Supernormal

by Caitlen Rubino-Bradway

“Brody's being a jackass,” Ashley stabbed at her, biting off each word. “I get to be pissed off if Brody’s being a jackass.”

  “You get to be angry about a lot of things. What is it this time?”

  Ashley gripped her hands together so tightly her knuckles ached. Did they have to play these games? She was hanging on by a thread and the doc wanted to play Twenty Questions. The doc knew why Brody’s a jackass, he would’ve told her why during their weekly Ashley’s-still-a-psycho phone call. Ashley wasn’t that stupid. Why did the doc need her to say everything out loud?

  Dr. MacNamara cocked an eyebrow and repeated, “What is it this time?” She held her pen at the ready. Ashley wanted to jam it— She cut that thought right off. Shaking a little that she’d had it. Shaken enough that she told the truth.

  “Ian offered me a job. At the store. Said I could come in, work off some of my tab. Earn something. Brody said no.”

  “Why do you think he said no?” the doc asked, making another note.

  The scratch of pen on paper raked across Ashley's brain, and she hissed, “‘Cause he’s a jackass.”

  “Do you think he might have another reason?” When Ashley didn’t answer, the doctor set her pen down and did that laser thing with her eyes. “What would you do if a customer came in angry? Yelling, confrontational? They’ve been known to do that.”

  They both knew what she would do. The answer hung in the air, waiting for someone to say it. Please don’t make me say it.

  Ashley stared down at her hands and concentrated on the aches. It hurt, coming to these sessions. Physically hurt. It was like all of her joints jammed up ‘til she felt like piano wire, wound way too tight and out of tune.

  She hated this. Hating having them point it out, hating feeling stupid. She was stupid, thinking she could get a job like a normal person. Thinking she could have anything normal. But, god, she’d wanted the money. Wanted to pay her way, at least some. All expenses paid came with a price.

  “There could be another way,” the doc said. “Brody is concerned about how you will react to customers, correct? Who says customer interaction is a required part of your job? Did Ian specifically request that you to work the floor?”

  Wary, Ashley shook her head.

  “Perhaps you could work off your tab in the back room, or after hours. Stocking, inventory, that sort of thing.”

  Ashley was quiet for a long moment. “You…think he would go for that?”

  “It never hurts to ask,” the doc replied, and then offered, “I could talk to Ian, if you like.”

  “I thought—you weren’t supposed to interfere,” Ashley said awkwardly. “Because of your relationship.”

  Dr. MacNamara gave her a rare smile. “Sisters are supposed to interfere. Now, if you came in with a problem regarding Ian that you wanted to work out, I would have to recommend you to another psychiatrist. However, I don’t think this falls under that purview.

  “Besides,” the doc continued, “there could be an argument made that taking on some responsibility might be good for you. I would need to speak to Mr. Brody, however.”

  Ashley braced herself for the requisite, How would you feel about that?, but the doc glanced at the clock and snapped her folder closed. Ashley felt herself sag like a puppet cut from its strings. “That’s our time.”

  On cue, the phone rang. The doc answered, eyeing down Ashley. “Diana MacNamara. Could you—”

  The tinny voice on the other line cut her off. “Please hold for Dr. Proom.”

  “—of course.” She lowered the phone and gave Ashley a pointed look. “Get out.”

  As soon as Ashley was free, she ran. Her legs stretching, eating up the distance. She passed from pavement to the beach in a blink, and sand flew up under her feet.

  The sand was too easy, so she headed for the water, cutting in deep before starting on laps. The resistance made her fight for every stride. But only at first. Only until she got her momentum, and then she was flying, wind snapping through her hair, until there wasn’t water or trees or sand but just colors blurring past.

  Satisfaction purred through her as she cut through the water, satisfaction at what she could do, that in this moment, for the moment, she didn’t have to hold back. She didn’t need that small part of her constantly watching everything she did. She could shut her brain off, and just feel the sun on her face, the water splashing her skin.

  She shouldn’t enjoy it, she knew. It wasn’t right. You weren’t allowed to hate someone for hacking you apart, playing Mr. Potato Head, and then enjoy the results. And she needed to hate him. It was the only thing she had left.

  Ashley ran her muscles to rubber, until her legs were shaking so bad she could barely stand and she could feel the water push back again. At some point the sun had started to set. The beach was mostly empty, and the air had gone cool. Her stomach clenched. She ran ‘til she got tired. She usually got tired faster than this. She was getting stronger.

  Proom would be so happy.

  Stop it. Ashley picked her way up the beach. She was due back home—at Brody’s—she was due back at Brody’s house by dark. But first she had to stop by Level Up; Ian stuck around the store late when he knew she was heading over, and she owed him twenty for the Red Son incident.

  She scraped the sand off her legs the best she could and, still sticky with salt water, headed over to Ian’s.

  Ashley waited in the alley until she smelled a lull, heard only him moving around. As she waited, she concentrated on being still. Silent. On making her breathing slow and steady, on willing her pulse to drop, wondering if she could catch him off guard this time. When she heard him move to the small office at the back, Ashley slipped in the front door.

  “‘Sup, Ash!”

  She should really just give up. The door hadn’t even swung shut. She caught it before it slammed and flipped the Open sign to Closed. “Hey, Ian.” She laid two crumpled tens on the counter.

  He jogged out of the back, a glossy Hush in his hand. “Number Two, just for you. I was thinking Marvels next, but it’s best if you have, like, a stronger background in the Marvel-verse and I know you’re a DC gi—the hell is this?” he demanded, seeing the money.

  “Red Son.”

  “Brody said no, huh?”

  “He thought it wouldn’t be a good idea.” It sounded almost normal, considering how tight her throat was.

  “And what about Dr. Doom?”

  “You know, I don’t have to tell her everything,” Ashley said. Her legs were trembling under the fatigue of trying to hold up her weight. She desperately wanted to sit. And she found she still had the strength to stand.

  “You should. She’s your therapist.” And she hadn’t been here yet. The doc’s scent—clean and refined, with hints of the lavender water she used as perfume—was a day old. It lingered by the counter, and in the back room. “Hey, it’s cool. No big deal, right?” Ian quickly rang Ashley up. “Offer’s still open if you change your mind.”

  It wasn’t her mind, but she felt a deep stab of gratitude that he pretended it was. “It’s probably a stupid idea.”

  “Nah, that’s bull. All my ideas are great ideas.”

  Ashley took Hush, forced herself to say, “We’d have to get permission anyway. Brody’s already said no, and…” And she was pretty sure they would, too. They’d been nervous enough sending her here in the first place. Besides, if she was well enough for work, they probably had a lot that they could suggest for her.

  Ian moved from around the counter, started shelving. “Fuck ‘em. Don’t tell him.”

  He’d find out. Brody found out everything.

  Ian nodded at a pile of mail on the counter. “He sent another offer, you know. Your buddy Proom.”

  “He’s not my buddy. What—” She stopped herself, but Ian answered anyway.

  “Upped it from disgusting to obscene. But Rhoda said her cousin down at city hall fielded a few calls from someone sniffing around about buying up property in Sugar Beach. Including…” H
e rapped a knuckle on the wall.

  “And?”

  Ian turned back to her, grinning. “Please. As if I’d give up the chance to have you shred all my stock. Talk to your not-friend recently?”

  It took a second for Ashley to pull back, into herself. “I don’t talk to him.” It was one of Brody’s rules, one that she was actually grateful for. “Ask Brody,” she added. Because she couldn’t help it. Because she was an idiot.

  “Will do. Don’t forget about the sign.”

  Ashley was reading in her room when Meg’s voice exploded in her ears. She pushed back a little too hard, tipping her chair over, and crashed into the floor. There was a moment of blind panic as she landed and her legs tangled. She scrambled, kicking; her foot caught the chair and it flew across the room and crashed loudly into her desk. Where the fuck were her earplugs—nightstand? bookcase?—dammit, when was the last time she cleaned? She wished Brody would just tell her when people were going to stop by. Her ears had that stinging, echo-y thing going. It’d clear in a minute but, still—she should’ve known better than to take her earplugs out early, with Meg popping over unannounced half the damn time—couldn’t she just pick up the goddamn phone, how hard could that—

  “—doing with her?”

  Ashley stopped. Froze.

  Brody’s voice rumbled through the floorboards. “She says better. She’s started talking to her at least. But you know Ash.”

  “So you’d recommend her.”

  “Ain’t like there’s anybody else, Meggie,” Brody said.

  “And Ashley? Is she getting better?”

  “Not really a choice there.”

  Meg sighed. Ashley tried to focus on the anger she felt when Meg sighed like that. Not the pain. Not the fear. “There’s always a choice, just not a good one in this particular instance. What does Diana say?”

  “Thinks there’s been improvement. Least, that’s what she told Cole on their last phone call—” And the next few words were lost in Meg’s laughter, ‘cause of course Brody had the doc’s phones bugged. He could do it. He had the technology—leftovers from the stuff that he used to do for the government.

  “What do you think?”

  “You’re thinking I’m more qualified to judge that kid’s state of mind than a licensed psychiatrist?”

  “I’m thinking you live with her every day, sugar. Girl gets better or worse, you’re on the front lines. And you’re the one that gets the final call.”

  Brody didn’t answer at first. Impatience choked Ashley. Her fingers, her feet itched to push off the floor, to run down the stairs and demand Brody make a goddamn decision.

  “Why’re you asking me this, Megs?” And, at Meg’s silence, “Seen Cam around a couple times. He seems to be doing okay.”

  “There is no way that boy is okay after eighteen years of those folks. He’s got to deal with it, or it’ll fester.”

  “So you’re going to make him deal with it. Think that’ll work?”

  “Is it working for her?”

  Brody was quiet.

  Finally he said, “I think we should take a walk.”

  There was a pause, and then a chuckle. “You know, it’s not nice to listen on other people’s conversations, Ashley,” Meg called up, not even raising her voice. Not that she had to.

  Ashley sprung onto her feet and stomped back to the bed, made it good and loud so they could hear. Underneath, she could still hear Meg and Brody. The sound vibrated through her feet, thrummed up her legs and along her spine. If she wanted, she could pick out every damn word. The murmur of their voices passed outside and the screen door crashed shut.

  Fuck them, she thought savagely. She didn’t care. Ashley snatched up her book, and the soft binding split under her fingers. She felt a brief sting even as she gave in to the need to destroy something, ripped the cover in half, shredded the pages. Flakes of Hush drifted to the floor like snow. Sitting up here and pretending to be normal—yeah, right—while they were out there talking about her mental health. What was the point? She was either going to get better and prove Proom right and they would send her back—or she wasn’t. Or she was going to break, and when she broke they were going kill her.

  And—for the life of her—Ashley did not know which one frightened her more.

  Ch. 3

  Meg tried to bribe him into therapy with pancakes.

  Cam had woken to a warm, sweet, baking scent and followed it down to the kitchen, a whitewashed rectangular room at the back of the house where wide, bare windows pulled in beach. His aunt was at the stove, in bare feet and mismatched pajamas, flipping pancakes. “‘Morning, sugar. How you feeling?”

  “Fine.” Actually he was so stiff he could’ve sworn he heard his joints creaking—the Lopezes were taking out a wall, and he and Meg had spent a good part of yesterday swinging a sledgehammer—but any amount of stiffness and sore muscles were preferable to Savannah and starting every morning with his stomach knotted up hard as a peach pit. It’d take the whole day to knead it out, only to wake the next morning and start all over.

  Meg smirked. “Anytime you want to change your mind, let me know.”

  “I like the work,” Cam said calmly, and that had Meg shaking her head. He hadn’t decided what to do about the money. There was a great deal of it sitting in the bank—enough that, as trustees, his parents had decided to divide it into three parts. He could access some of it now that he was eighteen, and the next part when he was twenty-one, and the rest when he reached thirty-five. He hadn’t touched any of it. He didn’t want anything from his parents—which Meg told him was flat-out stupid. The money, she’d argued, was as much from his grandparents, and great-grandparents before them, and family rumor had it none of them were sterling examples of human kindness either. The least they could do was make sure he was comfortable, after he had to put up with being part of their family.

  If only he could see, he wouldn’t have to decide—but that would probably create paradoxes, which was no doubt why he had this blind spot in the first place. So until he decided either way, Meg dragged him along to her jobs and snuck cash into his wallet when he wasn’t looking.

  This morning, though, Meg plunked down across from him, knocking back a swig of coffee before bracing her shoulders. “I want to ask a favor of you.”

  Cam cut into the pancakes with his fork. They were light and fluffy and tender. Good cook, that was another thing he’d forgotten. “Anything.”

  “Not so fast, Slim. I want you to consider booking an appointment with Diana.”

  “Diana?” Cam asked, even as his nerves hummed at the word appointment.

  “Dr. Diana McNamara. Nice lady. She’s a psychologist.” Cam put his fork down and straightened in his seat as Meg bulled ahead. “Not that kind—don’t you give me that look, Camron Scott, you know I would never do that to you. Your parents—” She took hold of Cam’s wrist and looked right at him; her brown eyes were serious and just a little angry. “—they kicked you out of the house—”

  “They didn’t kick me out.”

  “Don’t try to paint it up pretty, I know what they did. And it was mean and ugly of them to do it, and they would’ve done it even if I wasn’t here to take you in. Your daddy’s always been a dick, but Mary was better than that once, and I’m ashamed of her.”

  “I chose to leave,” Cam said. It was surprisingly easy to say it. Maybe because that’s how he needed it to be. “I wasn’t going to go back after college anyway.”

  “Sure, sugar, I know that. But I also know what it’s like to pack up everything and start all over someplace new. I know how hard that is, and I’m worried that you’re not going to be able to deal with that on your own. And, fact of the matter is, whatever you chose, they made the first move. You can’t just leave something like that be. It’ll rot. You need someone to talk to.”

  “I have you.”

  “Yes, but I’m not a trained professional. I don’t know how to help you,” Meg said, and for a moment he saw a flicker of
the fear, the worry behind the confidence. “Diana knows what she’s doing, she comes highly recommended—”

  “You know…” Cam had to stop for a moment. He tried again. “Seeing a psychologist isn’t going to fix this. It isn’t going to change things.” It wouldn’t make it stop hurting.

  “Oh, baby,” she murmured, scooting closer and running a hand through his hair. Cam gave into the impulse to rest his head on her shoulder, and she wrapped him in close. “You can’t look at it like that.”

  “That’s how it is.”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Yes,” he bit off, sitting up, ‘cause, Christ, his mother loved that word. But, because it was Meg asking, he added, “I’ll consider it.”

  That had been over a week ago. Now Meg parked across the street, a safe distance from where the crowd streamed up over the boardwalk on their way to the beach. “Give me a call when y’all are done, I’ll come pick you up.”

  But it was a beautiful day out, and her phone had been ringing nonstop. “I can walk back, or get a ride with Daniel—”

  “Danny.”

  “—who knows, we might hit it off.” His voice sounded bitter, even to him.

  Meg grinned. “Yeah, that was convincing. Now, go, meet your friends, and no jack-rabbiting on them.” Cam had to swallow back that they weren’t his friends, and instead went to leave; she snagged his arm. “Give us a kiss first, heartless boy.”

  Cam kissed his aunt’s freckled cheeks, then climbed out of the Jeep and took a good long look at the boardwalk.

  People. A lot of people. A crowd like that meant confusion—a hundred different futures colliding together in his mind, tangling up the would-be’s with the might-be’s. Already the calm and quiet from it being just him and Meg was sweeping away. He’d have to focus to keep from getting a three-week headache, and it didn’t help that he was nervous.

  In addition to trying to talk him into therapy, Meg had decided that what Cam needed was to spend time with other people. His age. Friends. He appreciated all the trouble Meg was going to, but he didn’t have the best luck with…that. But she’d decided he needed some, and since he knew he was digging his heels in about the therapy, Cam agreed to the group date. He wished he hadn’t, now. He wished he had a chance to run back, shower, change. He was sweaty and there was plaster on his shirt, and this was stupid, he wasn’t good around strangers—