Stop, please, stop. I’ll be good, I’ll call Lilah Mom. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please stop arguing.
But nothing would stop, and it was all her fault. She rocked back and forth to hold in her screams. Maisie reached up and grabbed her hair. Yanked hard and—Ow. Ow! She looked at her hand. Uncle J called her hair her crowning glory, and now she’d pulled out a fistful.
Stop, please, stop.
Her dad never got this upset, not even when she broke the window while she was training for the softball team and he stood on a piece of glass, and there was so much blood she’d been afraid he would bleed to death. But right now Daddy was very, very upset, and even though he was shushing Lilah, one word was very, very clear: Maisie. They were being so mean to each other and she was to blame. She was a bad kid, the worst, and her dad and Lilah didn’t love each other anymore and it was all her fault. And her dad and Lilah would become another divorce statistic like Ellie’s mom and dad. And they would have to move like Ellie and her mom did because there wasn’t enough money for two houses, and she really, really didn’t want to go poor. And she really, really didn’t want to move, because she’d lived in this house her whole life. Her whole life! And if she moved she wouldn’t be near Ava Grace.
No. No. She had to be brave, had to be strong. If they were arguing because of her, she was the magic solution. She could fix this if she listened the way Uncle J had taught her.
I can be strong enough for both of us, Daddy.
Maisie took a deep breath, tiptoed across the hall, and leaned against the study door.
“If you leave, Lilah, it will kill me.”
Daddy’s going to die.
No, no, he didn’t mean that.
But what if he did? What if he’s going to die because of me? What if, what if?
Maisie’s hand shot to her mouth. This was the worst of the worst. This was end-of-the-world worst. She turned and ran, out through the kitchen, across the yard, and onto the street.
No, can’t have that thought in my head. Not about Daddy.
The voice told her he was going to die and maybe Lilah would die, too, and if Lilah died the baby would die, and it would all be her fault, and she would be an orphan. And if Daddy died because of her, because she’d been naughty, because she hadn’t called Lilah Mom, Uncle J wouldn’t love her anymore. Maisie kept running and crying. Running and crying. But she couldn’t do both! Oh, this was too much.
The gate to the playground squeaked as she pushed it open and ran inside. Empty swings, empty slide, empty play structure, empty bench where the mommies sat and giggled. She was alone in a place built for families to have fun, to be happy. To be together. Maisie jumped on one of the swings, tucked Lulabelle up in her lap, and went around and around in a circle. Tighter and tighter. She was alone and no one could understand except . . . A name, one name. Maisie stopped moving and the swing spun in the opposite direction. Ms. Katie. Ben Holt had said, “You can text her anytime.”
Yes! Yes! Maisie sniffed. She had no tissues and she couldn’t wipe her nose with her arm because ewww. Gross-oid. She sniffed harder.
“Call me if the voice gets loud. If you need help,” Ms. Katie had said. Yes! She needed help like never before. And yes, it was loud, and telling her over and over she was a vile person and Daddy would die because she hadn’t called Lilah Mom, and Lilah and the baby would die and everyone would die. They would all be dead, dead like her real mom. Maisie pulled out her phone, but her hand was shaking too much to type, and she was crying harder than she had ever, ever cried before. Even harder than when Rose died on Doctor Who.
Maisie glanced up and down the street. No one was around. No one could hear her, because she was entirely, completely, one hundred percent alone. She hit “Call,” and Ms. Katie picked up straightaway.
“Maisie, honey. What a lovely surprise.”
“You”—Maisie hiccuped—“said I could call you if, if . . .”
“Ah. Is the voice being super stinky?”
“Gosh, yyyes! Stinkier than a thousand stinky butts. My dad and Lilah are fighting because I’m a bad kid, and I’m worried Daddy’s going to die, and—”
“The voice is telling you it’s all your fault?”
“I knew you’d understand.”
“Sweetheart, I know it’s distressing when parents argue, but the voice is lying to you. It’s a liar and a bully. And bullies are the absolute worst, and we always stand up to them, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Let me teach you about something super cool. It’s called a fear thermometer, and we’re going to use it to figure out how high your fear is so we can lower it. Does that sound good?”
“I guess.”
“If you could grade your fear on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest, how high would it be?”
“Eight and a half and rising! What if they both hate me? What if they both die? Where will I go? Who will I live with?”
“Parents argue all the time, honey, and it rarely has anything to do with the kids. Mine used to fight over whose turn it was to do the dishes.”
“But they’re arguing about me. Lilah insists I need help and my dad says it’s not her call to make and I can’t take it. I can’t.” More tears built up behind her eyes—like she could have even more—and now her nose was blocked. “I don’t want to be the causation of fights.”
“Honey, can you do something for me?”
“What?” Maisie gulped.
“Take a deep breath. A nice big, deep breath. We’re going to do nothing right now except breathe, okay? We’re going to slow everything down and breathe. You’re going to inhale through your nose, hold that breath, and exhale slowly through your mouth. All to the count of four. Come on. Let’s do it together.”
“I can’t, Ms. Katie. I can’t breathe through my nose.”
“Can you blow it really loudly?”
“I don’t have a tissue.”
“Can you give a humongous sniff?”
She did.
“Bigger?” Ms. Katie said.
She did.
“Perfect! You sound like a skunk with a cold.”
Maisie stopped crying. “How does a skunk with a cold sound?”
“Like you?” Ms. Katie laughed, and her laugh was awesome. “You were talking about stinky butts, and I pictured a skunk, and . . . How high’s the fear thermometer now?”
“I don’t know. I was imagining your skunk.”
“Good, and now I want you to repeat this as loud as you can: ‘This is just a stinky skunk thought. Thoughts aren’t real. They can’t hurt me or anyone else.’”
She did, and did it several times more because Ms. Katie kept saying, “Louder, louder!”
And then she started breathing through her nose again.
“When we went to the Chocolate Factory,” Ms. Katie said, “you told me you were good at debating, right? So we’re going to debate with that stinky voice. What can you say to the voice to prove it wrong?”
“I don’t know, Ms. Katie.”
“Okay, how about some logic. I’m sure your parents have argued before. And no one ever died, right?”
“No! They never argue. And Ellie’s dad is a doctor and he once said stress kills people. Did you know most car accidents happen when people are angry?”
“Hmm. That was helpful of him,” Ms. Katie said, but it didn’t sound like she meant it. “You’re being very brave right now, Maisie, and I need you to keep being brave.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
“How about next time you come to the studio, we make medals? For heroic actions when dealing with the stinky voice. Like Purple Hearts, except not purple. What’s your favorite color? Please don’t tell me pink.”
“Oh, no, Uncle J would neeever forgive me. My favorite color is teal, Ms. Katie.”
“Let’s drop the ‘Ms.,’ okay?”
“Sorry, sorry. I know you told me that before, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful but—”
“S
hhh, honey. Slow everything down. Teal it is. That’s an easy patina. Now, take a deep breath and start from the beginning. Tell me what happened so I can pick this whole thing apart like a giant jigsaw puzzle and help you put it back together. But with facts, not unwanted thoughts.”
“I like puzzles.”
“I had a feeling you did. Now, let’s figure out what’s really going on. Take it from the top, Maisie!”
“Well”—big sigh—“I was upstairs finishing my homework so I can go to Ava Grace’s this afternoon, and my dad and Lilah were arguing in my dad’s office. My bedroom is over the office, so I heard them. Lilah was getting angry because my dad doesn’t want me to see a therapist”—big gulp of air—“and then she said something about my real mom but I couldn’t hear properly so I came downstairs”—another gulp—“and that’s when Daddy said that if Lilah left it would kill him and if he dies I’ll be an orphan. An orphan!”
Katie seemed to be doing some deep breathing of her own. Then she said, “Where are you, honey?”
“I ran away. If I’m not there maybe my dad and Lilah won’t argue and no one will die. But I didn’t think to pack a suitcase or even a snack bag. Not even a water bottle and that was very, very silly. The high is going to be eighty-eight degrees today, and I could get dehydrated. It’s already very hot on the playground.”
“This playground, is it the one near your house?”
“Yyyes. How did you know?”
“A wild guess.” Katie went quiet again.
Maisie’s heart got super loud. Oh, gosh, had Ms. Katie—Katie—hung up?
“Honey, you have to call your dad and let him come fetch you. Can you do that for me?”
“I can’t! Daddy and Lilah hate each other and Lilah said she’s going to leave and if she does it’ll kill Daddy, and Daddy will be dead like my real mom, and Lilah will be gone and it will all be my fault. My fault! And I don’t know what to do.” Maisie stopped talking, because she couldn’t squeeze out any more words now that she was crying again.
“Okay, I’m going to come and help you, Maisie, but you have to promise you’ll stay put.” Katie’s voice sounded all jumpy. Was she running? “You’re not to go out near the road or talk to anyone except your father. Do we have a deal?”
“I promise.” Maisie hiccuped a sob.
“I’m in my truck and starting the engine. There’s never any traffic on Sunday morning, so I can be there in half an hour. Do you know what we’re going to do in that half hour? We’re going to make up a story. I hear you’re pretty good at that.”
“B-but you d-don’t know w-where I live.”
“Uncle Jake told me, which makes me the best person to call. And I want you to imagine that noise in your head is a train fueled by stinky thoughts. But the brakes on the train are broken, so it’s picking up speed, and together we’re going to slow it down and bring it safely into the station.”
“I—I don’t like trains.”
“You don’t? I do. They carry you from one place to the next, and all you have to do is sleep and read. Or make up stories about the passengers.”
Maisie sniffed. “What passengers?”
“Gross ones.”
Maisie stopped crying. “How gross?”
“Last time I was on a train there was a nose picker. Let’s call him Mr. Nose Picker.”
“Ewww.”
“Very ewww.” Katie paused. “I’m heading to the Durham Freeway, but we’re going to keep talking, okay?”
“Daddy says you shouldn’t talk on the phone and drive.”
“Quite right, but this is a special circumstance, and it’s Sunday morning so there won’t be much traffic. And besides, you’re going to do the talking. I’m going to listen. Can you picture Mr. Nose Picker and laugh at him?”
“That’s not very nice, to laugh at someone.”
“No, it’s not, but laughing at the voice is the same as declaring, ‘I won’t hide from you. You don’t scare me!’”
“You mean like calling Parker out for his very atrocious behavior?”
“Exactly. I knew you were smart.”
It was super kind of Katie to call her smart, but right now she didn’t deserve compliments.
“This story of yours is going to need a plot. I want a beginning, a middle, an end, and lots of conflict. Did I mention Mr. Nose Picker is with Mrs. Nose Picker and their two sons, Booger and Snot? It’s a Roald Dahl story!”
A giggle snuck out. A tiny giggle, and she didn’t feel quite so anxious. “The Twits!”
“I love Roald Dahl.”
“Me too. My real mom bought all his books for me before I was born. Or so—”
“Uncle Jake said?”
“How did you know I was going to say that?”
“Another lucky guess. But back to the Nose Pickers. Mr. Nose Picker and Mrs. Nose Picker are on their way to Ohio, when—”
“Why Ohio?”
“Why not?” Ms. Katie gave a giggle, too.
“Ms. Katie—I mean, Katie? I’m super glad we’re friends.”
“Me too, honey. And guess what? Five minutes have gone by. There’s no traffic on the Durham Freeway, and I’ll be there soon. But if I enter a black hole and lose the connection, I’m still on my way and I want you to keep working on the story so you can tell me the ending when I get there.”
“Katie”—Maisie’s hand shot to her mouth and she chewed on her thumbnail, even though there was nothing left to chew on and it was pretty sore and Uncle J was trying to get her to stop—“how do I know nothing bad’s going to happen to you on the Durham Freeway?”
“Because nothing’s going to prevent me from coming home.”
Maisie stopped chewing her nail. What did Ms. Katie mean by coming home?
NINETEEN
LILAH
Attempting to make a dignified exit without the proper tools was not the smartest course of action. Lilah sat in the car with the envelope, her purse, and no car key. A truck pulling a trailer of lawn mowers rattled to a stop between their mailbox and the neighbor’s. Two men got out and began unloading, but Callum didn’t move. He was standing barefoot on their porch, as he had been five minutes earlier.
Sighing, she heaved herself out of the car. Callum walked down the front steps, not with the movements of a guy who could pour himself into spandex and bike the hundred-mile Assault on Mount Mitchell, but as if he were walking on razor blades. She stooped down to pick up the New York Times and held out international news as a peace offering.
“I tried to make a getaway without the car key.”
He stopped in front of her but didn’t take the paper. “Where were you heading?”
“Around the corner to cool off. Do you think Maisie heard us behaving badly?”
He shook his head and reached for her. Lilah stepped into his arms as she always did. She let the paper drop.
“Tell me you love me,” Callum said.
“Love isn’t our problem.” Lilah stared up at him. “When we got married, I also vowed to be Maisie’s mother, and you’re withholding information I need to be that person. I’m here because I forgot my car key, not because I’m backing down. I won’t be the kind of parent who runs from problems.”
His arms slipped to his sides, and he stared at her, jaw set. Once again, she’d pushed a button without understanding how.
“I’m not the one who ran away,” he said.
“I wasn’t running away. I was attempting to calm down. I want to discuss this as parents, not rant at you in full banshee mode. But you won’t listen, Callum, and you need to hear me out.” He didn’t say anything, so she continued. “Maisie’s become needy in the last few months, and it’s getting worse. And exhibit A”—she held up the envelope—“is a suicide note. I think there’s a correlation between what happened to your first wife and your determination to protect Maisie from something a therapist could expose.”
“Maisie’s not needy.”
“Wrong word, then. A worrywart. The other day she a
sked me if a freckle was skin cancer.”
“Good, she’s being sensible.”
“Not good. She should be doing something fun and kiddie, not worrying about cancer. And you’re not being straight with me. If that doesn’t change, we’ll be seeing a therapist together. It’s called marriage counseling.”
“How did you even find that letter? It was hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk.”
“I snooped because you kept stonewalling. So I’m going to ask you again: Did your first wife commit suicide after the divorce? Did she suffer from depression, anxiety, something that Maisie might have inherited?”
He reached up and dragged his hands through his hair. His T-shirt rose to expose the flat stomach, the trail of dark coppery hair that disappeared under the waistband of his boxer briefs. His ratty weekend sweatpants hung lower than usual.
“Katelyn tried to commit suicide and didn’t succeed,” he said. “And I’ve been protecting Maisie from what happened. Everything I’ve done has been to protect Maisie.”
A rusty black truck pulled up in front of the house, and a woman got out. The passenger door slammed and Maisie appeared, her face red and blotchy, Lulabelle clutched to her chest.
“Maisie!” Callum ran across the grass. “I thought you were upstairs in your room.”
“I heard you two arguing about me, and I ran away and called Katie.” Maisie moved closer to the woman. Katie? Katie Mack the artist?
“She was on the playground down the street when she called. Needing a friend.” Katie looked directly at Callum. “We talked, and I persuaded her to let me bring her home.”
“How did she get your phone number?” Callum said.
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