Paying the Price

by Maria Quick

  Paying the Price

  By Maria Quick

  While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  PAYING THE PRICE

  First edition. June 9, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Maria Quick.

  ISBN: 978-1393192886

  Written by Maria Quick.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Also By Maria Quick

  1

  I watched my father button his black overcoat, before he gave me a solemn look. The day was suitably overcast, matching both our moods. It was 8.45am on a Monday, and neither of us wanted to do this.

  ‘You ready?’ he asked, even though we both knew it wasn’t optional.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I faux-grinned. He grimaced, picking up his car keys and heading outside. George and I followed in procession. A couple blocks away, we could hear the knell of a church bell. I shuddered involuntarily. Seemed to be an omen. Dad, as usual, was oblivious.

  Nobody spoke in the car. Our destination was only five minutes’ drive away, and there was nothing to say. I’d barely spoken to them this past weekend. Dad had been avoiding me because he was a coward and thought I’d fight him. George? He didn’t even know what to say. This event had come completely out of the blue, and I’d only had time to mourn-

  Okay, okay, I’ll stop. It’s not a funeral, though it might as well be George’s. I was going to see a therapist.

  What? That not gloomy enough for you? Well, then allow me to elucidate. I see ghosts. Lucies, I call them. I’ve seen them for as long as I can remember. They tend to have unfinished business here that they need a living person to deal with, so I help them out. So far, so good, right? Wrong. There’s been collateral damage along the way, none of which has been solely my fault. I have never pulled a trigger on anyone. I have never pulled a pin out of a grenade, or stabbed somebody or-

  You get the picture.

  There is only one death related to me that I regret, and I will admit to sharing guilt for. Tommy Perez. He was my only friend, and he asked me not to do something. I did it anyway, and he died. So did a few others. I... have to live with that. The other deaths? Not my fault. They would’ve happened if I hadn’t been there, I was sure of it. Still, I was the only one who saw it that way. Everyone else chose to blame me, the mental patient. Regardless of the fact that all I’ve ever done is help the dead find peace. But nobody wants to look at that, do they?

  No, they do not.

  This was not the first time that I was going to see a therapist. I’ve been seventeen times over the years, each more samey than the last. You’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all. Daddy disagrees. He’s sure there’s one out there who will get through to me and stop me lying, as he calls it. Yeah. A decade of my life spent almost getting killed, and he still thinks I’m making it up. I am a logical thinker, I’m telling you. I only believe in cold hard facts, and if it can’t be proven, it’s probably not true. I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell. I don’t think aliens have invaded Earth, and my tin foil is kept firmly in the kitchen, away from my head. Point being, I’m not an idiot who believes in things she doesn’t see. I am reasonably intelligent and no good has ever come of this for me.

  So, why would I have spent the majority of my life lying about this?

  Answer: I wouldn’t. Ergo, I must be telling the truth, right?

  Yeah, no. The only people who believe me are dead. Dead-dead, like Tommy, or lucy-dead, like George. Neither are a great help or comfort to me.

  Look, I don’t want much in life. I’m pretty rich, so I already have everything material anyway. The only thing I have ever wanted is for someone to say those three little words that mean so much.

  No, not that.

  I believe you.

  The only person who’s ever said that is Tommy, and well... see above.

  ‘She’ll see you for an hour, maybe longer if needed. Call me when you’re done,’ said the closest family I had. Blood is not thicker than crazy, it seems.

  ‘Dad, this isn’t going to-’

  ‘Call me when you’re done,’ he repeated tonelessly.

  Alright. I decided to keep to the cool atmosphere and didn’t bother saying goodbye as I got out the car. George wordlessly followed.

  ‘Brianna,’ my father blurted out, just as I was about to slam the car door. My hand itched, but the angel on my shoulder stopped it from closing all the way.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m only doing this to help you.’

  ‘No, Dad. You’re doing this to help you.’

  Because why talk to your child like a human being, when you can ship her off to a shrink so she can pop pills and become a different person?

  That is all this boils down to, really. He doesn’t like who I am. He doesn’t care about the deaths I’ve been blamed for, or the crimes I’ve committed. He just doesn’t want me as his daughter. You see, everything’s been so easy for him. He was a quarterback in high school, and he dated the head cheerleader, my mom. They were pretty and popular, and so were their friends. And they were rich, thanks to old money. So, they had everything already. And then they married, and my dad got a job coaching the biggest college football team in the States. And they had a baby, and everything was still fine and-

  No, wait. That’s where it all went wrong, wasn’t it? Because I was born, and my mom couldn’t hack it and she deserted us. My dad said postnatal depression, which I’ve always totally accepted, but now I’m not so sure. Because I don’t think my dad has ever liked me. Loved me, yeah, cos he had to. But I don’t think he likes me. I think he blames me in a way for my mom’s desertion. But if she really had PND, he wouldn’t blame me because he’d know it was nobody’s fault. So, she must’ve left purely because she didn’t like me, either.

  ‘Brianna? That’s not true,’ he tried to say.

  ‘I’ll call you when I leave, Dad,’ I replied, closing the door again.

  ‘Brianna, this is only for you! You’ll see-’

  ‘I’ll call you when I leave.’

  Finally, my shoulder devil took over and shut the door on his anguished cries. I marched into the lobby and George quickly trotted after me, trying to keep pace.

  ‘Was that really necessary? He’s right, in his own way-’

  ‘George, you are non-living proof that he is not right,’ I hissed back, but there was no need. The lobby was empty.

  ‘I know, but-’

  ‘No buts. He has never entertained the possibility that I am both sane and telling the truth, because that doesn’t fit with his narrative. I can see it now. He doesn’t want to believe me because his perfect life will be in tatters. So, now I’m forced to take pills against my own will just so he can save face. That’s all this is.’

  George pursed his lips, obviously concerned, but I knew I was right. The only thing I did yesterday was think. Well, after trying to plead m
y case yet again, and pointing out yet again that I knew things I shouldn’t, anyway. Because, yet again, he refused to listen. My own father closed off his ears to his only daughter, opting instead to dose me up. And I was wondering to myself, why? Why would he choose to do that? And I realized that the only answer is that it’s the easier option. He is forcing me to do this so he can have an easy life.

  That’s all he’s ever known, after all. Everything’s been handed to him on a platter. Same with my mom, I guess. And then, suddenly, I come into the world and neither of them know what to do with me. I’m supposed to be popular and smart like them, and have an equally easy ride through life. Instead, I see things that others don’t, and I have issues. I am wrong.

  And they can’t deal with that.

  Mom got out ASAP. Since I never really knew her except from being her lodger, I can’t hate her for that. I can’t do anything for her; I’m indifferent, actually. Dad didn’t leave. He stayed, with the implication being that’d he’d be there for me. And he would raise me, and love me and protect me, because that should’ve been his only job. Instead, he focused super hard on his team and his guys, leaving me to wreak havoc with this thing; that I still don’t know what it is or why I have it. Sure, I get it: he doesn’t understand, but neither do I. And he never wanted to try, so here I am.

  Again.

  Ready to bare my heart and soul to somebody I barely know, so she can get paid and my dad can pretend I’m just sick. I already know this isn’t going to work, because it requires me to tell the truth. And we all know how well that goes. But there’s no point telling my dad that, is there? He thinks therapy is the only possible cure for me. Because as the saying goes, if it doesn’t work the first time, try seventeen more times.

  ‘Anna, it’s good to see you again.’

  Tess came out of her room and smiled, ignoring the fact that I wasn’t returning it. I was unsurprised to see that she was exactly as I’d remembered her.

  ‘Ann.’

  ‘Ann,’ she repeated carefully, like she wasn’t sure if it’d summon a demon or not. She waited politely. I stared at her.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ she said, after it was clear that I wasn’t going to start small talk.

  Hmmm. I didn’t feel like wearing my bright clothes today so I was wearing some old sweats and a worn out tee. Plus, I hadn’t slept at all last night and I rarely wear makeup. But sure, I look “well.” Guess I’m not the only liar, huh?

  ‘Shall we?’ she coughed, gesturing into her room.

  Not like I had a choice. I followed the woman who hadn’t changed into the room that hadn’t changed, where I was somehow expected to change myself.

  Eighteenth time lucky? Not a chance.

  2

  She sat at her desk, I sat opposite and George hovered around the room that was so indescribably bland it really wasn’t worth describing. It had paintings, it had plants; it did nothing whatsoever to inspire anything other than depression. Tess had been in this room so long, it had affected her, too. She couldn’t give anything more than a small smile or grimace to show emotion. Trust me, she grimaced a lot with me.

  Tess looked more like a Mary or a Jane. Sensible shoes, neat slacks, pastel sweater. Dull, dull, dull. All that was missing was a pair of eyeglasses and she’d have the cat-lady spinster look down pat.

  ‘How’ve you been these past few months, Ann?’

  Absolutely fine and dandy, obviously. That’s why I’m living life to the full and enjoying each day as it comes.

  I mean, really? Did I not mention that she did this? She asks completely stupid, innocuous questions which mean nothing and are a waste of everybody’s time.

  ‘How do you think?’ I replied, gesturing to my attire and the room itself. She grimaced slightly. Ah, first one of the day. Off to a good start.

  ‘Ann!’ George hissed. Oh, he didn’t like that? He was in for a rough ride.

  ‘Are you still seeing...’ she trailed off, clearly unable to speak the word that mustn’t be spoken.

  ‘Ghosts? Yeah, I am. It didn’t suddenly stop, and you know this, because this is why I’m here. Can we just cut to the chase so we can both get on with our day?’

  Grimace number two, come on down. Or maybe it was the same one. Hard to tell.

  ‘I’m not a drug dealer, Ann. Medicine is always a last resort for me. I don’t want to give you-’

  ‘So, don’t,’ I suggested. I hadn’t realized there was a gun to her head.

  ‘I’ve tried my hardest to help you via other methods, but you don’t seem to be responding. I’d like to try you on these, say for a month or two. After that, we can see how you feel.’

  She unlocked a drawer and handed me the bottle, my name already emblazoned onto it. Didn’t I feel special? I took one look at the name and shoved it back across the desk.

  ‘That’s for schizophrenia,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  And that was one reason why I’d stopped coming here altogether. You see, everything can be explained to her. Everything is all tied up in a neat, boring bow. The second she heard that I saw things others didn’t, she’d pounced on schizophrenia and hadn’t let go. I was schizophrenic: that was it.

  Admittedly, if I was to play devil’s advocate to myself, I can sort of see why. I do have some of the symptoms. I see things others don’t. I hear voices, sort of, and I use words that only make sense to me (lucies... okay, that was the only one). I’m also fairly negative and critical, but that’s for a different reason.

  I am not schizophrenic.

  ‘I still firmly believe-’

  ‘I’m not schizophrenic.’

  ‘There’s no shame-’

  ‘I know there isn’t, but I’m not schizophrenic.’

  ‘Those with schizophrenia-’

  ‘Don’t know they have it, I know,’ I yelled. I tried to calm myself. Violent outbursts was another symptom. She’d only use that against me.

  And before you ask, no. I don’t mean that in a “she’s out to get me” way.

  ‘You’re shouting, Ann. Why is that?’

  She cocked her head to one side, putting her listening face on. Only the face, you see, not the ears.

  ‘Because you’re failing to see the actual issue here,’ I said, focusing really hard on not raising my voice a single decibel.

  ‘And what is the issue?’

  ‘The issue is that there is no issue. I don’t need professional help. I’ve never asked for it. There is nothing wrong with me. I just have a quirk, that’s all.’

  She looked at me without saying a word, which always made me nervous for some reason and start to talk over myself. I suspect she did it so she’d have a reason to prove that I was schizo.

  And no, that also doesn’t count as her being out to get me.

  I tried to explain my earlier conclusion of my dad. Let’s see how well that turns out, shall we?

  ‘Look, my father thinks I’m crazy which is why he keeps sending me to you. He wants me to “get better” so I can be normal. Or, failing that, just to keep me out the way so he can go back to his old, easy life. I’m not the daughter he wanted, you see. I should be like him, but I’m weird and speak to the dead. He doesn’t like that.’

  Her eyes hardened slightly. Crap, what had I said?

  ‘You believe your father wants you out of the way?’

  Great.

  ‘No, that’s not what I said at all. You think that I’m- you’re twisting my words,’ I sighed, urging my beating heart to be still.

  ‘You kinda did say that, a little bit,’ George inputted.

  ‘Shut up,’ I couldn’t stop myself from hissing at him. Or the bookshelf, as Tess saw it. Doubly great. I’d be in a padded cell in no time.

  ‘Ann, do you feel unsafe at home?’

  ‘No, just perennially annoyed.’

  ‘Because if you do,’ she went on as if I hadn’t even spoken, ‘there are places you can go.’

  ‘An asylum? Yeah, got it.’

  S
he gave me one of her famous small smiles.

  ‘They don’t exist any longer. We have clinics now, and rest homes for long stays. Kids your own age will be there.’

  ‘Are you supposed to be selling this idea or putting me off?’

  Small smile number two. Okay, we’ve had two of each today. Since they cancel each other out, this means this session has been totally neutral. An improvement, if you will.

  Nope, not having that.

  ‘It’s an option, if you would like to explore that at any time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. Am I free to go now?’

  ‘You’re always free to go, Ann.’

  ‘Technically, maybe,’ I muttered.

  ‘Do you believe I’m keeping you here against your will?’ she asked, again latching onto the schizo idea like a lamprey.

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. I am not crazy,’ I repeated. And the more you repeat something like that, kinda has the opposite effect.

  ‘I know you’re not crazy, Ann.’

  Well, that sounds too good to be true.

  ‘You’re ill,’ she went on, not-so-subtly pushing the pills back to me. I was kinda fighting a losing battle here. I could argue all I want, but I was leaving with these pills in my pocket and my stomach.

  I gave in.

  ‘Fine,’ I said shortly.

  ‘I need to confirm a few things with you first, before you leave. Are you diabetic?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any history of diabetes in your family?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘How about heart disease? High cholesterol? Any history of mental illness?’

  ‘Only my mom, I think,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Your mom had high cholesterol or heart disease?’

  ‘Neither, she had PND.’

  ‘PND?’

  ‘Postnatal depression-’

  ‘I know what PND means,’ she interrupted, frowning. ‘I’m just a bit confused, is all. I’ve known your father for quite a while and he’s never mentioned that.’

  ‘That’s why she left,’ I explained, cueing more confusion. She stared at me, long and hard. I wondered if I’d grown an extra head. Either that, or she was broken.