Page 6 of The Unraveling

I smile, thinking of Victor puttering around his study with vials of blood and that fancy new compound microscope I bought him for Christmas.

“He’s well . . .” I think? I rack my mind for what he was doing when I left. A memory of him lying in the middle of the floor in meditation leaps forward. I chuckle. “Maybe n-napping by the time I get home.”

Victor always says that an unusual perspective helps one think outside the box, that some of his best ideas come while lying on the floor instead of sitting at his desk.

“And Daisy?” he asks. “How is she feeling?”

My lips part, thoughts flitting from the daisies on the entryway table to the soft hazel eyes of a young woman, her face framed by curly white-blond hair.

“Daisy . . .”

My heart thumps in my ears. Where’s Daisy?

More precisely, who is Daisy, exactly? And why does acidic guilt writhe in my stomach over the fact that I can’t remember?

Frederick scans a chocolate bar and tucks it into the bag. “She didn’t come with you tonight?” He chuckles. “She must be disappointed about not getting to carry the bag.”

My brow furrows. Is she okay? “Yes . . .”

He reads me my total, and for a moment, panic rises in my throat at the sight of so many costly snacks. I fish colorful bills from my purse, knowing I need to eat. My parents dug deep into their pockets so I could do exactly that during my treatment—though Dr. Todd assured them he’d provide my meals—but convenience store food? Such a waste of money when they had to put my flight on a credit card.

“Isla?” Frederick asks, palm waiting.

I gasp as I break the surface of my well of thoughts. Thrusting the bills into his hand, I’m unsure why such a memory sucked me under when it’s been so long since I’ve had money issues.

As he counts the bills and presses buttons on the cash register, I bat through my thoughts until I can recall what we were talking about.

“Daisy is at home,” I conclude as the image of a young woman going upstairs flashes through my mind—though I haven’t a clue where exactly I snagged the memory from.

I lock my sore hand around the bag’s fabric handles and gulp.

Daisy must be at home, right? I can’t think of where else she would be . . .

When I drag the bag off the counter, it falls like cinder blocks from my weak grip and thuds on the floor.

Gritting my teeth, I slowly lean over, fighting my distorted balance to hook my aching arm through the straps, then grip the edge of the counter to straighten.

“Good night,” Frederick says. “Tell her I say hi.”

“’Night,” I whisper.

A gust of sharp wind assaults me the moment I step outside and sends my curls tangling around me. I do my best to lift the bag so it doesn’t drag across the ground. If each breath weren’t cold against my throat, I might stop to tear into whatever I can eat the fastest in hopes of gaining some energy.

But the harsh wind pushes me forward. My joints nearly lock in place with each step. I carry the bag until my elbow can no longer bend, then submit to gravity and drag it through the grassy edges of people’s yards.

A black van turns, tires quiet and slow across the slick asphalt as it passes. The driver’s lips move, yet I can’t hear him. I’d stick my fingers in my ears to attempt unplugging them if they weren’t curled around the bag handles.

My house comes into view at the end of the block as I get to the top of the street. Relief helps me shake some of the cold away as I reach the end of the walkway.

Tires crunching against the asphalt draws my attention to a yellow cab pulling a U-turn at the dead-end road in front of our house.

I stare at its glowing taillights until they’re far beyond view. With a hard blink, I wonder how long I’ve been standing here. I don’t remember getting into the cab at my hotel, nor exiting it, yet the sight of it leaving is familiar. I always take a cab from my hotel to Dr. Todd’s house. The cars in my memory are more rectangular instead of sleek with curved edges, but I’m off-kilter enough to chalk it up to simply not paying attention this trip.

With a shiver, I curse and realize I must have forgotten my raincoat in the warm backseat, too.

I drag my snacks up the walkway, cold sweat beading at my temples with the everyday effort of living. It takes the last of my energy to make it up the steps. My numb knees slam against the wood as I collapse. I lean against the door, trembling. Hot tears well in my eyes as I lift my fist and knock. My teeth chatter, pain radiating through my joints and bones with each sharp rap.

The minutes turn over. My knocks are so pitiful, I wouldn’t be surprised if his impeccable hearing can’t perceive them. I continue even as my eyes slide closed.