My doctor turns to me, his calm demeanor back in place, as though he’s slipped behind a mask. “You’ve been doing so well, Lord Edward. Your sister will be so pleased to hear that you’re ready to go home.”
“I’m ready to go home?” I echo.
“I was going to call your family with the news tomorrow.”
I imagine myself in the apartment in Tribeca, waking early to watch the dog walkers and runners out my window overlooking the Hudson River, their brisk steps along the West Side Highway.
Dr. Rush adds, “Of course, I might have to change my assessment if you’re backsliding.”
“Backsliding?” The word makes me think of falling backward, of brakes that fail.
“Aiding an out-of-control patient is hardly a sign of progress.”
I catch his meaning. If I help Dr. Rush now, then he’ll tell Anne I’ve been a model patient, I’m cured. Back home, my doctors will refill my prescriptions.
“Will you tell them to send me back to Manhattan, instead of London?”
“I can tell them it would be healthier for you to return to your old life.”
This is almost exactly what Amelia thought she saw in the woods days ago. A man restraining a woman. Seeing it right here, in front of me, I can’t recall why I ever doubted her. How can I doubt a word she’s saying now?
At once, Amelia brings her foot down, hard, on Dr. Rush’s instep. He howls in pain, loosening his hold enough for Amelia to break free.
When my doctor dives toward my friend, I don’t hesitate.
I bring the bat down hard and hear a terriblecrackas it makes contact with my doctor’s skull.
He falls to the ground. The adrenaline coursing through my veins dulls the ache in my fucked-up leg.
Amelia bends over him. “He’s still breathing,” she says. “Edward? Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.” I look around the room, taking note of the mess.
“We gotta get out of here,” she says.
“What about your mother’s file?” I gesture to the pile of papers on the desk. After all Amelia went through to get it, I can’t imagine she’s willing to leave it.
Amelia shakes her head, her eyes very bright. “Let’s go.”
62Amelia Blue
The snow flickers around us as we stumble between the trees, along the path and up the stairs to Edward’s cottage. I feel drunk, my feet unsteady. I lean on Edward, counting on him to get me where we’re going. My heart taps wildly in my chest. There’s no discernible rhythm, no steady hum. I feel like someone who is very, very sick.
For most of my life,weakwas my mother’s insatiable hunger and her inability to curb it. It was other patients in treatment with me, the ones who gave in to the therapy and got better.Weakwas crying over the pictures of me on the internet, the so-called friends who sold me out.
Tonight, all at once,weakis the inability to put one foot in front of the other without someone else supporting me.
“Come on,” Edward coaxes, guiding me toward the sliding glass door.
I don’t want to step into the warmth of Edward’s room. It feels like a trap, a cage.
Oh god, they killed her. I can’t catch my breath.
This place. It—they—him—Andrew Rush killed my mother.
The best care money can buy,that’s what Evelyn said, what Callie said, what Mom echoed, the trill in her voice, the way she made everything sound like a song. It used to annoy me—couldn’t she ever simplytalk?
I’m shaking, but I manage to hold myself upright so I can back away from the door.
