Don't Look Back (21 page)

My therapist was an old man who smelled of pipe tobacco and wore thick, square glasses that I think were supposed to be hipster. He had a head full of silvery hair and a beard I couldn’t stop staring at. Awards and certificates lined the walls. Photos of him hunting, holding a deer by its antlers, and deep-sea fishing off a yacht were mixed among them.

He asked very few questions, all designed to get me to talk about how I felt, what I worried about, and more important, what I’d felt before I “remembered” things or “found a note” left to me.

He’d write in his little notebook, and I seriously doubted they were notes from the way his pen moved. I think he was doodling.

The session lasted approximately thirty-three minutes. I left his office and climbed into my father’s car, clutching slips of paper to my chest. My dad didn’t speed off, throwing distance between the car and the shrink’s office, as I knew Mom would have. He watched me closely instead. “What did Dr. O’Connell have to say?”
“I don’t have schizophrenia. Good news.”
He arched a brow.
I sighed, handing him my prescription for BuSpar. “He said I have severe anxiety disorder plus post-traumatic stress or something. The pills should take effect in about two weeks. This one”—I waved another prescription around—“is called Ativan. I’m supposed to use it in case I have a panic attack or whatever, which he thinks is what is happening when I ... see the shadow guy.”
“Shadow guy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve nicknamed the guy I see but isn’t really there.” I paused, recalling what the therapist said about him. “He thinks the shadow guy could be stress-induced hallucinations or memories of that night, that I’m shielding myself from seeing his face.”
And see, that was the kicker. If the shadow guy was a product of my lost memories, taking these pills could hinder what I’d remember from that night. I was caught between wanting to take them so I’d feel normal and not wanting to because they’d cut off my only avenue to remember what happened that night.
“Okay.” He took that piece of paper from me. “And how long will that take to work once you...”
“Once I start seeing or hearing things?” I felt bad when he flinched and looked away. “About thirty minutes and I’ll be high as kite and happily sedated.”
“Samantha...”
“It’s okay.” But it really wasn’t. I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, hating the idea of having to take pills. “The doc didn’t say how long I’d need to be on them.”
“What did he say about the notes?”
A fine drizzle covered the windshield before I answered. “He said it was probably my subconscious trying to make contact with me.” My laugh was dry. The therapist had asked how I’d felt before I found a note, if didn’t remember what I was doing before then. And I realized that each time I’d found a note, I’d had a dizzy spell or a brief flash of memory. During those times was when I’d supposedly written the notes to myself. He’d said that I could’ve actually remembered everything during those moments but was still blocking them out.
I sighed. “It’s like I have an alien living in my body. He said that may or may not stop with the medication.”
He gripped the steering wheel. “And the memories?”
I shrugged. “They could keep coming back or stop completely, but the pills might affect them.”
Dad nodded, stuffing the papers into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll drop you off at home and get them filled for you.”
“Thank you.” I buckled myself in. “Dad—”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, honey. Okay? I don’t want you to feel like there’s something wrong with you.”
“There
is
something wrong with me,” I said drily. “Remember—hallucinations, panic attacks, blah, blah?”
“You know what I mean.” He started the car, carefully angling it out of the parking spot. “I just want you to get better.”
“Me too.”
He glanced at me, and my heart ached at the sadness dulling his eyes. Stopped at the edge of the parking lot, he reached out and palmed my cheek. “I just wish...”
“Wish what, Dad?”
A weak smile flitted across his lips as he removed his hand and pulled out onto the road. “I just wish you didn’t have to go through any of this.”
Tipping my head back against the seat, I closed my eyes, listening to the rain smack off the roof. “I know.”

en minutes till eight, I placed the prescription
T bottles unopened in my medicine cabinet and grabbed my hoodie. I was supposed to take the BuSpar with dinner, but because I had no idea what it would do to me, I wanted to talk to Carson without being doped up. Before whatever it was we had going on could go any further, I had to tell him the truth.

I slipped out through the basement, letting Scott know that I was going to meet up with Carson. He’d cover for me in case our parents came looking.

I shoved my hands into the center pocket of my hoodie and followed the thin slice of moonlight that seemed to lead right up to the edge of the lawn. From there, I stayed on the trail, busying myself with how I was going to tell Carson I was crazy.

When I saw the tree house, Carson stuck his head out the opening to the observation deck. A baseball cap was on his head, pulled backward. “Come on up.”

In spite of what was going on, I grinned as I climbed up the wooden planks. He grabbed my hand through the opening when I reached the top, hauling me up. “Thanks,” I said, looking around the square room built for kids much, much younger than us.

A thick blanket had been spread out, and I crawled over to it, sitting down. He sat beside me, stretching out his legs. “Nice touch,” I whispered.

Looking proud of himself, he grinned. “I thought it would make it a little more comfortable.”
I clasped my hands together, throat dry. How did I start this? There wasn’t a manual on these kinds of things.
Carson nudged me with his shoulder. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay.” My fingers dug into palms.
“I did have an ulterior motive for luring you out here, away from your brother.”
My heart thumped heavily. “You did?”
He nodded. “Do you know what’s happening in three weeks?”
“Um, the end of April?”
“Yeah, that and prom.”
I stared at him.
With his eyes on my face, he laughed. “You look a little shocked by that.”
“I just... haven’t thought of prom.”
“I figured as much.” He scooted over, and his entire leg pressed against mine. “I know a lot is going on, and going to the prom might seem stupid, but I think it’s what you need.”
“It is?”
“Yes, and there’s something else you need.”
There were a lot of things that I needed. My eyes searched his face, and for the hundredth time, I wanted to kick myself for not seeing him before for who he was. “What?”
Carson tucked my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering against my cheek for the briefest second. “You need me to take you to the dance.”
I opened my mouth, but there were no words. A sudden rush of images of being invited to dances in the past flashed in rapid succession. Hide-and-seek invites, a card stuck in roses, a large banner spread across the baseball diamond. All of them intricate setups, but for some reason, Carson inviting me to the tree house to ask me pulled at my heartstrings.
Carson lowered his chin. “Usually, I can figure people out by the looks on their faces, but I have no clue what you’re thinking. Good idea? Bad. Terrible?”
I stared to laugh, but it was choked off as reality came crashing back. “It’s a wonderful idea, but I can’t go with you.”
“I’ll admit. I’m kind of confused.” He leaned back, resting his hands on his knees. “You think it’s a wonderful idea, but you can’t go with me?”
“Yes. No.” I shook my head. “You don’t understand.”
He gave me a small, thin smile. “Yeah, I don’t. Care to explain?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to go to the dance with me.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Sam? Wait.” Understanding colored his tone. “Is it because of the police investigating Cassie’s... murder? And you think you did it.” “Car—”
“You did not kill Cassie, Sam. Okay? Get that through that thick—albeit cute—skull of yours. You’re not a murderer.”
“It’s not just that. I’m ... I’m sort of messed up.”
He stared at me. “Aren’t we all?”
“No, not like this.” I lowered my eyes, fidgeting. “I’m really messed up, Carson.”
There was a heavy sigh. “You’re stressed out and—”
“I had to see a therapist today!” I said, probably a little louder than I should have. Tucking my legs against my chest, I forced my voice lower. “Last night ... last night I woke up and I thought there was someone in my room. I thought he was touching me. And no one was there, Carson.”
“Okay.” His voice was gruff. “It could be stress. Or it could be a memory. You’ve said that some of the memories were like they were really happening, right?”
I laughed, and it was the wrong thing to do, because it sounded all kinds of wrong. “That’s not all. Those notes I’d been finding? They’re in my handwriting. I’ve been writing notes to myself and not even remembering it.”
“Sam—”
“Please don’t say something to make me feel better about all this.” I fought to swallow the tears, clearing my throat twice. “I left school early today to meet with a shrink. I’m going to be on meds. So I know something is wrong with me—more than just stress.”
After my speech, silence descended between us. I was doing everything to keep from crying, because out of everyone, what he thought of me had come to mean so much. Prom was definitely out of the question. Who wanted to take Insanity Sam? Our friendship might also go down the drain. Hell, I was surprised he was still sitting here.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’m going to say something, and I’m only going to say it once, and then this is done.”
I lifted my wet lashes.
Here it comes
. Preparing for what I was sure would be probably the nicest rejection in the history of mankind, I nodded and got ready to bolt through the tree house opening.
“I know you didn’t have anything to do with Cassie,” he said. “And you have got to stop living your life as if you did.”
I blinked, waiting for the rest.
He spread his hands along my cheeks. “I don’t care if you have to see a shrink or go on medication, Sam. I’m being serious. That doesn’t change that I’ve always thought you are an amazing person.”
Through bleary eyes, I searched his face for signs that he was joking. “How can you say that—”
“When you wouldn’t give me the time of day for years?” He laughed. “Remember, Sam, you had your moments. And those moments outshone everything else.”
“You’re perfect,” I whispered, blinking back tears.
Carson snorted. “I’m far from perfect.”
I didn’t believe that.
“So is it a yes or no?” he asked, moving his hands down my cheeks, so that his thumbs curved along my bottom lip, sending a shiver through me, lessening the very real fact that I was a hundred percent certifiable. “Will you go to prom with me?”
I laughed at the absurdity of it. It was official. I was crazy— crazy in the way of seeing things, leaving myself notes, and tomorrow I’d be sitting in the therapist’s office instead of my last period. And Carson still wanted me to go to prom with him.
Another thing was official. I was in love with Carson.
A wide, beautiful smile parted his lips, exposing the one chipped tooth that I found so, so charming. “I’m going to be honest here. If you’re going to say no, it’s about to get really awkward up in here.”
The swelling in my chest was back, but in a good way. Pulling back, I grasped his wrists. A horrible thought occurred. What if I had been crazy before the incident with Cassie but had hid it well? Going to prom seemed like a bad idea, but if I was crazy then, I was crazy now. And if I hadn’t done this to Cassie, what else would I be cheating myself out of experiencing?
“Sam...”
Letting go of his wrists, my arms went around his neck. Carson didn’t hesitate. His arms went around my waist, holding me just as tightly.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” He laughed, pressing his face into my hair.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping I was making the right decision. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

*** In the rental car the following morning I turned to Scott and asked probably one of the strangest questions I could ever ask my brother. “Can you take me dress shopping?”

He choked on a piece of chocolate-frosted Pop-Tart. Part of it fell between the seat and center console of the car he’d been renting. “What?”

I flushed. “I need to get a dress for prom, and I don’t have any friends.”
Digging for the missing Pop-Tart piece, he glanced up at me. “You... you have friends, Sam.”
“No, I don’t.” Swatting his hand away, I managed to scoop out the piece and toss it back in its wrapper. “Everyone at school calls me Insanity Sam.”
“Not everyone.” He stuck the pastry in his mouth so he could back out of the garage, then returned to holding it. “Okay. Who’s taking you? If you say Del, I might thump your ass.”
I made a face. “Carson asked me.”
He spat out another piece. “And you actually said yes?”
“Yeah. I like him. A lot.”
Scott tossed the rest of his breakfast out the car window. “Man, wow, back into the twilight zone.” He slid me a sidelong look. His eyes glimmered. “He’s a much better choice then Del.”
“So you’re not going to thump Carson’s ass, then?”
“I don’t know. I think I have to, just a little bit. Being your brother and all.”
“Of course,” I agreed, grinning.
He rolled his eyes. “Julie will go with you. She was actually planning to go soon.”
Fiddling with the strap on my bag, I stared out the window, lips pursed. “I don’t want you to make her do that. It would be embarrassing.”
“I wouldn’t make her. I’ll ask her in class to see if she’s game.” He paused. “I promise if she isn’t, I won’t push it. Okay?”
“All right.”
We coasted to a stop outside Carson’s house. I leaned forward, eager to see him. The front door swung open, and there he was, in all his wet-haired glory. He looked magnificent in just jeans and a plain shirt.
Scott cleared his throat. “Did you ... did you take your meds yet?”
Distracted from my blatant ogling, I faced my brother. “Yeah, I took my first one today.”
“Do you feel the same?”
I’d taken the pill over an hour ago, and I wasn’t feeling any different. “Yeah.”
Scott dropped the conversation the moment Carson opened the back door. He slid in, dropping his bag on the seat beside him. Twisting around in my seat, I peeked over the headrest.
“Hey,” Carson said, grinning.
My smile spread. “Hey.”
A groan came from the driver. “This is going to suck.”
Carson and I grinned at each other.
“Not for me,” he said.