face. So wide open, that smile turning up the corners of your mouth. You were happy to see me. Another surprise.
“Hi, Lara,” I said. My voice sounded deep, awkward. I wasn’t used to being seen, not the way you were seeing me.
“I call myself Rain now,” you said.
“Rain,” I said stupidly. Of course, I knew that. But you’ll always be Lara to me.
Did you know that I’ve loved you since kindergarten? Did you know that I’ve never loved anyone else?
You did something I never would have expected. You threw yourself into my arms, wrapped me up tight. I must have felt so stiff, so awkward. The shock waves of your gentleness moved through me, so unaccustomed was I to anything but a fighting touch at that time.
Then I felt something release and soften inside me, and I embraced you. The delicate form of your body against mine, the warmth of you. The clean, light scent of your hair. I held you tight. God help me, I almost wept. You brought me right back to the me I used to be. Someone I’d almost forgotten.
“I’m so sorry,” you said, breathless. “I’m so sorry.”
“Dr. Reams?”
My receptionist, Brenda, cuts a slim figure in the doorway. I’ve told her a thousand times to call me Hank, but she won’t. She’s one of those old-school people who stand on ceremony. I appreciate her for her astounding efficiency, foresight and competence. She manages my schedule with dictatorial zeal, but also with a deep compassion for my patients, for the sensitivity of the work.
“You have the afternoon blocked off for research. But Patrick’s aunt called. They need a session.”
“What’s going on?”
“Apparently the dance did not go well,” says Brenda, pushing up her red-framed glasses with a manicured nail. “He’s in a bad place.”
I feel a wave of disappointment for him, run through by a wide skein of worry. “Have him come in.”
“Do you need me to stay?” For some of my more unstable patients—who I mainly don’t see here in my office—Brenda likes to stay until we close up. Patrick did have an outburst here once, early in our work together.
Is it that late? I’ve zoned out, something I’m prone to do more and more lately. A glance at the clock reveals that it’s almost three, her usual departure time.
“No,” I say. “Go get your girl. And have a good night.”
“My mother can get her if you need me.” Brenda has her russet hair back in a tight ponytail, wears a simple black sheath and polka-dot scarf. Her brow knits with concern, but I wave her off.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Go home to your family, tell Ryan I said hello.”
They are the rare intact healthy family, balancing careers, a child, their marriage. I’m not going to be the one who messes with their well-oiled machine.
“If you’re sure,” she says. “I’ll leave the outer door open on my way out.”
My internet browser is open to the file I was reading. I ate lunch at my desk. Half the sandwich still sits in the wrapper by my keyboard. The article I was reading, about the effects of early childhood trauma on physical health later in life—I’ve only read a few paragraphs.
How long have I just been sitting here?
That’s when I notice there are other browser windows open. I’m surprised by what I see there. Shocked, actually. I click the windows closed one by one, my hand shaking. The crime scene photos provided by Agent Brower—gruesome, bloody—disappear one by one. Kreskey. Smith. Markham. How long has he been looking at them, that other side of me?
It reminds me.
Sometimes I forget. I’m not entirely well.
SIXTEEN
Little had changed about the one-story ranch house where Tess had lived, not the buttery-yellow color, not the simple landscaping of squat shrubs, lined with the same type of perennials planted and removed each season, replaced and removed again. Even the red aluminum mailbox seemed to tilt on the same angle. Maybe it was a little worse for wear.
Rain pulled into the gravel drive and sat, taking it in. The trees were taller. Some of the other houses on the block had been renovated. But if she blurred her eyes, she could see it all just as it had been, Tess waving manically from her bedroom window, or sitting on the brick stoop, waiting for her. She’d come running when the car pulled into the driveway, already talking about one thing before Rain even stepped on her walk.