“What did you do?” Izzy demanded, her voice snarling with accusation.
I shook my head and walked past her, down the hall to our bedroom. I went in, shut the door behind me, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over my head like I was the scared little girl trying to make the rest of the world go away.
Ten minutes later, Mark entered the room and yanked the covers back.
“Can you please explain what just happened in there?” he asked. His face was flushed and his eyes had darkened. “Why you were drawing those crazy little marks on our daughter?”
“I—”
“I’m not an idiot, Alison. You think I didn’t notice that they’re just like the scars on your own back? The ones you’ve been drawing out in your studio? What’s this about? What were you possibly thinking?”
I shook my head. There was nothing I could say here to make things right. Any explanation I could offer would only make the situation worse.
“What do you think this is doing to her and Izzy, Alison? Seeing you like this?”
“Like what?”
“You’re scaring the hell out of them,” he said.
“I’m trying to protect them,” I said, my voice raised, furious. Whycouldn’t he see that? “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I never should have brought my mother here. It isn’t safe for them.”
“Your mother is not the problem here, Alison,” he said, voice shaking. He had tears in his eyes. “I agree that we never should have said yes to letting your mother come here. Because I had no idea how hard it would be on you. That it would trigger… whatever all this is that you’re going through. And for that I’m sorry.”
I looked at him, said nothing.
“You are not yourself,” he went on. “And you haven’t been since she got here. The kids see it. Penny sees it. We’re all worried sick about you.”
“But I—”
“I’m going to call Gregory and tell him I won’t be back at school until after the break. I’m going to stay home with you and your mother. We’ll call your therapist tomorrow. We’ll get some more help from hospice.”
He leaned in, wrapped his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he said, more gently now. “But we’re going to get through this. We’re going to do it together. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
I wanted to believe him. Truly I did.
But I knew the truth. Felt it down deep.
Things were not going to be okay.
Olivia was in terrible danger.
And I was running out of time to save her.
THIRTY-SEVEN
PENNY WAS WEARING Ahand-knit green sweater as she opened her front door, music flowing out along with a blast of warm air and wonderful smells. Her gray hair was in a long braid with sprigs of spruce woven into it. “Welcome!” she said, kissing my cheek. “Happy Yule!” She eyed the tray of festively decorated gingerbread men I was holding. “Ohh! Beautiful! Did Izzy sneak any zombies in?”
I shook my head. “Not this time. They’re all Mark’s work.”
It was the first time I’d seen Penny since her evening with my mother. She hadn’t responded to my calls or texts. Then, this afternoon, I got a text reminding me about their annual Yule party:Just checking in to make sure you and Mark are still able to come tonight!followed by a string of emojis: two champagne glasses raised in a toast, a Christmas tree, a candle burning. I texted back:Wouldn’t miss it for the world!followed by a bunch of hearts.
We’d left Izzy in charge at home. I had reminded her once again to keep a close eye on Olivia when she was with my mother, to not let the two of them out of her sight. Theo was over, and when we left, the two older girls and Olivia were playing cards with my mother in her room. My mother had seemed tired and had asked for extra morphine. I doubted she’d even be awake for much longer. They’d ordered pizza, and Izzy had promised to call if there were any problems at all. I was still nervous, but Mark reminded me that we would be right next door. Five minutes away.
Mark had been watching me carefully all day, following me around the house like a worried shadow. True to his word, he’d called the school andarranged for a sub to cover the final days before winter break, citing a family emergency. He’d also sat with me while I pretended to call my fictional therapist to leave a message asking for an appointment as soon as possible. When I hung up, he threw in a new caveat: he would come with me to my first appointment. He wanted to talk to the therapist about his concerns, to meet her for himself and hear her thoughts on the best course of treatment.
“She’smytherapist, Mark. I don’t think people usually bring their husbands unless it’s for couples counseling.”
“Surely she’ll understand my concern. She might think it’s helpful to hear my perspective—and frankly, I need to hear hers. I wonder if we might need to consider medication, Alison,” he’d said. “Or maybe some time away.”
