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Authors: Carly Anne West
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and it’ll end with a request to have me please call her so she can quiz me about what Mom’s doing.
I lift the receiver and find the skipping dial tone, telling me there’s a message waiting. I punch the code and wait for Aunt Becca’s voice. Instead, I find a different voice, one Iwasn’t expecting but that’s becoming almost as familiar.
Good afternoon, Ms. David. This is Dr. Jeremy Keller from the Oakside Behavioral Institute. I’m calling—again—to discuss a matter of great importance with you. It’s regarding your daughter, Sophie, whom I had the pleasure of meeting the other day here at our facility. It’s very important that I speak with you about some observations I made while she was here. I apologize for being so cryptic, but I’m sure you understand the, er, sensitivity with which this must be approached, especially given the, well, the family history. Ms. David, please give me a call at my personal extension as soon as you receive this message. The number is—
I hang up so fast I nearly knock the phone off the wall. What does Dr. Keller mean “observations”? What the hell is he doing calling my mom about me? I pick up the receiver and select the option for deleting the message. I stare at the phone for another few minutes as though it’s betrayed me. Whatever he wants to tell Mom can’t be good. And where does he get off calling like that anyway? Like he knows our family?
Yet, the fact is, he does. Dr. Keller knows all about us, all about Nell. And if he knows all of Nell’s secrets, what if he somehow knows mine, too? Snippets of my conversation with Evan stream through my brain. I think about institutions and experiments, doctors with malicious intentions. I busy myselfwith chores—dusting, straightening, sweeping. I check on my mom, who is buried under her comforter with her back to the bedroom doorway. I lock all the windows and doors, partly out of habit, though now I feel compelled to double-check them once I’m done. I try to erase the voice of Dr. Keller from my mind like I erased his message. I do this for the rest of the day and into the night—tossing and turning instead of sleeping.
7
----
I’ VE SPENT ALL DAY ON edge, and not just because of everything that happened yesterday with Evan, or even the message Dr. Keller left for my mom. Aunt Becca’s coming over for dinner tonight. This could mean one of two things: either Mom will be in great spirits because she’s forced to get out of bed and interact with family, or Mom will completely fall apart because she’s forced to get out of bed and interact with family. Falling apart will set her back a good month (and set me back God knows how much longer).
“Hand me the pepper grinder,” Mom says more to the steaming pot on the stove than to me. I have absolutely no idea what she’s making, but so far I’ve seen noodles, butter, onions, peppers, and about ten different spices disappearinto the scratched-up blue saucepot that hardly has any more Teflon on its bottom.
I hand the pepper to her over her shoulder, and our fingers brush as she takes it.
“Thanks, hon,” she says offhandedly.
She’s trying. At least, I think she is. So far, so good. Of course, Aunt Becca hasn’t shown up yet.
“Should we have a salad?” she asks, still talking to the pot.
The steam is starting to make her sweat, and the heavy brown waves around her face are curling with the humidity. Still, all I smell is whatever she’s putting into her concoction and the faintest whiff of her conditioner. No booze. She’s standing at the stove—two steps from the liquor cabinet—but she hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since she’s been in the kitchen.
“Definitely salad,” she answers herself almost too decisively, peering into the fridge and rummaging through the crisper.
She puts me to work chopping random vegetables and throwing them into a wooden bowl. I’ve almost forgotten my anxiety over this evening when I hear a knock at the
I lift the receiver and find the skipping dial tone, telling me there’s a message waiting. I punch the code and wait for Aunt Becca’s voice. Instead, I find a different voice, one Iwasn’t expecting but that’s becoming almost as familiar.
Good afternoon, Ms. David. This is Dr. Jeremy Keller from the Oakside Behavioral Institute. I’m calling—again—to discuss a matter of great importance with you. It’s regarding your daughter, Sophie, whom I had the pleasure of meeting the other day here at our facility. It’s very important that I speak with you about some observations I made while she was here. I apologize for being so cryptic, but I’m sure you understand the, er, sensitivity with which this must be approached, especially given the, well, the family history. Ms. David, please give me a call at my personal extension as soon as you receive this message. The number is—
I hang up so fast I nearly knock the phone off the wall. What does Dr. Keller mean “observations”? What the hell is he doing calling my mom about me? I pick up the receiver and select the option for deleting the message. I stare at the phone for another few minutes as though it’s betrayed me. Whatever he wants to tell Mom can’t be good. And where does he get off calling like that anyway? Like he knows our family?
Yet, the fact is, he does. Dr. Keller knows all about us, all about Nell. And if he knows all of Nell’s secrets, what if he somehow knows mine, too? Snippets of my conversation with Evan stream through my brain. I think about institutions and experiments, doctors with malicious intentions. I busy myselfwith chores—dusting, straightening, sweeping. I check on my mom, who is buried under her comforter with her back to the bedroom doorway. I lock all the windows and doors, partly out of habit, though now I feel compelled to double-check them once I’m done. I try to erase the voice of Dr. Keller from my mind like I erased his message. I do this for the rest of the day and into the night—tossing and turning instead of sleeping.
7
----
I’ VE SPENT ALL DAY ON edge, and not just because of everything that happened yesterday with Evan, or even the message Dr. Keller left for my mom. Aunt Becca’s coming over for dinner tonight. This could mean one of two things: either Mom will be in great spirits because she’s forced to get out of bed and interact with family, or Mom will completely fall apart because she’s forced to get out of bed and interact with family. Falling apart will set her back a good month (and set me back God knows how much longer).
“Hand me the pepper grinder,” Mom says more to the steaming pot on the stove than to me. I have absolutely no idea what she’s making, but so far I’ve seen noodles, butter, onions, peppers, and about ten different spices disappearinto the scratched-up blue saucepot that hardly has any more Teflon on its bottom.
I hand the pepper to her over her shoulder, and our fingers brush as she takes it.
“Thanks, hon,” she says offhandedly.
She’s trying. At least, I think she is. So far, so good. Of course, Aunt Becca hasn’t shown up yet.
“Should we have a salad?” she asks, still talking to the pot.
The steam is starting to make her sweat, and the heavy brown waves around her face are curling with the humidity. Still, all I smell is whatever she’s putting into her concoction and the faintest whiff of her conditioner. No booze. She’s standing at the stove—two steps from the liquor cabinet—but she hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since she’s been in the kitchen.
“Definitely salad,” she answers herself almost too decisively, peering into the fridge and rummaging through the crisper.
She puts me to work chopping random vegetables and throwing them into a wooden bowl. I’ve almost forgotten my anxiety over this evening when I hear a knock at the
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