whom she called Lily, a witness to Astrid’s captivity and a victim in her own right. However, authorities were unable to find any evidence to corroborate this claim, as no young girls with Lily’s description had been reported missing. Sullivan’s therapist later proposed that Lily was a figment of Sullivan’s imagination, a coping mechanism to help her survive in the basement.
That paragraph must have been added after I last read the article. If it had been there all along, I would’ve known right away that I wasn’t the witness. When I read Astrid’s prologue, I assumed that the girl she referenced was someone who saw the moments of abduction. But now I know: it was a girl who saw what happened in the basement. Because she was there, too. Because she was a victim herself—something I have never been.
I forgot to take my meds last night. Might not have taken them the night before, either. Missing a couple pills won’t do much damage—but it’s a new medication. My body and brain are still adjusting to its effects. So the arm I believed I remembered was just a trap in my mind, a needle stuck on a record. I told Ted I’d help him pack for his move, but instead, my anxiety sent me running off to Foster, spending time with Cooper—Cooper—at The Diner. Ted was right to be annoyed last night. And it was unfair of me to expect much more from him than what he’s given in the past. Ted is a creature of habit. We all are. And Ted’s habit, retired or not, is work.
I swaddle a clay bowl in newspaper, set it down in a box, move on to the next. Mara’s art is all around me, but it doesn’t make me miss her. Which is why I’m starting here. Packing Mara’s studio is the perfect activity to soothe this week’s anxiety spike. It’s neutral and mindless. I feel almost nothing as I handle the plates and vases, the mugs from her lipstick series, where each piece has a painted groove at the rim fit for a bottom lip. I will lose myself in this process. Let the panic of the last few days slip off me like sweat.
Dr. Lockwood and I have talked at length about why I feel so little attachment to my mother. We once spent session after session crafting a metaphor that helped me define our relationship: Mara treated me, for most of my life, as a houseguest. She was always polite to me. But polite was cool. Polite was giving me money each August to buy new school clothes, but only after I reminded her I’d outgrown the ones from the year before. Polite was glancing at my report cards, saying That’s wonderful, dear, even in eighth grade when I got all Cs. In the metaphor, Mara is the hands-off host who always seemed to be waiting for me to leave. At night, we’d bump into each other in the hallway, and sometimes, the look on her face would be one of surprise and disbelief: You’re still here? it seemed to ask.
For many years, I assumed this was the way all mothers behaved. By the time I understood that Kyla’s mom was not an anomaly, that most mothers actually were the curfew-setting, prom-paparazzi type, it was too late for me to miss what I’d never had with Mara. Our roles had been cemented. Houseguest and host.
Now, the studio door whips open and bangs against the wall. I drop the mug I’m holding. Watch it smash onto the concrete floor, split into three large chunks. I turn to the doorway, where Ted leans over, but doesn’t cross, the threshold. He knows that, even when she isn’t here, this space is sacred, protected by Mara’s only rule: Ted is not allowed.
He looks at the damaged pottery and chuckles. “Mara will be thrilled,” he says. “More material for her Break Room.”
My voice is flat when I answer, but my pulse is thumping. “That’s not how the Break Room works.”
He shrugs, then steps inside.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to—” I start. But he stoops down to pick up the mug’s pieces, tosses them into the trash. Then he grabs a bowl, wraps it in a sheet of newspaper, and puts it in the box. Grabs another and does it again.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m packing,” he says. “Isn’t that what you were going on about last night? You wanted us to do this together? Well.” He