Chapter Twenty-five

I explain it all over an enormous cheese pizza. It’s the place I remembered, the one with the red pop. In between greasy bites, I fill him in on everything. Maggie and me. Blake and his stalker phone call. I include everything about Julien, and even the stuff about our resident Wicked Witch, Dr. Kirkpatrick.

Finally, I stop for breath, grabbing another piece of pizza and waiting for Adam’s response. I wait a while, but figure he’s thinking it over. I still haven’t processed it, and I’ve had two days.

But then, I wait long enough to wonder what expression he’s wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Fear? That third one feels right, but it makes no sense at all. What the hell would he be afraid of?

“So are you going to say anything?” I ask, stabbing random ice cubes with my straw.

“I’m not sure where to start,” he says, and I hear an incoming text buzz his phone.

“I guess, ‘Gee, Chloe, I don’t believe you,’ might work,” I say, but I don’t sound nearly as funny as I want to.

Adam pushes away his plate and leans back in the booth. His phone buzzes again, and he presses something to silence it, looking aggravated. “Well, I don’t think you can help Julien. Schizophrenia doesn’t go away, Chlo. And it’s not anthrax. You can’t use it like a weapon.”

“Maybe that’s true, but how do we know it’s schizophrenia? How do we know it’s not one of the weird hypno-things Dr. Kirkpatrick did in our groups?”

“Because I was in the group. It’s not like she was stretching us out on couches and making us count backward.”

I nod slowly, rubbing my hands clean with the napkin. “You don’t believe me. Message received.”

“This isn’t a matter of me not believing you, Chloe. I know the lady. She’s a little fixated on breathing deep, sure, but she’s not the second coming of Charles Manson.”

“Well, gosh, I hope she knows she can call on you for a character witness.”

His expression changes. He looks tense again. Nervous, maybe. God, that can’t even be right. If he is nervous, it’s because I’m being a complete nut job. I sigh and lace my fingers with his over the table. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not fair. I just want answers.”

“I know. But I don’t want to see you invent what you can’t discover.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means to be careful not to go accusing innocent people because you’re desperate to find a reason for all of this.”

“There is a reason for all of this, Adam. And Julien thinks I know what that reason is.”

“Julien is a schizophrenic who probably believes a lot of things, Chlo.”

“You’re starting to sound like Maggie.”

He looks down at his hands. “Is there any chance that’s because we’re both right?”

No. Ridiculous or not, I’m absolutely certain that Julien is not just schizophrenic. But knowing it isn’t enough. I need proof.

***

“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” I say, settling myself onto Dr. Kirkpatrick’s couch.

Dr. Kirkpatrick smiles and opens her notepad. “I’m happy I had an opening. You seemed very upset on the phone.”

Good. That’s exactly what I was aiming for. And if I have any luck, my mom will be home in time to see the frantic, handwritten note I left on the kitchen table. I’m pretty desperate for all of my stars to align today because this is the biggest thing I’ve ever tried to pull off. Ever.

“I went to California with Maggie,” I say, though I have a horrible feeling she already knows that much. Something tells me she knows all kinds of things I wish she didn’t.

“That’s a big change from our last meeting. The two of you weren’t speaking then.”

“Well, I was trying to mend the bridge, but now I don’t think it worked, and I just don’t know what to do.”

How the hell she’s buying this is beyond me. It must be the nerves I’ve got from being here to begin with. Still, she scoots forward in her chair and asks me at least a dozen probing questions to help me gather a better understanding of the situation.

I’m barely responding. It probably looks thoughtful, but really I just can’t stop watching the clock. I have fourteen minutes left. Why the hell hasn’t my mom found the note? She was on her way home. Which means she would have had plenty of time to fly over here.

Surely she would have at least called, right? When your daughter leaves a full page of drama, closed with “If you want to know what’s going on with me, you can call my psychiatrist. She knows how bad it really is.”

“Chloe, I must say, you seem very distant.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but I can’t manage anything else. I’ve gone totally blank.

God, I don’t know who I’m kidding. This is a ridiculous plan, and it’s never going to work.

I hear the doorbell chime, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to grin. Instead, I sniff and look down at my hands. I should probably say something. What the hell was she saying to me?

“I just want things to be normal,” I say, hoping it will pass.

Outside, I hear my mother’s voice. Even muffled through the walls, I can hear the commanding tone she’s using. I’ve been on the other side of that tone, so my heart bleeds for the poor little receptionist dealing with this.

Dr. Kirkpatrick’s eyes flick to the door, a frown creasing her mouth briefly before she looks back to me. “Perhaps it’s time for you to redefine normal, to come to the understanding of how things are now.”

“I just don’t know why they can’t be the same.”

“There are times when change is inevitable.”

“I don’t want to change!”

I sound like a whiny two-year-old, but I don’t care. Her eyes are on the door again, where my mom’s voice is escalating into something truly scene-worthy. The receptionist is firing back, but my mother is a force to be reckoned with.

I screw up my face in a worried frown. “Is everything okay out there?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

My mother shouts something that sounds an awful lot like “sue you,” and I tense my shoulders. “Are you sure you shouldn’t check?”

“Would it make you feel more comfortable?”

I swallow hard, hunching my shoulders. “Definitely.”

She slips outside, taking her little notepad with her. I am off the couch the instant I hear the door click shut. Her desk is small and sparse, highlighters and paper clips in the top drawer. Both file drawers are locked. Damn it.

I sigh, leaning back against the desk. A leather strap meets my eye. Her briefcase.

Through the door, I can hear Dr. Kirkpatrick working to soothe my mother. She probably won’t say anything about me being here. It breaches doctor-patient confidentiality, a fact that she’s probably discussing with my mother right this moment. With very little success I’d guess.

I open the heavy leather flap of her bag and flip through an assortment of invoices and educational articles. There are a few patient files with unfamiliar names, but nothing else. This can’t be another dead end. It just can’t be.

I go through it again, my fingers catching on a slim manila folder I hadn’t noticed before. No title.

I pull it out and glance through the papers. There are documents on meditation. Documents on study strategies. I scan one set of papers that’s been clipped together, and it’s—oh God. Oh God, that can’t be right.

But it is.

My knees threaten to give. I force them to hold by sheer force of will, my fingers pinching the clipped papers tightly.

The first page is a roster of the study group. The second is a list of chemical side effects. I see little red ticks and dots next to each of the names on the first sheet. Some sort of code. Or checklist.

I hear the door chime as I drop the folder back into her bag, holding on to those two papers. My blood is roaring behind my ears as I close the flap and shove the bag back beneath her desk. I fold the papers with shaking hands and shove them deep into my purse. I’m still fiddling my zipper closed when Dr. Kirkpatrick returns, shaking her head.

“I apologize for the interruption—Chloe, are you all right?”

Doubtful. My heart is probably beating three thousand times a minute and I’m breathing faster than a hummingbird. I say the only thing I can think of. “That was my mom, wasn’t it?”

It’s—oh God, it’s brilliant. I didn’t even think of it when I hatched this whole thing, but my mom showing up at an impromptu session? Yeah, that’s definitely a valid reason to panic.

Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back down, looking like she’s got it all figured out now. “Yes, it was. Something tells me you won’t be surprised that she’s here thanks to an alarming note left on her kitchen table.”

I look down and bite my bottom lip, hoping my total incapacitating panic will pass for shame.

“Chloe, is it possible that some small part of you wanted her to come here, to prove that you matter?”

The only thing my mother proved by showing up here is that she needs control like most of us need oxygen. But I don’t say that. I force a wounded look onto my face and glance up at her.

“Maybe,” I say, voice soft.

Dr. Kirkpatrick tilts her head and waits a beat. It stretches too long, long enough for me to think about how close I’m sitting to the woman who stole my memories. I think of the little red marks next to our names, and it’s all I can do not to bolt off the couch and run for the door.

“Chloe, it’s understandable to crave attention from your mother, to need that evidence of her love. But perhaps we should talk about more constructive ways to meet your needs?”

I nod along, and it’s easier than it should be considering who this high-handed crap is coming from today. But that’s fine. She can preach all she wants. If I’ve got what I think I do in my purse right now, I’m pretty sure the next time I hear her say anything, she’ll have her hand on a Bible and a judge to her right.