After staring fixedly at the spot for a solid minute, I decided it must have been the clouds that caused the shifting shades; either that or the long shadows of the buildings across the park. I settled my head back against the towel. “Paranoid much?” I mumbled.
I tried to relax and enjoy, but the perfectly warm water chilled me. Darkness seemed to leach the sunlight from the room, and I suddenly felt as if I were entombed in a large sarcophagus instead of reclining in a spacious tub. A strong scent of incense mixed with the sharpness of coppery blood. I heard the faint sound of someone sobbing and then a scream. Gasping, I sat straight up, causing water to slosh in violent waves that spilled over the rim and onto the marble platform.
With a burst of energy, I scrambled out of the tub and stood staring at it in horror. Trembling, water pooling at my feet, I pushed my dripping hair out of my eyes, and tried to calm my breathing and slow my heart rate. What is wrong with me? I’d never heard of migraines causing hallucinations, but I supposed it could happen. An even more logical explanation would be that I’d nodded off and had a bad dream.
Maybe I have low blood sugar. I’d had only tea before heading off to the museum. That must be it. Low blood sugar, I rationalized, chalking the experience up to delusions due to hunger, but even after pushing the crazy things that had happened that day to the back of my mind, I couldn’t deny that something very strange was going on.
Unplugging the drain and deciding to let our housemaid, Marcella, clean up—something very abnormal for me, and something I knew she would devise a secret punishment for later—I wrapped a thick towel around my hair, slid on my plush robe, and headed to my room, taking a seat at my desk.
The first thing I did was extricate the giant mishmash of papers that I’d stuffed into my bag when I made my hasty retreat from the museum. After sorting and stacking them into neat little piles and placing them on the corner of my desk for easy access, I felt much better. There was something about those piles, along with lists that had heavy black checkmarks and calendars with full days crossed off, that gave me a sense of control and, even more, a sense of achievement.
Perhaps I was more my parents’ daughter than I liked to believe. The organized me, the meticulous me, the good little soldier, fit perfectly into their lifestyle, and I seemed to find comfort of sorts in the routine. Though in my heart I longed for some chaos and adventure, the truth was that I very much depended on order to function.
Opening my notebook, I found the page where I’d begun the sketch of Amon. I tried to tackle drawing his face but kept erasing his features, frustrated that I couldn’t get them right.
Why I was so picky about Amon, I didn’t know. Eventually, I gave up and just drew the outline of his head.
I heard the ding of the elevator, followed by the staccato clicking of high-heeled shoes indicating that my mother was home. I’d been focused on Amon’s sketch far longer than I thought. My mother ducked her head into my room, and the flowery fragrance she always wore tickled my nose.
“Mother,” I said, not lifting my head from my sketch.
She entered my room and put a hand on my robe-clad shoulder. “How was your day? Herb said it was a rough one.”
I shrugged in response and tried to remind myself that Herb was just looking out for me, while Mother picked up a college brochure, homing in on the one she found least desirable. I could almost hear the frown in her words as she perused the paper. “I see you’ve been giving some thought to your choices.”
“Yes. I haven’t decided on anything yet, though.”
Squeezing my shoulder in a way I found more controlling than comforting, she said, “I’m sure you’ll select the right option.” She undid the clasp on her necklace and began taking off her bracelets as she queried, “How did your meeting about the senior class project go?”
“It ended abruptly.”
“So I heard.”
Twisting in my chair to look at her, I asked, “Who called?”