“Forget it.” There was no way Reagan was getting into this right now.
“Damn it, Reagan. You don’t just say wolf and not explain yourself.”
She wanted to beg her mom to let it go, to at least wait and talk about this somewhere else, but knew there was nobody else to blame. “I remember a few things. It wasn’t a bear.”
“Okay, Miss Cooper,” the doctor said. It was obvious he was uncomfortable and wanted to focus on the medical side of her trauma. “You’re actually healing pretty well. Your back seems aggravated, though. What kind of soap do you use?”
I’ve been attacked by a super-wolf, and you want to know what kind of soap I use? Are you kidding me? She was smart enough to keep her rants to herself this time. “I don’t know. Mom?”
“Whatever’s on sale. She’s never had sensitive skin before.”
“Well, she does now. I would switch to Dove. And don’t scrub hard on it, Reagan. Also, make sure you put lotion on every day to minimize the scarring. All in all, though, you look great.” He sat down and looked over his notes. “It says here you’re having trouble sleeping?”
This appointment was not going the way Reagan wanted. “Yes, since the accident. But I won’t take the pills they gave me. I don’t like them.”
Doctor Moore looked at her over his glasses again. Damn, she wished he’d stop doing that. She felt like she was on trial. “Why don’t you like them?”
Determined not to give him anything to work with, she simply shrugged. Her mother, however, was more than willing to offer her two cents. “She says they make her have horrible dreams. Plus, she’s been having a lot of trouble with nausea. Her friends told me she’s been throwing up.”
Great, now Serena and Aspen were in on the “Save Reagan” campaign. Reagan was sure her mom invited them over, displayed some of her fake coolness, and then got them talking. Double Damn! The only defense that might help was pure silence; Reagan was determined not to add anything. These two adults seemed more interested in talking to each other than listening to her anyway.
Both the doctor and her mother stared. He finally broke the silence. “Reagan, you need to be honest with me if I’m going to help you. I understand you, and your family, have been through an ordeal. That kind of stress can cause all kinds of health problems—including depression, anxiety, and trouble sleeping.”
Reagan cracked, something rose up in her she’d never felt before. An intense anger, one that made her feel like she finally had some power. “Dr. Moore, you have no clue what I went through. Quite frankly, neither do my mom or dad. And I will not take any of your medication.”
Doctor Moore turned to her mom. “Since Reagan is under eighteen, I’ll defer to you. I’ll give you these two scripts; one is for anxiety and the other is to help her sleep. The two of you clearly need to talk to someone. I’ll give you a card for a great psychiatrist, Dr. Ableman. One of his specialties is post-traumatic stress. I think he can help you both.” He scribbled some scripts and opened a drawer. Finding the card he was looking for, he handed all the items to Mom.
“Reagan, please take care. Susie, you have my number if you need anything else. Please call Dr. Ableman.”
Once the door closed, Mom let loose. “You promised you would take this seriously.” She stood up, walked over to where Reagan still sat covered in her paper gown, and stuck a finger in her face. “I’m filling these scripts, and we’re going see the psychiatrist Dr. Moore recommended. Do you understand?”
Reagan could barely control her anger. An idea slammed into the crazed teen’s brain—punching her mom square in the jaw. “You can fill all the scripts you want, Mom, but you can’t make me take them. You don’t want me to drink, but you’re willing to shove pills down my throat every chance you get?”
Mom raised a hand to Reagan’s face. Reagan braced for the slap she knew was coming, turning her head and pinching her eyes closed. Instead she felt two arms take her shoulders and squeeze. Opening her eyes, she saw nothing but anger in her mother’s. “You will not speak to me that way, Reagan Elizabeth Cooper. Do you understand me?”
Reagan pushed her mom off, and she hit the wall with a thud. Shock registered in her eyes.
“Control yourself, now is not the time.”
Taken aback, Reagan realized another voice was in her head. She wasn’t calming herself; somebody else was doing it for her.
Reagan closed her eyes, trying to shake off her anger and the other voice. “I need to get dressed now. Could you please leave?”
Mom huffed out of the room, leaving Reagan to put her clothes on. When she returned to the lobby, her mom was making a follow-up appointment. Reagan walked right by and out to the parking lot. Realizing she didn’t have a key to the car, she leaned against it and waited. She heard the sound of the car doors being unlocked before she saw her mom stalking across the lot. Both got in the car and slammed their doors.
Mom turned the key in the ignition, but made no effort to put the car in drive. “Reagan, honey, I know you’re mad. I apologize for getting upset in there, but I’m worried and scared. You’ve never acted this way, and I don’t want to lose you. I’ve already lost so much.” Mom started to choke up and tears began flowing down her cheeks.
Reagan softened. She loved her mom, but Reagan also needed people to trust her way of dealing with all this. “I know. I’ve lost a lot, too. And not just Sam. There are other things I can’t explain right now. I’m not trying to shut you out. I just don’t get it.”
“Maybe Dr. Ableman can help both of us. Will you at least give it a try?”
Reagan nodded, not because she didn’t trust her own words anymore but also because a screaming migraine invaded her brain. And with it, came the voice. “Trust no one.”
The sound of her cell phone pinging startled her. She grabbed it and saw the text from Rafe: WE NEED TO TALK.
She was avoiding Rafe and Dex, but she had too much else on her mind to care what they thought. School was two days away, so her ability to avoid them was fast coming to an end. So much was on the horizon for her senior year—track and lacrosse practice would start soon, she had an insanely tough schedule, and social obligations would be in full swing.
Her mom had begged her to quit something and, much to the dismay of Serena and Aspen, cheerleading had to go. Reagan’s coach wasn’t happy either, pulling a major Sue Sylvester smack down when Reagan quit. The whole time Coach was yelling, Reagan envisioned the lady with short blonde hair and a red track suit. Thank God she didn’t break out in song.
Some girls dream of their weddings, some of their first baby—all Reagan cared about since she turned thirteen and officially embraced teenagerdom was her senior year. Her mother sent Reagan to ballroom dance and etiquette classes in the eighth grade, and Reagan saw visions of her prom and dancing with Dex, who was merely a crush back then. At the time, Serena and Aspen were busy designing wedding dresses and talking about how they’d all be in each others’ weddings.
Not Reagan. She wanted to have one hell of a prom and then head to college. From there, she wanted to travel the world and make a difference. She wanted her own life before she had a husband and kids to take care of. People would know her name. Specifics hadn’t been hashed out yet, but she knew she was destined for more than a small town and marrying her high school boyfriend. Losing Sam made her want it even more. Life was too short.
But today marked the biggest change in her senior year hopes—visiting a psychiatrist. Never, not in a million years, would Reagan have considered her mental stability and life without her brother back in her ballroom dancing days. Hell, she couldn’t have envisioned it six months ago.
Since her appointment with Dr. Moore, Reagan wasn’t herself. Her headaches and sleepless nights had increased. She refused the medication, and the only good sleep she ever managed was when she stayed in the basement with her grandmother and kept the candle burning all night. Neither of those solutions seemed to make Mom happy.
Reagan was increasin
gly aware of Nana’s chanting at night. It spawned a desire to know more about Nana’s gifts and how they could help, but Reagan was also wary of them. Not just because of Mom’s feelings on the matter, but because they shared blood. Do I have powers? Did her mother ever have any?
Those questions would have to wait. Nana was taking Reagan on a little getaway the second weekend in September back to Georgia. At first Mom fought it, but Reagan promised cooperation with the psychiatrist and more evenings at home in exchange for the weekend. Finally, with some helpful prodding from her dad, Mom gave in. Reagan couldn’t wait to have some alone time with her grandmother and Aunt Sarah.
Mom and her sister, Sarah, talked once a year at Christmas. Reagan received a birthday and Christmas card from Sarah every year, but hadn’t seen her since the age of five. All Reagan remembered was Aunt Sarah’s flaming red hair.
So one psychiatrist appointment, or at least Reagan hoped it would be one, and a couple of weeks of school, and she would be off to Georgia. How hard could it be to convince some schmuck psychiatrist she was a normal seventeen-year-old? She was much more concerned about avoiding Dex and Rafe once school started than facing some grey-haired Freud wannabe.
“It’s time to head out,” Mom said, entering Reagan’s room and bringing her out of her thoughts.
“Is Dad coming?” Last night, she heard her parents arguing about this very topic. Her dad was adamant that his wife and daughter needed to figure out their problems, with a huge emphasis on the word their.
“No, he wants us to attend a few sessions first. Then, if Dr. Ableman suggests your father attend, he will.”
All Reagan heard was “a few sessions.” She felt caught in a conspiracy where everybody else thought they knew better than she did. She started to complain, but nothing was going to jeopardize her trip with Nana. Nothing. Plus, Reagan knew how determined her mom was about this therapy. What harm could come of it anyway?
Few words were exchanged on the ride into Boulder. Reagan helped ensure the silence by whipping out her earphones and iPod as soon as she buckled in. She could feel her mom looking over from time-to-time, but figured they’d have plenty of time for sharing during their forty-five minutes with Dr. Ableman.
When they arrived, they walked into what looked like a historic house in an older neighborhood. A small sign indicated for them to walk around the back and down the stairs to Dr. Ableman’s office. It appeared to be attached to his house.
Entering the makeshift lobby, Reagan and her mom walked over to the desk. A sign-up sheet was there with a note telling patients to sign in and wait. The room was very plain except for posters and pamphlets about teen suicide, Anorexia Nervosa, and depression.
Great way to motivate kids with problems, Reagan thought. Have depressing posters and pamphlets all around a basement room with no natural light. Obviously this guy’s a genius!
Twenty minutes later, and ten minutes past their scheduled appointment time, Dr. Ableman walked out of his office with a girl, who looked to be about thirteen, and her mother. Or, Reagan assumed it was the teen’s mother based on the location and the fact that the girl favored the older woman. Both had swollen eyes, tissues in hand, and tear-stained cheeks. Reagan fought the intense urge to run. The thought that she and her mother would exit the old man’s office in similar shape in forty-five minutes made Reagan sick to her stomach.
“Calm down,” the now-familiar voice echoed in her head. God, please don’t let me go crazy in this basement hell-hole. Reagan focused on her breathing and shut her eyes for a minute to do just what the voice instructed—calm down. Lately, Reagan started to wonder if this voice, clearly a male’s, was God. Maybe he was trying to get her through losing her brother. Shake it off, Reagan. These are the thoughts that’ll get you committed.
“Hello, Mrs. Cooper, Reagan. It’s nice to meet you.” Dr. Ableman extended his hand first to Mom and then to Reagan. Even his hands felt old. “Follow me into my office.”
Another dark room. In it were a few chairs, a desk, and a couple of framed degrees hanging on the wall. Dr. Ableman motioned for his visitors to sit in the chairs while he leaned against the corner of his desk and opened a file folder. “Dr. Moore forwarded me some of Reagan’s records.” He flipped through a few more pages before focusing on Reagan. “But why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
“Earlier this summer, my son was killed in an accident. Reagan was severely injured during the attack.” Mom stopped and reached for the Kleenex box on the desk in front of them. She dabbed at her eyes, and continued, “She was in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Since she’s been back, she’s had a hard time. We all have.”
“First of all, Mrs. Cooper, I’m sorry to hear about your loss. For you, too, Reagan.” He took a moment for a dramatic exhale, or at least Reagan thought it was overly dramatic, before he continued, “Reagan, tell me about the incident.”
There was something cold in his voice, detached. Reagan was grateful for it, because it made it easier for her to keep control and not let emotions reign. If only her mother could feel the same way.
“We were attacked in the woods while we were camping. I heard my brother screaming . . .” No sooner had she said the words than she heard a piercing scream in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the top of her nose between her thumb and pointer finger. It only seemed like seconds, but she didn’t have time to continue.
“. . . headaches.” Reagan heard her mother say.
The screaming continued in Reagan’s head, but she pushed her way through it. “Sorry, nothing a few Advil can’t fix.”
The doctor moved to sit behind his desk, pulled a long yellow pad of lined paper out of his top drawer, grabbed a pen, and started writing. Reagan was unnerved. “Anyway, as I was saying, I heard my brother screaming. I ran out of my tent, and the last thing I remember was being pushed to the ground and feeling intense pain. Then it went dark. I woke up several days later in the hospital.”
Doctor Ableman stopped writing. “But I have here that you mentioned being attacked by a wolf.”
“Rangers at Yellowstone guessed grizzly bear, and the doctors in the Wyoming hospital agreed with that,” Mom added before Reagan could speak.
Reagan knew fighting her mother’s assessment would result in a much longer session. Arguing over the reality of what happened would only cause Reagan to be stuck in therapy hell for the rest of her young life.
“How are you sleeping, Reagan?” Dr. Ableman asked.
There was no use denying her sleeping problems, since he clearly had Dr. Moore’s notes right there. “Not well.”
“Does the medicine help you sleep?”
“No.” Short and sweet.
Reagan’s mom huffed and squirmed in her seat, but Reagan refused to acknowledge the noise. Several questions later, she was out of the hot seat.
Dr. Ableman turned his attention to Mom.
In a million years, Reagan could never have predicted the next twenty minutes. Mom went into detail about crying herself to sleep every night, her fears about losing Reagan, and how Steve was pulling away since Sam’s death. But Reagan’s ears really perked up when her mom mentioned Nana’s influence over Reagan’s strange behavior.
“What do you mean?” the doctor asked.
“My mother’s a Wiccan, and she’s trying to heal Reagan in the Wiccan way.”
Reagan wanted to scream. Was there a more perfect way to ensure being locked up in a padded cell than to tell about a family member being a witch?
“Mom, she’s trying to help, and she often does.” Reagan couldn’t help but defend Nana, even though the therapy session wasn’t supposed to be about her.
Exposing Nana as a Wiccan was only the tip of the iceberg. Mom continued explaining she was estranged from her sister because she was also a Wiccan. The puzzle pieces were both falling into place and scattering in the wind. Reagan made a mental note to ask Nana about it on their trip. Gut instinct said to get Nana’s version of the story befo
re Mom’s.
“Mrs. Cooper, let’s pick up there for our next meeting. Do you think your mother would consider joining us next week?” Dr. Ableman asked.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Really, if you didn’t think it was a good idea, why in the world did you bring Nana into the conversation? Words screamed in her head, and Reagan thought she would crawl out of her own skin if she didn’t get out of this prison cell.
“Reagan, here’s the car keys. I’ll make our appointment and meet you out there.”
Grateful for the opportunity to escape, Reagan did as she was told.
“Nice to meet you, Reagan, and I look forward to seeing you next week.”
Reagan shook his hand and bolted. She walked up to the street and found herself blinded by sunlight. It was so dark in the basement office she’d forgotten the sun was still shining. Adjusting to the light, she almost bumped into the guy in front of her. Squinting, she recognized Rafe.
“Are you avoiding me?”
“I could ask you the same thing. Except for a few texts, I haven’t heard from you, either.”
“We really should talk,” he said, putting one hand on Reagan’s shoulder. Heat spread throughout her body. She hated her reaction to him, how it controlled her, but she also found it confusing. Was it attraction or disgust?
“Reagan, we really should go,” Mom said, walking up to them. Reagan didn’t realize her mother had already come out.
“Mom, this is Rafe. I told you a little about him.”
Mom made no attempt to hide sizing him up.
“Hello, Mrs. Cooper,” Rafe said, extending his hand.
“Nice to meet you.” Mom didn’t bother extending her hand. “Reagan, it’s time to go.”
Reagan had never seen her mom behave so rudely. Usually she was all about impressing Reagan’s friends—young men especially.
“Guess I’ll call you later.” Reagan sighed.
“You really should.”
Reagan watched him walk away then headed to the car. As soon as she got in, Mom made her opinion clear yet again. “I really don’t want you hanging around with that boy.”
Tala Prophecy: The Complete Series Page 8