“Why do you think that is?”
Hello. “Well, obviously because he’s still out there.”
“Who?”
“The person who killed Lucy. I know everyone likes to say it was some stranger who did it, but what if it wasn’t? What if was someone here? In Port Fortune.”
“And it makes you feel better to know he can’t get in your house?”
Duh. “Well, yeah. It makes me feel safe.”
“I see.”
“My mother thinks I’m crazy.”
“What do you think she means by that?”
“Means by ‘crazy’?”
“Yes.”
“That’s obvious.” I’m here talking to a shrink, aren’t I?
“Not really. When people say ‘crazy,’ they can mean a lot of things, Rain. They might mean foolish or goofy. Or irrational. Or mentally ill or not of right mind.”
“I think my mother means mentally ill.”
“Let me ask you something, Rain. Does it hurt anyone when you check the locks at night?”
“No. Except if you count that it makes my mother mad that my father spent a lot of money getting a security system because I’m so afraid but I still have to check the locks. But no, I guess it doesn’t really hurt anyone.”
“And does it make sense to you to lock the doors if it makes you feel safe?”
“I guess.”
“I don’t know who killed your friend or where this person is. But I do know it is a wise thing to do what we need to do to make ourselves feel safe.”
“So not crazy.”
“Not crazy at all. Perhaps irrational. But even if something seems irrational to others, it doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t true.”
What about a person who cuts herself? Did a sane, rational person do that? While Rain considered telling Dr. Mallory about her cuts, the shrink started to rise. Rain was surprised to see more than an hour had passed.
“I had another book in mind that I thought you might enjoy reading,” Dr. Mallory said, “but I think we have more to discuss about this one the next time we meet. And I’ll tell you more about the author. I think her life in Africa might interest you. She was a big-game hunter and a woman of courage, not afraid to follow her dreams, no matter what anyone thought. How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
At the door Rain turned. “You never told me what I should call you.”
“Whatever you’d like, Rain. My name is Sylvia, and I find most of the people I see prefer that.”
“Sylvia?” Rain tried the name out.
“Yes.” Dr. Mallory gave a little laugh. “When my nieces were very young they used to pronounce it Silly, but I have to say I didn’t encourage that.”
“Yeah, I bet. Anyhow, thanks. For today, I mean.”
“You’re welcome, Rain. You are very welcome. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming here. I know it isn’t easy.”
“No big deal.” Rain snapped her shield firmly in place.
After the coolness of Dr. Mallory’s house, the heat outside was like a wall. She knew her mother was waiting in the car and knew a flash of disappointment that she wouldn’t have an excuse to walk, and maybe the good-looking Mr. Hayes would drive by and offer her a ride. But no, her mother would be there, sitting in the Volvo with her pathetic, hopeful look, as if one hour in the house with the shrink would transform Rain into the kind of daughter she wanted. Rain’s face flushed with anger and resentment. If only she could run away from it all.
“Rain?”
The shrink was motioning her back, and she thought, What now? “Yes?” She looked down on Dr. Mallory’s head. Her scalp showed pink through the thinning hair, and Rain felt a cruelty rise up, knew that she was no better than Christy and the others.
“Remember, dear, just because we can’t always see our best qualities doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. Try to remember what Lucy saw when she chose you as her friend.”
Rain stared at the perspiration that dampened the pale pink scalp, saw the horrid vulnerability of age. “Well, I think your dog is going to die.” In the shocked silence that followed, she didn’t dare look at Dr. Mallory. Fear and shame washed over her as the hateful words spun through the air like rabid bats. There was no way to recapture them, call them back, swallow them so they couldn’t ever escape.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Father Gervase swallowed and looked out at the congregation, a host of faces both known and unfamiliar.
It was the end of July, and the oak pews were occupied by residents and summer people who attended the early Sunday Mass so they would have the rest of the day free for the beach. Or golf. Or tennis. Although why in the unrelenting heat one would even think of doing anything the least bit strenuous was beyond him. Beneath his white and red chasuble a film of clammy sweat coated his skin; the fans in the sanctuary did little more than move warm currents of air, and he felt slightly light-headed. No, this was not a day to be risking heat stroke by batting a tennis ball over a net. But then again, regardless of thermostat readings, the priest had always been drawn to activities more cerebral than physical. Even at ten Cecelia could outdo him at a backyard game of badminton. Or horseshoes. He pictured her now dancing with glee after tossing a ringer. Cecelia. Why, after all these years, were these memories rising? But he wouldn’t think of her now. Couldn’t think of her now.