by D. J. Palmer
“Funny, I thought she was our daughter,” Carl said.
“You know what I mean,” Becky said.
“What about our marriage? Do you give a shit about that?”
“I didn’t think you’d care.”
“I bailed you out, didn’t I?”
“What do you want me to do, Carl? I thanked you. I thank you. I honestly can’t do more than that.”
Carl drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “What about our ‘get through this together’ pep talk we had at Andrea Leers’s office? Or was that just a bunch of BS?”
“It wasn’t BS until you turned against me. She needed that biopsy.”
“And you need professional help,” Carl said cuttingly. “I don’t claim to understand what’s gotten into your head, but I do know that you’re not well.”
“Is this your pitch to win me back, sweetheart? Because I’ll tell you, it could use some polish.”
Carl smiled. “Can I win you back?” he asked.
“It’s all about Meghan right now. I can’t think about us—I don’t even want to.”
“Fair enough,” Carl said. “But I still think it’s all about you.”
“Which is why I’m moving out,” Becky said.
“We don’t need to be like this,” Carl said.
“Like what?” Becky answered coolly.
“Like enemies. I still love you. You’re still my wife.”
Becky glared at him hard.
“What?” Carl asked.
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Hit Meghan. Why would you ever do that?”
“What are you talking about?” There was a notable unease in his voice.
“Why did you hit her?” Becky asked again.
“That’s … that’s utterly ridiculous,” Carl said. “She told you that? What did she say?” Again, Becky heard the tremble that betrayed his anxiousness.
“She said it’s been hard for her that you don’t believe she’s sick, and that she confronted you about it. The only explanation she could come up with, which she told you, is that you wanted her dead. And that’s when she said you must have been glad Sammy died because you probably never wanted children. And then you hit her, open palm, against her cheek. Is it true?”
Becky fixed Carl with a fierce stare, expecting him to rage, even to strike her but, to her surprise, his whole body seemed to relax.
“She said all that?” His faint smile would have been imperceptible without decades of marriage for her to reference.
“Yes. So, did you do it? Did you hit her?”
“No,” Carl said with certainty, and this time Becky detected no deception from him. “I never did. I never hit her and I never would. And yes, she did say all those things to me, but you have to believe me, what she told you never happened. Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
Carl shifted the Mercedes over to the fast lane. He glanced in the rearview, perhaps to make sure no news vans were following.
“Meghan is so desperate for your approval, for your love, that she’s going along with your delusions. You’re re-creating the same dynamic you had with your mom. Your daughter is trying to reconnect with you, to reach you, which is why she’s inventing things that never happened.”
“I’m not delusional,” said Becky, striking a defiant tone.
“She’s making up stories about me that are as crazy as the ones you’re inventing about her. You’re making her sick, Becky—physically, emotionally, mentally sick. And you need to stop. You need to stop right now before it’s too late.”
Becky brushed strands of hair away from her face. On her wrist, she could still see a trace of red where the handcuffs had been, but the real scars were invisible. Those were scars from Cora, or Sammy, the ones that Carl and Sabrina seemed to think had driven her mad.
The phone rang. The number on the in-car display came up as WHITE MEMORIAL. Carl answered the call using Bluetooth.
“Carl Gerard here, you’re on speaker.”
“It’s Dr. Nash.”
Becky’s stomach clenched at the name of the woman she blamed most for her ordeal.
“I’m with Becky now,” Carl said. “Is everything all right?”
“Hello, Becky,” Nash said with a touch of disdain.
“Is Meghan all right?” Becky asked, feeling the sting of the court order barring her from White.
“Well, that’s why I’m calling,” Nash said.
Becky gripped the car armrest with grave anticipation.
“Meghan saw the news, meaning she saw you, Becky.”
“I thought the children weren’t allowed to watch the news,” Carl said.
“One of the patients smuggled in a cell phone, which we’ve confiscated.”
“And?”
“And she’s been struggling since coming back here. She hasn’t been eating. She’s been extremely depressed. Agitated. And seeing you on the news has only made things worse for her.”
Becky felt a surge of anger toward Zach.
“What can we do?” Carl asked.
“I think Meghan needs to see her mother, see that she’s okay, that she hasn’t been hurt. I’ve spoken with Meghan’s new psychiatrist, who agrees the visit would be beneficial.”
“Well, that’s impossible,” Becky said, “because the judge has ordered me to stay away.”
“DCF is working on that as we speak,” Nash said. “They should be able to get that condition lifted.”
“Could you please contact the kitchen staff right away,” Becky said to Nash.
“Why?” she asked.
“Well, I’m not showing up without some chicken soup.”
CHAPTER 49
MEGHAN
At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes when Mom walked through the door to Charlotte’s Web. I did a double take before leaping out of my chair. I ran to her, not my dad, at a full sprint, forgetting all her warnings about exertion. Maybe everything was going to be all right.
Our emotional reunion had an audience. We weren’t going to be left alone, for obvious reasons. All the key players were there: that annoying lady from DCF, Annabel Hope, who I suspected cut her bangs with a ruler; Jill Mendoza, my oh-so-charming guardian ad litem; Knox Singer; Dr. Nash; and my new shrink, who shall remain nameless because I don’t care about her one bit. There were also a bunch of orderlies and nurses in the room in case things got out of hand.
My fellow inmates (okay, okay, patients) weren’t around to witness the joyous reunion, but they were nearly as excited as I was for Mom’s visit. Mom was a legend on this floor, and I guess by proxy (get it?), so was I. I got a huge round of applause when they brought me back. Even Bathtub Girl started acting nice to me. In fact, she was the one who showed me the news footage on her contraband cell phone of Mom leaving the courthouse.
But Mustache Man didn’t seem all too pleased with my return. The same went for Loretta, who everyone said hadn’t ventured so much as five feet from her food cart since my escape.
Mustache Man was guarding the door with four other orderlies—four instead of the usual two, just in case there was trouble. But there wouldn’t be any trouble. My spirit was broken. I was broken. Maybe I was broken and crazy. Maybe my mom had planted the idea that I was sick in my head and it had sprouted into a forest where I couldn’t find my way out. Crazy or not, I could almost hear the switches inside me, each click a symptom of something wrong.
Fatigue. Muscle aches. Weakness. Headaches. But there was never anything major—no seizures, no cancer, no blood disorder, nothing medically amiss, at least nothing Nash could find.
But I forgot all about those symptoms, real or imagined, when Mom showed up. I swear there was like an angel’s halo surrounding her. She came running over to me, thermos in hand. We hugged and cried. I could tell she was trying to hold it together for me, but it was no use. We were both a hot mess, the full waterworks. I swear even Jill Mendoza got a little teary.
/> My new shrink, aka she-who-shall-remain-nameless, looked on with curiosity, studying us like a field scientist watching animals in the wild. To be fair, she was a nice lady—harmless, I supposed. She and Dr. Nash were the ones who had pushed hard for my mom to come here, so I guess I couldn’t think too badly of her.
Still, I wished Dr. Levine were around—or, let’s be honest, still alive. I could have sworn he was starting to have doubts about his original diagnosis before he died, the medical child abuse and all that. Maybe those switches I kept talking about weren’t in my head. But my new shrink wasn’t going to entertain that notion, not for a second. In her mind, my mom had filled me with so much nonsense that I couldn’t tell delusion from reality.
“We know what’s wrong with me,” I told my shrink during our last session. “It’s mito. Dr. Fisher told me I was going to resume my mito treatment.”
“Dr. Fisher is not treating you anymore, Meghan. We are.” To my ears, she sounded a lot like a grief counselor. That flicked a new switch in me—the one that stopped caring about anything she had to say.
But now that my mom was here, I was feeling better already.
“Baby, it’s so, so good to see you,” Mom said, stroking the same cheek where my dad had struck me.
“I didn’t think I was coming back here,” I said to Mom as we broke apart.
“Let’s talk,” she said.
We sat on colorful plastic chairs at a round table in the back of the room, just my mom, my dad, and me, with everyone else keeping watch from afar. Being here with Mom made me miss the apartment we had shared—more than I missed my bedroom, even. I loved the cool furniture and the hip neighborhood I could explore only from the rooftop. But mostly what I had loved was being with my mom. I wanted us to be on the run again. Thelma and Louise back in action. I wished we’d gone to California and forgotten all about Dr. Zach Fisher. Forgotten about my dad, even.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” said my mom.
Dad sent Mom a nasty look. “Becky, don’t.”
“Don’t what, Dad?” I said with attitude.
“We don’t need to go there, is all,” Dad said.
“Go where, Dad?” I asked.
“The doctors told us to keep it positive.”
For the first time in a long time, I could feel switches going on, not off, firing up my anger at my father. He had backed Dr. Nash, and she had backed my new shrink. Just because he had paid Mom’s bail didn’t mean he was on our side.
“You look so thin,” Mom said, unscrewing the thermos lid to the chicken soup. “Eat something. I made it special for you.”
“Please eat, Meghan,” Dad said.
I took one whiff and wanted to gag. In truth, all I wanted to do was sleep. I wanted to crawl under the covers of my bed and sleep the day away, sleep away the night, my life. I wanted to close my eyes and never wake up, not unless I was magically transported somewhere else. Mom screwed the lid back on the thermos. Dad looked disappointed, but Mom knew there’d be no convincing me.
“Dr. Fisher quit,” Mom told me. “Did you know that?”
“Why?” I was genuinely surprised by the news.
“Because he thought you were going to be treated, not returned,” Mom said.
“Becky, please, this isn’t the conversation—”
“No?” I said, fixing my father with the kind of “leave me alone” look he must have grown accustomed to seeing by now. “Are there other things we should talk about?”
I looked at him piercingly, assuming Dad would get the hint. He looked over at Mom, and I knew they had talked about “the Slap,” which is how I’d come to think of it. Hit or slap, it was still assault—it was child abuse. It was also kind of ironic that my mom was accused of abusing me when, in fact, it was my father who’d hit me.
I guess that’s what finally changed things for me, why I decided to tell her the truth. Will the real abuser please stand up! I didn’t even care about being a family anymore. I’d come to a new realization after the police took my mom away: she’s the one I needed in my life, and it wasn’t fair that she didn’t know the truth about my dad. I’d been trying to protect everyone, but I could see now how strong my mother was, how much she could handle. Finally, I could get rid of the weight I’d been carrying because I had nothing more to fear. But, of course, I couldn’t say anything in front of my father.
“Dad, could Mom and I be alone for a minute?” I asked.
Dad looked unsure. “I don’t think—”
“Carl, please,” Mom said with force. “Just give us a minute to ourselves if that’s what she needs. Don’t worry. I’m not going to run off with her again.”
Dad sized up the situation. He knew he was outnumbered, outvoted. He groaned as he stood. It was his way of voicing disapproval. He jabbed a finger at the thermos of soup. “Get her to eat something, will you?” he said. “She looks emaciated.” He stormed away.
Mom took hold of my hand and squeezed it. A tear leaked out of my eye. The truth was hard. It hurt. It had a crushing weight. But keeping secrets, well, that had weight, too.
“What is it, sweetheart? Talk to me. Did someone hurt you?”
I lowered my head because I couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Remember what I told you about Dad?”
“Oh yes,” Mom said, her blue eyes darkening. “He had a very different story to tell.”
I’d always adored and idolized my father. I had always wanted his approval, wanted him to notice me on the soccer field, anywhere. He was my hero. I knew he was charming, attractive, that women noticed him. Hell, some of my friends noticed him. But I wished I could bring back the image of him I’d had when I was a little girl. I wanted that feeling of pure awe, of sweet love. I wanted to adore him again. But I knew too much to ever go back.
“Well,” I said, my gaze shifting to the floor. “He’s lying, and I wasn’t entirely honest either.”
“He didn’t hit you?” Mom sounded perplexed.
“No, he did hit me, but not for the reason I told you. It wasn’t about Sammy.”
“Why, then?”
“Well…” My leg was bouncing with nervous energy. “A few months ago, I figured out the password on his cell phone. The code was my birthday. I was just goofing around to see if that was it, and it was.”
“And?”
“And I saw some messages on his phone.”
“Oh no…” Mom’s coloring went paler than mine.
“And they were … they were really explicit.”
“Who? Who was it with?”
“Her name is Angi,” Meghan said. “Spelled A-N-G-I, so it’s kind of trendy, nontraditional, maybe she’s young, I don’t know. I told Dad I was going to tell you, and that’s when he hit me, hard across the face. He told me I had no business looking at his phone. He said I didn’t even understand what I was seeing, and that if I told you, it would be the end of our family. He was so angry; I thought he was going to hit me again.”
“That son of a bitch,” Mom said through clenched teeth.
“I read the messages … a bunch of them at least, and I think … I think they’re in love.”
There. That was it. I had nothing more to say.
And—surprise, surprise—I did feel better.
CHAPTER 50
BECKY
Numb.
She had never felt so utterly, completely, devastatingly numb in all her life. Carl was with her, on his phone, talking loudly to his lawyer about Becky’s case. She glanced at him occasionally. It was hard to look for too long. In her mind she kept seeing the open-handed slap against her daughter’s face, heard the hard smack of skin against skin, felt that sting of betrayal as much for Meghan as for herself.
By the time they got settled in the car, the numbness had receded, leaving Becky shaking with anger. Questions came at her like bullets from a gun. Who is she? How long has the affair been going on? Are there others? Is Kelly London one of them? Carl pushed the ignition button on his car. Becky wa
s so upset she had rushed out and forgotten to give the thermos of soup back to Nash. Now it rested at her feet, and she thought about unscrewing the lid and pouring it on Carl’s lap, but that would be a waste.
“Meghan didn’t look well,” Carl said, backing out of the parking space.
“I’ve been saying that for a long time now. Funny how you picked this moment to finally start hearing me.”
“You don’t look so well, either,” Carl said, sending her a sideways glance.
Becky felt her heart rev faster than the car’s engine. “I’m fine,” she lied.
Carl navigated the Mercedes into the flow of traffic. “How about we both go home,” he said, sounding a hopeful note.
Becky gave it some thought. That’s where she needed to go, where she’d be staying now.
“That would be fine,” she told him.
Carl’s smile broadened. He placed his hand on Becky’s leg just above the knee, giving it a gentle squeeze before traveling up a bit higher. “I’ve missed you,” he said. “I’ve missed us. This whole ordeal’s made me realize how much I love you and Meghan, our family. I know we’ve had our problems, but you and Meghan mean everything to me.”
Becky kept tight-lipped. She wanted her first words to be the right ones, to deliver the kind of shock and hurt Meghan must have felt when he’d hit her.
How dare he! How dare he!
On the drive home, Carl talked about her legal case, and what his lawyer thought, and why Andrea Leers was not a good fit, and other things Becky only half heard.
There were reporters camped out in front of the house when they arrived—three news vans and a couple of cars. Carl told them all to go away; there would be no statement. Cameras filmed Carl parking in the garage, which must not have been enough for the evening news because some of the news crews stuck around.
Inside, Carl headed to the living room to close the curtains on other reporters who might wish to pay them a visit. Becky went to the kitchen, where she set the thermos of soup on the granite counter.