Page 215 of Mad Girl

“How can you be sure?” you asked. “She’s wearing a cap and sunglasses. She could be anyone.”

A crackle of excitement burst across my chest. “What if she’s my mom?”

“What?” you both said in unison.

Michael sighed. “Why would you even think that?”

“The way my dad acted that day—at the Red Sox game, then later with your parents? It wasn’t normal, Michael. And he totally overreacted that day she took a picture of me. You both saw. That wasn’t normal, either. Something’s up with this woman. Why would she be at that game when I was little, only to reappear all these years later? Why would she follow us home from therapy today? If it’s Libby she’s scoping out, Michael, shouldn’t she be watching your parents’ house instead of mine?”

Michael tossed me a serious look. “I get what you’re saying, but that woman’s not your mother. And, by the way, my parents’ house can also be seen from where she’s standing.”

Michael was right. Still, I said, “But don’t you see? She’s following me. She took a picture of me. Me—not Libby.”

“Elliot,” you said gently. “Michael’s right. That isn’t your mum out there. It’s just some woman looking for a story.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, slamming my phone to the counter. “I’m going out there.”

You quickly leapt out, grabbing hold of my arm. “Oh, no, you’re not.”

“Let me go,” I said, trying to free myself from your grasp. “I just need to see her face.”

“Not happening.” You tightened your grip, dragged me over to the stool, and practically forced me to sit.

Michael watched this go down with a look of wry amusement. He walked around the island and took a seat beside me. “You know what I think?” he said, picking up my phone. “That you’re making this woman out to be someone she’s not to distract yourself from something else.”

I stopped struggling against your grip. “What are you talking about?”

Looking deep into my eyes, he dropped my phone to the counter. “Pretty soon,” he said softly, “it’ll be one year since you went through something awful. And you don’t want to think about that, so instead you’re choosing to focus on this woman. You’re creating this fantasy where your mom’s come back and she wants to see you, but Nic won’t let her. When, really, it’s just you grasping at pain that’s more familiar so you don’t have to think about that other thing. So you don’t have to deal with the pain of what happened last Halloween.”

By then, you’d loosened your grip on my arm. Michael reached over, began stroking my braid.

“What the hell, Michael?” I swatted his hand away, then yanked my arm free of your hand. Fuck being treated like some fragile little girl who needed to be coddled. “That’s not what this is.”

“Elliot,” Michael said. “You sit in your room every day, just staring out the window.”

“How do you know what I do in my room?”

“Bree and Tinsley,” he said. “They say that’s what you do when you’re hanging out with them upstairs. They say you won’t leave the window seat. They say you’re obsessed.”

“Does everyone just…discuss my behavior behind my back?”

“They’re concerned,” you told me.

“Seriously?” I demanded, anger building in my chest. “It’s bad enough that my dad keeps me on lockdown like a crazy person. Now all my friends are talking about me like I’m a crazy person? There’s a woman out there who’s watching my house. She followed me home from therapy—she took a picture of me!—and I’m the crazy one? I am?”

“No one’s calling you crazy,” Michael said.

“You just implied it!” I yelled.

“Okay,” you said, voice wary. “Let’s calm down.”

“No. You know who’s crazy, Michael? You are.”

He reared back. “What?”

“Yeah. Let’s talk about how crazy you are for repeatedly going back to that psycho bitch.”

He winced. “Bree told you I’m back with Sienna?”