“And, shortly after all of that is when you began therapy for the first time?”
“What?”
“When you were seven? That’s when you started seeing a therapist, right?”
“What are you talking about?” Quinn said, a flush spreading up her neck. “I was in speech therapy. Not this kind of therapy. You must be confusing me with another patient.”
“Oh.” Dr. Jacoby looked flustered in a way Quinn had never seen before. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I thought . . . I’m sorry.”
“And were you trying to say that I was trying to kill myself when I was seven, when I kept swimming there?” Quinn said. “Because that’s crazy. Seven-year-olds don’t kill themselves. And I wasn’t trying last May, either. And I don’t see what any of this has to do with anything!”
“Quinn,” Dr. Jacoby said in an irritatingly soothing tone, “I can see that I’ve upset you. Do you want to look at why?”
Quinn stood up and started pacing again. “Because I’m not suicidal! I wasn’t back then, and I wasn’t last May. That’s the exact opposite of how I felt when I went for that midnight swim. I felt happy. I felt alive! And it had nothing to do with my grandmother. I’m not like her.”
Do you want to be like her? Do you want to end up like her and die in the ocean?
“If you had experienced suicidal tendencies, Quinn, there would be no shame in it. I was just trying to explore your thoughts about why you’d engaged in risky behaviors. Not saying that you were actually consciously trying to take your own life. And I’m sorry I was wrong about you being in therapy back then. I really do apologize.”
Quinn felt hot tears behind her eyes but refused to let them out.
She wasn’t suicidal like her grandmother. Wanting to die had nothing to do with her dreams about Meryl or why she’d taken that swim. If there was one emotion she’d felt that day it was love—she’d been bursting with it.
Start with what you know. This she knew.
ELLEN JACOBY
When her day of seeing patients was over, Ellen looked through her past session notes in Quinn’s file, even though she knew Quinn was right—she’d never mentioned being in therapy before. Ellen had read it in some gossipy article and had said it before she realized. She’d been trying to keep abreast of what was happening around her client, and had read about her being in therapy as a kid, and had stupidly forgotten that’s how she knew.
But now Quinn said she hadn’t been in therapy at all. Another lie the press was telling. Unbelievable how out of control the situation was, how people were crucifying the Cutler family. Although, Ellen was the first to admit that she didn’t completely trust what the Cutlers were saying, either. She’d seen their penchant for spin right from those first phone messages.
Reporters had been shameless in trying to talk to Ellen herself once they’d found out that she was Quinn’s therapist.
“Dr. Jacoby, in general, what kind of patients do you see? Extremely troubled cases?”
“You wrote an article in 2007 about childhood sexual trauma. Is that a specialty of yours?”
“Do you treat adolescents with personality disorders? Schizophrenia?”
She was disgusted by their attempts to put together a picture of Quinn with the flimsiest information. She’d come to feel incredibly protective of her client. And along with her anger toward the press, she couldn’t deny the anger she had toward Quinn’s parents for not doing their job and protecting Quinn themselves. How deep that abdication of responsibility went, Ellen wasn’t sure. She could only hope that the media’s worst theories weren’t true.
And weighing heavy on all of Ellen’s thoughts was that no matter what the truth was, Quinn couldn’t be isolated from what was being said forever.
QUINN
The next few days took years to pass.
Ben still hadn’t called back, and Quinn had begun to worry that something was really wrong. Her mother said that she’d talked to him, so she knew he wasn’t in the hospital or dead or something. All she could think was that he had decided he didn’t want to help her for some reason. Didn’t want to be in touch with her at all. But she couldn’t think of why.
It also left her with no idea how to see Marco.
Stuck basically alone in the house, with no one to talk to except for Haven and the baby, Quinn found it almost impossible to keep from dwelling on the things Dr. Jacoby had said, on her bad dreams, on Ben. She watched classes on her laptop like a ghost but heard nothing the teachers said. She ran tedious miles on the treadmill they’d installed in the TV room, did prenatal yoga from videos, and took long baths. Being in the water was the only time her skin didn’t feel like it belonged to someone else.
She paced up and down the stairs, trying and failing to fight the compulsion to peek outside. She made bets with herself: If the man in the big plaid coat is still there, Ben will call. If there’s more than one person in a wheelchair, I won’t have any dreams tonight.
Sometimes, when she was looking at the people outside, she’d think of those letters she’d read and then wonder what these different people wanted. Was it helping any of them to be here? Just because they thought they were closer to God? She hoped that maybe, in some small way, it did help. So something good could come out of all of this. That was possible, wasn’t it?
When Jesse showed up on Friday, she had to fight an even stronger urge to hug him than ever. Not only was it Jesse, it was actual human contact. And this time, he asked if they could go upstairs to her room. On the way up, Quinn kept wondering what he wanted, whether he wanted to be friends again, or more than friends, whether he had forgiven her.
No, a voice deep inside her said. He knows you now. He knows what you’re really like. He’ll never love you again.
“I did something kind of stupid,” he said when they got to her room. He took out a business-size envelope and a hundred dollar bill from his bag and put them on her desk.
“What the hell?” Quinn said. She fingered the bill.
“There was this woman in front of my building. She knew who I was, and she said she wanted to get this letter to you, and she was worried that you weren’t reading the ones that people left outside. So she paid me to bring it to you.”
“A hundred dollars?” Quinn held it up to the light, as if she’d even be able to tell if it were counterfeit.
“I know. Now I feel guilty for taking her money but also, like, worried the letter’s a bomb or something.”
Quinn put down the bill and picked up the envelope, a normal white envelope that had at most two sheets of paper in it. “That’d be one sneaky bomb.”
“Anthrax? Ricin?”
Quinn knew he was basically kidding, but still asked, “Why are you even thinking stuff like that? Why would someone want to kill me? They think I’m carrying the messiah.”
Jesse shrugged.
She set the envelope back on the desk and they stared at it some more. She wanted to keep talking about it so he wouldn’t leave. It was the first actual conversation they’d had since . . . since the night of Sadie’s party, probably.
“Are you going to read it?” he said. “Maybe I should just give it back, unopened.”
“I’m sure it’s just asking for a special prayer to heal her kid or something. Or maybe she’s a reporter asking for an interview.”
She picked it up again, ripped a messy tear across the flap, and pulled out a sheet of yellow lined paper. Unfolding it, she saw a full page of precise, attractive handwriting. She set it out so Jesse could read it, too.
Dear Miss Cutler,
My name is Nicole Anderson. We met briefly in the waiting room at the doctor’s office weeks ago, and I’ve been praying outside your house every day since the Herald article. I’m just writing to say that even when I saw you at the doctor’s, I knew there was something special about you. God told me that you were chosen. So if you haven’t been able to hear God tell you that because of all the other noise in our world (what a different world than in
the Blessed Virgin Mary’s time!) please know that I heard him for you. Do you know the story of Mary and the angel Gabriel? I’m not an angel, but I’d like to think I’m doing his work, if, as I said, you haven’t been able to hear God yourself. Or perhaps you have heard Him, but other, outside voices are louder, telling you that you’re wrong, or troubled, like happens to so many who are a special part of God’s plan.
The reason I know all this is because I was called by Him, too. I belong to a church in Michigan. The Church of the Next Shepherds. Our mission is to prepare the way for the new Messiah and protect him (or her) when he arrives. To be honest, I don’t think many of us assumed this would happen in our lifetimes. We thought we were simply part of the chain of protectors, paving the way. Until now, we’ve just done whatever we can to make the world a better place—community service, teaching, etc.
But the minute I recognized your picture in the paper, I knew the time had come. I’m still not sure what that means—what role I’m supposed to play. But I know that I want to help you, protect you, and make things easier for you. And, right now, I see my role as helping you hear God’s voice.
Listen deeply and you will hear the Truth.
With respect and love,
Nicole Anderson
“Whoa,” Jesse said. “Do you know who she is?”
Quinn only took a second to make the connection. The woman in the red coat and blue scarf. That was where Quinn recognized her from: the doctor’s office the day she’d had that first ultrasound. “Uh-huh,” she said. “She’s out there all the time.”
She skimmed the letter again. “. . . other, outside voices are louder, telling you that you’re wrong, or troubled . . .” Something jumped in her gut. The baby or nerves.
“I think I should give back the money,” he said. “I don’t feel right about it. And I don’t want to get in the middle of all this. I kind of took it without thinking. Do you want me to give her the letter back, too? Tell her you didn’t read it?”
“No,” Quinn said automatically. For some reason, she didn’t want him to take it. “That’s okay. I’ll just chuck it.” She folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and let it fall into the wastebasket.
“Okay,” he said. “So . . . I guess I’ll get going.”
“You don’t have to,” she said, unable to hide the plea in her voice.
She sensed him hesitating. “I’ve got a lot to do,” he said. “The deadline for the contest is tomorrow.”
“Really?” Quinn said. “How’s it going? Are you almost finished?” He’d gotten the idea to enter the screenplay contest last winter, had read piles of how-to books, and had spent hours with Quinn watching movie after movie, analyzing and taking notes, making her talk about what she liked and didn’t like and hashing out his ideas with her. If he won, he’d get a scholarship to an intensive summer film program. The fact that she hadn’t even known the deadline was tomorrow made Quinn’s throat ache.
“I’ll probably pull an all-nighter to finish,” he said. “I still feel like I don’t have a good grasp on a couple of the scenes. And Siobhan’s character is still pretty weak.”
“Did you have her keep the dog?”
“Yeah, but her motivation still isn’t clear.” He pursed his lips slightly in a way he always did when he was mulling over a problem. Quinn wanted to kiss them.
“I wish I could read it and help,” she said. “But, you know, since I don’t have email . . .”
He nodded. Silence billowed around them, swollen with everything that had happened and how they had gotten to this place.
Quinn followed him downstairs. When they reached the kitchen, Lydia was sitting at the table, alone, eating a pint of ice cream straight from the container. “Jesse!” she said, jumping up to hug him. “You’re here!”
“Hey, Lyddie,” he said. “I’m actually on my way home.”
“Can’t you stay for dinner? I haven’t seen you in forever and there are a million things I need to show you. Did you know I got a turtle? My therapist said it’d be good for me, so they had to let me. I have a therapist now, too.” She rolled her eyes.
“Sorry,” he said, opening the sliding door, “I have to go.”
“No.” She caught him by the arm, keeping him inside.
“Lyddie,” Quinn said. “He said he had to go. He’ll stay for dinner another night.”
“No!”
“Lydia.” Quinn glared at her.
She let go of Jesse and crossed her arms. “Just because he doesn’t want to see you doesn’t mean he can’t stay.”
“I really can’t tonight,” he said. “Some other time.”
Quinn followed him out into the chilly air. She said good-bye and wished him luck with the screenplay. “I’m sure it’s amazing,” she called out as he walked away.
Back in the kitchen, Lydia was gone, the pint of ice cream still on the table, unfinished. Quinn shoved the lid on and returned it to the freezer. Despite her father’s complaints, it was still a mess in here: dirty dishes on the counter, an open can of coffee and box of cereal sitting out, banana peels overflowing out of the compost container . . . She took a few minutes to load the dishwasher and put away the food before heading upstairs. Lydia was standing in the front hall.
“I need to do research,” she said, one hand resting on her hip. “I need to go online.” Lydia wasn’t streaming her classes; the lower school wasn’t set up for that. She had a tutor with her full time during the day.
“Doesn’t Annabelle do that stuff with you when she’s here?”
“I need to do it now.”
“Well, Mom’s doing her shift at the co-op. Dad’s here, but he’s in a videoconference. And you know he won’t let you, anyway.”
“Your computer is online.”
“Only the New Prospect site.”
“You must have the new password.”
“I don’t. Hassan just put it into my keychain. I don’t know what it is.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Can’t you just wait until Dad is out of his meeting? Or maybe I have a book on it in my room. What’s the topic?”
“The Gowanus Canal.” Lydia raised her eyebrows. “You have a book on the Gowanus Canal?”
“Well, no . . .”
“I’m going to ask Daddy.” She turned and began heading up the stairs.
“No,” Quinn said. “Don’t bother him. He said it’s something important. Wait till he’s done. Or just wait until tomorrow. Does it really matter?”
Lydia stopped and turned back to face her. “I hate this!” she said. “And I hate you. It’s all your fault!”
“What is?” Quinn said stupidly.
“Everything! My life is ruined and Daddy’s going to drop out of the election, and it’s all your fault!”
“He’s not going to drop out.”
“They don’t even want him to be the guy anymore!” Lydia said. “They’re getting that woman who came in second to take over.”
“No, they aren’t,” Quinn said, beginning to feel queasy.
“It’s true. All because of you!”
“Lyddie—”
“And . . . and . . .” Lydia’s face was pink, and she was so worked up she could hardly talk. “We don’t ever see Ben or Jesse anymore. I’m not even allowed to have friends over. Because of you! And you can’t even change the stupid cat litter even though she’s your cat! And it’s not fair!”
“This has nothing to do with not seeing Ben. He’s traveling for work. And I’m sorry about the cat litter. You’re not supposed to clean it when you’re pregnant.”
“Yes, it does have to do with not seeing Ben. It does! You don’t know anything! You don’t even know how you got pregnant. I hate you, and I wish you weren’t my sister!”
She kicked the wall, leaving a black scuffmark on the pale yellow wallpaper, then ran up the stairs.
“Wait,” Quinn said, hurrying after her. “Lydia!”
On the floor above them, their
father’s office door opened. He came out and shut it quickly behind him. “Girls,” he said in a low, angry voice. “I’m trying to have a meeting.”
“Isn’t it true that they don’t want you to run anymore?” Lydia said. “Tell her.”
“You’re not dropping out, are you?” Quinn asked.
He didn’t respond, seemed at a loss for words. He was never at a loss for words.
“You are?” she said.
“Nothing is decided yet,” he said finally.
“But they want you to!” Lydia shouted.
“Lydia,” he snapped. “Don’t raise your voice at me. I was going to say that not everyone thinks I should step aside. Some people do. We can talk about it later. Now, can I leave you two alone and go back to what I was doing?”
Quinn bit her lip. “Yes,” she said. “Sorry we bothered you.”
Lydia stuck her tongue out at Quinn and brushed past Gabe, stomping up the stairs to the top floor.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Gabe said to Quinn, a look in his eye that told her it wasn’t going to be anything she wanted to hear.
Quinn was trembling a little after the confrontation. She shouldn’t have been surprised about the election stuff, but she was. “Not everyone thinks” probably meant that most people did.
Didn’t everyone know that the people outside had nothing to do with her father? And that they’d be long gone by the time he took office? It had no bearing on anything important. He’d clearly made a statement that the family didn’t think the pregnancy was miraculous, so people couldn’t think they were all nuts. Nothing had changed who he was or whether he’d be a good congressman.
He’d said nothing was decided yet. She knew her father; he was a fighter. There was no way he’d give up now.
But even as she told herself that, she couldn’t get rid of the chill that had settled deep in her bones or the conviction that her father must hate her as much as Lydia did.
Upstairs in her room, she pulled out those shoeboxes of childhood stuff from under her bed and began sorting through it all. She held one of the rocks. A plain, gray, unexceptional rock from Holmes Cove. When they’d first moved, she’d made a tide pool with them right here in her room, along with a bunch of sand and seawater brought back from Southaven in a juice bottle. It wasn’t enough water, though, so she’d added some from the tap, and then put the periwinkles and hermit crab and seaweed that she’d brought in jam jars. She went to school and left the bedroom door shut to keep Haven from eating the crab. When she came back, the water had leaked out between the rocks and all over the room. Her father had been so angry.
The Inconceivable Life of Quinn Page 20