Nisha nodded. She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then seemed to change her mind. Emma turned back toward the male nurse, acutely aware of Nisha’s eyes on her as she walked away.
Becky’s room hadn’t changed, except for the addition of a small vase full of irises and yellow roses on the side table. Emma wondered if Mr. Mercer had brought them. A fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead, and from the tiny attached bathroom came the erratic plink of a dripping faucet. A tray of mushy food sat untouched on the counter.
Becky sprawled across the bed, asleep. She was wearing flannel pajama pants and an oversized Arizona Wildcats T-shirt instead of the hospital gown, and her hair had been washed and combed, her fingernails scrubbed. But her complexion was still ashen and marked with deep shadows. Emma noticed that she wasn’t tied to the bed—that had to be a good sign, right?
I felt a low boil of emotion roiling off Becky’s mind. It was hard to sense what she was feeling—everything was all mixed up in her head. But through the confusion, one burning thought came through louder than anything else, repeated over and over like a chant. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did.
“You have thirty minutes,” said the nurse. He nodded at Emma and retreated down the hall.
Emma pulled out Sutton’s iPhone, opened the voice recorder app, and pressed RECORD, then gently nudged the door shut with her foot. Becky’s eyes fluttered open when she heard the snick of the latch falling in place, her gaze darting around like a wild animal’s. She tried to sit up, but she seemed weak and uncoordinated. Then she saw Emma. Her eyes bulged.
“It’s you,” she croaked. “Emma.”
“No,” Emma said softly. “No, my name is Sutton.”
“Oh.” Becky’s eyes went glassy as she laid her head back against the pillows.
Emma took a step toward the bed. A chemical, medicinal odor came off her mother’s body. She bit her lip. “How long have you been in town?” she asked, keeping her voice low and controlled.
“A while,” Becky slurred.
“What have you been doing here?”
A slow, strange smile crept across Becky’s face. “Watching you, of course.”
I shivered, looking down into that ravaged, slack face. Watching her because she knew she was Emma? Watching her to make sure she played me? Watching her and putting threatening messages under Laurel’s windshield, choking her in the Chamberlains’ kitchen?
Emma clutched the rail. “When was the last time we talked?” she asked. “When did we see each other last, I mean?”
Becky’s mouth twisted downward. “When you were five years old, Emma.”
The fluorescent light flickered again, its electrical hum deafening in the silence. Emma leaned over the bed. “My name is Sutton,” she insisted softly.
But Becky’s head rolled from side to side on the pile of pillows, her eyes far away. “You used to love doing my scavenger hunts when you were little. Did you like the one I left you at the hotel, Emma?”
“I’m Sutton,” Emma said again, but Becky ignored her.
“Remember the princess dress I bought you at Goodwill? You used to dance around the motel room.” Becky raised her hands as if she were directing music only she could hear. “You’d twirl around and around and around … so pretty.”
Emma focused on breathing slowly, carefully. If she didn’t, she might scream, or burst into tears.
“You were a good little girl, Emmy, but a bad little girl, too. You were too much to handle.” A single tear rolled down Becky’s sunken cheek.
Emma gritted her teeth. “I’m Sutton,” she said. “My name is Sutton. So one more time. When was the last time you saw me?”
Becky edged up on the pillow. “At the canyon,” she said, her voice suddenly steady, the words no longer slurred. “That night at the canyon.”
Her hand grabbed Emma’s forearm, her nails cutting into Emma’s skin. A scream tore from Emma’s throat as she tried to pull away. Becky’s fingers clenched, her face staring and blank. Bubbles of foam gathered at the corners of her lips and trickled down her chin.
“Help!” Emma screamed. She fumbled to pry Becky’s fingers away, but it was like a bad dream—Becky’s grip just got tighter and tighter. The door flew open and nurses quickly flocked into the room. The man who’d escorted Emma earlier helped release her wrist. “She’s convulsing,” he shouted at the others as he pushed Emma back toward the doorway. Emma saw one woman deftly preparing a syringe, flicking it with her forefinger.
The place where Becky had squeezed Emma’s arm throbbed, and I could feel it, too. Then, without my willing it to happen, the heat of my birth mother’s touch blossomed into a memory. A memory of that night in the canyon, when I’d met Becky for the first—and last—time …
19
MOMMIE DEAREST