Six Months Later (4 page)

Unbelievable. I’m missing time, and this doctor, this highly trained medical
professional
, wants to pat my hand and tell me I’m stressed? He’s still talking, but I’m done listening. All I can think about is my medical chart, of the section on panic attacks that’s going to stay with me for the rest of my life.

I take a breath, and I can almost smell the chlorine from the pool that first day it happened. Everything should have been fine. I mean, yeah, I had stuff going on. My homecoming date backed out, I failed my first two history quizzes, but it was just stuff. It wasn’t tragic.

Every girl in my class swam their timed lap and got out, except me. Halfway down my return lap, I felt my whole body curl in around a crushing pain in my chest. I was tumbling in agony, sputtering wildly for the surface. Our gym teacher, Mrs. Schumacher, had to drag me out of the pool, and I screamed like a banshee; it hurt that bad.

They stretched me out on that rough cement beside the diving board, and I stared up at the dripping swimsuits, sure I’d die.

I didn’t. I did, however, end up with several months of behavior therapy and a brief starring role in the gossip highlights of Ridgeview High.

“Chloe, do you understand what the doctor said?” Mom asks, interrupting my trip down memory lane. Her voice is pinched and tight, just like her smile.

I manage a nod, and everyone nods with me, looking oddly relieved. Did they expect me to say no? Maybe to run around screaming or something?

They hand my mother discharge papers and shuffle me to the door. My dad reaches forward to shake hands with the doctor.

“Dr. Kirkpatrick says she could squeeze her in this afternoon,” the doctor says softly.

“We’ll take her right over,” Dad promises.

I’ve read that in a therapy session,
everything
is analyzed, from the chair you choose to how long you wait to answer a question. So now, instead of actually focusing on real issues, I’m wondering if I’m sitting in a way that says relaxed and healthy or disturbed and potentially sociopathic.

I glance at the clock and realize I’ve already looked at it three times. A possible indicator of obsessive-compulsive disorder. What else could I have? Paranoia? Generalized anxiety disorder? God, I wish she’d just say something so I can stop the diagnosis roulette.

Dr. Kirkpatrick sits back in her chair. She’s got some issues too, I’d bet. I’ve seen her a total of thirteen times, including this session, and in that time, she’s had three drastically different hairstyles. Talk about identity issues.

The last time, she had an auburn pixie cut. Now her hair is jet-black and angled harshly around her chin. She looked friendlier before, like a fairy just a few years past her prime. I can’t help feeling like this version of Dr. Kirkpatrick should slap on some red lipstick and pull a gun on me or something.

“It’s been a while since we’ve talked,” she says. “Would you like to catch me up?”

I glance at the clock again. It’s four minutes after. Just long enough for me to stop looking around the office, but not so long that I’ve had time to get nervous or rehearse answers.

“Um, sure. School is going good.”

Dr. Kirkpatrick nods and watches me. Which means it’s still my turn, I guess.

“My grades are great. My classes are fine. I’m applying at a lot of colleges, I guess.”

“Your grade point average is substantially improved from last year. The study group did good things for you,” she says. Bizarre. Do they keep that in my file? Apparently they do because she glances down at it pointedly. “How do you feel about that change?”

Here we go. How do I feel about my grades? My teachers? The paint in this room? This could go on for days. I’m convinced she could find meaning in the way I feel about a carton of french fries.

I’ve read more than anyone I know about anxiety, and I have a pretty hard time believing that a therapist is going to tie gaping holes in my memory to last year’s anxiety attacks. I tried to explain this to my parents in the car on the way over from the hospital, but my mom only sniffled harder into her tissue.

So here I am.

“Chloe?” she asks.

Crap. That’ll be noted for sure. Excessive pause before answering her question.

“Well, it’s not like I have anything to complain about. I’m going to be able to get into pretty much any college out east. Plus, I’m dating Blake, who’s great.”

“Oh, really?” She doesn’t look surprised. She looks like she’s feigning surprise and it’s…weird. All of this is just weird. “Have you and Blake been together long?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Which is the God’s honest truth.

“Would you like to tell me about him?”

Yeah, I’d love to. Except I can’t because I don’t know a darned thing that I didn’t read in my yearbook or the school paper.

I don’t want to say that though. There is something in the set of Dr. Kirkpatrick’s jaw that’s different from last time. And I’ll bet it’s got everything to do with the new report in my chart, the one that was probably faxed over from the neurologist. Somehow I’m betting giant memory lapses rank a wee bit higher than anxiety episodes on the how-screwed-up-is-your-patient scale.

Before, I was a typical angsty teenager. Now I’m a
real
case.

“Actually, I was hoping I could talk about losing my memories.”

She smiles a little. Just a little. I can tell she’s pleased though. Point for me. “Sure. Why don’t you start by telling me a little more about it.”

I bite my lip and do my best to look thoughtful. Truthfully, I don’t need to think about this. I thought about it all the way here. If I tell her too much, it will destroy everything. They’ll start talking in-patient therapy and medication, and I can kiss my senior year good-bye.

I don’t know how I became the girl with the killer SAT scores, but I’m not stupid. This is my ticket to my own perch in a chair like Dr. Kirkpatrick’s. I’m not about to throw it away.

I take a breath and tilt my head, schooling my expression to sincerity. “I feel busy. So busy sometimes that I’m starting to lose track of things. Sometimes I forget so many things it’s scary.”

“Things at school?”

“Conversations, mostly,” I say, forcing a mild look onto my face. “Social stuff.”

“Do you still have time for your friends?” she asks, searching for something on my chart. She must find it because her eyes pop up to meet mine again. “Do you still see Maggie?”

Maggie.

“No,” I say, swallowing hard. “No, Maggie and I don’t talk much anymore. Too busy.”

She sits back at this, watching me while a minute or two ticks by. “It sounds like you aren’t happy with how busy things are, Chloe.”

I nod, my mouth still thick and dry at the thought of my best friend. My ex-best friend, I guess.

“What do you think you can do to change things?”

“I don’t know. But I want to do something about it. About the forgetting thing mostly. I was hoping there’d be an exercise that might help.”

“That’s a great idea,” she says, as I knew she would. She
loves
exercises. “If you’re open to the idea, we can try one now. Just sit back and close your eyes for me.”

It’s a comfortable chair. Probably purchased with this exact kind of exercise in mind. I close my eyes and follow her instructions to let my mind drift a little. To let go of my classes one by one. Then the hospital and the tests.

It sounds like nonsense, but sometimes it works. I saw it in my elective psychology class last year. And now, I’m feeling it myself, loose and warm around the edges, kind of lost in a soft limbo.

“Now, I’m going to say a few words. I want you to pretend you’re one of those old slide projectors or those viewfinder toys where you flip through picture discs.”

“I had one of those,” I say. Mom bought them for long car rides to the beach.

“Good. I want you to pretend you’re looking into one of those right now. When I say a word, think of an image. Just one. You don’t have to tell me what it is. Just see it in your mind.”

“Okay.” I try to stay relaxed. It’s hard because I’m excited. This could help. I mean, it’s not a guarantee, but it could happen.

“Home,” she says.

Click.
I have a picture of our backyard, the picnic table with peeling paint, and a plastic pitcher of sun tea sitting in the middle.

“Fun.”

I see Maggie and I posing with our tongues out on prom night.

“School.”

A row of lockers, posters of varsity teams stretching above them.

“Love.”

A boy looking up from a book. Dark hair and a killer smile.

Adam.

I jerk my head up, eyes flying open. Dr. Kirkpatrick is writing in her book. Her face is serene. “Are you all right, Chloe?”

“I have no idea.”

***

Maggie’s house is probably not the best idea. But where else can I go? My parents are busy grieving the mental decline of their briefly perfect daughter. I could call my boyfriend, except that I barely know him. And since I’m associating the word
love
with an entirely
different
guy, I’m pretty sure I’m not as close to my boyfriend as I should be.

I ring the doorbell and plunge my hands back into the pockets of my coat. Footsteps echo in the entry inside just before Mrs. Campbell’s face shows in the sidelight window. She looks surprised and delighted in equal parts.

“Chloe,” she says as she swings the door wide. She squeezes me in a hug that smells like the bakery she owns. “It’s been so long. Come on in, honey.”

I swallow hard. “That’s okay. I know it’s kind of late. Is Maggie home?”

“Of course, sweetie. Come in out of the cold.” I step inside and stand on the rug while she heads for the stairs. She seems to think better of it, stalling halfway to the steps and tilting her head at me. “Why don’t you just go on up?”

“I’m not sure—”

Mrs. Campbell ghosts a hand over her reddish hair and smiles at me. “You know, whatever this is, it’s long past time for you two to work it out. Go on, Chloe.”

I nod and take the stairs slowly while Maggie’s mom disappears into the kitchen. Even with her words bolstering me, I feel like I’m climbing my own gallows.

I should have waited another day. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so wound up by my memory of Adam. But why? Why would I picture
him
with love? I mean, just how messed up am I?

I turn left at the top of the stairs and see the collection of bumper stickers on Maggie’s door. Too late for second-guessing now.

She tells me to come in before I even knock. There’s a squeaky board right outside her door so she always knows when someone’s close. We used to call it the parental alert system.

I open the door and stand there, looking over Maggie’s pillow-strewn bed and the posters of obscure punk bands hung above it. Her enormous white dresser looks as buried as it always does, lost under a sea of silk scarves and discarded earrings. She’s flopped sideways across the bed with her laptop open in front of her.

She looks up, and the shock of me being the visitor registers quickly in her face. “Why are
you
h-here?”

I shrug. “You didn’t return my call.”

“That usually means someone d-doesn’t want to t-t-talk to you.”

I frown and look at my feet. She’s stuttering. She doesn’t stutter this much. Not with me. I bite my lip, feeling bruised all over.

Maggie shifts on the bed, sitting up. “I think you s-said plenty the last t-time we talked.”

I take a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know what came over me then,” I say, which is totally true. “But I want to talk to you, Mags. I miss you.”

“No, you d-don’t,” she says. “What do you really want, Chloe, b-because I’m not going to be your p-pet project?”

I can’t believe this. I can’t process that this cold, mean girl is Maggie. “I don’t…I don’t know what you mean.”

She laughs then. It’s usually one of the friendliest sounds on earth. Today it burns like acid.

“Maybe I’m not smart enough t-to explain it,” she says. “Why don’t you go ask one of your study b-buddies, like Julien…Oh, wait, you c-can’t ask Julien anything anymore, can you?”

Her words punch at my gut like a cold fist. My mouth goes dry with fear. “I think something happened to Julien, Maggie. That’s what I was trying to tell you in my voice mail.”

She crosses her arms, obviously not affected. “Yeah, Chloe, I g-got your voice mail. About three months t-too late.”

“Why are you acting like this? What if she’s in trouble, Maggie?”

“Why are you acting like you c-care? I told you all of this, Chloe. I t-told you
months
ago.”

“I was confused,” I hesitate, desperate to know what she knows before I say too much. “Confused and distracted, okay? But I’m trying to be better, and I want to talk about it.”

She folds her arms over her chest and glares up at me, her face closed off like a wall. “Well, tough shit. I d-don’t.”

Eight years. That’s how long I’ve known Maggie. We fight like sisters, but she has never shut me out like this. Not ever.

“You should go,” she says.

I open my mouth, ready to plead my case, but then she leans forward.

“I
want
you t-t-to go.”

Tears blur my vision, but I shake my head, feeling my chin tremble. “Maggie—”

“Just go, Chloe!”

And I do.

I fly down the stairs and right past her mom. I’m desperate to be out of this warm, familiar house and all of its memories. Away from Maggie’s hard words and hate-filled eyes. Mrs. Campbell calls after me, but I ignore her. I fling the door wide, rushing into the cold darkness beyond it.

I thunder down their porch steps, wiping tears as I run for the sidewalk. Sobbing and half-blind, I run until I slam blindly into someone’s back. Whoever he is, he’s tall and broad and he barely shifts at the impact.

“What the hell?” he says, and I leap back because I know that voice.

Adam turns around, shaking his hair out of his eyes and rubbing the back of his arm where I plowed into him. I stumble back in fear, and he catches me, fingers curling around my arms.

“God, Chlo, what is going on with you?”

I jerk myself free, feeling my eyes go wide. “How did you know I was here? Why are you following me?”

“Following you? I live here,” Adam says, narrowing his eyes.

I shake my head, panting hard and feeling like a trapped animal. “No, you don’t. I’d know if you lived here.”

“You do know,” he says, frowning. “I live in the apartments on the other side of the middle school.”

He looks like this is all very obvious. But it’s not. Nothing’s obvious except that I’m crazy. I’m totally crazy and I’m not getting better.

I’m supposed to be better. I did everything they told me to do a year ago. I went to therapy, and I wrote insanely long journal entries. God, I even did yoga! And it had worked. Dr. Kirkpatrick had said my results were so good that I didn’t have to come anymore.

And now this. How in the hell am I going to fix this? When will she ever say I don’t have to come again?

Pain rises up my chest, right into a little ball in my throat. Adam is just standing there, watching me closely while I choke all over my own breath.

I shake my head. “Stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m supposed to know things I couldn’t possibly know. Or like you know me, which you don’t, okay? You don’t know anything about me.”

“Hey, hey,” he says, dropping his backpack and rubbing his hands briskly up and down my arms. “Calm down. Just breathe.”

I glance at Adam’s hands on my arms. I don’t have that feeling of someone invading my personal space. Adam’s touch feels good. No, it’s better than good. His touch feels like home.

He steps in even closer and slides his hands down to the cuffs of my coat. He tells me again to breathe.