You don’t look too bad. I was lying, and of course Ben knew it, but I didn’t know what else to say. And look at them. They look way worse. Paul and Jed had struggled to their feet and were limping out of the locker room without saying a word. If they had been dogs, their tails would have been between their legs.
“You’re a magnet for those jerks,” Ben said.
They were after you this time. I was just the opening act. Dumb as they are, they figured out that either one or both of us tried to neuter them.
“I’m really sorry. If I’d known … I should have thought it through, but truthfully I thought they were too stupid to figure it out.”
Stop apologizing already. Can you stand up?
“Really, I’m fine.” He stood up and rubbed his wrist. “Not broken, just sprained.” Going over to the mirror, he inspected his no longer perfect face. “You think my mom will notice?”
Nah. You look great. As far as I was concerned, his nose could be sticking out of his chin, and he would still be beautiful.
“You look pretty good, too.” Ben pinched the thick gray fabric of my sweats and whistled.
You’re not looking at me these days, so why should I dress up?
“You should wear whatever you feel like. But you’re irresistible, even in baggy sweats and a ponytail.”
You’re a regular comedian.
We had bonded over a bloody nose and fighting sticks. He got beaten to a pulp while he was trying to help me, and I ended up saving the day. It was a good place to start over.
“Come on. I’ll take you home.” He picked up my backpack. It almost felt like it had before he had dismissed me from his life. “I have my car today.”
Don’t you think you should go to the doctor and have someone look at your nose? I can walk home, or I can go with you.
“Let me drive you. It’s on my way, and I don’t need a doctor. It doesn’t hurt at all.” His voice was firm—the perpetual grownup who never needed to be taken care of.
Before I could do any more protesting, my backpack was on the back seat and he was standing holding the car door open for me. Why did he have to be in charge all the time?
What happens if they come after us again? They know what we did.
“We won’t have to worry about them too much longer.” He smiled mysteriously, and then winced in pain.
What does that mean? Don’t take this vigilante business too far. You’re too pretty for prison, even with your new nose.
I reached over and stroked his curls. At least he didn’t pull away. I missed having someone I could “talk” to.
“Do you really think I’d break the law?”
I’m pretty sure putting poison chili seasoning in someone’s underwear is illegal.
“Semantics. I’m actually talking about doing a little crime prevention this time. The four wise men are going to buy some drugs next week—pot, roofies, Ecstasy. They do a little dealing on the side for pocket money instead of a paper route.”
How do you know that?
Ignoring my stupid question, he continued. “As soon as they get the stuff, I’m going to tip off the principal, and they’ll all be arrested and expelled.”
You’re sure?
Would it be as easy as Ben claimed? The principal loved his winning varsity thugs. It was hard to imagine Mr. Carson would end up playing a key role in their downfall. It seemed more likely he would look the other way or try to pin it on somebody else, someone less vital to the Shoreland High athletic program.
“Positive. In a few weeks Jed’s going to be sitting in a jail cell, worrying about losing his own virginity to some guy named Cheech. Plucking your flower is going to be the last thing on any of their minds.”
He started the car and drove in silence, taking the long way home, occasionally looking over at me. I stared out the window, trying to push my thoughts deep down and far away, out of my conscious mind, in the vain hope that Ben couldn’t hear how much I wanted him to hold my hand, take me in his arms, carry us back to where we’d been before. His hands remained on the steering wheel, so either he was ignoring me, or I had successfully erected a mental brick wall. It was almost certainly the former.
“Here you go.”
At the top of the driveway, he reached across me and opened the door. I refused to take the hint. He sighed and turned off the engine, got out of the car, retrieved my backpack, and opened the car door from the outside. Catatonic, I sat staring at my hands folded in my lap. One, two, three …
“Sasha, get out of the car.”
I was behaving like a stubborn child, but I was prepared to do anything that would delay his leaving even for a few minutes, even if I looked like a fool doing it. Good attention is better than bad attention, but bad attention is better than none at all.
“Sasha, I can read your mind, remember? I know exactly what you’re doing.” He reached out his hand to me. “I’m flattered. Now get out of the car.”
If I get out of the car, will you stay with me for a little bit? I don’t want to be alone. Now I was being immature and manipulative, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Ben shook his head. He was as stubborn as I was, the bastard.
“I heard that.”
I have no reason to clean up my language, since you’re not talking to me anyway. Why won’t you come inside? Pleeeese? Definitely not too proud to beg.
“You know very well why. I’ll come in, we’ll sit on the couch, you’ll rest your head on my shoulder, and I’ll stroke your back.”
And what’s wrong with two friends consoling each other after a traumatic experience? My heart began to pound as his fantasy played out in my mind.
“Wait, there’s more. Then I’ll smell your hair and maybe kiss the top of your head. Then you’ll look up at me, and your lips will be begging to be kissed, and I won’t be able to help myself, and then we’re right back where we started.”
He closed his eyes, as if imagining the scenario he was describing. That sounded pretty good to me.
You should write a romance novel. It would be a shame to waste language like that.
“Don’t be a smartass—you know that’s what would happen.” He was all business again.
What if I promise not to kiss you? I can behave myself. Just friends. I held my breath.
“You may be able to hold yourself to that, but I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”
That’s bullshit.
“It’s been more than a month since we were last together, and I’m not sure I can behave like a gentleman when I’m alone with you while you’re wearing those sexy sweats.”
What about ponytail girl? Jules said she’s all over you. Ben didn’t seem like the man-whore type, but our time apart felt like a century to me, so for a boy it must be forever.
“We’re just friends. Nothing more. She’s on the track team. We work out together.” In my overactive imagination, Ben and the model had been doing way more than running wind sprints after school.
Oh, tall, blonde, and gorgeous isn’t your type? I found that hard to believe.
“No, you’re my type, I’m afraid. Baggy clothes, bad attitude and all.”
Thanks … I think.
He still liked me, in that way. He still wanted to kiss me, to touch me.
“That didn’t come out right. What I mean is, I find you more physically attractive than Aubrey—that’s ponytail girl’s name. She is very beautiful, but she just doesn’t do it for me. Maybe I have weird taste.”
Thanks again. You sure know how to make a girl feel special.
Maybe he would kiss me, just to show me. I held my breath, standing as close to him as I possibly could, praying he would be unable to resist.
“You know what I mean. You’re beautiful, I haven’t touched another girl, and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. Now I have to go.” With a casual wave, as if the last thirty minutes of blood and fear hadn’t happened, he jumped into his car and drove away down the gravel drive,
leaving me aching and alone.
Chapter 19
As I stepped over the threshold of 7 Seashell Lane for the first time in more than four years, I was nearly knocked over by a wave of sense memories. The way the afternoon light dappled the Oriental rug in the entryway, the smell of wood smoke from hundreds of fires. Not feeling at all self-conscious, I sat down on the soft wool carpet and closed my eyes. In my mind I could see the dining room—creamy white wainscoting and cranberry walls. A bronze turkey glowed in the light of a dozen candles in pewter candlesticks scattered across the table. It was perfect. But was it real, had it really happened, or had I just conjured up some idealized Norman Rockwell scene? Flipping through the photo album of my memory as Mrs. Fisher stood silently in the corner, I realized that most of the pages were blank, and the images that did exist were painfully generic—blowing out birthday candles, a day at the beach, riding on a carousel. Perhaps I had unconsciously fabricated them all to fill in the Swiss cheese holes of my memory. Like the flawless scenes in the photographs that came in picture frames, displaying model families engaged in idyllic activities, maybe my memories were merely suggestions of a life I wanted but had never actually lived.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Fisher’s voice broke into my reverie and I stood up, shaking off my brief foray into my possible past. I nodded.
“Please feel free to walk around. I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re ready.” Lightly touching my cheek, Ben’s mother left me alone.
At the top of the stairs, I turned right. The room at the end of the hallway was mine. That much I remembered. For nearly five minutes I stood there, my hand resting on the doorknob. Did I want to go home again? Each step I took into my past could bring me a step closer to finding that lost piece of myself that, once replaced, would allow me to speak. Or, I feared, I could tread too far down the wrong road, burying that lost piece even further, maybe irretrievably. But I realized I had already chosen my path, and so I turned the handle and stepped into my old life.
The pine bed, corduroy-covered armchair, and rolltop desk were all still there, and as I breathed in, I inhaled my childhood. Closing my eyes, I lay down on the rag rug where I now remembered I had played hour upon hour with Legos. It smelled like crayons and baby powder and beeswax furniture polish. My mother’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Sasha, dinner’s ready in five minutes. Put your blocks away.” “Sasha, we have to leave now, or you’ll be late for school.” “Sasha, Jules is on the phone.” When I opened my eyes, I almost expected to see her standing in front of me—her voice had been so clear in my head. Until that moment, I had forgotten what she sounded like. Suddenly I missed her terribly, this woman who for the last four years had been a hazy figure lurking at the edge of my conscious mind. Now I could hear her laughter, smell her perfume, feel the scratchy wool of her favorite winter sweater as I rested my head on her shoulder.
The pain of my loss was palpable, and I crawled onto the bed—my bed, now Ben’s bed. That was weird. This was the bed I had shared with three baby dolls, where I read my mother’s Judy Blume books under the covers with a flashlight when I was supposed to be sleeping. Now I was curled up on the same patchwork quilt that had always been there, and when I flipped back a corner, there were my flannel sheets dappled with pinecones. Ben’s family had slipped seamlessly into every corner of my life, right down to the linens. If it had been anyone else, I would have been incredibly resentful and kind of creeped out. But since my family could no longer live here, it seemed right that Ben and his family did.
I was as ready as I would ever be. My future was waiting for me in my old kitchen. Gently smoothing the quilt, making sure that everything was in its place, I stood staring at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser, considering my options. It was now or never, and surrounded by the remnants of my childhood, I felt safe as I was about to venture into an indeterminate future. Nothing bad could happen to me under this roof. Of that I was certain.
In the kitchen Mrs. Fisher sat on a stool, reading the newspaper. On the stove, the old copper teakettle began to whistle. Without thinking, I turned off the flame and sat down on another stool.
“So, how was it?”
“VERY STRANGE. SOME THINGS I REMEMBER WELL—THE SMELL OF THE FIREPLACE AND CRAYONS AND THE SOUND OF MY MOTHER’S VOICE—BUT OTHER THINGS, LIKE TRIPS TO THE BEACH … I’M NOT SURE WHETHER THOSE REALLY HAPPENED.”
She was so easy to talk to, in spite of her gypsy fortune-teller vibe. I didn’t worry about sounding stupid or crazy, and unlike with Dr. O., I didn’t worry that Mrs. Fisher was analyzing every word I spoke for some deeper, perhaps Freudian meaning.
“That’s a good start. You’re experiencing Proustian memories—the kind Marcel Proust wrote about in Remembrance of Things Past when he smelled the madeleines and his childhood came rushing back to him. As the most basic and primeval of our senses, the sense of smell is the one most closely tied to human memory. A single odor is enough to evoke tremendously detailed recollections of one’s past. The power of the human brain is quite extraordinary.” She paused. “Enough of that. I’m a college professor to the core, and I find it hard not to lecture. My apologies.”
“DON’T APOLOGIZE. IT’S REALLY INTERESTING, AND I THINK IT MIGHT MAKE THINGS EASIER IF I LEARNED HOW MY BRAIN ACTUALLY WORKS.”
“Well, I think you’re going to learn all kinds of things, and I’m here to help you. Now, are you ready to explore your subconscious with a little hypnosis?” It sounded perfectly simple and logical when she put it that way. She could have been asking me if I wanted to go to the mall and try on shoes.
“NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN ABLE TO HYPNOTIZE ME. MY PSYCHIATRIST SAYS SOME PEOPLE ARE NATURALLY IMMUNE.” Dr. O. and I had been down this road to nowhere on more than one occasion.
“Resistant, maybe, but I’ve never met anyone who’s totally immune.”
Mrs. Fisher’s smile was so warm and reassuring that I could already envision a pocket watch swinging seductively on a chain and me falling into a deep, and hopefully productive, trance. I suppressed a yawn.
“BUT DR. O’ROURKE IS SUPPOSED TO BE ONE OF THE BEST PSYCHIATRISTS IN NEW YORK, IN THE WHOLE COUNTRY, EVEN. SHE SPECIALIZES IN POSTTRAUMATIC STRESS.”
Mrs. Fisher shrugged her shoulders but looked no less confident. “I suppose there’s an exception to every rule, and of course I could be wrong, but I’m willing to take the chance. How about you? You want to try?”
“NOTHING TO LOSE.”
Sitting in Ben’s kitchen, my kitchen, I was desperate to move forward. Worst case, I would still be mute and Mrs. Fisher might be a little embarrassed. We could both handle that.
“That’s my girl. Drink this, and let’s see where it takes us.”
Mrs. Fisher smiled encouragingly as she filled a mug. The cloudy green liquid smelled like grass clippings and dirt.
“WHAT IS IT?” I wrinkled my nose. My stomach rumbled, protesting what it knew was coming its way.
“It’s a special blend of herbs, mostly Magnolia dealbata. Cloudforest magnolia. Native tribes in Mexico used it as a tranquilizer and anticonvulsant for centuries. But I mix it with a few other things to create the desired effect. Think of me as an archaeologist, and this decoction is a mind shovel. We’re going to dig up all the treasures buried deep inside that beautiful, troubled head of yours.”
“IS IT LEGAL? MY AUNT AND UNCLE ARE LAWYERS. IF THEY FOUND OUT I WAS TAKING DRUGS, THEY’D KILL BOTH OF US.” I had visions of Shoreland Police Chief Dodd hauling Mrs. Fisher and me, both wearing bright orange jumpsuits and prison-issue sneakers without laces, off to the single jail cell in the basement of City Hall.
“Technically, some of it is probably not completely legal, but I do have a medical degree, so I’m permitted to prescribe drugs when necessary. And I think your situation definitely requires pharmacological intervention.”
Charlotte would not be happy about this development. She and Stuart were beyond straitlaced: they never smoked, drank decaffeinated coffee, and
considered NyQuil a recreational drug. If Charlotte knew Ben’s mother was serving up a steaming cup of hallucinogenic herbal tea, she might not be so interested in getting Ben and me back together.
“IS IT LIKE REGULAR HYPNOSIS? CAN YOU MAKE ME DO WHATEVER YOU WANT?”
I really liked Mrs. Fisher—or should I say Dr. Fisher—but the prospect of losing control in the company of a relative stranger, no matter how kind and honorable she appeared, was slightly unnerving.
“Don’t worry. I won’t make you walk like a chicken.” She pushed the steaming mug across the counter.
“WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME?”
“It should help you relax beyond anything you’ve ever experienced, beyond what you believe possible. Hopefully you’ll open up once the barriers of your conscious mind are broken down. Your free-thinking, unconscious brain will be let out of its cage, so to speak.”
“SO YOU’RE SURE I WON’T ACT LIKE AN ANIMAL? I DON’T WANT TO MAKE A FOOL OF MYSELF.” I was three sips from getting emotionally naked in front of Ben’s mother, and I was starting to feel uncomfortably warm.
“Sweet girl, don’t worry. I won’t let anything bad happen, and I promise that whatever does happen, it will remain between you and me. Ben will never hear about it.”
She crossed her heart and blew me a kiss. How did she know that was what I was worried about?
“WILL THIS STUFF MAKE ME TALK?”
Maybe today would be my day. What would I say to Ben when he walked through the door? I’ve fallen in love with you? Will you marry me? Probably a tad much for my first words. Maybe just, I’ve missed you.
“You might, if your trauma doesn’t extend to your unconscious mind. But different people react differently. I can’t say for sure what will happen to you. We’ll never know unless we try, however. L’chaim. Drink up.” She tapped her cup, which was filled with coffee, against mine.
“OKAY, YOU’RE THE DOCTOR.”
I raised the mug to my lips. It was like drinking my front lawn. I held my nose and chugged.
“Just relax and let it take effect. You might feel a little buzzed. Do you drink at all? Do you know what that feels like?”
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