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“Yes, next week. Goodbye.”

The door opens all the way, and a middle-aged woman shuffles out into the waiting room. She looks me up and down, sniffs, and heads out the main door.

“Julianne, how are you?”

I never know how to answer.
Fine
seems pretty safe, politically correct. I don’t think he wants to hear
Great! Except that I see my mama every time I close my eyes, and even when they’re open. In fact, she’s standing in the corner right there!
You doing okay?

Inside his office, the man-cave continues with burgundy and dark green furniture, dark wood frames surrounding his diplomas and certificates, and fake Tiffany lamps with dragonflies on the shades. The only touch of the feminine is a giant matted print of a magnolia. I bet it’s the victim of a 1980s living room redo.

He settles in a chair across from me, flips over to a fresh sheet of yellow tablet paper, and scribbles something at the top. “Today was your first day back to school, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Friday you were a bit agitated. Are you still feeling that way now?”

Agitated, that’s funny. That’s what I’ll tell Isaac, that I was “agitated” and not to blame for my actions. I must be smiling, because Dr. Jordan cocks his head. I look over his shoulder to the bookshelves behind him. There have to be hundreds of volumes—
Ethics in Psychology and the Mental Health Professions
,
Adolescents, Sex and the Law: Preparing Adolescents for Responsible Citizenship
—that one has promise—
Measuring Suicidal Behavior and Risk in Children and Adolescents
—huh. I wonder if R.J. has read any of these. Do they hold the cure for whatever’s wrong with me, with Mama?

There’s a breath in my ear.

“No, darling daughter.”

I leap off the couch at the sound of her voice and dive under Dr. Jordan’s desk. The shaking starts in my head and works its way out to the rest of my body. I wrap my arms around my knees to make it stop but it won’t, so I rock back and forth.

No, no, no, nonononononono…

“You’re not here,” I whisper. “You can’t be here.”

I close my eyes to try to shut her out, but images from that night flash on the back of my eyelids. I put my hands on the sides of my head, try to squeeze her out, to make the pain stop, but it just hurts worse and I cry out. The images won’t stop.

Makethemstopmakethemstop!

I hear my name, but it’s faint.

I hear it again, closer now.

“Sweetie? Juli?”

There’s a touch on my knee and I jerk away, shove myself as far as I can into the darkest corner under the desk. I put my head between my knees and hear a low animal wail I don’t recognize. I’ve never made that sound in my life.

“Sweetie, it’s Daddy. I’m here, baby. It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just
me and Dr. Jordan
. I’ve come to take you home.”

Mumbling. And another low rumble in return. I can’t make out the words because of the echo.
More mumbling, clearer now.

“Sweetie? I’m going to touch your arm, okay? It’s me, and I just want to touch your arm. I’m not going to hurt you. Ready?”

A strong hand encircles my forearm. I flinch, but I don’t back away. More rumbling.

“Juli, I need you to come out of there. Dr. Jordan says you need to go home and rest, but we can’t go home until you come out. Do you understand?”

Do I understand? Understand what? What? What? What?

Strong hands wedge under my armpits and lift. I have no energy, no fight. I’m dead weight in Daddy’s arms. He puts me on the couch, and Dr. Jordan’s face appears above me.

Touch. Touch. Rumble.

“Her pulse is returning to normal. She’s not in any danger, so I don’t think the hospital is necessary, though I’m going to give you a prescription.
And no school.
Don’t send her back to school for the rest of the week. You should consider cancelling her trip to Boston, too.”

No! No!
I struggle to make my mouth work.
I want to go! I’m going!

“I have to go to Boston!”

Both men stop talking to look at me.

“Julianne, how are you feeling?” We’re back to Dr. Jordan’s original question.

“Like I got hit by a semi. Are you going to let me go to Boston? Can I still go, Daddy?”

I sit up and Dr. Jordan hands me a paper cup of water. I take a sip and make an effort to still my shaky hands.

“Julianne, do you know what just happened?”

“Um, no? One minute I was sitting here looking at your books and the next Daddy was hauling me off the floor. When did you get here?”

“About two minutes after Dr. Jordan called to tell me you’d had a psychotic break.”

“A what?”

“A psychotic break,” Dr. Jordan says, “is when someone temporarily loses touch with reality. I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier…considering. Just try to relax for a minute.”

He and Daddy put their heads together and Dr. Jordan hands him a white slip of paper. Daddy nods and puts his hands on his hips.

“Come see me tomorrow at one o’clock, Julianne. No school. No stress. Just rest. Can you make it to the car?”

“We’ll be fine, won’t we?” Daddy speaks to me like I’m a small child. It might be nice to be a child for a little bit. Maybe that’s the way to get Daddy to pay attention and realize what
she
did to me is not okay. I am not okay.

At home, he helps me to my room and sets a glass of water on my nightstand.

“I have to run to the pharmacy. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

“Sure, Daddy.” I curl up into a ball on my bed. I rub my face into the familiar scent and softness.

“I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Your cell is on your table. Call if you need me.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

So sleepy.
I trace the pattern of the wallpaper first with my eyes,
then
I lift a finger and run it over the intricate lines. The design is so pretty, like a tattoo in white relief on the pale blue background. Damask, I think that’s what she called it. If I
wasn’t
so tired, I’d carve it into my arm with the scissors. Oh, but the scissors are gone now, confiscated. I can’t be trusted with sharp objects. Guess I really am like a child now. That makes me giggle.

“Sweetie? Who are you talking to?”

Daddy’s back.
But he just left.

I hum “Variation 18” of Rachmaninoff’s
Paganini
. Isaac says it’s overdone—and he’s right—but I still think it’s so pretty. I wave my hands in the air, playing a keyboard above my head. Daddy grabs my hands and squeezes. I
hum louder
,
mimic the sweeping violins
. He looks upset, but I’m puzzled. After a moment, he releases them. He hands me a fat pill and some water, looking expectant.

“Oh, you want me to swallow this?” I giggle.

If I take enough of these, I’ll be like her. Wouldn’t that be ironic? That makes me giggle even more. When I stop, I stick my tongue out as far as it will go and place the pill on the end. Slowly, I reel it into my mouth and knock back the water.

“Down the hatch! Do I get a sticker for being a good girl, Daddy?”

His face drains of color, but he’s silent as he removes my shoes. He picks up the folded blanket draped over the window seat and settles it over me. I lie back and pull the blanket up to my chin.

“Thank you, Daddy. Nighty-night!” I giggle again.

And that’s the last thing I remember until I wake up at lunchtime the next day.

My pillow’s wet, and I can tell someone is sitting on my bed.

“Sweetie, you awake? You were crying and screaming.”

“Was I?”

I don’t remember a thing. I don’t remember dreaming, and I don’t know why Daddy looks at me like a dangerous animal that’s escaped from the zoo.

“How do you feel?”

“Groggy. What—what happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“We have to go to Dr. Jordan’s in an hour. Why don’t you shower, and I’ll have lunch waiting when you’re done.”

I narrow my eyes at him.
Who are you and what did you do with my Daddy?
I’m pretty grossed out when I look down and see yesterday’s clothes, so for once, I’m happy to obey.

Lunch is grilled cheese and tomato soup, my favorite. I should go psycho more often if this is the reward.

“It’s Tuesday, right?”

“Yep.” He takes a big slurp of soup.

“And I leave Thursday morning. Wow, I lost a lot of practice time. Did you talk to Isaac?”

Translation: What did you tell him? What did he say?

“We’ll talk about that at Dr. Jordan’s.” Slurp, slurp.

My hands automatically clench into fists, but I purposely relax and moderate my voice before I answer.

“I’d really like to talk about it now, Daddy.”
There, that was normal. Not angry, not confrontational.
“I don’t want to argue, and I don’t want to fight. I’m not sure what happened at Dr. Jordan’s office, but I know this—I
have
to go to Boston. I
have
to audition. If you ever want me to be happy, if you want me to have a chance to get away from this, to get well and move on, then you have to let me go. I know there’s no guarantee I’ll get in, but I have to try. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive you or myself.”

For the first time I can remember, he looks me right in the eyes. They’re the same blue as
mine and R.J.’s,
but it looks like someone drained out some of the vibrancy.

“And what about your mother? Can you ever forgive her?”

I look away. I expected him to fight me, not bring up
her
again.

“It’s too soon. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s fair to ask me that right now.”

He sighs and stands up, taking his dishes to the overfilled sink. “You’re right. I should leave that to Dr. Jordan. We need to leave in five minutes. Will you be ready?”

“Yes.”

“See you outside.”

I swirl the spoon around in my soup and make myself a promise—I’ll hold it together until after the audition. After that, I can have all the “psychotic breaks” I want, but until then, I’ll fight for my sanity like I finally fought against her.

I lost that first fight—I don’t intend to lose this one.

Chapter Sixteen

I seriously think my jaw bounces off the floor a couple of times when Dr. Jordan tells Daddy he should let me go to Boston.

“It was just a matter of time until it happened. Up until yesterday, Julianne, you hadn’t dealt with the trauma. Your brain hadn’t fully processed what happened. By having that break, you essentially hit the reset button. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a lot to work through, but I don’t think you’re in any danger of a recurrence.”

I nod—the appropriate response—but I don’t tell him Mama stands in the corner. At least she hasn’t whispered in my ear again. Oh yes, I remember what happened yesterday. As soon as I stepped into the inner office and saw the bookcases, it all came back. I’m not convinced the danger is gone.

That night, I’m afraid to go to bed. Without the time-warp pills Dr. Jordan prescribed, the nightmares come back. But I don’t want to take the pills, either. They put me smack-dab in the middle of my own zombie apocalypse—
Night of the Living Dead Girl
, that’s me.

I call the only person who’ll understand, the only one who can calm me down and bring me back from the brink.

“Hey there, gorgeous.”

“Hey yourself.”

“You ready for Friday?”

“Ready as I can be. Listen, I need a favor.”

Here it comes.

“Anything.”

What, no joke?

“I—I can’t sleep. Nightmares. I have sleeping pills, but they do funny things and I don’t want to take them. Play me to sleep?”

“You’re lucky you caught me at home. Did you have something in mind?”

“
The
Etudes-Tableaux
?”

“You got it, kitten.”

I hear him set the phone down, and he begins. I put him on speakerphone and place my cell on my nightstand. I nestle into the pillow and close my eyes.

It’s so beautiful I want to cry. When I die, I want this playing in the background. I want this to be the soundtrack of my afterlife, spinning out into eternity.

What was Rachmaninoff thinking when he wrote this? What heartbreak was he suffering? Was it anything like mine?

Dave switches to “Song Without Words” and I sigh. I let go and hear my breath even out, grow deeper. I think of Dave, Isaac, and Sergei Rachmaninoff.