Complicit (4 page)

I liked her.

The second time I saw her, Dr. Waverly asked if I would do a bunch of tests with her. I said I would and the tests we did were fun, not just the kind where you had to prove you knew different letters and numbers. These were ones where I got to play games and make drawings of myself with my new family. She also wanted me to look at pictures and make up stories about them.

“And what might this be?” she'd ask, holding up an inkblot card.

I'd stare and stare. Answering took me a long time because I wanted so badly to be
right.
“It's a monster. A scary monster. And he's angry, you can tell because he has these streaks of red that show off his anger. He wants to kill someone. That's why his boots are so big. So the police can't find out who he is.”

At the end of it all, she told me I had severe anxiety and that the reason I couldn't remember my mother dying was because of something called dissociative amnesia. She explained that my brain was so smart and so special it had found a way to forget the trauma. Only my body was still scared. That's why I worried so much. She said she wanted to help me be less anxious, that there were pills she could give me and things we could do together, but that more than anything, I had to want to help myself.

I cried.

I said I wanted help.

I wish Cate had gotten help, too.

NINE

Dr. Waverly's office door swings open just as the hour hand hits three. I jump up from the waiting room couch and she waves me in, shutting the door behind me.

“How's school, Jamie?” she asks, because I have my backpack with me. It's the same black Jansport I've been dragging around since ninth grade—worn spots, pencil holes, ink stains and all. Angie's tried throwing it away on more than one occasion, but I keep rescuing it from the trash.

“I'm doing pretty good,” I tell her.

“Still top of the honor roll?”

“Yup. Almost all AP classes this semester, too,” My cheeks burn a little as I say this, because it sounds like bragging, but I've worked hard on Accepting My Strengths this past year. I don't want to sell myself short.

Dr. Waverly smiles in response. She's big on the positive reinforcement thing. “Plus jazz band. Plus that cognitive science program you're applying to. You're a very accomplished student.”

Quick nod, but then I duck my head. Hell, there's only so much self-praise a guy can take. Walking over to the window, I flop down in my usual chair—soft calfskin leather—and try to get comfortable. I'm not particularly tall or built, but I like to spread out when I'm here, to give the illusion of mass. Dr. Waverly would call that a defense mechanism, I guess. She says I have a lot of those. She also says they're healthy.

I do my usual scan of the room. It's important to me that things don't change in this office. I've been seeing Dr. Waverly on and off for a long time now, since I was a kid, and I figure if you're going to make the effort to depend on someone who gets paid to be your friend, the least they can do is be consistent. And she is. She's always had the same framed Monet hanging on the eastern wall. The same Navajo rug spread on the floor between us. The only additions to this space over the years have been comforting ones: a stone owl with crystal eyes that sits and watches me from its perch on the windowsill; a photo of her son on the day he graduated from medical school, cap in hand, face beaming with pride. Plus there are always precisely five clocks in this room. I count every time. The smallest, made of brushed steel, sits on the bookcase to my left. It faces away from me, but I can still hear the racing heartbeat of our fifty-minute hour tick, tick, ticking away.

“How're you handling things?” Dr. Waverly asks.

I tap my fingers. “Okay.”

“You have gloves on.”

“I know.”

“Does that mean—”

“Yeah. I had one of my nerve attacks this morning. A bad one. First time in a while.”

Her brows pop up over her glasses. “Bad?”

“It lasted until right before lunch. So not the worst, but … you know.”

“That sounds pretty bad.”

I nod.

She's scribbling something in her notepad. “Well, it doesn't seem like the Prozac's working to control your symptoms the way it used to. We can try upping the dose. If that doesn't work, there are other SSRIs to consider.”

“Mmm,” I say, which is easier than the truth; a few days ago, I stopped taking the Prozac she prescribed me. Back when I was in ninth grade and my numbness was at its worst, both my neurologist and Dr. Waverly told me Prozac could help control cataplexy in people who have narcolepsy. Not because they're depressed, but because it helps regulate the sleep-wake cycle, which is what causes the muscle weakness in the first place, and even though they couldn't fully explain my symptoms and even though they didn't think I actually had narcolepsy, they both thought the pills were worth a shot. So I tried it. And the attacks stopped, for the most part. But I guess I've always been worried there's something wrong with my brain, not just my hands or the way I sleep. That my doctors have been tricking me all this time. I don't like that thought. At all. And now that I'm talking to Jenny, I really don't like that the Prozac makes me feel less … sharp. Like I'm sort of soft all over.

There's nothing good about that.

“Mmm?” Dr. Waverly repeats. Like I said, she's a shrink, and I decide right then and there not to tell her about the panic attack I had in gym class. I mean, I don't want to end up in a hospital ward or something, locked in one of those rubber-walled rooms where you can't get out without a court order.

“I've got a date,” I offer. “On Friday.”

“A date? With whom?”

“Just some girl from school. She's in my grade. She plays the piano and she's really pretty. Smart, too.”

“The piano? So you have something in common?”

“Yeah, but I'm a pianist who can't play when my hands don't move. Plus I like jazz. Jenny's more of a classical girl.”

“Are you two sexually active?” she asks.

I shift in my seat. “Uh. That's kind of a non sequitur, isn't it?”

“Is it?”

“Um, yeah. Sort of.”

“I thought we were talking about what you can and can't do with your hands, Jamie.”

“I thought we were talking about—oh, never mind. And nah, with Jenny, we just, you know, flirt a little and touch sometimes. Nothing serious.”

“So you'd like to get to know her better?”

I stare at my feet. I don't want to feel embarrassed. Not about something like this. “Look, maybe I haven't done it yet, but I know about sex. The internet can be very … educational in that regard. And I know how to be safe. My real mom had me when she was eighteen. She had Cate when she was sixteen. I don't plan on repeating history, okay?”

“Okay.”

I sit there. I wait for her to ask what set off my nerve attack. I wait for her to ask something, anything, so that I can bring up Cate and talk about what it means to me that she's out. That she's calling my phone. That she claims she's coming back to Danville to see
me.

And that I'm kind of freaking out about it all.

But Dr. Waverly doesn't ask. Instead she sticks with the sex thing and runs with it, because that's what she thinks I really need. Or maybe that's what she thinks my unconscious wants to talk about.

Or whatever.

I give up, so I run with it, too.

TEN

After my therapy appointment, I walk up the canyon road to the Murphys' house. They live on Blue Ridge. My own house isn't much farther, maybe a half mile more up Oak Canyon, on a private drive at the very top. A lot of the homes around here are built on stilts. We've even had to evacuate a couple times when the rain falls for days and the mud starts to move, but nothing bad's ever come of it.

My mind tumbles with thoughts as I walk, until I feel light-headed. Cate. Scooter. Jenny. I sort of wish I'd asked Dr. Waverly if we could have spent my session today doing one of those guided imagery exercises she sometimes leads me through when I'm feeling extra tense or down on myself. Sounds lame, I know, but we used to do it a lot when I was a kid, and I always felt more relaxed after spending time in my happy place, which is a mountain lake, in case you're wondering. I also feel bad about lying to Dr. Waverly about the Prozac, but what can you do? I don't want to take pills for the rest of my life. I took enough when I was younger and it's not like I don't know what's making me anxious.

No one answers when I knock on the door and ring the doorbell, so I sneak around the back of the Murphys' enormous mansion. My fingers remember the gate code better than my mind does. I type the four digits and wait for the light to turn green. Then I pull hard on the wrought-iron handle and step into the yard.

Scooter's black Lab Lady bounds for me, shoves her wet nose against my crotch. I push her away. I don't like dogs.

“Hey, Scooter,” I say when I find him reading in an Adirondack chair not far from his family's sport court. The rain hasn't returned but the ground's wet and the air is, too. There's a basketball nearby, but despite his long limbs and lanky height, I doubt he's been shooting hoops. Most likely, the ball belongs to one of his stepbrothers, who are both away at college. Scooter Murphy's always been just as unathletic as I am, though I suppose a lot can change in two years.

Scooter rips his earbuds out and puts his book down. I glance at the title. It's one of those Stieg Larsson books.

“What're
you
doing here?” he snaps. “And don't call me that, by the way.”

“Don't call you what?”

He gives a wave of his hand. “That kid name. My name's Scott.”

“I know what your name is.”

“Then use it.”

The light-headedness returns, worse than before, and I almost turn and leave right then. I don't need this. His anger. His spite. All directed at
me.
Only I have to tell him. That's the thing about guilt, I've learned.

It's
compulsive.

“Cate's out,” I say.

“Shit,” he says, followed by,
“Shit.”
Then: “Whatever. I don't care. I'm not going to care.”

“She's coming back.”

This gets him to look. Scoot—Scott's face goes pale. It's a shock against his dark curls. “Coming back
here
?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Sure, I'm sure. She left me a message. Listen.” I hand him my phone.

He listens, then hands it back. “Why? What does that mean? What's in Danville that she could possibly want? And what the hell did
you
do to piss her off so badly?”

“I don't know. I just—I thought you should hear it from me.”

“Look, man. I don't want anything to do with your crazy sister. Not after Sarah. Not ever. And I don't want anything to do with
you,
either. I thought I made that clear.”

“You did. But—”

“But nothing. You picked your side. Deal with it.”

“But Cate's
family
!”

Scooter glares. My words hang between us and it's like I've betrayed him all over again. Lady puts her head in his lap. “Get the hell out of here, Jamie. And tell your sister to stay the fuck out of my life. Permanently. Let her screw yours up this time, okay?”

I leave.

ELEVEN

I've tried to put myself in Scooter's position over and over. Would I be able to forgive him if our roles in the barn fire had been reversed? If Sarah had been my girlfriend and Cate had been his sister? But it's impossible to say. I am who I am
because
I'm Cate Henry's brother. I can't help it. That's the reason the end of our friendship is as tied to Cate's actions as I like to imagine my hands are.

You know,
fate.

It makes sense, in a morbid kind of way. Like the way they say a bird in the house means a death will follow shortly. My hands going numb that day at school with Scooter felt like a sign, an omen, like I should've known what was coming. Like I should've been able to
do
something.

Only the damage had already been done.

Mostly.

It was right after we heard about the barn fire that the cops came pounding on Angie and Malcolm's front door. They demanded to talk to Cate, who hadn't bothered to show up to school that morning. And even though I wasn't there, I can picture Angie swinging the door open wide and waving them in grandly, hurrying them up the stairs.

Like she'd just been waiting for this day to arrive.

At the same time, somewhere on the other side of town, I think a part of me knew enough to be worried. Even as I sat in the nurse's office with my head between my knees, trying not to hyperventilate while Scooter vigorously explained that no, I hadn't overdosed or huffed glue or jammed my arms up inside the vending machine. I hadn't done a thing, he shouted, and I needed
help.
Like
now.
I could be having a
stroke.
Or a
heart attack.
And oh, God, what was going on with his
Sarah
?

Even as all that happened around me, a tiny niggle of worry bored its way into my heart.

Like something fiendish.

Cate,
I remember thinking.
Where are you?

What have you done now?

Then I fell forward out of my chair and cracked my head on the ground.

The EMTs that showed up wanted to know if I'd lost consciousness before or after I hit the floor. It was important for some reason, they said, but I didn't know. I didn't care.

It's not like I could have caught myself anyway.

The rumors about Cate started almost immediately. I was in the hospital ER undergoing a CAT scan of my brain along with my first neurological exam. At the same time, in a room two floors above me, Sarah Ciorelli lay unconscious, hooked to a ventilator and close to death. From what anyone could figure out, Sarah had rushed to help after seeing the fire grow from her home across the road, and the burning barn collapsed on her while she attempted save her own horse from the flames.