Six Months Later (19 page)

After eating for what feels like twelve straight hours on Thanksgiving Day, we take the red-eye home. We land at oh-dark-thirty Friday morning. Instead of getting sleep like a sane person, I change my clothes and brush my teeth and spend an hour reciting fun-filled antics of our trip to my parents.

And then I head out the door on the pretense of celebrating my early ungrounding with some Black Friday shopping.

Of course, I’m not going shopping. Unless I plan to buy a pack of gum from the convenience store across the street from Adam’s apartment.

Mrs. Corwin’s cat has probably barfed up things that look better than I do right now, but vanity will have to wait. And so will my wishy-washy pros and cons list about what I’m doing with Adam. This isn’t about that. It’s about Julien.

She needs help and she asked me. Which means I need to remember. And other than that brief moment holding hands with Julien in California, the only person who’s made me remember anything is sitting inside this apartment.

I knock and wait at least a minute before knocking again. Adam answers maybe a half second before I lose my nerve and bolt. If I was worried about my looks, I needn’t have bothered. He’s sporting four or five days of stubble at least and eyes so red I wonder if he’s slept since I’ve been gone.

“Are you sick?” I ask.

“No,” he says. He’s flat. Cold. Still edgy as all hell too, looking around his apartment like he’s waiting for a hit man to show up.

“I went to California,” I say, but I’m not really thinking about my trip. “I saw Julien Miller.”

He flinches, and for a moment, I can see the old Adam. The one who worries about me.

Then it’s gone, the indifferent mask in place. “California. Sounds great. I’m really busy.”

Lie. He’s not busy. He just wants me to leave. It stings like hell, but it reeks like a lie too.

I should be thinking about Julien and talking about all of the things she said or hinted at, but I can’t force my brain to go there. I can’t think about anything other than how horrible it feels to stand here and
not
be okay with him.

“She’s sick, Adam. God, she’s so incredibly sick.” I take a breath because I don’t want to be emotional. I want to be calm and make sense, but I’m not. “She’s sick, and I’m scared and I missed you. I still miss you.”

His eyes meet mine then. He cuts me right to the quick with that look. And he won’t say it back, I know that, but he doesn’t need to. His eyes are speaking for him.

I flex my fingers and then ball them into fists because I’m aching to touch him. “I saw all these buildings. Our hotel room looked over Balboa Park. The houses and storefronts or whatever—they all sort of look the same, like the same style.”

“Spanish Revival,” he says, and I can practically feel his eyes caressing my face. He steps closer and then backs away. It’s killing me.

“Adam…”

He swallows hard and shakes his head as if he can’t imagine why I’m here saying this. Acting like this. “Chlo, this needs to end. You’re right to stay away from me.”

“You don’t believe that. I know you don’t believe that.”

“I do believe it. Because it’s true,” he says, and it’s like someone’s ripping the words out of him.

I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, blurring my vision. “Maybe I don’t care about what’s true.”

Adam lets out a breath that sounds shaky. “You have no idea how hard you’re making this.”

“This isn’t hard. You know it isn’t,” I say, half whining. He touches me then, hand on my face and fingers moving into my hair. Everything in me melts into his hand, drawing into the soft, warm press of his fingers.

“I wish it was different, but it isn’t. Your mom was right, Chlo. I did break into that pharmacy.”

“No. There’s more to it than that. I know you, Adam.”

He flinches, and I can tell I’m right. Still, he shakes his head. “It happened. I did break into that pharmacy, and she’s right to want you to stay away from me.”

I feel like I’m sinking in quicksand. Or maybe that I’ve become quicksand and that all of this darkness and fear is swallowing me from the inside out. “Tell me why.”

He looks away and shifts his feet with a shrug. “Money.”

“Liar.”

That gets him to look back. He throws up his hands in surrender, and I feel cold where he’s let me go. “Fine, then go with drugs. What’s it going to take for you to
get
this?”

“Get what? There’s nothing to get because you’re not saying anything! And I know you’re not a user, Adam. Give me some credit.”

“What does it matter? I did
exactly
what you’re so afraid I did.”

“Yeah, I got that part. What’s still missing is the why.”

“You didn’t like my why.”

“That’s because it’s a freaking lie! Just tell me!”

Adam growls in frustration, ripping a hand through his hair. He still smells the same and sounds the same, and I wish to God I cared about what that scar on his arm means, but I don’t. Not anymore.

“Tell me why you did it.”

He turns, muttering something about being busy, and I can’t wait anymore, so I touch him. His arms first, and that’s enough for him to take a breath and hold it. He closes his eyes when I touch his face, and I take a breath as another memory runs through me.

Me a nervous wreck as Adam helps me jiggle the lock on the school cafeteria. I feel it give way underneath my fingers. Despite the thrill, I roll my eyes.

“I still don’t get why I’d need to break in here.”

“To study,” Adam says with a shrug. Off my look, he smirks. “Well, it’s a hell of a lot quieter than my house.”

I pull my hands free to bring myself back to the present. Adam’s here too, but there isn’t anything close to a smile on his lips. Still, his eyes make me want to use big, flowery words.
Azure. Cerulean.

Beautiful.

“I’m not giving up until you tell me,” I say.

He looks away, and I can tell he’s thinking it over. Maybe measuring my resolve. Finally, he nods and takes a half step back, needing the space, I guess. “She has Alzheimer’s. My grandmother.”

“How long?”

Adam shrugs, plunging his hands into his pockets. “Maybe three years. Do you know anything about the disease?”

“Enough to know I’m sorry she has it,” I say.

He doesn’t respond to that, just goes on like he’s talking about the weather or something. “She gets confused a lot. She had a period where she flushed her medicine down the toilet all the time.”

“Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Sometimes she thought it was poison. Sometimes she thought they were mine—stolen or whatever.” He waves like none of this is very important or interesting. “The doctors helped at first, but it happened too often. That month they refused. Said if she was having so much difficulty, we should consider an evaluation for assisted living.”

“What is that? Like a nursing home?”

He nods. “Sort of. I told the caseworker I found the meds, and she’d been doing better. We didn’t have money for more. I stupidly figured the pharmacy wouldn’t notice a missing bottle of blood-pressure pills.”

“But you got hurt. Your arm.”

“I was going to slide in through the drive-through window. The pharmacy was closed, but the owner was there. He closed my arm in the window. Glass broke…” Adam trails off, gesturing vaguely at the white scar on the inside of his forearm.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

That gets a laugh. A cold one. “Don’t be. It was stupid, and I’m damn lucky he didn’t shoot me.”

“Adam, everybody makes mistakes.”

“Yeah, but most of them don’t rank up there with breaking and entering.”

I want to argue, but I know it won’t work. For whatever reason, he needs to own what he’s done. Pooh-poohing it isn’t the answer. But hell, neither is wallowing in it.

“So it was stupid,” I say, throwing up my hands. “Fine. You were stupid. Now get over it. And maybe get some help for her. Have you looked into that at all?”

He scoffs, relaxing against his closed door. “Look around you, Chlo. We’re not exactly wading in cash and options.”

“But there are like twelve zillion social programs for senior citizens. So why not? Is she an illegal immigrant or something?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “I don’t have any other family.”

“I know you care about her—”

“Care about her?” Adam practically sneers at that. “Yeah, Chloe, I do. But I’m not Mother Teresa, and this isn’t just about family loyalty. If they find out how bad she’s gotten, we’ll both end up in the system.”

I shake my head, still not getting it.

He leans closer. “Nursing home for her. Foster home for me. Good-bye, Ridgeview High and its reasonably decent academic program. Hello, foster care and schools with metal detectors.”

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, the one that’s worked its way up from my chest. “You stole the medicine because you didn’t want to go into foster care.”

“Yeah. And because I didn’t want my grandmother to die. She isn’t perfect. But I’m all she’s got.”

He must take my silence for something bad because he crosses his arms over his chest and hardens his expression. “It’s not pretty, Chlo. But it is what it is. And it’s not right to drag you into it.”

“I don’t give a damn about what’s right,” I say.

I tug him hard by the lapels of his coat because he’s so tall that going up on tiptoes isn’t going to be enough.

I kiss him, and at first his lips are hard and unrelenting. I know this is some token effort at resistance, and I totally ignore it. It’s a good choice because after a few seconds, Adam’s hands drop to my shoulders and then he’s kissing me like he’s absolutely starved for it. Before long, I feel like I’m the one who needs to steal some medication.

When we finally part, his eyes are closed. His breath is coming in little shuddery bursts, and I can’t quite believe I’m the one able to reduce him to this. It’s dizzying.

“I’m trying to tell you I’m not good for you,” he breathes, voice low and husky.

“Well, I’ve never been a good listener.”

His mouth curls up in a smirk. “Cute. But, Chlo, there’s more. There are things—”

“I don’t care,” I say, shaking my head. “Nothing you say is going to make me care. Not now.”

“I think you’d care about this,” he says.

“I wouldn’t,” I say, pressing my fingers to his lips. I do it because it wouldn’t matter. Or maybe because I’m not ready to hear him tell me anything else.

I can see the pain in his eyes, but eventually he relents. He kisses the tips of my fingers before taking my hand in his own. “You really like to get your way, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, moving in to lean against him.

Adam’s arms go around my middle, and I feel perfect. The stress and fear pours out of me, like sand through a strainer. I push my face against his chest, and his chin lands softly on my head.

“Anything else you want to get out of me?” he asks, his teasing voice rumbling against my cheek.

I sigh in his embrace, wishing that this were enough. If I stayed right here in his arms, it just might be. But there’s a whole world I have to deal with. School and parents and…

“Actually, there is one more thing I need.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to help me save Julien Miller.”

I explain it all over an enormous cheese pizza. It’s the place I remembered, the one with the red pop. In between greasy bites, I fill him in on everything. Maggie and me. Blake and his stalker phone call. I include everything about Julien, and even the stuff about our resident Wicked Witch, Dr. Kirkpatrick.

Finally, I stop for breath, grabbing another piece of pizza and waiting for Adam’s response. I wait a while, but figure he’s thinking it over. I still haven’t processed it, and I’ve had two days.

But then, I wait long enough to wonder what expression he’s wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Fear? That third one feels right, but it makes no sense at all. What the hell would he be afraid of?

“So are you going to say anything?” I ask, stabbing random ice cubes with my straw.

“I’m not sure where to start,” he says, and I hear an incoming text buzz his phone.

“I guess, ‘Gee, Chloe, I don’t believe you,’ might work,” I say, but I don’t sound nearly as funny as I want to.

Adam pushes away his plate and leans back in the booth. His phone buzzes again, and he presses something to silence it, looking aggravated. “Well, I don’t think you can help Julien. Schizophrenia doesn’t go away, Chlo. And it’s not anthrax. You can’t use it like a weapon.”

“Maybe that’s true, but how do we know it’s schizophrenia? How do we know it’s not one of the weird hypno-things Dr. Kirkpatrick did in our groups?”

“Because I was in the group. It’s not like she was stretching us out on couches and making us count backward.”

I nod slowly, rubbing my hands clean with the napkin. “You don’t believe me. Message received.”

“This isn’t a matter of me not believing you, Chloe. I know the lady. She’s a little fixated on breathing deep, sure, but she’s not the second coming of Charles Manson.”

“Well, gosh, I hope she knows she can call on you for a character witness.”

His expression changes. He looks tense again. Nervous, maybe. God, that can’t even be right. If he is nervous, it’s because I’m being a complete nut job. I sigh and lace my fingers with his over the table. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not fair. I just want answers.”

“I know. But I don’t want to see you invent what you can’t discover.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means to be careful not to go accusing innocent people because you’re desperate to find a reason for all of this.”

“There is a reason for all of this, Adam. And Julien thinks I know what that reason is.”

“Julien is a schizophrenic who probably believes a lot of things, Chlo.”

“You’re starting to sound like Maggie.”

He looks down at his hands. “Is there any chance that’s because we’re both right?”

No. Ridiculous or not, I’m absolutely certain that Julien is not just schizophrenic. But knowing it isn’t enough. I need proof.

***

“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice,” I say, settling myself onto Dr. Kirkpatrick’s couch.

Dr. Kirkpatrick smiles and opens her notepad. “I’m happy I had an opening. You seemed very upset on the phone.”

Good. That’s exactly what I was aiming for. And if I have any luck, my mom will be home in time to see the frantic, handwritten note I left on the kitchen table. I’m pretty desperate for all of my stars to align today because this is the biggest thing I’ve ever tried to pull off. Ever.

“I went to California with Maggie,” I say, though I have a horrible feeling she already knows that much. Something tells me she knows all kinds of things I wish she didn’t.

“That’s a big change from our last meeting. The two of you weren’t speaking then.”

“Well, I was trying to mend the bridge, but now I don’t think it worked, and I just don’t know what to do.”

How the hell she’s buying this is beyond me. It must be the nerves I’ve got from being here to begin with. Still, she scoots forward in her chair and asks me at least a dozen probing questions to help me gather a better understanding of the situation.

I’m barely responding. It probably looks thoughtful, but really I just can’t stop watching the clock. I have fourteen minutes left. Why the hell hasn’t my mom found the note? She was on her way home. Which means she would have had plenty of time to fly over here.

Surely she would have at least called, right? When your daughter leaves a full page of drama, closed with
“If you want to know what’s going on with me, you can call my psychiatrist. She knows how bad it really is.”

“Chloe, I must say, you seem very distant.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but I can’t manage anything else. I’ve gone totally blank.

God, I don’t know who I’m kidding. This is a ridiculous plan, and it’s never going to work.

I hear the doorbell chime, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to grin. Instead, I sniff and look down at my hands. I should probably say something. What the hell was she saying to me?

“I just want things to be normal,” I say, hoping it will pass.

Outside, I hear my mother’s voice. Even muffled through the walls, I can hear the commanding tone she’s using. I’ve been on the other side of that tone, so my heart bleeds for the poor little receptionist dealing with this.

Dr. Kirkpatrick’s eyes flick to the door, a frown creasing her mouth briefly before she looks back to me. “Perhaps it’s time for you to redefine normal, to come to the understanding of how things are now.”

“I just don’t know why they can’t be the same.”

“There are times when change is inevitable.”

“I don’t want to change!”

I sound like a whiny two-year-old, but I don’t care. Her eyes are on the door again, where my mom’s voice is escalating into something truly scene-worthy. The receptionist is firing back, but my mother is a force to be reckoned with.

I screw up my face in a worried frown. “Is everything okay out there?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

My mother shouts something that sounds an awful lot like “sue you,” and I tense my shoulders. “Are you sure you shouldn’t check?”

“Would it make you feel more comfortable?”

I swallow hard, hunching my shoulders. “Definitely.”

She slips outside, taking her little notepad with her. I am off the couch the instant I hear the door click shut. Her desk is small and sparse, highlighters and paper clips in the top drawer. Both file drawers are locked. Damn it.

I sigh, leaning back against the desk. A leather strap meets my eye. Her briefcase.

Through the door, I can hear Dr. Kirkpatrick working to soothe my mother. She probably won’t say anything about me being here. It breaches doctor-patient confidentiality, a fact that she’s probably discussing with my mother right this moment. With very little success I’d guess.

I open the heavy leather flap of her bag and flip through an assortment of invoices and educational articles. There are a few patient files with unfamiliar names, but nothing else. This can’t be another dead end. It just can’t be.

I go through it again, my fingers catching on a slim manila folder I hadn’t noticed before. No title.

I pull it out and glance through the papers. There are documents on meditation. Documents on study strategies. I scan one set of papers that’s been clipped together, and it’s—oh God. Oh God, that can’t be right.

But it is.

My knees threaten to give. I force them to hold by sheer force of will, my fingers pinching the clipped papers tightly.

The first page is a roster of the study group. The second is a list of chemical side effects. I see little red ticks and dots next to each of the names on the first sheet. Some sort of code. Or checklist.

I hear the door chime as I drop the folder back into her bag, holding on to those two papers. My blood is roaring behind my ears as I close the flap and shove the bag back beneath her desk. I fold the papers with shaking hands and shove them deep into my purse. I’m still fiddling my zipper closed when Dr. Kirkpatrick returns, shaking her head.

“I apologize for the interruption—Chloe, are you all right?”

Doubtful. My heart is probably beating three thousand times a minute and I’m breathing faster than a hummingbird. I say the only thing I can think of. “That was my mom, wasn’t it?”

It’s—oh God, it’s brilliant. I didn’t even think of it when I hatched this whole thing, but my mom showing up at an impromptu session? Yeah, that’s definitely a valid reason to panic.

Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back down, looking like she’s got it all figured out now. “Yes, it was. Something tells me you won’t be surprised that she’s here thanks to an alarming note left on her kitchen table.”

I look down and bite my bottom lip, hoping my total incapacitating panic will pass for shame.

“Chloe, is it possible that some small part of you wanted her to come here, to prove that you matter?”

The only thing my mother proved by showing up here is that she needs control like most of us need oxygen. But I don’t say that. I force a wounded look onto my face and glance up at her.

“Maybe,” I say, voice soft.

Dr. Kirkpatrick tilts her head and waits a beat. It stretches too long, long enough for me to think about how close I’m sitting to the woman who stole my memories. I think of the little red marks next to our names, and it’s all I can do not to bolt off the couch and run for the door.

“Chloe, it’s understandable to crave attention from your mother, to need that evidence of her love. But perhaps we should talk about more constructive ways to meet your needs?”

I nod along, and it’s easier than it should be considering who this high-handed crap is coming from today. But that’s fine. She can preach all she wants. If I’ve got what I think I do in my purse right now, I’m pretty sure the next time I hear her say anything, she’ll have her hand on a Bible and a judge to her right.