“I think you truly don’t,” Lucy says, examining me. “You really are crazy. Your father killed my mother protecting you, you fucking cunt. Your pussy wasn’t worth it.”
“Oh my god,” I murmur, and the world caves in, and my memories flood me, weighing me down. I rock back and forth and fight to stay conscious.
I feel like I’m swimming through memories, and the water is murky and thick.
“Lucy,” I try to say, but she laughs again.
“Don’t even try. I’m not helping you.”
The craziness whirls and twirls, and I can’t focus anymore. I...I...I can’t.
I drop to the ground, and my legs won’t hold me. My hand is outstretched, and I can’t move it. My fingers feel like splinters of wood. My body feels like concrete. Then something cold is sliced across my wrist. It doesn’t hurt. I just feel the warmth pouring over my hand.
The blood.
I can’t feel.
I can’t feel.
I can’t feel.
“Lucy?” I think I say.
Nothing.
I hear Artie yelp sharply, then there’s silence.
Nothing.
My fingers are sticky and it’s my blood.
I feel cold, and I know I’m dying.
I’m dying.
This is what it’s like to die.
I fight onto my elbows and muster up every ounce of strength I have. I don’t know how I do it, but I pull myself over the bathroom threshold and into the bedroom. I feel for the phone on the nightstand, and the lamp falls on top of me.
But my fingers...they close around the phone. I dial 911.
I drop the phone.
I...
I...
I don’t know anything anymore.
Time doesn’t exist.
I wait and time runs into itself.
I’m on the floor.
I’m in the sky.
I’m floating.
Floating.
My hands and feet turn cold and faint, and my vision starts to fade. I think someone touches me.
Voices.
Sounds.
I babble something.
Does my tongue work?
It’s so black.
Black.
Black as night.
Brock is a shape beside me, with spots of light swirling around his head. I can’t see his face. I think he’s touching me, but I don’t know where. It’s like I’m behind a veil of fog and the only thing keeping me grounded is the pain.
“It’s a hemorrhage,” he tells someone. I don’t care who. Not anymore. I close my eyes because the lights are too much to bear.
The pain carries me on a wave. It goes higher, higher, higher...then crashes down, and I can’t take it. I can’t take it.
“Jude, I love you,” I say out loud. I think I say it out loud. But it’s not Jude’s voice that answers. It’s Brock.
“I’ll tell him, Corinne. He’s right outside.”
My belly rips apart from pain, and I cry out, and I’m moving, and my eyes are closed, squeezed tight.
That’s all I know.
45
Corrine
When I open my eyes, it’s bright, blindingly bright.
The pain is gone.
I look around the room.
Jude is sitting next to my hospital bed, and there is an IV in my arm.
“What...”
I’m confused because I’m not usually in hospital beds. I’m usually standing over them. I can’t remember.
I can’t remember anything.
I finger the gauze circling my wrist, concealing stitches. How did it get there?
“What happened?” I ask, and my voice is scratchy. “Why am I here?”
Jude’s face is grim. There is pain in his eyes, true deep pain, and I’m puzzled. I’ve never felt so disoriented. I was in my house, and now I’m not.
Now I’m here, and my husband is hesitant to tell me why.
“Jude?”
“You...” He clears his throat. “You tried to kill yourself, Co.”
My heart pounds, and I stare at my wrist, then at him.
“No,” I argue. “I didn’t.” I shake my head, but he’s so very grim, and I’m dizzy still.
“You did,” he says limply. “I got there just as the ambulance did, and you were in a pool of blood. Corinne, God. Why?”
He drops his head into his hands, and I’m stunned.
“I don’t... I don’t remember,” I say, and my words are wooden, and my heart is still. “I don’t think I would ever do that.”
But there are holes in my brain. More holes. Just like from that night so long ago, and I can’t remember what happened. I can’t remember then, and I can’t remember now. I’m so damaged, so very damaged.
“Oh my God,” I moan, and I feel sick. “I’m so broken, Jude. I’m so sorry.”
Jude swallows, and he’s got a shadow of stubble on his jaw, and his eyes are red and tired.
“If you didn’t want to have the baby, you could’ve told me. You didn’t have to...” He closes his eyes. “You didn’t have to attempt an abortion yourself. At home.”
My eyes fly back open. “Attempt an abortion? Jude, what are you saying?”
He sighs, and he grasps my hand, and I don’t know why he even wants to touch me. Not if what he’s saying is true.
“You took the abortion pill, Corinne. They found it in your bloodstream. You took it all at once.”
He keeps his eyes closed, and I try to breathe.
“No. I wouldn’t.” I shake my head, and Jude nods.
“You did.”
I’m stunned. I’m speechless. I don’t even... I can’t... I can’t form a cohesive thought.
I...
I...
“I wouldn’t,” I say again. “Jude, that doesn’t make sense. Why would I give myself an abortion and then try to kill myself? Why wouldn’t I just kill myself and save a step?”
The words are harsh and painful, but they are logical. Why in the world would I do that?
Jude shakes his head. “You weren’t thinking clearly,” he says, and he’s so sad. He looks so forlorn and alone, and where is Michel? Surely he didn’t leave Jude here to deal with this alone. “There’s more,” he adds.
I’m still, utterly frozen. “How can there be more?”
I’m afraid to ask, afraid to know.
“You...you hurt Artie. Could have killed her.”
The room spins.
“I...” I can’t even speak. I can’t.
I would never.
Jude stares out the window. “Michel is at our house right now. Cleaning. It’s...it’s a mess there, Co.”
Oh my God.
“That isn’t me!” I know myself, don’t I? Don’t I? “I wouldn’t.”
“You had a mental break of some sort,” my husband tells me, and his voice is clinical now. “It was likely a result of this time of year and your hormones combined. They were a trigger and you...”
“And I hurt our dog, gave myself an abortion, then tried to kill myself.”
Jude nods.
I can’t even think.
Everything comes in fragments, and I try to remember what I did, and I can’t. It’s all a blur.
“I was in the bedroom,” I tell him. “I remember that. I was sleeping with Artie. And then...something happened.”
I strain hard, trying to think...but it’s just gone.
“It’s not there,” I tell him. “It’s like it was just extracted from my head. I can’t...” But then something something something is there. A shadow. A figure. Standing over me. Shoes, maybe.
“I wasn’t alone,” I blurt out, and Jude lifts an eyebrow.
�
�Then who was there?”
I focus and focus and think and think, and I can’t remember.
“It’s a fog,” I tell him. “It’s maddening. I can’t remember. I just know someone was.”
He sighs, and I know he doesn’t believe me.
“Corinne, you tried to kill yourself. We need to put you into a treatment program to figure this out. We have to figure out why you’d do it.”
I’m silent, and Jude stares at me.
“Will you? Will you go?”
I...I...
“If you want me to,” I finally say. None of this feels right. None of this feels like me. I’m crazy like my father. I’m crazy like my father.
“I do,” he says simply. “Thank you, Corinne.”
I close my eyes to block it out, but something occurs to me, and my eyes fly open.
“Wait!” I say suddenly. “The baby. You said I attempted an abortion. What about the baby?”
Something moves in Jude’s eyes, something in the depths, and he takes a deep breath.
“It survived. You’re still pregnant, Corinne. It’s a miracle.”
46
Corinne
“Where is he, Michel?” I ask my brother-in-law.
Michel turns to me, and in that moment, in the light from the window, he looks so much like my husband that he takes my breath away.
“He’ll be here, Corinne. He just went home to change his clothes and shower. How are you feeling?”
He sits in the chair next to the bed, grasping my hand in his. The machines beep around us, and he’s so very concerned.
I shrug. “I’ll be better when Jude gets here.”
“He’s coming,” Michel says, and there’s something wrong. I see it on his face. He’s unsettled, disturbed. Restless.
“What is it?”
But he shakes his head, protecting his brother the way they always do. “Nothing at all. I’m just worried about you.”
I let it go, and my fingers rest on my belly, hovering beneath my navel. There is life there, however faint.
“It’s all going to be okay,” Michel tells me, reading my face. “Everything.”
“I hope so.”
“Trust me.”
He holds my hand and I close my eyes, because I’m exhausted. But I can’t...I won’t...sleep until my husband gets here, until it’s all been worked out.
A bit later, Lucy pokes her head into my room. Her hair isn’t pulled into a ponytail today—it’s hanging down, and she seems different to me, somehow.
“How are you feeling?” she asks softly, slipping into the chair next to me. Her hand pats mine, and it scrapes my IV tube.
“You need to do your nails,” I point out.
She smiles. “Yeah. I guess I got distracted. You know, with worrying about you and all.” She pauses. “They say you don’t remember anything.”
I stare at her. Her eyes. They seem so...something. Sad?
I look away. “It’s embarrassing. I...wouldn’t do this.” I glance at my wrist, at the bandage. Lucy does, too. She’s uncomfortable, and she won’t meet my gaze now.
“It’s okay,” she tells me, her voice hollow. “Sometimes we all do things we regret. You’re going to be okay.”
She’s so sad, and I feel awful for making everyone worry. I close my eyes.
“Just sleep, Corinne,” she tells me. “I’ll check on you later.”
The next time I open my eyes, the room is dark, immersed in shadows. It takes a minute to acclimate to the dark, and then I see him.
Jude.
Sitting next to me where Michel had been.
“Hi,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else through my sleep-addled brain. My voice seems loud in this quiet room. Jude’s eyes pop open, relief in them.
“Hey,” he answers. “God, you scared me, Co.”
“The baby is okay,” I tell him. “For now.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he answers. “I thought I’d lost you.”
His shoulders slump, and I don’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, Jude.” My words aren’t enough. I know that.
“I should’ve seen that you were in distress, and all I did was ride you about coming home early every night. God, I’m sorry.” Even in the dark, I can see the angst in his hazel eyes, and his hand grasps mine more tightly. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“Already done,” I tell him, and my heart is warm and full. I thought we were done, and now we’re not, and it’s like the end of a happy chapter in a book. I didn’t lose the baby. Jude and I are fine.
“Brock saved you,” he tells me. “He saved you, Corinne. He did an emergency aspiration for the hemorrhage. You’ve got to be on bed rest for now, so you’ll have to slow down, but the baby is fine. You’re fine, too.”
He’s so happy, so genuine and warm, so full of wonder, and all I want to do is sleep curled up with him.
“Get in bed with me,” I tell him. He’s surprised for a second, but then he does as I ask, folding himself into the hospital bed with me, holding me from behind, his forehead pressed to my back.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you,” he answers. “Rest now. I’m here.”
Tears run down my cheeks, and I’m not sad. Everything is going to be fine. Michel was right.
I close my eyes and let the darkness overtake me because the exhaustion is immense.
Buzzing from the machines wakes me later, when the morning light penetrates my eyelids. I don’t open my eyes, and I realize that the buzzing is Jude’s phone.
There’s a rustle as he gets to his feet, and I hear his voice hiss, hiss, hissing as he closes the door behind him.
It sounds like he says, “Don’t call me,” but that can’t be right. He’s rarely rude to anyone. I focus on waking up, and when Jude comes back in, my eyes are open.
“You’re awake.” His relief is evident on his face, and I try to smile.
His smile is warm and reassuring, and it’s mine. It’s always been mine... Our priorities were just skewed.
“You’re still here,” I say weakly, and he squeezes my hand.
“Of course. I haven’t left.”
I’m happy about that, until I remember the dog.
“Artie...” I say, and I try to remember what happened with the dog. I remember hearing her yelp, and I try to focus on that, to remember what I did to hurt her, but I can’t. “What did I do to Artie?”
Jude is still. “There’s no reason to dwell on this, Corinne.”
“I have to know,” I insist. “I have to, Jude. I want to remember.”
“You... It seems...that you struck her in the head with something.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t remember... I couldn’t have, Jude. I wouldn’t have...”
“We’ll get through this, Co,” he assures me, even though I injured our dog. “We’ll get you some help, and you’re going to be okay.”
The IV in my hand stings.
“God, poor Artie. She must’ve been so afraid. She trusted me, and...”
“Corinne, don’t. She’s okay now. And I’m here, and I’m not leaving, and everything is okay.”
I want to ask him why that little muscle in his jaw is ticking, the one that ticks only when he’s upset. But I know why.
I’m some sort of monster.
47
Now
Corinne
Reflections Mental Facility
“Joe Gibson raped you,” Dr. Phillips repeats. I nod, and the movement is painful.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Did your father save you?”
I focus focus focus.
“No,” I say, surprised as I remember. “He didn’t. My father told the police that he killed Joe Gibson
. But he didn’t.”
I did.
I stare at my hands, the hands that have saved so many lives in the ER, but they are hands that took a man’s life.
“What happened?”
“I... There was a heavy crystal owl on the nightstand next to the lamp. I didn’t even think... I was just trying to get away. I grabbed it and bashed it into the back of his head. He collapsed on top of me, and he was dead. I couldn’t get out from under him. He was too heavy.”
The shock, the memories, the horror...it all encompasses me like a blanket made from stone. I can’t lift my shoulders, I can’t breathe.
“Take a deep breath,” the doctor instructs me. “In, then out. Fill your lungs, then push it all out.”
I do that a few times.
“Better?”
I nod.
“What happened next?”
“My father burst into the room. With Melanie. I don’t know why they came to the house. I don’t know. But they came in just as I was shoving Joe off. He rolled onto the bed, and his eyes were wide-open.”
I squint my eyes, trying to see the past, trying to see through the murkiness of my brain. My heart pounds pounds pounds, and the adrenaline pulses, and my feet want to run run run.
Melanie’s screams...they’re in my head, just like it was yesterday, and I can’t un-hear them. So shrill, so anguished.
“Melanie...she came flying at me. She didn’t understand. She was hysterical. She was scratching at me. Her thumbnail scratched my hand.”
I finger my hand where it was cut that night.
“So that’s how you got the cut on your hand?”
I nod. “Yeah. She tried to come at me, and she was hysterical. My father grabbed her...”
“Yes?”
“He shoved her away from me, and her head hit the corner of the dresser. It was sharp. And...she...just... She died,” I say limply. “I think it was instantaneous. She just died.”
“How did your father react?”
“He was in shock. He...he dropped to his knees and gathered her into his arms, and he held her for a few minutes. He just stared at me, and I think... I think he hated me in that instant. I saw it in his eyes.”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” Dr. Phillips says, ever calm. “Surely he didn’t hate you. He was probably in shock.”
“I was, too,” I tell him. “I lost my virginity and killed a man in the same night. I was raped. And I killed someone.” I’m numb as I try to wrap my mind around that fact. “I wonder how much trouble I’ll be in.”
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