by the sound of engines outside, of cars pulling up and then the doorbell.
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