“Is it hereditary? Can it be passed along?”
Renee cleared her throat. “Well, some psychiatric diseases are, in fact, inherited, but that doesn’t mean that if someone did something while suffering a—we call them breaks, psychotic breaks—if someone did something during a psychotic break, that doesn’t mean you would do the same thing, even if you inherited the same psychopathy.”
Bex lost her breath. “Not me. I didn’t do anything.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you… What’s your name? I didn’t mean you in particular. I meant the global”—she made air quotes—“you.”
Bex could feel her temperature ratcheting up, could feel pressure at her temples. Her saliva soured in her mouth. “But it’s possible.”
“Theoretically. Are you worried about something, honey?”
Bex stood quickly and slung her backpack over one shoulder. “No, no, I’m fine, thanks.”
Renee stood too. “We can continue to talk. Are there other questions you have?”
“No, I’m good.”
Renee may have still been talking, but Bex didn’t hear. Her blood was pulsing with Renee’s answer, with the possibility that if her father was a psychopath, there was a chance that Bex was one too. She walked straight through the library, eyes focused directly ahead, not stopping when she saw Zach at the door to Renee’s office, not thinking about the shocked look on his face.
Ten
“Hey, Bex!”
She had gotten through her morning classes without seeing Chelsea, Laney, or Trevor, doing her best to blend into the swarm of kids moving from class to class. Anytime anyone looked at her with the somber look of grief, Bex flinched, guilt welling up inside her.
She remembered Dr. Gold, the court-appointed shrink they made her see after her father disappeared and her gran took custody of her. Dr. Gold had watched Beth Anne for a long time, the two sitting in companionable silence while the woman fingered the tiny, silver bird that hung from a chain around her wrist. It had jeweled pink eyes, and Beth Anne couldn’t help herself. She reached out to touch the tiny head of the bird, and the doctor smiled.
“It’s a finch,” the doctor said.
Beth Anne said nothing, playing the smooth body of the bird against her fingertips. “The eyes are tourmalines.”
Beth Anne still wouldn’t speak, not at first, but every session started the same: Dr. Gold unclasping the bracelet and re-clasping it on Beth Anne’s arm without a word. Beth Anne would color, letting the silver bird glide over her paper.
Bex remembered the soothing sound of the doctor’s voice as Beth Anne colored one day in her office—long strokes of purple bleeding into blue, bleeding into yellow, into pink—a rainbow. Dr. Gold prattled on about all sorts of things: her daughter was only two, but she was already a handful; her husband was forever thinking he could fix things that he couldn’t. Week after week, Dr. Gold spoke and Beth Anne colored silently, learning to relax into the rise and fall of the doctor’s kind voice. And then, one day, Dr. Gold laid her hand on Beth Anne’s arm.
“It’s not your fault, Beth Anne. None of it.”
Beth Anne had a crayon in her fist—red, glaring, and angry, the heat from her hand making the wax weaken in her grip.
“They don’t blame you.”
She eyed the crayon and smelled the scent of the wax. It didn’t smell red; it smelled like a crayon. All crayons smelled the same.
“He didn’t do this because of you.”
When Beth Anne held the point of the crayon against the paper, the point flattened.
“He gave you things because he loved you—not because you were a part of this.”
A red tail arced from the plane of the crayon. Bright, bloodred.
“This wasn’t about you.”
Beth Anne put the crayon down carefully and turned, her eyes fixed on Dr. Gold’s.
“Yes it was,” she said.
Dr. Gold gave Beth Anne a humorless smile. “Why don’t you tell me why you think this was your fault?”
Beth Anne’s hand went over the crayons all lined up at the edge of her paper and selected a blue one, pressing it hard so the color was dark, dark.
“Beth Anne?”
Her name was Isabel Doctoro, and she had been sleeping in Beth Anne’s father’s room for three nights. She had a big, soft leather purse that she threw on the couch before she’d disappear with Beth Anne’s dad, and once the bedroom door shut, Beth Anne would rifle through the bag, through Isabel’s world. Inside, there was lipstick the color of cherries. A frosted-glass, finger-sized vial with a roller ball on the end that Beth Anne pressed against her skin, breathing in the oily, lavender-laced scent it left behind. A compact with a broken mirror. And a scrollwork bracelet with a hunk of real turquoise.
Beth Anne slipped on the bracelet and promptly forgot about it until that night at dinner. The three of them were eating pizza straight from the box when Isabel grabbed Beth Anne’s arm with her clawlike fingernails.