Nowhere Girl

by Susan Strecker

  “Count?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You know, standing in the grocery store, I’ll count the number of items in people’s carts and do the square root of them, or I add the numbers on license plates together and divide them by the number of people in the car.” Jesus, would I please shut up? But I had to keep going. “Or for instance, I know how many days—”

  And then the door opened, and Greg came in, and for some reason, we both stood up. Greg’s hair was messy and his shirt untucked. He shook Dr. Mirando’s hand, and I was worried the doctor might tell Greg what had flown out of my mouth about counting, but we settled back in our seats, and Greg said, “Sorry I was late; a client got admitted, and I had to be there.” Greg crossed and uncrossed his legs and spent the next thirty minutes telling Dr. Mirando about the last few weeks, how I’d gone to yoga with him and he’d gone to a Thursday dinner with me.

  When we were done discussing the time Greg and I had spent together lately, our therapist pushed up his glasses and said to me, “Cady, is there anything specific that you want to discuss?”

  “I hate our house,” I said.

  I felt Greg staring at me. “What did you say?”

  “Um, I don’t really like our house.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Mirando said. “Tell me what you don’t like about it.”

  “Our house is lovely,” Greg said defensively.

  “It’s sterile,” I said. My hands burned; they were chapped from going to the barn every day and taking care of Bliss. “And too big. And the acoustics make me wish I were deaf.” I paused for a moment but then started speaking again. “And the whole thing is a gross display of wealth.” I patted Greg’s leg. “Greg likes money.”

  He threw up his hands. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Dr. Mirando seemed to be studying me.

  “I mean that’s one of the things I was attracted to, initially. You have really great taste.” I touched the Rolex on his wrist. “High culture, upscale. I grew up in a small colonial, very middle-class, and it was exciting to be with someone who knew about architectural design and the symphony.” Here I was again, talking like someone had wound me up. I turned to Dr. Mirando and spoke directly to him. “His parents live on the Upper West Side, and they are both so lovely, and they know Paris inside and out; in fact, they are there now on sabbatical, and they go to places like Tangiers and wander the medinas, and I mean that’s the kind of person I wish I could be, but I’m really not.”

  Greg started to say something, but to my surprise, Dr. Mirando put up his hand like judges sometimes do in court when they want a witness to keep talking. He leaned forward. “What kind of person are you, Cady?”

  Greg was watching me, his eyes piercing.

  A flash of heat was crawling up my back. I felt like I might break out in hives. “I don’t know. I mean, I write mysteries—” All of a sudden, the motor cut out, and not one more word wanted to pop out of my mouth.

  Dr. Mirando seemed to know I was done talking, and he sat back in his seat. One of his almost nonexistent eyebrows was up, it seemed, permanently. No one spoke. I smoothed my skirt. I hated my legs. I hated how they spread out so wide, the thighs, it reminded me of the day so long ago when Mrs. Wilcox was typing away while I was waiting for Savannah.

  Finally, and I’m not sure where this came from, I said, “I don’t like the wall of windows in the living room. I can’t get away from them.”

  “Why would you want to get away from them?” Pepperidge Farm asked quietly.

  The therapist’s perfectly knotted tie had flip-flops on it. I wondered what his wife did for a living. I imagined she stayed home during the day and cleaned and cooked dinner and ironed the sheets. “They look out over the reservoir,” I said. “And I mean, what’s out there?” I made a sound like a laugh but not quite. “In the winter when it gets dark early and before Greg gets home, I sometimes can’t move. It’s like I stand at the windows, and I’m stuck.” I was talking quickly. I felt chilled suddenly. “It goes on for miles and miles that land. I mean, anything could be out there, and I stand in the living room and can’t move.”

  “Can’t move?” Pepperidge Farm leaned toward me again. “But what do you see there?”

  “I don’t see anything. Just my own reflection.”

  Dr. Mirando leaned back. He tented his hands and watched me. “If you see your own reflection, then you are seeing something.”

  I kept my eyes on the carpet between us. I felt blank inside.

  “Cady,” he said softly. “If you’re seeing your reflection, you are seeing yourself. And you are something.”

  And then our time was up, and Dr. Mirando said we’d talk more about it the next time.

  * * *

  Gabby had dropped me off at Mirando’s office, so I rode home with Greg in the Mercedes and watched Stanwich pass in a blur. For some reason, the nonsense words Savannah and I had spoken since we were toddlers came back to me. Cryptophasia, the books called it. A secret lexicon we’d invented that no one else could decipher. I had a sharp ache in the quiet of Greg’s car to be able to speak that language with someone again.

  “So,” Greg said. “You hate our house.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. Without Dr. Mirando, it seemed somehow risky to talk about it.

  Greg drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, I guess we should sell it,” he said, his jaw muscle flexing.

  “Seriously?” I asked him.

  “If you hate it, let’s not live there.” He turned onto State Street, and I felt a soaring lift inside. “One reason we work so hard is to have options. If we have options, we should take them.”

  “Where?” I asked. “Where should we move?”

  Greg took a breath in. “Anywhere,” he said. “We can start looking at the MLS, hit some open houses, anything you want.”

  I thought for a moment he would reach over and squeeze my fingers, but he kept his hands on the steering wheel.

  CHAPTER

  38

  “If she knocked down two poles, how come she only had four faults?” Chandler and I were at the Princeton Horse Show and I’d been explaining to him for an hour how jumper classes get scored.

  “It’s faults per jump, not each individual part of it. They’re called rails, by the way, not poles. Unless they’re on the ground; then they’re cavalettis.”

  “That’s stupid,” Chandler said. “Why can’t—”

  But my favorite rider ever trotted in the ring on a stallion the color of dark chocolate. “Quiet,” I scolded. “You know you’re not allowed to talk when Peter’s in the ring.”

  He rolled his eyes and pantomimed zipping his mouth. We watched while the Olympian galloped around without touching a jump. After the duo crossed the finish timers, Peter patted the horse on the neck and noticed us standing by the in gate. He tipped his hat to me, and I thought I would pee in my pants from sheer joy.

  Chandler checked the notebook he’d been using to record everyone’s scores. “Okay, he went not dirty—”

  I playfully punched his shoulder. “Clean.”

  “He went clean and had the fastest time. Does he win?”

  “Good lord, Chandler. How many years have I been dragging you to this horse show? Now he goes to the jump-off.”

  “Face it, sweetheart. I’m not going to pay attention until you start racing again.”

  “Showing,” I corrected. “And that’s never going to happen.” Riding was Savannah’s sport. Not mine.

  “Whatever. I just came to be your arm candy.” A famous grand prix rider from Europe who was married for the second time with two kids was very blatantly checking out Chandler.

  “And beautiful arm candy you are,” I said as his phone rang.

  He pulled it out of his back pocket. “What the hell?” he muttered.

  “Who is it?”

  “Brady.”

  My heart jumped. “Well, answer it.”

  He did and then walked away as the announcer’s voice
blared through the loudspeakers. I walked up a small hill to the VIP tent, hoping to eavesdrop on some of the riders. About two minutes later, Chandler came back.

  “We have to go. Right now.” He was gripping his car keys like they might fly away.

  “Is everything okay? What’d he want?” I was shocked that Brady had called Chandler. He was the only member of our group who hadn’t clicked right away with Brady. He thought it was weird that he liked such an awful job so much. In the moments when I thought I might want to be with Brady, it was hard for me not to shove it in Chandler’s face that not all of us had daddies who’d handed us cushy jobs with padded leather chairs and big paychecks.

  “It’s Colette,” he said, his voice serious. “She’s decompensating, and he needs help.”

  “Decompensating? What does that mean?”

  We hustled to his car as quickly as we could without scaring any horses or cutting through the two huge schooling areas. I thought about watching Colette in her garden and what Gabby had found on the Internet.

  “Why didn’t he call 911? Or me?” I asked when we were speeding down the four lanes of Route 1 in Princeton.

  “I don’t know, Cady. He was half-hysterical and said he needed help.”

  Chandler was the calm one of us. He remembered RICE (rest, ice, compression, elevation) when a young horse stepped on my foot, crushing three bones. He had the presence of mind to feel the door of his office when there was a fire years before. Afterward, the firefighters said if he’d opened his door instead of waiting for help, the back draft would have killed him. But now, he seemed like he couldn’t sit still in his seat and was laying on the horn, flying through red lights. I stayed quiet until we got to Brady’s house.

  Brady met us in the driveway. He was wearing jeans and an undershirt. His face was badly scratched. “Cady?” he said. “Thank God you’re here. I tried calling you, but it kept going right to voice mail.”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pressed the TALK button. It was dead.

  “And David didn’t pick up.” He stepped forward and shook Chandler’s hand. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was breaking. “I’m sorry I called you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I know you told me to come alone,” Chandler told him. “But we were at a horse thing, and I didn’t have time to bring her home.”

  “It’s fine. I’m glad she’s here,” Brady said, heading back to the house. I peered in the front door. A vase was overturned on the floor. Clear marbles and flowers littered the entryway.

  “Should I call 911?” I asked in a quiet voice I didn’t recognize. From up the stairs, I could hear Colette screaming.

  “I’m sorry I never told you more about her,” Brady said. I didn’t know which one of us he was talking to. “Colette is…” He paused, and I wanted to tell him that I knew. He didn’t have to speak the words. His girlfriend was schizophrenic. “She’s really sick. And sirens are part of her, uh, delusions. They mean that the gravediggers are coming for her.” He kicked the flowers out of the way. “So it’s better if we drive her to the hospital.” I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he cut me off. “Even if the ambulance and cops came with their sirens turned off, the uniforms would upset her. Believe me,” he said, his voice stern, “this is the only way.”

  We followed Brady up a set of dingy, carpeted stairs. He stopped outside a closed door.

  “Even though you’ve never met Colette, I talk about both of you all the time, so your names will be familiar to her. The trick is to keep talking. Use soothing words, do not raise your voice, and no matter what”—he looked between us—“do not tell her we’re taking her to the hospital.”

  My stomach tightened. I didn’t think I could do this. What if I said something wrong? What if I upset her and she hurt herself? My mind flashed back to the day I’d tried to kill myself, and I had the crazy thought that Colette was doing herself in as we were standing in the hall.

  Brady opened the door, and I didn’t recognize Colette as the same girl I’d seen in the garden. Now, her hair was matted, her face was covered in snot, and she was on the floor by the bedside table.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he sang to her. “I invited a couple of friends over.” He motioned to us, but she stayed on the floor with her hair covering her eyes.

  “Colette,” I said, slipping past Brady and Chandler. “I’m Cady.” I reached out for her, but she recoiled. I sat next to her, but not too close. “My parents are having a party at their restaurant, and I don’t know what kind of flowers we should use for the centerpieces. Do you have any suggestions?” I waited for her to answer, but she didn’t. “I really like orchids, but I don’t know what else they go with.”

  “Star…” Her voice trailed off, and I couldn’t understand what she was saying.

  “Star what?” I’d read while researching one of my books that eye contact can sometimes be construed as threatening to schizophrenics. I made sure I kept my gaze on my paddock boots.

  “Stargazer lilies go really well with alstroemeria,” she whispered.

  I glanced up at Brady, and he gave me the thumbs-up. “Alstro-whats? I don’t think I know them. Would you mind taking me to your garden and showing them to me?”

  She grabbed the duvet cover on their bed but didn’t get up. I continued talking to her about flowers, asking any question I could think of until she finally tried to pull herself up. I let her hold on to me, and I slowly helped her. As if a scared child clinging to her mother, she wrapped both arms around my waist and leaned all her weight against me. She was as light as air. Once we got her downstairs, Brady murmured meaningless and soothing sounds to her until he was able to ease her into the backseat of Chandler’s car. Again, like a child, as soon as the engine turned on and we began driving, she was asleep.

  “I will never be able to repay you two,” Brady told us in a hoarse, scratchy voice.

  “That’s what friends do,” Chandler said, surprising me somewhat. Chandler was the kindest of all of us, but he was still wary of Brady. But this wasn’t Brady. This was his girlfriend. His very sick girlfriend.

  I glanced in the rearview. Colette was sleeping on Brady’s shoulder.

  “Has this happened before?” I asked tentatively.

  “Yes,” Brady answered sadly. “But it’s never been this bad. This episode, before you got here, was downright terrifying. And heartbreaking.” He stopped talking to kiss her hair. “I love her, but she’s a very ill girl. And now she’s a very gone girl.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  Every year in June, Greg went to a two-week-long psychiatric conference in the middle of Indiana—or maybe it was Iowa or Ohio; I could never keep it straight—and left me alone in our huge house that maybe wasn’t going to be ours anymore. This year, he was also going to Notre Dame to visit his best college buddy, who taught neuroscience there.

  I began to write like crazy. That was how I’d always done it. I’d spend months researching and writing down plot ideas, possible twists, and first, second, and third drafts. But, when I finally set to the finished, final, polished novel, the writing came out all at once. The scenes were fully formed, the characters showed up with complexities and quirks and neuroses and pathologies. The plot formed itself into an arc, and the climax happened at the end in a kabooom where the killer was revealed, and all of a sudden, it was done.

  Of course, this binge happened after months and months of interviewing people, some wretched like Larry Cauchek and others lovely like Molly Kline, the Stanwich postmaster, whom I shadowed for a month when my killer was a mail carrier. The binge happened after months of jotting down notes about my characters and their idiosyncrasies, including what music they liked and their spiritual beliefs and if they waxed or shaved. The binge happened after staring at a blank computer screen hour after hour, feeling more and more panicked that this time the words wouldn’t show up. They’d abandon me, and I’d have a deadline looming and an advance Greg had already spent, and I wou
ldn’t be able to produce so much as a character sketch. To make matters worse, the binge usually arrived so close to the due date that I felt like I was falling, and the only thing to grab on to, to steady myself, was a live wire.

  I could feel the binge coming. It woke me up at five in the morning the day Greg was leaving. He had a car coming for him that would take him to Newark at six, and for some insane reason, he’d gone for a run, and I’d been listening to him shower in the bathroom when I felt the binge coming for me. The music arrived first. I had a soundtrack for every book I’d ever written, and I would wake up with one of the songs playing in my head. That morning, it was “Scar Tissue,” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. “I’ll make it to the moon if I have to crawl.” That line reminded me so much of Savannah. Then again, what didn’t? Then the characters came in a film reel playing in my mind, so real I felt like I could reach out and touch them with my hands. I could see the rooms they inhabited, the color of their socks, and how they liked their coffee.

  “Greg,” I called through the closed bathroom door.

  The shower turned off. “What?” he answered. He was always grumpy before traveling. Greg was orderly; he liked to control his surroundings. Standing in the terminal hoping the plane would be on time and that he wouldn’t have a seat next to some gigantic man with halitosis and the swine flu was not his idea of fun.

  “I’m going to the store,” I said.

  He opened the door. He had a towel around his waist, and his chest was still wet. “Now?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The novel is coming.”

  He grinned. He loved the binge because, I think, he was always a little worried I wouldn’t deliver. Sometimes I’d be watching TV or peeling a banana, and he would say something like, “Shouldn’t you get to the writing?” It made me want to take out a hatchet and do something to his face that one of my characters might do.

  “Well, great,” he said, bending down and giving me a quick peck on the lips. “Perfect timing.”