The Edge of Normal (33 page)

“Dr. Ick likes the limelight. It’s not your fault that the hearing didn’t go well.”

“But I let you down. And when the judge’s decision is completely discretionary—”

“Now just stop it,” she interrupts. “How could anyone guess what Moody was up to? Or that he would bring Daryl Wayne Flint’s mother along to the hearing? I mean, what a drama.”

“True, Dr. Moody has never staged anything so elaborate for an annual review before. He probably went to work months ago with this plan to influence the hospital’s recommendations to the court.” He sighs, shaking his head. “But still, if I’d paid closer attention, I could have presaged that—”

“Come on, nobody can
presage
Moody. He’s as freaky as Flint is.”

“But clearly, he had his whole strategy planned out. I should have anticipated this.”

Reeve exhales loudly. “So Flint’s mother wanted to get her poor demented son’s security status reduced. And she did. End of story.”

“Still, I feel I’ve let you down. Especially with Flint calling you.”

“That phone call wasn’t your fault.”

“But it should never have been permitted. It’s a violation that—”

“Even with a lowered security status, it’s not like they’re going to let Flint just stroll away, is it?” She puts up her palms. “Enough about that, okay? You said you had two things to discuss. What else?”

He takes a moment, changes his tone. “I wanted to suggest that you think about applying for classes next semester.”

Her nose wrinkles.

“Don’t look so sour. Just think about it, okay? You have a special aptitude for this. And I think we can both acknowledge that you have some choices to make about your future.”

“Choices about…”

“About how you want to continue.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Don’t look so surprised. You’ve clearly begun a transition. And you already understand more about captivity syndromes than my best graduate students. Better than some PhDs, in fact. I know you’ve been reading the journals, some of the literature, but I want you to dedicate yourself to actual study. Do some analysis. Write some papers. Develop your natural insight.”

Reeve looks at him for a long moment, unblinking.

“Will you at least consider it?”

She gives a noncommittal twitch of her shoulders. At that instant, her cell phone rings. She checks the display, says, “It’s Tilly,” and gets up from the table. Walking away with the phone to her ear, she asks, “Hey, are you on your way to Fresno?”

“Nope. Our trip’s postponed till tomorrow,” Tilly says. “Are you still in town?”

“Just about to leave.”

“Well, I wanted to ask if you could come by. For lunch, maybe? Could you?”

“It’s hard to pass up your mother’s cooking, but are you sure she won’t mind?”

“The thing is, I’m making something for you.”

“For me?”

“Well, I mean it’s nothing, really. Just a small gift. But it’s your colors, I think.”

Reeve flashes on Tilly’s lurid version of
The Scream,
wondering what colors the girl imagines would suit her.

Shades of black, perhaps.

She’s says good-bye and is about to pocket her phone when, all at once, she aches to get back to San Francisco. She misses her dad. She misses the Bay. She misses Persie. Acting on impulse, she calls Anthony’s place.

He answers on the first ring, and she barely has time to say hello before he starts talking nonstop: “Reeve! Hey! Where the heck have you been? Persie is begging for your company. She says the crickets I give her aren’t half as tasty, which makes no sense at all, since they’re from the same exact supplier.”

She laughs.

“You better come get her quick, ’cause I’ve had a dozen customers offering sacks of gold for her. They’re not bothering her, or anything,” he adds quickly. “I’ve got her in the corner, just like you wanted. But, hey, I think you owe me a beer for keeping her safe and warm, right? Are you back in town? When can you come by?”

“Anthony, whoa, slow down. Persephone is very sensitive, you know. The vibrations from all that chatter will freak her out.”

“Ha! I’m the one that told you how sensitive she is. You kept saying she was covered with
fur
, remember?”

*   *   *

When Reeve returns to the hotel lobby, she is sobered to find Jackie Burke and Nick Hudson conferring with Dr. Lerner. She hasn’t spoken to Hudson since he snatched Emily Ewing’s list away from her and told her to back off. She still feels a bit raw, especially after having ignored his advice and ending up smack in the middle of exactly what he’d warned her against. She tenses, preparing for some kind of rebuke.

Instead, he clasps both her hands in his, holding them warmly. “Here she is, the mighty avenger.”

She blushes, trying to think of an appropriate response, feeling self-conscious. When he drops her hands and the conversation resumes around them, she is only half-listening.

After what seems only seconds, she is pulling her luggage behind her as they all exit the warm building into the gusting winter air. The good-byes and thanks blow past her, she waves over her shoulder and heads toward her Jeep.

As she is loading her luggage, Nick Hudson hurries over. “I wanted to give you something before you take off,” he says, handing her a brightly patterned CD.

“What’s this?”

“Just some tunes for your trip.”

“Texas Hold ’em?” she says, studying the CD in her hand.

“Yeah, my band. You like country music?”

“Uh, sure. You’re in a band?”

He gives a shrug. “Hope you like the lyrics. I wrote a couple songs myself.”

She tries to think of something clever to say, but barely manages to stammer her thanks, adding, “Well, I hope they’re fun songs, good driving music.”

He looks at her, shakes his head. “A man has a right to be sad.” Then he touches her cheek and says the last thing she would have expected, “Why do the pretty ones always have to leave?”

SEVENTY-TWO

After feasting on homemade lasagna and hot sourdough bread, Tilly pulls Reeve into her bedroom and shyly offers her a small square box wrapped in blue foil.

“Open it.”

“Gee, this is my day for gifts,” Reeve says, with a stab of regret at having nothing to give in return. She removes the wrapping, opens the box, unfolds the pale blue tissue paper, and lifts out a beautiful necklace made of shining beads, some as small as BBs, some as big as grapes.

“Do you like it?”

“Wow, it’s gorgeous.” Reeve holds up the necklace of amber, gold, white, and glittering crystal. “You really made this?”

A small shrug and a shy smile. “Put it on.”

Reeve holds it to her chest as Tilly secures the clasp at the back of her neck, and they both turn toward the mirror. The beads sparkle and glow with inner fire.

“It looks great on you.”

“Thank you so much. You really think these are my colors?”

Tilly beams at her. “Because you’re the light. LeClaire means light, doesn’t it? That’s you.”

*   *   *

Dark clouds are blowing in by the time Reeve has refueled the Jeep and is speeding south on Interstate 5. She eases her foot off the accelerator and lets the cruise control lock in at seventy-five mph. It will be late by the time she gets home. Too late to pick up Persie, too late to return the Jeep to her father. Tomorrow will have to be soon enough.

The unincorporated edges of Jefferson straggle out and disappear behind her, giving way to rolling hills and undulating pastureland. Cows. Horses. Distant mountaintops chewed off by angry clouds. The sky starts to spit and she adjusts her windshield wipers, trying to find the right setting.

She feels hundreds of miles away and far outside her old life. A new year is right around the corner. She’ll return to a city she loves during a season when the palms are laced with holiday lights. She resolves to be kinder, more outgoing. She’ll show her family that she can be a warmer person, the kind that doesn’t flinch away from hugs. She will accept invitations and wear clothes other than jeans. She will try to be more normal.

And then what? College again? The idea sparks little enthusiasm, but maybe it’s smart to consider the advice of people she knows and trusts for a change.

Time is like driving down this freeway, she thinks. A convoluted path behind, an unseen ribbon ahead, each moment just an inch of rubber on a wet surface.

So philosophical, she scoffs. Better to focus on something real.

The rain intensifies and traffic suddenly tightens. She hits the brake pedal, slows, comes to a halt behind a truck that blocks her view of what is up ahead. The Jeep idles. She yawns, rolls her shoulders, and Nick Hudson’s CD catches her eye. She fumbles to open the package while replaying those last moments in his company, the sweet way he touched her cheek.

Why couldn’t she see that coming? Was he especially hard to read? Or, when it comes to men, is she simply doomed to perpetual cluelessness?

A siren wails in the distance, coming closer, and traffic begins edging to the side of the road. The semi in front of her eases forward, then stops, and her cell phone begins to ring as the flashing lights of the ambulance throb past. She fishes the phone from her purse, but doesn’t recognize the caller. Wrong number, probably, but she answers.

A male voice says, “Hello, am I speaking to Reeve LeClaire?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m very sorry to bother you, but I’m Ernest Hill, Abby Hill’s father.”

“Her father? Oh. How is Abby doing?”

“Listen, I know it’s an imposition, but we’ve heard about you on the news, you see, about how you helped Tilly Cavanaugh, and we were wondering if you might be able to meet with Abby, if you have any time at all. I’m sorry to pounce on you like this, but would you mind coming by? Might that be possible?”

“Well, I don’t really think I’m the person you need, Mr. Hill. Abby needs the help of a professional, like Dr. Ezra Lerner. I can give you his—”

“But he’s left town now, you see. And the thing is, my wife feels that a female who, uh, understands the situation would be better for our little girl, at least for today. Please excuse my saying so, but the thing is, we may not want to hire Dr. Lerner because we’ve heard about a female psychiatrist in LA who sounds terrific. But she can’t get up here for a few days, unfortunately, and in the meantime, we’ve been hearing so much about how you helped with Tilly that, if you can possibly make time, we would be really very grateful. Could you just come by and talk with her? Could you? Even for just a few minutes?”

Reeve eases forward in the slow lane. “Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve just left town. I’m actually on the freeway headed south.”

“Oh, I see.… I’m sorry to hear that.”

Reeve overhears half of a comment that he makes to someone else, presumably his wife.

He comes back on the line and speaks with an edge of pleading in his voice, “Would you consider turning around and coming back? We’d pay you, of course, whatever you need. How far south are you?”

“Well, I’m—”

“The thing is, we’re afraid that Abby’s suffering from shock, you know, that post-traumatic kind,” he says, his voice choked with emotion. “We love her very much, but we’re just not equipped, my wife and I, to handle this sort of thing.”

The Jeep crests a hill and she sees the ugly clot of traffic up ahead, a multitude of red taillights bleeding color along the wet asphalt. She sighs. “Well, I’m not so very far out of town, I guess, only a few miles, but I’m afraid I’m stuck on the freeway.”

“Has there been an accident?”

“Apparently. I can’t quite see it, but—”

“Do you see any road signs? Perhaps I can help.”

Reeve spots an exit up ahead. She equivocates for a moment before telling him, “There’s an exit sign up ahead for Turnbull Ferry Road.”

He explains that she’s not far from their house, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. As the traffic edges ahead and she gains a little speed, he continues, “Could you spare just a few minutes of your time? If you could just meet with Abby, talk to her, let her know that she’ll be okay, that she can get past this. It could make a world of difference.”

Reeve finds it impossible to say no.

“So, where are you now?” he asks.

“I’m on the exit, and I see a sign for Johnny’s Mini-Mart.”

“Okay, I know just where that is. There’s an easy way for you to backtrack, and you’re just a few miles away.”

He gives her detailed directions and she hangs up, wondering if Dr. Lerner is right about her “special aptitude” for helping fellow kidnap survivors. Maybe she should suck it up, go back to college and get her degree, like her mother wanted. Maybe there’s a way to turn her twisted history into something useful.

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, following Mr. Hill’s directions, Reeve crosses a bridge and heads northeast under a blackening sky. She winds along an old highway, then turns off and follows a two-lane road that runs parallel to the railroad tracks. She proceeds slowly, checking the small map on her phone at each stop sign. The navigator indicates a right, and she turns onto Riverside Drive as the sky opens up with heavy rain. The windshield wipers splash back and forth, and she tries to glimpse the river that must be pushing against its banks somewhere behind these suburban homes, with their neat fences and manicured lawns.

Farther along, the well-tended subdivision gives way to older, more eccentric homes that are harder to see, sprawling beyond thick trees or at the end of long driveways. There are no streetlights. And the river that appears on the edge of her map still isn’t visible.

Her headlights glare on the wet pavement as she swerves around a fallen tree branch. She double-checks the address, figuring she must be close.

She resolves that she will give the Hill family her full attention for an hour, tops, and then make her excuses and get back on the freeway. It’s such a long drive and she’s so tired that she’s already worried about the time. She won’t get home before midnight. And she dreads the idea of driving for hours in the dark, in the rain.

The Hills will understand. She’ll tell them that she has promised her father she’s on her way.