Unhinge

  My head is throbbing. I should probably go lie down. I asked one of the nurses for some Advil more than an hour ago. I quickly washed them down with water. The pills aren’t helping. The pain in my head seems to be getting worse.

  Evelyn’s in my arms. She’s not screaming. Just fussing, constantly squirming, as if she can’t make herself comfortable.

  Just then, Reagan walks into the room, making a beeline in my direction. My body locks up. We haven’t spoken since I attacked her. Just as I predict, she confronts me head on, her signature smirk on her face. “Hi, Victoria.”

  I stare at her dully. Because of her, I was locked in my room. She’s the last person I want to see right now.

  She drums her fingers on the table and looks around. Things are quickly going from tense to awkward. I know I should apologize for attacking her, but I can’t get the words to roll off my tongue.

  “Look, I’ve decided to forgive you for the whole”—she wraps her hands around her neck and rolls her eyes into the back of her head—“choking thing.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  She holds her hand up. “Please. I know you did. And I know I deserved it. Plus, I like you so let’s put it in the past, all right?” Reagan holds out a hand.

  A truce with Reagan would feel like a truce with Satan. Maybe everything that’s happened the past few days has worn me down, though, because I reach out and shake her hand.

  “Great.” She leans forward and in her best reporter voice says, “Now don’t you feel better?”

  “Why are you really talking to me? It can’t be to make up.”

  “I kind of like you, Victoria. You’re a calla lily in the midst of black roses. Obviously, you have your issues, but you don’t belong here. Plus, we both have that persona non grata vibe going on here. We can bond over our craziness. You tried to kill me, and if that doesn’t break up a friendship then I don’t know what the hell will.”

  This may be one of the most honest—if not the kindest—things that Reagan will ever say to me. For a second, I just stare at her.

  Before I can reply a nurse walks by and gives us a double take. “Hey,” she says slowly. “Should you two be around each other?”

  “Relax. We’re best friends now,” Reagan replies with a sweet smile. “In fact I just got done brushing Victoria’s hair and talking about the latest episode of Scandal.”

  The nurse rolls her eyes and keeps on walking.

  Reagan looks over my shoulder and stands up. “Well, it looks like my visiting hour with you is over.”

  I twist around in my seat and see Sinclair coming my way. My relief at seeing him is palpable. I thought he wasn’t going to come back. And if he didn’t, I couldn’t have blamed him. Even I was scared of the side that came out of me that day. It’s humiliating that Sinclair saw me at my lowest point. If I could go back and redo that moment I would.

  He walks toward me. He smiles, but it’s strained, as if the incident has tortured him and drained him of energy. For a second, I fear that he’s here just to tell me that he’s giving up and never going to see me again. That can’t happen.

  Before he makes it to the table, I stand up and meet him halfway. I don’t want to talk to him with multiple sets of eyes on me. I point to my right, where the magazine rack is. “Let’s go over there.”

  He follows behind me closely enough that as I weave around the tables his arm brushes my back. The action sets my skin on fire. When we reach the corner, I lean against the wall. I have to stop myself from wrapping my arms around him and never letting go.

  Saying “hello” or “how are you” seems lame. And pointless. The more I see of the past and the relationship I had with Sinclair, the more desperate I become for his presence.

  Sinclair clears his throat. He shifts from foot to foot as though what he’s about to say makes him uncomfortable. “I think we need to talk about what happened in the rec room a few days ago.”

  “I think we shouldn’t.”

  “Victoria…”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “But I have to know what happened. I walk in and you had her pinned to the floor and you were choking her.”

  I grab a fistful of my hair and start to tug. Sometimes the riot of emotions inside me is too much to take. Like now. I just want to sort them, put them in their proper places. Maybe then I will breathe easier.

  Sinclair’s hands curl around my wrists. Very gently, he pulls my hands away from my head. I lift my head and see concern written all over his face.

  “All I want to do is help you. That’s all I’ve wanted these past six months, okay?” His voice comes out in a ragged whisper. “Talk to me and tell me what you’re feeling. I love you and whatever pain you’re feeling, I feel it too.”

  Hearing those words coming from him gives me relief. I want it to matter to him. To Sinclair Montgomery.

  I take a deep breath. “S-she said I would be a bad mom.” My anger starts to fade as I speak, and is replaced with sadness. It’s ridiculous. Reagan and I have smoothed everything over. But this moment is just a perfect opportunity to show that you can forgive someone, but you can never forget their words.

  “Victoria?” Sinclair says gently. “That’s not true. You know that, right?”

  I say nothing.

  “She was trying to get a rise out of you.”

  I bark out a laugh and wipe the tears off my cheeks. “Yeah. Well, it worked.” Suddenly I feel so stupid.

  One of Sinclair’s hands curves around my shoulder and gently pulls me to him. “You’re not a bad mom and you never will be.”

  I lift my head. “Maybe she’s right though. She’s crazy, but some of the craziest people are the smartest—they say what everyone else is thinking!”

  “No,” he says quietly but fiercely. “Don’t ever think that.”

  I keep talking as if Sinclair never spoke. “As Reagan said all this, I glanced down at my hands, and saw that Evelyn wasn’t even with me. I gave her to the nurse.”

  “All moms need a break.”

  “But good moms don’t. Good moms protect their child.”

  “That’s not true,” he laments.

  We are silent. I don’t have to crack open a piece of my soul for him to see just how much Reagan’s words hurt. He’s already inside me. He sees it all.

  I tear my eyes away from the floor and glance at Sinclair beneath my lashes. “Are you going to give up on me now?”

  Sinclair frowns. He looks defeated and his shoulders sag as if the weight of the world is upon them. “I told you once that I wouldn’t leave you here alone and I meant that.”

  All I can do is smile.

  Sinclair looks around and lowers his voice. “Are you remembering more?”

  I nod. “I am. Dr. Calloway showed me some more pictures last night.”

  Interest lights up his eyes. “What did you remember?”

  My head tilts forward. Mere inches separate us. I have to remind myself that we are not alone. “The time when we delivered those flowers for your sister?”

  Sinclair turns and smirks. “Of course.” He pauses for a second. “You remember that?”

  “I do. I remember running into you at your sister’s store. I remember going to your house….You didn’t expect to see me and I ended up staying the night.” I pause. “Do you remember that?”

  Sinclair lowers his glasses and meets my eyes. The force behind his gaze is still as powerful as I remembered. It still makes my brain short-circuit and my breath get stuck in my throat.

  “I vividly remember that moment,” he says gruffly.

  A hot flush creeps up my neck and across my face. That night runs through my mind in concise flashes: nails digging into his skin. Lips trailing down my body. I shake away the memory before it completely consumes me.

  Sinclair’s gaze never wavers from my face and I know the moment is playing in his mind too. “Have you remembered anything else?”

  “No.” I exhale loudly. “I’m getting to the
end. I can feel it. I’m about to find the truth and I’m scared to see what brought me here.”

  I clear my throat, anxious to change the subject. “Seeing what we were and where we are now. Would you…” I stop and start. “Would you do it again?”

  “Absolutely. Every single second,” he answers instantly.

  “Are you being treated okay here?” Sinclair asks.

  “What, in general? Or since the ‘incident’?”

  “Both.”

  I shrug. “Good, I guess. Everyone’s been looking at me like I’m crazy, though.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy. I’ll never think that no matter what.”

  No one has ever said that to me. Ever. Hearing it deflates my anger.

  I’m all too aware that Sinclair is mere inches away. A table blocks us but that means nothing. I can still feel him. Smell him.

  I know he feels it too.

  Just a day ago I felt like I was losing my mind. There’s a good chance I still am but when Sinclair looks at me like that, crazy ebbs away from me and I almost feel human.

  My heart starts to beat against my ribs like a drum. It’s the most beautiful sound.

  Ignoring everyone around him, Sinclair reaches out. He holds my face so tightly, it’s as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear on him. He pulls me toward him, his eyes bright with need.

  Our last kiss was voracious and strong enough to last me a lifetime. This one is slower, but there’s an urgency to it—as if he’s trying to reach inside me and find the person I once was.

  I open my mouth farther and Sinclair groans.

  Emotions rush through me, powerful enough to take hold of me, controlling each and every action I make.

  I no longer feel broken.

  I’m bold.

  I’m brave.

  I’m confident.

  Just like my past, this man breathes life into me.

  The hands that have been holding my face drift down; his thumbs brush against the base of my throat. Right where my pounding pulse beats. My tongue slides against his expertly, as though we do this every day.

  I don’t ever want to lose this feeling again. My hands curl into fists, my nails dig into my skin; I want to reach out. I want to hold him to me. I want to do a lot of things.

  But for now, this is enough.

  And when he’s not here and his words fade, I have this.

  “No kissing,” a nurse bellows. For dramatic effect she claps her hands. My eyes flutter open just as the nurse advances on us. She points at Sinclair. “Out!”

  Sinclair doesn’t move. His eyes bore straight into mine. They’re glazed over with lust and I know he didn’t want to stop the kiss anymore than I did. My lungs expand and I greedily suck in all the air I can.

  He looks like he has something to say, but that nasty nurse won’t be deterred. “You need to leave now, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Oh, come on!” Reagan bellows. “This is a psych ward, not a church youth group! This is the most action I’ve seen in weeks!”

  Very slowly, he stands up. I’m not ready for him to leave so I mirror his movements.

  He tucks his hands in his pockets and it looks like he’s going to step away. Before I can think twice I reach out and stop him.

  “How can you love someone like me? I’m in a prison for crazy people. I have no freedom and I can’t remember pieces of my past. How can you love me?”

  “You think you’re not worthy of love and you expect me to believe the same thing, but I can’t. You’re a different work of art, Victoria. The seams of your soul are uneven, and fraying at the edges. But you were created that way and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ll ever see.”

  I stand there at a complete loss for words. Sinclair gives me a sad smile. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  And then he’s gone, walking down the hall with the nurse reprimanding him the whole time.

  I watch him walk away, and feel something break around my heart.

  Hear the echo of my heartbeat?

  I ache.

  I ache.

  I ache.

  My feet drag toward Dr. Calloway’s office.

  Evelyn is with Susan and I don’t care.

  I don’t care.

  I really don’t.

  Does that make me a terrible mom? Absolutely.

  My mind feels like a fighter in the ring being hit over and over with words and explanations. It is bruised and battered and very close to breaking.

  I knock once before I enter Calloway’s office. The door shuts softly behind me. I sit across from Calloway, my hands laced in front of me. The nervous energy is impossible to contain. It hovers around me like a swarm of bees, threatening to attack me at any second.

  “You look tired, Victoria,” says Dr. Calloway. “Are you not sleeping well?”

  “I’m sleeping fine,” I mumble. It’s a complete lie, but how am I supposed to explain that the voices inside my head are getting louder, more aggressive, more demanding as time goes by?

  It’s simple: I can’t.

  “Where is your baby today?” Dr. Calloway asks. I see a trace of concern in her eyes.

  “She’s with Susan.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re getting a small break,” she explains. “Some breathing room.”

  I snort. “If you say so.”

  “Everyone needs time to themselves,” Dr. Calloway says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Everything is wrong with that.” The words tumble out before I can process them. After that there’s no controlling what I say; I have to get it off my chest. “Good moms love and protect their child. No matter how they’re feeling.”

  I watch Dr. Calloway carefully, looking for any trace of judgment. But there’s nothing.

  “You don’t feel like you’re protecting your baby? I promise you that Susan will take good care of her.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just…it’s…”

  “It’s what?”

  In frustration, I close my eyes, rub my temples, and take a deep breath. I try to sort through my thoughts and feelings so I can adequately explain myself.

  “It’s just that lately, my daughter can’t stand to be around me,” I finally confess.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “All she does is cry.” I tuck my hands one beneath the other to stop myself from picking at my nails. “No matter how hard I try she doesn’t calm down. It’s like…it’s like she hates me.”

  Dr. Calloway sits back in her chair. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”

  Abruptly, I stand up and start to pace the room. “But she does. Lately, whenever I stare into her eyes, I see no acknowledgment. It’s like I’m a stranger to her.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Awful!” I explode.

  “What I mean is, do you feel yourself becoming distant from her too?”

  I stop walking and turn to face Calloway. “Yes.”

  “And it makes you feel like a bad mom,” she says.

  Anxiously, I nod my head. “Yes, absolutely.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.” I give her a dirty look. All she does is smile. “I mean it. You’re under a lot of pressure right now, experiencing pieces of your past that aren’t always easy to experience a second time.”

  I drag my fingers through my hair. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to do anything and everything and nothing all at the same time.

  It doesn’t make sense, but nothing about me right now makes sense.

  Dr. Calloway turns a paper and slides it toward me. The dates and words blend together. I can decipher nothing. What I know with a certainty is that this time line is insanity by numbers.

  Why did I do this? Why did I open Pandora’s box? Is my life here truly that bad that I willingly put myself through this torture?

  There are so many questions and I can’t give a single honest answer.

&nbsp
; “I’m losing it. I’m really losing it,” I say into my palms.

  After a moment of silence, my hands drop to my sides. I lift my head.

  Dr. Calloway doesn’t say a word. Her eyes are blank. No judgment. No pity. But honestly, on some level she has to think I’m insane. Just like the other doctors.

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Absolutely not. No one’s crazy. But the world is. Everything has a label and a place. But it’s impossible to group everyone’s feelings and reactions into boxes. Especially reactions. Everyone is different and everyone will react to situations differently. You’re being incredibly hard on yourself. If anyone were to travel back through their past, forced to watch the good, the bad, the ugly, they would easily be feeling the same way.”

  She may be humoring me. She may be doing reverse psychology on me. Right now it doesn’t matter. “You think so?” I ask.

  Dr. Calloway nods. “Of course. To be honest, I think you’re holding up pretty great.”

  I want to believe her so badly. But I’m scared.

  “You can keep doing this,” she says gently. “You’ve survived your past before. You can do it again.”

  I find myself nodding. I find hope that’s been dying inside me slowly come back to life.

  “More pictures?” she asks tentatively.

  “More pictures.”

  The first one is of a positive pregnancy test. It seems ridiculous—bordering on silly—to take a picture of a thin stick. For a second, I’m pushed back into the moment. The test was balanced on my knees. My hands were shaking so badly I had to take multiple pictures before I got one that wasn’t blurry.

  The third is of my mother and me sitting at a table at what looks like some kind of event. My cheeks are rosy and even sitting down it’s impossible to miss my burgeoning belly, straining against my dark purple dress.

  The pace picks up. Dr. Calloway moves the pictures so rapidly that one picture falls out of the stack and flutters to the floor. I break my concentration and bend to pick it up. When I turn it over I scream.

  At least I think I do.

  My ears start to ring and my blood runs cold. My mind is begging for me to look away, but I can’t. The dead body is all I can see. It’s lying flat on an embankment, with water lapping at the grass. The body is badly decomposed. Any skin that’s left is brown, looking as rough as tree bark. It’s impossible to distinguish any features. It’s like the lake and fish joined forces to eat the body down to the bare bones. Where the eyes should be are two black pools of nothing.