She sniffs, her hand balled into a fist against me. “Yeah. But still. I was there to protect them. And I couldn’t.”
“You were their babysitter,” I tell her helplessly. “You were an eighteen-year-old kid who was there to feed them dinner and put them to bed. You weren’t there to protect their lives. It’s not your fault. Surely this isn’t what you’ve been carrying around all of these years.”
I pause, because maybe it is. Guilt is sometimes irrational. As a therapist, I’ve seen that a million times. But she shakes her head.
“Surely not. I do feel awful about it, though. I didn’t see the cops take them away. The state came and got them. They were put into separate foster homes. The scandal probably followed them everywhere.”
“Well, you know how that is.” I sigh. “You suffered from the scandal, too.”
“Yeah. But my father did it. Theirs was just an innocent bystander. It’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair sometimes.” I stroke her back. “You know that. But you know what else? You’ll get past this, Co. You’re the strongest person I know.”
She closes her eyes and curls up more tightly, and I’m practically holding her like a baby now. It feels good. I feel like I’m guarding her.
“No one will ever hurt you again,” I promise. “I won’t let them.”
“But don’t forget—” she looks up at me, her eyes watery “—the queen is the most powerful piece on the board, Ju. I think I have to protect myself.”
I chuckle at her effort to lighten things up. “Maybe. But the game is over when the king is taken. So whoever wants to hurt you will have to come through me. It’s not gonna happen, because I refuse to be taken without a fight.”
She cuddles into me. “Promise?”
I squeeze her tight. “I promise.”
Guilt tightens around my stomach like a vise, and I ignore it, pushing it away farther down until it disappears. If I ignore it long enough, then it isn’t there.
That’s my logic, anyway.
37
One day, four hours until Halloween
Corinne
I slice through the water like a knife, allowing it to flow over my back as I breaststroke my way down the pool.
I don’t take the time to swim much these days, but I love it here.
The physical therapy pool here at Mercy is always quiet, and this morning, it is completely empty except for me. It is still and peaceful, with only the sounds of the water breaking the silence. The reflection of the water glints on the ceiling, shimmering blue and turquoise from the corner of my eye.
I kick off the wall and flip around, heading back to the other side.
The cold water is a welcome treat on my face. My belly rolls and rolls, the nausea welling up in me. It flushes my face, and overheats me until I feel like I might pass out. I’d thought about calling off to work, but there’s no one to cover.
Cold water seemed to be the next best thing. A brisk swim before my shift.
I kick hard off the opposite wall, sucking in a breath before diving under again. Opening my eyes beneath the surface, the water is clear and blue, and so so silent. I love it under here. There are no problems here...no bad memories, no strained marriage, no panic. It is utterly peaceful. I should do this more often.
One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four.
I find myself down the pool yet again.
Then again.
Then again.
Physical exercise empties the stress from my body, wringing it out like water from a dishrag. I’m almost too tired to feel sick. But not quite.
As I heft myself up onto the side of the pool, the water drips around me, and I take a shaky breath. My mouth still feels sick, a bit like vomit, a bit like pooled saliva. I swallow hard.
I will not puke in this pool.
I resolve to take some Phenergan when I get to the ER. I can’t work a shift like this today. Hell, no.
Sitting on the side, I towel my hair and enjoy the silence for a scant minute more. In a few minutes, I’ll be immersed in the chaos of Emergency, so I’m going to enjoy this while I can.
It is as I’m standing up that the music starts to blare, suddenly and loudly, from the overhead speakers.
Lyrics from “American Pie” again.
I’m frozen as the notes and words swirl around me, into the chlorinated air, and my stomach seems to hit the tiled floor like a brick.
This song.
This song.
I swallow, and my heart is banging in my ears, the roar drowning out the sounds, and I look around, but no one is here, and there’s no reason why the music is playing, and I’m alone.
But I’m not alone.
Because the music triggers me into panic, and I’m clutching at the air and struggling to breathe as the memories stand around me, like sentinels waiting to drag me to prison.
The bloody bodies. The pumpkins and the full moon. My father’s eyes, staring at me in accusation. In accusation?
I sink to my knees and I relive it all...and something new pops up in my head. The kids’ crying from their bedrooms. “Help, help. Mommy?”
Their voices.
So helpless, so small.
And I hadn’t done anything...but stand there like a statue.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
“Dr. Cabot?”
My eyes open, and my hand stops scratching at the ground.
A physical therapist stands in front of me, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Am I?
“I’m not feeling well,” I finally manage to say, and my voice is weak and small. The PT reaches out and steadies my elbow.
“Let’s get you over here to a seat.”
I allow her to help me and to wrap a towel around my shoulders. She even sits next to me for a minute, rubbing my shoulder.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“No, I’ll be fine in a second. I’m fighting a bug.”
And seventeen-year-old memories.
After a few more minutes, I’m able to stand and to breathe, and so I thank her and head to the ER locker room, where I throw on my scrubs. I feel dizzy, and in fact, the lounge spins for a minute. I lean my head against the cool metal of my locker. I can’t seem to gather myself or gain my bearings.
Brock comes in, pulling off his stethoscope. When he sees me, he puts it back on.
“Go back home,” he announces, without greeting. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m serious.” He puts a hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever, but you look like crap. You’ve run yourself down. You’ve got to get some rest, and you don’t want to give the rest of us whatever you’ve got.”
I nod, because I know he’s right.
“Okay.”
“I’ll go call someone else in. You go home.”
I nod again. “Thanks.”
As I trudge to my car, I consider the bright side.
I can spend the evening with my husband.
I don’t bother texting him. After he’s complained so much about my not being home, I’d rather surprise him. In fact, I decide to surprise him with food. I stop by Vilma’s on the way home.
The little café is bustling, but Vilma greets me with a smile.
“Dr. Cabot, it’s so nice to see you!”
The little old lady offers me a hug.
“It was so nice of you to send soup to me yesterday,” I tell her warmly. “I felt like I was at death’s door.”
“Glad we could help. Did we send you beef stock or chicken noodle?” She seems a bit confused, but it’s no wonder. I doubt she personally dished it up.
“The chicken. And it was delicious. I’ve got to pick up dinner for tonight,” I tell her. “Do you know what Jude gets when he’s here?”
She scrunches her nose. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken his order. Let me ask one of the girls.”
She scans the busy room, then picks up the phone, calling the kitchen.
“Zoe, what does Jude Cabot usually order?”
She nods, then hangs up.
“She said he loves the steak, but that’s not good for takeout. So he’d probably settle for a salad.”
“My husband is eating salad?” This surprises me. He usually runs so that he can eat whatever he wants. And then I instantly feel dumb, because I’m his wife and I should know these things.