The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,77

will assess you. Besides, you should adopt some coping mechanisms. Bad things happen to everyone. Life is about rising to the occasion, any occasion. Think of life as a garden. You don’t choose where to be planted, but you can only choose whether to bloom or wither.”

“Oh but, Ash, it is hard to bloom in the storm. All I need is a little pick-me-up. I even have a list of things that might help. It’s right here.” She messed with the pocket of her nightgown, producing a wrinkled paper and handing it to me.

I scanned the list, my blood turning cold.

“That’s a lot of pills. Some of them are strong. Zoloft. Prozac … you cannot mix them together, and you definitely can’t consume alcohol if you take any of them.”

Then something had occurred to me. Something that made me want to throw up. It was perfectly possible she had already taken them. Because all those things were prescribed to so many of her bored, housewife friends, and they all loved to exchange pills like it was some sort of a hobby. If she asked for them, it might be because she wanted more of them.

“You haven’t taken any, have you?”

She sniffed but didn’t say anything. I stepped back, shaking her off of my feet.

“For goodness’ sake, Mother!”

“Just get me the medicines and get to the bottom of this.” Jane threw herself over the carpet pathetically, very intentionally wiping her snot over it.

For one brief moment I forgave myself.

Forgave myself for being so weak when it came to Sam Brennan, for going to the schools my parents chose for me, and for never quite standing up for myself. Not with my friends, not with my brothers, and not with my family.

It was obvious my role model at home wasn’t exactly Marie Curie. Secretly, I wondered what I would have been like if I were raised by anyone else. By someone strong. A woman like Sparrow, who was terrifyingly direct and always made her opinion known publicly about every matter.

I redirected my thoughts quickly when I felt anger flaring in my chest. There was no time for that.

Hurrying toward the closet, I jammed my feet into the scrubs I didn’t need, for a job that was a lie to please my parents.

For the first time, I wondered what it would feel like to live in my own place. An apartment where I could get precious sleeping time between shifts at work without drawing my mother baths and listening to her complain about my father. Where she wouldn’t threaten to cut herself to get back at me for not giving her enough attention.

“I need to get to work. Please get yourself in the shower and brush your hair. Maybe go on a walk or see friends. You need to start taking care of yourself, Mother. I won’t live here forever.” I began buttoning my pea coat over my scrubs.

“No one has asked you to!” She shot me a hostile look from the floor, pouting. “And go, why don’t you. Go when I need you. Just don’t come crying at my grave when you lose me.”

This old tune again.

Do this and this and that or else I will take my own life.

She needs help, mon cheri, and maybe you are not the place she should get it from.

“I’m calling your psychiatrist as soon as I get to work,” I announced to her. She never agreed to see him. Said he never prescribed her the drugs she wanted.

“You can be mean, you know?” She stared at my ceiling numbly, zoning out. “Just like your father.”

“I’m not mean.” I sighed, grabbing my backpack. “But I am tired.”

She said something else, but I didn’t hear her. I walked away before she could convince me to stay. To tend to her. To give myself up for her.

On my way to the clinic, I called one of our trusted housekeepers and asked her to keep an eye on Mother, knowing I was paying lip service for my conscience.

Sam was right. A twenty-seven-year-old woman had no business living with her parents if she could afford her own place.

It was time to spread my wings.

Even and especially because Jane Fitzpatrick kept them carefully clipped.

It was a quiet day at the clinic. Full of consultations, paperwork, and research. No major decisions were made, which was always good news.

I saw Mrs. Martinez again for a checkup and accepted a new patient, a sixty-eight-year-old man so fragile he had to be carried downstairs into