Six Months Later

by Natalie D. Richards

  I tear my eyes away from the rearview mirror to look at her. “He is?”

  “Well, yeah. His GPA this quarter is a 3.98.” Abbey covers her mouth the moment she finishes her sentence, looking shamed. “I shouldn’t have said that. I overheard it in the office. Honest, I wasn’t trying to be a snoop.”

  I smile my first genuine smile since this whole thing started. And why shouldn’t I? The walking Gossip Girl of Ridgeview, Ohio, just landed in my car.

  “That’s okay,” I tell her. “It wasn’t like you divulged some dirty secret.”

  She giggles. “He probably thinks his grades are a dirty secret. I’ll just never understand. So did you hear about James and Kelsey?”

  I drive as slowly as possible while Abbey fills me in on all the latest social happenings of our school. She’s got juicy stuff on absolutely everyone, which would be sort of fun if she wasn’t so determined to put a positive spin on every last bit of that dirt. Also, she might look seventeen, but after listening to her talk, I’m pretty sure she is an eighty-five-year-old widow who attends church three times a week.

  “Bless her heart, we all make mistakes. It’s really a shame those two can’t work it out,” she says as I turn onto Belmont Street.

  Cookie-cutter two-story and Cape Cod houses like mine give way to sprawling historic giants. Mom calls them the Belmont Beauties. She’s not wrong.

  This is where Abbey lives. Where all the Ridgeview lifers live. These homes have been in their families for generations. I gaze out the window, passing wide, wraparound porches, most festooned with Prowler Pride flags and “Keep Ridgeview Clean” signs.

  And then of course, there is the queen of them all. The white, columned mansion flanked by lilac bushes in the spring and crowned in glittering lights at Christmas. The Miller house. Iona, Quentin, and their daughter, Julien. Julien holds more academic and athletic titles than my entire homeroom class. It’s not surprising. Her parents were legends too.

  What is surprising is the lack of pumpkins and cornucopias on the lawn. Mrs. Miller lives to keep her house appropriately festive for every conceivable holiday and—wait a minute. Where are her curtains?

  Something small and white near the mailbox catches my eyes.

  I slam on the brakes, gaping at the wooden realtor sign with its bright red FOR SALE message printed at the top.

  “Omigosh, Chloe, what is it? Is it a dog?” Abbey asks, hand to her chest and eyes searching the road. “Did it get away?”

  “Where are the Millers?” I ask, waving wildly at the house.

  Abbey’s too busy worrying about the nonexistent dog to even look at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? I’m talking about the Millers, the family that’s lived here for, like, twelve billion years!”

  Abbey turns, looking at me like she’s seen a ghost. Her dark eyes go very round.

  “You’re joking right? They left in August, Chloe.”

  “Left?” I say, because I can’t even process that word. The Millers do not leave. They organize every charity event and holiday parade in this little nowhere town. If they left, the whole damn city would slide into Lake Erie.

  “California,” Abbey says slowly, looking a little pale. “Remember their big move to California?”

  I blink but say nothing. Because I’d believe in Bigfoot before I’d believe this. The Millers wouldn’t move two blocks away from their ancestral abode, let alone two thousand miles.

  “Chloe, you came to the going away party. You and Blake.” She looks genuinely frightened now. “Are you kidding around or something?”

  She wants me to be kidding. Heck, I want me to be kidding. So I sigh and give an awkward laugh. “Uh, of course. It’s just…weird seeing their house empty like that.”

  Abbey deflates like a balloon, shaking her head so that her blond hair swishes. “You’re terrible, Chloe. Frightened me half to death.”

  I force a smile, but it feels too tight on my lips. My palms go slick on the steering wheel. Between that and my shaking knees, I don’t know how I drive the next half block to Abbey’s place.

  She stops after she’s out, holding the door open with a manicured hand. The air is icy, and my head is throbbing now. I just want her to go.

  “You know, I thought the move was weird too. Julien seemed so off that whole month, like she could barely remember her own name. You can’t imagine the kind of stuff she couldn’t remember. It was…uncanny.”

  I can actually feel the ice forming in my veins. I force myself to respond. “Yeah, well, I’d be off too if I was moving thousands of miles away.”

  “Yes, but…” She trails off, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, never mind.”

  “No, tell me,” I say, though I have a bad feeling I don’t really want to know.

  Abbey tips her head. “Well, do you remember that psychology course we took last year?”

  I nod impatiently because of course I remember it. It was the first time in my life I’ve ever leafed through a textbook ahead of time. Just for fun.

  “Remember the day we discussed phobias and fears, and Julien said her mom had a terrible case of that, um, sizme…” She pauses, searching for the word.

  “Seismophobia,” I say automatically. “Fear of earthquakes.”

  Abbey nods. “Don’t you think it’s weird that someone with a fear like that would move out to California? I mean, isn’t that where all the earthquakes happen?”

  It is.

  I look at Abbey and think of the empty house, something cold and prickly creeping up my spine. I feel like it’s somehow reaching at me, begging me to tell the rest of the story. But I don’t know the rest of the story.

  Or at least, I don’t remember it.

  Abbey shifts her books and laughs. “Probably just silly of me to think it. I’m sure they have their reasons. I guess you never really know what happened if you weren’t there.”

  “No, I guess you don’t.” Especially not if you’re me.

  When she closes the door, I pull my phone out of my purse and dial Maggie’s number. It rings straight to voice mail, her soft voice lilting out of the tinny speaker. I wish I’d thought about this longer because I don’t know how to say this. I only know that I have to.

  “It’s me. I know something’s going on with us, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to talk to me, but I had to call.” I take a shuddery breath. “I’m scared, Mags. I think something happened to me, and I think whatever it is, I think it might have happened to Julien Miller too.”

  ***

  Dad and Mom are home early when I get the house, which I expected. It’s Taco Tuesday. We started this when Dad worked horrible hours and Mom was still going for her master’s degree, one meal a week when we’d all be together.

  At first we’d trot out the good dishes and make a chips and salsa bar and a buffet of taco toppings. Most of it fell by the wayside after a couple of months. But I guess old habits die hard, because we still get Mexican takeout every Tuesday night, and we usually end up on the couch together watching something on TV.

  They look up at me with matching smiles as I head in, hanging up my purse and my coat. I smell salsa and can see a spread of chalupas and chips spread out on the coffee table. It’s a happy, easy scene. I’m about to fling a flaming wrench into the middle of it.

  I don’t want to do this. What I want to do is be this new version of me, the one they’ve probably been hoping for all along. They probably think I’ve finally got it all figured out. Except that I can’t even figure out where I sit in my fourth-period trig class.

  “I think something’s wrong with me,” I say, because there’s not much sense in beating around it.

  Mom turns first, a crease forming between her brows. Dad follows, his smile quickly fading when he sees I’m not joking.

  They watch me with a look of growing fear that probably matches my own expression. Ever since I saw the Millers’ empty mansion, I’ve been scared to death. And I know I look it. />
  ***

  Four hours later I’m strapped down in a hospital testing room that smells like disinfectant. The gown scratches at my skin even though I’m trying to hold still like they asked.

  “You’re doing great, Chloe,” a tinny voice assures me over the speaker. “Still okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Total lie. This is not okay. Anytime you spend four hours getting poked and prodded while wearing a gown that leaves your butt flapping in the breeze, things are not okay.

  At least in this dark machine no one will come in to shine a light in my eyes. Or ask me the same five questions the last ten doctors and nurses have asked.

  I thought about writing a list to save myself the trouble. No, my vision is fine. No, I am not sleepy. No, I’ve had no nausea. No, there isn’t any pain. Yes, I’m having some trouble with my memory. Dad and I started making up a song about it after the fourth person, but Mom shot us a look that could wither an evergreen, so we stopped.

  The scanner grinds and buzzes around me. I try not to think about it. Instead, I wonder if I should have told them the whole truth. I mean, I said I had some missing time, but I was pretty vague about it.

  “You’re all done,” the speaker voice says, and then the little tray I’m on whirs me out of the machine.

  From there, they cart me to another room where I wait alone for at least a year. Maybe two.

  “How are you holding up?” Mom asks when she arrives. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone to the cafeteria.” She looks like she cried the entire time I’ve been in the CT scanner.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m not dying, you know.”

  “Of course not. I know that,” she says.

  Behind her, my dad rolls his eyes, making boo-hooing gestures that make it crystal clear how fine she is.

  “Contraband,” he says, tossing me a Mr. Goodbar.

  “You’re my hero,” I say, shredding the wrapper and scarfing down half of the candy bar in one bite. “I’m starved.”

  “George, she’s not supposed to eat,” Mom says.

  “I know,” I say around a mouthful of chocolate. “I’m such a rebel. First, Mr. Goodbar.”

  “Next she’ll be robbing banks,” Dad says, finishing my sentence.

  Mom sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not funny.”

  But it is. Pretty soon we’re all laughing. I think they’re buying it. I think they totally believe that I’m not scared anymore.

  The neurologist who ordered my CT scan walks in holding my folder. He’s got the longest, thinnest fingers I’ve ever seen and a mustache that looks penciled on. I can’t help thinking he’d be a perfect Disney villain.

  “The good news is, I don’t see a concussion,” he announces. “Your scan looks perfectly normal, Chloe.”

  Apparently the stress that’s been holding me upright evaporates, because the minute I hear perfectly normal, I drop back to the pillow like my bones have melted.

  My relief doesn’t last. I prop myself back up on my elbows, frowning at him. “Wait. Then what’s wrong with me?”

  The doctor tips his head back and forth, like he’s weighing something in his mind. My parents squirm in their chairs. Oh no. I know that look. I also know my parents probably filled out a lot of helpful information regarding my mental health history.

  The doctor clears his throat and glances at my file. “Your parents tell me that you had some trouble with panic attacks. A little over a year ago?”

  “Yeah, I had panic attacks. I didn’t start losing time.”

  Nobody speaks. They all just look at me in that careful, guarded way. The way kids at school looked at me after the ambulance took me after that first attack.

  I shake my head, frustrated. “I’m not crazy.”

  “No one’s saying that,” Dad says.

  Mom says nothing.

  The doctor dons an expression of neutral compassion that they probably bottle and sell in pill form at medical school. “Doctors don’t like to use words like crazy.”

  Yeah, not with people they think are crazy.

  He tucks my file under his chin and looks thoughtful. “Chloe, stress can manifest itself in hundreds of ways, and the effects are very real. As a high school senior, you’re at a critical turning point in your life and that creates pressure. I think you need to find ways to cope with these issues.”

  Unbelievable. I’m missing time, and this doctor, this highly trained medical professional, wants to pat my hand and tell me I’m stressed? He’s still talking, but I’m done listening. All I can think about is my medical chart, of the section on panic attacks that’s going to stay with me for the rest of my life.

  I take a breath, and I can almost smell the chlorine from the pool that first day it happened. Everything should have been fine. I mean, yeah, I had stuff going on. My homecoming date backed out, I failed my first two history quizzes, but it was just stuff. It wasn’t tragic.

  Every girl in my class swam their timed lap and got out, except me. Halfway down my return lap, I felt my whole body curl in around a crushing pain in my chest. I was tumbling in agony, sputtering wildly for the surface. Our gym teacher, Mrs. Schumacher, had to drag me out of the pool, and I screamed like a banshee; it hurt that bad.

  They stretched me out on that rough cement beside the diving board, and I stared up at the dripping swimsuits, sure I’d die.

  I didn’t. I did, however, end up with several months of behavior therapy and a brief starring role in the gossip highlights of Ridgeview High.

  “Chloe, do you understand what the doctor said?” Mom asks, interrupting my trip down memory lane. Her voice is pinched and tight, just like her smile.

  I manage a nod, and everyone nods with me, looking oddly relieved. Did they expect me to say no? Maybe to run around screaming or something?

  They hand my mother discharge papers and shuffle me to the door. My dad reaches forward to shake hands with the doctor.

  “Dr. Kirkpatrick says she could squeeze her in this afternoon,” the doctor says softly.

  “We’ll take her right over,” Dad promises.

  Chapter Six

  I’ve read that in a therapy session, everything is analyzed, from the chair you choose to how long you wait to answer a question. So now, instead of actually focusing on real issues, I’m wondering if I’m sitting in a way that says relaxed and healthy or disturbed and potentially sociopathic.

  I glance at the clock and realize I’ve already looked at it three times. A possible indicator of obsessive-compulsive disorder. What else could I have? Paranoia? Generalized anxiety disorder? God, I wish she’d just say something so I can stop the diagnosis roulette.

  Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back in her chair. She’s got some issues too, I’d bet. I’ve seen her a total of thirteen times, including this session, and in that time, she’s had three drastically different hairstyles. Talk about identity issues.

  The last time, she had an auburn pixie cut. Now her hair is jet-black and angled harshly around her chin. She looked friendlier before, like a fairy just a few years past her prime. I can’t help feeling like this version of Dr. Kirkpatrick should slap on some red lipstick and pull a gun on me or something.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve talked,” she says. “Would you like to catch me up?”

  I glance at the clock again. It’s four minutes after. Just long enough for me to stop looking around the office, but not so long that I’ve had time to get nervous or rehearse answers.

  “Um, sure. School is going good.”

  Dr. Kirkpatrick nods and watches me. Which means it’s still my turn, I guess.

  “My grades are great. My classes are fine. I’m applying at a lot of colleges, I guess.”

  “Your grade point average is substantially improved from last year. The study group did good things for you,” she says. Bizarre. Do they keep that in my file? Apparently they do because she glances down at it pointedly. “How do you feel about that change?”

  H
ere we go. How do I feel about my grades? My teachers? The paint in this room? This could go on for days. I’m convinced she could find meaning in the way I feel about a carton of french fries.

  I’ve read more than anyone I know about anxiety, and I have a pretty hard time believing that a therapist is going to tie gaping holes in my memory to last year’s anxiety attacks. I tried to explain this to my parents in the car on the way over from the hospital, but my mom only sniffled harder into her tissue.

  So here I am.

  “Chloe?” she asks.

  Crap. That’ll be noted for sure. Excessive pause before answering her question.

  “Well, it’s not like I have anything to complain about. I’m going to be able to get into pretty much any college out east. Plus, I’m dating Blake, who’s great.”

  “Oh, really?” She doesn’t look surprised. She looks like she’s feigning surprise and it’s…weird. All of this is just weird. “Have you and Blake been together long?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…” Which is the God’s honest truth.

  “Would you like to tell me about him?”

  Yeah, I’d love to. Except I can’t because I don’t know a darned thing that I didn’t read in my yearbook or the school paper.

  I don’t want to say that though. There is something in the set of Dr. Kirkpatrick’s jaw that’s different from last time. And I’ll bet it’s got everything to do with the new report in my chart, the one that was probably faxed over from the neurologist. Somehow I’m betting giant memory lapses rank a wee bit higher than anxiety episodes on the how-screwed-up-is-your-patient scale.

  Before, I was a typical angsty teenager. Now I’m a real case.

  “Actually, I was hoping I could talk about losing my memories.”

  She smiles a little. Just a little. I can tell she’s pleased though. Point for me. “Sure. Why don’t you start by telling me a little more about it.”

  I bite my lip and do my best to look thoughtful. Truthfully, I don’t need to think about this. I thought about it all the way here. If I tell her too much, it will destroy everything. They’ll start talking in-patient therapy and medication, and I can kiss my senior year good-bye.