Page 24

She has no right!

If I thought I hated her before, I truly hate her now.

HARLOW

Ibegin stirring as sleep dissolves, bringing me closer to consciousness, but it isn’t until I feel someone touching me that I jolt awake and snap up. It takes a second for the fog to clear, and when it does, I jerk my arm out of my mother’s hand. She sits on the edge of my bed with doleful eyes that are rimmed-red. Either she hasn’t slept or she’s been crying.

“What did you do to your wrist?” she questions softly.

I flip my hand over to see what she’s talking about and remember tracing my scar with a pen.

“It’s just ink, Mom.”

Her eyes fall from mine and well with tears. When I shift to sit up more, her gaze comes back to mine and her hand brushes along my cheek as a tear falls down hers. She doesn’t move to wipe it away, and as much as I hate her, a part of me feels bad. No one wants to see their parent cry.

“Why are you in my room?” I ask, and when I do, she finally wipes her hand across her face, erasing the sadness that just slipped down it.

“There are muffins downstairs. I thought you could throw on some clothes and we could talk.”

“I don’t feel like talking.”

She gives an understanding nod. “Okay. No talking. But you’ve got to be hungry,” she says while trying to gauge my reaction. When I show no interest, she adds, “They’re banana nut; your favorite.”

“Fine.” I sigh, giving in. “But only because I’m hungry.”

She pats my leg tenderly, and her smile reveals itself for only a split second before vanishing. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

When my door closes, I crawl out of bed and drag myself into my bathroom to scrub my wrist clean. I then trade the T-shirt I’m wearing for a long-sleeved sweatshirt to hide my scar from her nosy eyes. When I open my bedroom door, a trill of unease swims through me when I hear hushed voices. I pause for a moment to eavesdrop, but I can’t make out what’s being said. The mere fact that someone else is here has me returning to my room and putting on a bra.

When I head down and reach the last step, I see Dr. Amberg in the kitchen.

I freeze.

“There she is,” my mom announces, but not in a joyful way. No. There’s something else behind her tone that I can’t lay my finger on, but it doesn’t sit well with me.

“Good morning, Harlow.”

I stare at my psychiatrist as he sets his muffin onto the plate. “What are you doing here?”

“Why don’t you get a bite to eat, dear?” my mother suggests.

My doctor’s face gives nothing away, but when I glance over at my mom, she hides nothing.

Fear snuffs out the suspicion, and my fight or flight instinct kicks in. My brain yells for my feet to move, yet I stay paralyzed as Dr. Amberg stands.

Finally, I’m able to take a cautious step back.

He holds up a hand meant to calm, but it only sparks more worry, forcing me another step away from him.

“Harlow.” My mother’s timid voice echoes through a tunnel.

“What’s going on?”

“I think we should sit down.”

I look between the two of them, and I know for certain that my mother didn’t invite him over here for muffins.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” I demand, my voice wavering.