I can’t imagine who would come to my funeral had Andrew hurt me the way he hurt her. It occurs to me that Andrew wasn’t putting me in any more danger than I’ve been putting myself in for years, so startling I almost jump from my seat. I could just as easily become another statistic, a victim of the second most deadly mental-health issue.
The streets are quiet, dusted with salt, the snowfall not much more than a flurry now. Most of the houses we pass are closed up for winter, forgotten nine months of the year. I try to imagine summertime, bright skies and long days, crowded streets and the smell of barbeque in the air, but I can’t see past the cold and dark.
As the car warms, the snow in my hair melts to water, dripping onto my shoulders, soaking through my sweater. The car’s wipers move back and forth with a steady hum. The first time I saw snow was from the window of Georgia’s hotel room at a tour stop in Michigan when I was eight. I left the room, made my way downstairs, and built a snowman in the courtyard of the hotel. I didn’t have a proper coat then, either. One of the hotel’s employees brought me inside, soaked and shivering, and gave me watery hot chocolate from a machine meant to serve bad coffee to business travelers. I closed my eyes when I sipped it, imagining my mother had made it, along with homemade whipped cream. But when I opened my eyes, there was only the concerned stranger sitting across from me in the hotel lobby and the certainty that my mother was passed out somewhere in the rooms above us.
When I got back to LA, Naomi bought me a coat. I realize now that Georgia must’ve told her I needed one. Had she been watching me, after all?
Dr. Mackenzie pulls into a short driveway. In the glow from her headlights, I see a white clapboard house. There’s a red plastic sled in front of the garage door, small footprints in the snow, and a shovel leaning against the front porch. Someone let the child who lives here stay up late for the snowfall, then shoveled the driveway so Dr. Mackenzie could pull in. The front porch light is on.
I wonder how long it’s been since Dr. Mackenzie came home. Surely, not since I arrived at the center. I imagine her texting someone earlier, explaining that she was finally coming home.
Dr. Mackenzie holds a hand to her lips as she leads the way inside. “My wife and son are sleeping,” she whispers. For the first time, I notice a slim gold ring on her left finger.
“What’s your son’s name?” I don’t think I’ve asked Dr. Mackenzie a question about her life before.
“Milo.”
“Is Mackenzie your first or last name?” I ask.
“My last name. My married name, more precisely. My first name’s Annisa,” she answers.
Dr. Mackenzie spreads a sheet and blanket over a beat-up brown couch in the center of the living room. The house smells like burning wood and the remnants of whatever was made for dinner, hints of garlic and onion. It doesn’t smell rotten or cloying, but inviting. After my grandmother cooks, the kitchen smells like cleaning supplies.
Dr. Mackenzie brings out a first aid kit and rubs alcohol over the cuts from the shattered window on my fingers and wrist. It stings but I can see now that they’re just scratches, barely bleeding anymore.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” Dr. Mackenzie says. She doesn’t offer to stay up all night if I want to speak now, like she would at the center. Here, in her home, she’s no longer at my beck and call.
I lie on the couch, my mind racing. They killed my mother. They covered it up. They stole her song. I wait for the hunger to kick in, to lead me to the kitchen to binge on Annisa Mackenzie’s food.
Much to my surprise, my eyelids grow heavy, and I sink into a deep, dreamless sleep, my mother’s notebook still tucked into my waistband.
66Lord Edward
“Hello,” I say again. It isn’t a question this time. And yet, I’ve never been less certain of myself. Maybe I ought to hang up. I promised not to communicate with her again.
And yet—can it really be her?
I wait, hoping she’ll repeat my name.
Good lord, I want to hear her say my name.
“Edward.”
There’s tenderness in her voice.
How can that be?
“Edward, it’s me. It’s Harper.”
There’s a lump in my throat that suddenly hurts as much as my leg. I try to swallow, but I can’t.
Why is she calling at this hour?
She must think I’m in London. Anne’s plan to get me here without the paparazzi catching wind of it was effective, after all.
“Edward, can you hear me?”
She sounds healthy. She sounds strong.
