But I know my mother’s handwriting as well as I know my own. I spent months studying her sober diary, almost identical to this notebook—spiral bound, college ruled, black cover. I know that she dashes, rather than dots, herI’s. That even in the middle of sentences, herB’s are written like uppercase letters, and even when she’s writing my name, theA’s look lowercase.
My whole life, I thought Georgia had the opposite of the Midas touch, turning things that had been worth so much to trash. By the time I was old enough to listen, the rest of the world had declared her music all but worthless. When Shocking Pink tours later this year, they’ll fill only small theaters, nothing like the stadiums where they once performed. Her clothes (that god-awful fur coat)—she ripped them to shreds, spilled red wine on them, stained them with lipstick and blush, left them crumpled in piles on the floor. Even her body, her face—my grandmother’s shown me pictures, and the truth is, she was beautiful before she turned to plastic surgery and hair dye.
Her husband, the hottest bass player on the planet when she married him—now a faded memory.
Her daughter, born, like all human beings, with all the potential in the world—now a body that’s failing. A body that failed.
“You stole my mother’s song,” I say as Andrew steps into the room.
“It was my song, too.” His voice is eerily calm, as though I’d asked about the snow outside, not accused him of theft.
The lyrics scream through my brain, the melody so catchy it’s like a spell. The song doesn’t sound like the man standing in front of me. I imaginehervoice singing the words, her hands moving over a guitar the way I’ve seen in videos on the internet from her heyday, the way I never saw in real life.
“Why did you let me come to Rush’s Recovery?”
Surely, Andrew knew full well what I might find here. Perhaps, after so many years treating wealthy patients, he absorbed their false sense of security, their certainty that privilege is protection. Or maybe he’d simply thought I was the sort of patient who would never venture outside my cottage.
Andrew cocks his head to the side, leaning against the doorjamb. “I was curious.”
“Curious?”
“Yes. Would Florence’s daughter be as fucked-up as her mom?” He sounds cold, as if his curiosity is clinical, not personal.
“Georgia.” My correction makes Andrew smile, as though calling my mother by her chosen name is a joke.
“Unfortunately, the way things worked out, I couldn’t be your care manager. The family of another guest paid extra to ensure that I would be treating him, you know how people can be about that sort of thing. But not to worry, I’ve been reading Dr. Mackenzie’s notes, comparing them to the notes my mother took years ago.” He steps closer to the desk, absentmindedly lifts a paper and sets it back down. “I have to admit, I was disappointed. Mommy issues are so obvious.” He heaves a sigh. “Your mother, at least, was never dull.”
My toes curl in my boots. This place may not have hidden cameras, but someone was spying on me all the same. The spiral of my mother’s notebook presses against my belly, so hot it feels alive.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate how much your presence would upset my mother. She hasn’t been the same since everything that happened with Florence, you know.”
I shake my head. Of course, I didn’t know.
“Alcohol abuse can cause dementia, but you try convincing an alcoholic it’s not worth the risk. Course, you’re already familiar with the pitfalls of trying to reason with an addict, aren’t you?”
Is this eerily calm man the reason Georgia used one last time? Is he the reason that time was different?
I consider what I know (what I thought I knew) about the night my mother died: Georgia hitchhiked to a bar in town. The driver, just a teen, was interviewed byPeoplemagazine for their brief “in memoriam” article, not even a full page. Patrons posted videos of Georgia at the bar, her hair greasy and her makeup smeared. She looked agitated and erratic, arguing with a man out of frame who (Evelyn told us) worked at the center, who was trying to help. (I wonder now: Was Andrew that man?) Georgia ran off without her coat. Evelyn said she must’ve scored some drugs and made her way to the beach, passed out, and simply never woke up, the elements getting the better of her. Anaccident, Evelyn said. No note, no intent, unlike my father, though the result was the same.
But tonight, Evelyn saidhewanted to calm her down,hedidn’t know what he was doing.
The pieces are clicking into place, but the puzzle’s not complete, not yet.
Andrew continues. “Evelyn tried to get out the other night. I had a hell of a time getting her back inside. Had to sprint back to my guest’s cottage so I could be there if he needed me.”
The struggle I saw from across the woods. Not a hallucination, a trick of the light.
I should be frightened, but instead I concentrate on working out the puzzle, as focused as if I were taking my SATs all over again. Just a few more questions to work out, a few more possibilities to eliminate, before I land on the correct answer.
“I couldn’t chance it happening again, so I had to start locking her inside. For her own safety, of course. She could freeze to death out there.” Andrew gestures absently at a window. Outside, the snow is accumulating rapidly.
“And you were worried about what she might tell me,” I supply.
“Not at all,” he replies, almost shrugging. “True, this isn’t quite how I saw things playing out. I thought Sonja being here, playing your mom’s old music so loud you’d be able to hear it in your cottage, might provokemore of a reaction, but according to Dr. Mack’s notes, you never so much as mentioned it.”
“You arranged for Sonja and me to be here at the same time?”
“She wanted to be here for the anniversary of Florence’s death,” Andrew says. “A fan on some macabre pilgrimage. You know, she requested your mom’s old cottage?”
