by Lana Sky
More realistic than what? My stomach churns, telling me I don’t want to know.
“Elaine’s not here to fall for your game, you do realize.”
Oh. I stop moving. He thinks I’m faking, staging another dramatic scene.
“At least you came running,” I point out. But my voice sounds funny. My tongue feels heavy, and fear conjures up a million potential reasons why.
I need to see a mirror. My limbs rush to propel me upright, but everything moves out of sync. I have to brace my hand flat against the floor. Flatter. Try to stand. Too fast. Sit down. Try again.
“Very convincing,” Thorny exclaims, clapping. “When you’re done, I’ll be in the study.”
He marches off, huffing and puffing. Good. That means I can crawl into the living room alone. Only the room elongates with every inch I gain, stretching. Transforming. It’s an endless hall that takes an eternity to pass.
The stairs are ten times taller than they should be. I try to climb the first one, but my hands miss. I’m on my knees again.
“Maryanne?” He sounds different now.
Something nudges my shoulder. At least I think…
I’m too tired. “I need to go upstairs,” I say—to my legs, not to him. Move. Get up. “I need to move.”
“Maryanne?” Warm fingers sink through my hair and come away dripping scarlet. “Shit.”
He looks worried now, Old Thorny. It transforms him once again into someone else—but I’ve met this man before. A long, long time ago when my entire world was upended.
He bundled me in his arms like he does now, holding me tight.
“It’ll be okay,” he told me then. “I’m here. Do you hear me? I’m here.”
And I believed him once…
Never twice.
We’re in the car. He’s driving too fast and talking too loudly. “Say something,” he commands. “Stay awake. Talk to me.”
Talk? It’s one thing I never learned how to do. Not in all of my therapy sessions or those brief meetings with my psychologist. I learned to color, paint, and channel my emotions into productive pursuits.
But converse?
Normal people could do that. I needed medication.
“Look at me.” Thorny takes one hand from the steering wheel and snaps his fingers—but the car starts to drift, forcing him to grab the wheel again. “Fuck.” He risks driving one-handed to flick the dials of the radio. Angry rock blares, but he doesn’t change the channel. “Stay awake!”
But maybe I don’t want to. This could all be a dream. I want it to be. A dreary, dizzying dream.
Because, otherwise, it hurts too much. Pain makes people make stupid mistakes. Like listen, sinking into the cadence of a voice hoarse with concern. A stupid person might believe it’s real this time…
“Maryanne! Open your eyes,” he snaps. “Do you hear me? You never can listen, can you? Fuck, why did you even want to come back? They gave you a choice. I know they did.”
They. My treatment team. And a choice they did give: stay there in fancy rehab until my birthday and interact with other damaged dolls my own age or be shipped away to a relative who never wanted me.
“You hate being here,” Thorny points out. “So why stay?”
My brain might be melting, dripping down my nose, but I know just what answers he’s come up with on his own. I wanted him to take me in, but why?
To ruin his marriage, of course.
To destroy his career.
To make him regret the day I was ever thrust into his life.
Or maybe it’s a lot simpler. And pathetic.
My laugh trickles out of me as my eyes drift shut. “I don’t hate you. All…all I wanted was you.”
“Look at me, Maryanne.”
My eyes snap open, but the world looks different. Too bright. Blinding. My eyelids flutter as Thorny stares down on me, haloed by white light. Am I dead?
No. Unless hell is a cacophony of voices.
“Can I get a heart rate?” someone demands.
“Send for an MRI and CT—but first, we need to stabilize her neck.”
Stabilize. The job of a hideous, orange object lowered over my torso. I shake my head, but someone grabs my shoulders, pinning me down to wrap that object around my throat.
“No!” I squirm, kicking, bucking. “Get off me!”
My neck. It’s around my neck. Tightening. Choking. Suffocating.
Tight like a blue necktie with orange swirls. The one me and Mama picked out for Father’s Day. He tied it to two more, but that was the one suspending him. Cutting off his windpipe.
The one that killed him.
“Get off me!” I don’t care who I grab with my nails or hit with my feet. I can’t let them choke me. I can’t.
“Maryanne!”
God, it’s his voice. Not again. So calm when all I want to do is scream. So gentle and deep—it’s all I can hear.
“Listen to me,” he commands. “I’ve got you. It’s all right. I’m here.”
The limb I’m attacking now grips me tight. A hand—his, holding me.
I know it’s a lie. I know.
But my traitorous ears ensure I take in every word.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe…”
Subdural hematoma is my new phrase for the day. That, along with other juicy terms. Like the lacerations beneath my left eye and my bottom lip. Mild concussion. Twenty stitches to hold my head together in total.
Oh, and observation. Twenty-four hours with my neck in a brace.
They drug me with something. Happy, calming medicine that makes it easier to sleep once the doctor is convinced I won’t die. There are no nightmares here. Just noise—beeping and chattering, constant noise.
As the drugs wear off, my thoughts reform from snippets and random realizations. I’m in a room now, I think, admitted overnight.
Oh, the memories. Lying here conjures a few—like the first time I woke up in a hospital like this, thrown into the locked psych ward.
You take too many of your mommy’s secret stash of Ambien and it’s a suicide attempt, or so they say. Then, two years later, you get a little too handsy with a knife and you’re automatically deemed “a danger to yourself and others.”
They all came that first time. Grandmama. Elaine. Even Lily, Caroline, and Marcia.
Everyone but Thorny. He was in New York, they told me. On a business trip. He’d be back.
But, even then, I knew the truth: he saw through my act. Good, old Thorny wouldn’t let himself be suckered in by my cry for help.
Not even when those cries turned into screams.
I could never fool him, no siree. Because everything I did was always in the context of craving attention. From him, only him.
I bet he called Elaine first thing. She must be the one softly snoring somewhere nearby. Poor little housewife. She had to tear herself away from her affair, all because of a silly Maryanne stunt.
But at least he’s gone again. I’m still high enough to comfort myself with the same old lie: it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’ll forget the words he said. How he said them. Maybe this time they won’t fucking mean anything. They won’t haunt me to the point that an army of sleeping medication is needed to block them out.
I’m here.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
You’re safe.
Lies.
Lies.
Lies.
My eyes sting as I peel them open and sneaky moisture trickles down my cheeks. At least the appearance of tears might make Elaine pity me enough to leave me alone, like a good pet rock.
I tilt my head just enough to look for her. Someone’s slumped in an armchair positioned near my bed. They’re snoring, but the gruff hum sounds way too masculine to belong to Elaine. Then I feel it: a hand in mine. Large and rough with age, callused by use. I’m holding it way too tight.
I pry my fingers loose one by one, but my visitor stirs the second I let h
im go.
“Are you awake?”
Am I? I try to pinch myself just to be sure, but my arms don’t budge. My body is an unresponsive blob resistant to any command I issue it. So I sigh.
He does too. “They wanted to keep you overnight,” he explains. Thorny. There are shadows hammered beneath his eyes, illuminated by faint, gray light sneaking in through the windows.
It’s late. Or early. I can’t tell. He’s still wearing the same clothes he was before, only now they’re decorated in crusty, red patches of dried blood.
It must be early then, the next day.
“Where’s Elaine?” I don’t like how fragile my voice sounds. The neck brace is a cage, making it hard to suck in enough air. I squirm, desperate to escape the pressure.
“They did all the scans and don’t think there’s any damage,” Thorny says without answering my question. “We can take the brace off—”
“Yes.” I finally remember how to make my body move. My hands claw at the sides of the brace, but steadier fingers than mine are needed to finally unlock it—and he actually helps me.
Freedom. I gulp a breath and release it slowly. Then I remember who’s watching and stop myself from clutching my throat with both hands. “I see my makeup skills fooled you all,” I quip.
His nostrils twitch. To fulfill his role, he should say something stern and scolding. How dare I joke at a time like this?
But he doesn’t. Silence is more irritating than his disdain in the end. My skin prickles, itching and hot.
“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.” He tries to make the statement scathing enough. I can tell. But perhaps he’s too damn tired. The words fall flat. One could almost mistake the hitch in his voice for concern. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Nothing. Like always.”
He draws back. Oh no. I said the wrong thing. The naughty, spiteful, manipulative thing.
I try to take it back. “I—”
“Good morning!” A cheerful nurse appears in the doorway. “You’re awake,” she exclaims. “I’ll get the doctor.”
A man in a white lab coat comes in minutes later and spews a bunch of medical jargon while Thorny listens intently. Subdural hematoma. Stitches. Blah-dy blah. All in all, I’ll be able to go home, but only if someone can monitor me overnight.
I don’t even look at Thorny. Of course he’ll refuse. She’ll be fine, he’ll say. I’ll come back tomorrow.
His gaze shouldn’t seek me out prior to that rejection. From this angle, his eyes are impossible to read. Like muddy pools of stagnant rain again, deceptively still.
I squirm, uneasy, as he rubs his chin and thinks.
“What do you want?” he asks finally.
My fingers are in my hair, rebelliously twisting my curls into knots. What do I want? It’s a test, but I know the right words to say. “You can leave.”
Frowning, he turns to the doctor. “I’ll take her home.”
“Excellent. I’ll go over her aftercare, then.”
True shock sets in as the doctor recites the warning signs Thorny should look for: dizziness, slurred speech, confusion, memory loss. I shouldn’t need surgery, but just in case…
Thorny nods through his spiel. Even I’m convinced. For a second. Maybe. Then he turns to face me a second time and I can see it. That stern, serious look in his eye. How his mouth turns down into that firm Thorny frown.
On second thought, I changed my mind, he’ll say.
“Maryanne,” he says, deploying my name.
I shiver; it’s the most devious of weapons in his arsenal.
“Do you want to come home or stay here?”
No fair. He makes it sound like a genuine question and not a trap. There’s a catch, of course, waiting to be sprung the moment I fall for it. I’ll let you come home…but you’ll live in the garage.
“Do you?” he repeats.
“Yes…”
“Okay, then.” He nods, taking my confession at face value. “Get dressed.” He gestures to a plastic bag containing my bloody shirt and my jeans. “I’ll have them draw up the paperwork.”
My discharge takes hours to process. In the meantime, they run more tests, if only to be extra sure that I won’t spontaneously combust. Only then am I free to go. A nurse escorts me into Thorny’s car while he clambers into the driver’s seat.
The door closes behind me. He starts the engine.
We start moving…
“Why?” My voice has a pathetic softness to it that I scoff to erase. Clearing my throat doesn’t help any, either. I’ve lost my spark, along with nearly a pint of blood.
“Rest,” Thorny admonishes. His fingers find the radio and switch it to classical, ensuring that the volume is low enough to keep my delicate brain from imploding. But loud enough to serve as an effective barrier.
No talking.
“Is Elaine back home?” I wonder, breaking his rule. Of course she is. That explains it. Elaine wanted me there, to fuss over and show what a good pseudo-mother she can be.
“No.” Thorny grips the steering wheel tight, and I watch the speed gauge steadily tick higher.
“But—”
“Why did you do it?” His tone dips, matching how my stomach sinks to my toes.
Oh. So this is why he let me come back. He wanted to question me in private, away from nosy doctors and nurses.
“I’m tired.” I close my eyes and press the good side of my face against the window. “My head hurts.”
“Answer me.” He puts in effort not to shout. I can sense it. Anger and tension prickle off him in waves regardless. He only has so much self-control.
My ass tingles beneath the denim of my jeans, and I sink deeper into my seat.
“What the hell possessed you to jump off a fucking balcony?”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself,” I admit.
He scoffs. “I know that.”
Does he? I peel one eye open, but it’s too dark to decipher his reaction. The shadows hide him too damn well. Only his jaw stands out in true contrast, clenched tight.
“So tell me what reason you could possibly have to—”
“You thought I was faking,” I point out. He was so confident I’d been lying. An elaborate ruse of paint and makeup seemed more palatable to him than the fact that I might actually need his help.
Need him.
Oh no. My eyes are burning. I’m too tired. The pain pills they gave me weren’t strong enough and moisture seeps from beneath my eyelids anyway. Wiping them away is my first instinct. Never let them see you cry—every good “psychopath” learned that trick. Never let them hear that telltale warble in your voice that warns of an impending sob fest.
Someone might suspect you’re still human.
“Maryanne.” His fingers find the radio again, switching it off. “Just…” He looks over as the glow from a passing streetlamp illuminates his face. Weathered, and stern, and fucking perfect. “Just tell me why you did it. Please.”
It isn’t like him to beg. I should reward him with a real juicy reply. Something he’d expect. I knew I’d bleed. I wanted you to panic. To punish you. To taunt you.
Everything is about you!
“I thought you locked the door,” I admit. It sounds so stupid now. A laugh crawls up my throat, but it hurts to voice it. I try to choke it down. “I thought you locked the door and…”
“You thought I what?” His eyebrows furrow as he swerves to stay on the road. “Why would I… Oh.” He looks away, his throat clenching around a hard swallow. “Your mother used to—”
“Because you hate me,” I say over him. “Because you can’t stand being alone with me. Because—”
“I don’t hate you.” Kudos to him. He sounds so serious for once. Not like the rehearsed speeches he’s put on for my treatment team or Grandmama’s benefit. I care for Maryanne, but I don’t think living with me is right for her.
He never sounded so genuine then. Fuck him for pretending to now.
�
��I get it,” I tell him. “I almost died. You feel guilty.”
“I don’t hate you.” The car jerks over uneven terrain as he pulls off the main road and parks.
It’s too quiet here without the noise of the engine to drown out the nuance of this moment. Our breathing. The way his fingers clutch the steering wheel so hard that the leather squeaks. How my breath fogs up the glass in little white clouds, coming faster. Faster. Faster.
“You could have fooled me.” Oops. It’s the wrong thing to say. A good girl would accept Thorny’s lies hook, line, and sinker.
Caught off guard by the breach in protocol, he doesn’t even have a comeback at the ready.
I should feel pleased as punch with my victory. Hooray. Sighing, I close my eyes. “Just take me back to the hospital—”
“I don’t want to fight with you.” His raised tone is a subtle warning to shut up. Let him speak. “I don’t. Whatever happened to make you think… We should talk about it.”
“No, thanks.” Nothing says near-death experience like an impromptu trip down memory lane. I can’t stop myself. I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter anymore—”
“It does,” he insists. “Look at me.”
Touch. Soft and gentle, it tickles the hand I have braced against my knee. I jump, my heart stuttering as I try to imagine the culprit. His finger? All five of them.
“Don’t touch me.” Any hint of contact from him feels as fragile as a butterfly fluttering too close. You acknowledge it and poof—it’s flown away.
“Then look at me.” One shift of his palm and he’s holding my hand. Without flinching. Scoffing.
My lungs stop working. I can’t breathe.
“Maryanne.”
I try to pull my hand away, but his latches down like a vise. That’s more like it—ruthless authority with no real choice to refuse.
“Look at me.”
Something in his voice tugs at that invisible leash, forcing me to glance at his stiff profile.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he says gruffly, his eyes fixated beyond my head. “The other day. I’m sorry.”