Secrets (46 page)

“Thirteen percent isn’t very high.”

Rese swallowed. “To your non-related one percent.” Lots of factors contributed, including viruses which struck indiscriminately, but genetic predisposition raised the stakes considerably.

“That’s still eighty-seven-percent chance you won’t have it at all. I’d bet on those odds.”

Rese stared into his face. How could he be so nonchalant? But she knew how. They weren’t his statistics. She suddenly recalled something Brad had said when she was unresponsive after Dad’s death. He’d leaned close to Jake and murmured, “Hope she isn’t schizo.”

He’d known? Had Dad told him? Rese pressed her hands to her head. “Lance, what did Brad say to you when he came here?”

“He wondered how you were.”

“Because?” His hesitation was enough. “He thought I was psychotic?”

“He thought your reaction was extreme, but the circumstances were too.”

She clenched her hands. “Did he mention Mom?”

Lance nodded. “He told me she was schizophrenic.”

“You knew she was alive?”

“Would I keep that from you?”

“I don’t know.” Fury was building inside that threatened another explosion. “Why would Brad know about her?”

“Your dad told him.”

Of course. Brad was the bosom buddy. Who else knew? The rest of the crew? No wonder they’d kept trying to put her over the edge.

Lance leaned back. “Brad said your dad asked him to look out for you if something happened to him.”

“I couldn’t look out for myself if I was psychotic, could I?”

“I think it was more generic.”

“He knew about Mom.”

Lance rubbed his face. “Just her diagnosis, Rese. He said nothing about her being alive.”

“They all probably thought—”

“You have no idea what anyone thought, or what they knew.” He clasped her arm. “Would Brad have come looking if he thought you were crazy? He wants you back on the job, Rese.”

That was true. But it didn’t excuse it. For any of them. How many more times would Dad stab her from the grave? She rubbed her eyes.

He slid his hold to her hand. “Maybe we should wait until tomorrow.” His voice was gentle, offering her an out.

She shook her head and gripped the paper, but the next section was just as bad, describing the symptoms. Lack of emotional response. Lance’s words—
“Got a concept of emotion?”
Was her self-control a “negative” symptom of the disease? Onset for women was typically between age twenty-five and thirty. She’d be twenty-five next month. She started to shake.

Lance took her in his arms. “You’re reading too much into this.”

“You said it, Lance. No concept of emotion.”

“You were grieving, Rese. You’ve had serious stress. And you’ve had to guard yourself. I know what all that looks like. You’re not psychotic.”

He couldn’t know that. She had shut down at Dad’s death. They called it shock, but catatonia was more like it, and that, too, was a symptom. “You might want to cut your losses now and run.”

“Is that who you think I am?”

“You have no idea what Dad went through. Look how he reacted.”

He sighed. “Let that go for now. This is about your mom. Read it for her.” He clasped her hand tighter. “Let’s see what we’re up against.”

We? How could he say we? Because he didn’t know. He didn’t really understand. He hadn’t lived with it.

Walls came up inside, and even as they built they terrified her. How could she know what was normal self-protection and what was schizophrenic non-reaction? She took in the rest of the information on the introduction sheet, the drugs that were used to treat it, the positive recovery or control rate when caught early and medicated with dopamine blockers, the drugs that had been in use since the ’50s. Why had Mom not been medicated? If Dad knew, and he must have if he told Brad … then why?

She took up the court order that had made her father the legal guardian.

   
State of California, Superior Court

   
City and County of San Francisco

   
Case No. 1982-CV—12875

   
In the matter of Elaine Barrett, by her Next Friend Vernon Barrett, Petitioner.

ORDER GRANTING MOTION TO APPOINT GUARDIAN AND APPOINT CONSERVATOR OF ASSETS
.

Rese shook her head, skimming through the legal jargon that noted Dad would heretofore be known as Petitioner and Mom as Barrett, getting the gist that Dad was given control of Mom’s destiny based on testimony from the examining doctors and other witnesses.
Mrs. Walden, a neighbor of Petitioner and Barrett … Georgette Douglas, sister of Petitioner …
Aunt Georgie? Rese had stayed with her through the “funeral” after leaving the hospital. Aunt Georgie had testified against Mom?

There were also emergency reports of two different suicide attempts and an occasion of violence toward a person Rese didn’t know. She had no memory of any of that. She closed her eyes and tried, but nothing came. Maybe she’d blocked it. She half expected them to surface as the other one had. Her mother standing outside, swaying, but no look of grief or fear or any other emotion.

Mom cried, but only in the wake of Walter. And the laughter had sometimes been so inappropriate. As with the kitten she and Star had found dead. That was a memory she hadn’t recalled, but it blazed to life now. There were more. But she didn’t want them.

Because of the medical condition and symptomology evidenced in the record, and based on the weight of the testimony of the witnesses, the Court concludes that Barrett lacks sufficient competency to manage the ordinary affairs of daily life, such that a Guardian should be appointed to take charge of her welfare until such time as she may regain such competency
.

So the Court had allowed for improvement in her condition, for a cure? The other information made that sound unlikely. But not impossible. Rese pinched the bridge of her nose, afraid to hope for what might never be, and more afraid of what might.

She’d thought Mom trying to kill her was the worst of it. At least then she’d only be dead. This … the specter of actually being like Mom, seeing things that weren’t there, doing things that no one in her right mind would do, being a burden and a danger … She felt too battered even to think.

Was it happening already? Her thoughts jolted. If the records were true, her mother had changed, blocked, rationalized, and perceived things differently than they were. A cold chill passed through her.

“What’s the matter?”

Rese couldn’t admit her doubts, her insecurity that even Lance existed. Hadn’t he simply shown up at her door? In her grief and stress, she could have conjured him. From her loneliness, created him. What real person would care about her as he did?

“Hey.” He stroked her arm.

Goose bumps raised up under his fingers.

“Rese…”

She couldn’t even ask him. No figment of her imagination would admit it. But it made more sense than a real man showing up to be everything she needed. How could he love her in so short a time? If he was real, he’d see all her flaws. Waves of horror coursed through her, and she shook her head, vainly denying what grew more apparent by the second.

But Star saw him too. She talked to him, she … Was Star another? A friend conjured from the isolation of her childhood? Someone even crazier than herself to ease the stigma? The chill made her teeth chatter.

Lance chafed her hands. “Talk to me, Rese. What are you thinking?”

“Don’t you know?” No wonder he could read her mind. He was part of it. Her whole body shook. She was crazy. Just like Mom.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

H
e had seen signs of stress in his sisters, his mother in the shock of grief. But this was different. Rese looked as though she’d disintegrate. Her lips were tinged blue, and she didn’t seem to be drawing enough air. Her limbs had stiffened, and there was some primal terror in her eyes.

“Talk to me, Rese.”

She shook her head, pressing her eyes closed, then looking again as though she expected him to disappear.

“I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” He imagined Brad in his position, trying to get her to talk as she’d sat covered in her father’s blood. He started to rise.

She clutched his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Calling an ambulance.”

“No! They’ll lock me up.”

Lord!
Was she having a breakdown? “They won’t lock you up, Rese. They’ll treat you for shock.”

She clung to him. “They’ll make you disappear.”

Disappear? He stared into her face, trying to fathom the twisted paths she’d taken from the information on the page.
Jesus, give me a clue
. “Tell me what’s going on, or I’m making that call.” He didn’t want to sound harsh, but she was scaring the daylights out of him.

“I don’t care if you’re not real. I can’t go through this without you.”

Not real. Disappear. He swallowed as the realization dawned. She had jumped to a crazy conclusion, scaring herself senseless and losing touch with reality. He closed both her hands in his. “Stop it.”

His tone jarred her. She looked into his face.

“I’m not some figment of your imagination.”

Her breath came in sharp gasps.

“You might be having a panic attack, but that’s pretty understandable with the number of blows you’ve received in too short a time without letting yourself grieve. Geez, Rese, if you’d just cry like a normal woman…” Bad choice of words. “You’re not crazy.”

“How do you know?” Her voice was flat. “Can you prove you’re real?” He expelled a short laugh. “Well, I’ve had to prove myself a lot, but never in quite that way.” He searched her face, trying to see things from her side. Then he pushed up from his chair, taking her with him. “Come on.” He tugged her out the kitchen door, through the garden to the hedge. In the deepening twilight it was difficult to find the gap, but he did and pressed through into Evvy’s yard.

“What are you… ?”

He rapped on Evvy’s back door, circling Rese in his arm and pressing her tight to his side. Her shaking had subsided, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted to purge her doubts completely.

Evvy opened the door, leaning heavily on her cane. “What in blazes…”

“Sorry to bother you, Evvy. But do you see me?”

“As clear as the end of my nose. What’s this all about?” Rese sagged against him.

“Just a little concern Rese was having.”

“Well, if she thinks you’re going to disappear, she ought to take a closer look.” Evvy jabbed a finger at Lance, then fixed her gaze on Rese. “That man’s in love, sweetie. I know what it looks like.”

Not exactly what he’d intended, but he’d admitted as much already. “Thank you, Evvy. Have a wonderful night.”

“I’ll laugh myself to sleep. You two are better than a sitcom.”

Rese would strangle him if she wasn’t so relieved. A sitcom? All she needed was to be the new neighborhood attraction. She’d been there already, thank you. But how else could he have convinced her? Warmth was infusing her limbs even in the evening’s cool air as she followed him back through the hedge.

“Wanna try the neighbors on the other side?”

“No.”

“Anyone down the street?”

“No!” At least Evvy had drawn a different conclusion, thought it a love spat, not a case of altered reality. He’d made his point, and she didn’t need to be paraded around like a freak.

They went inside, and he sat her down at the table. “I think it’s time you experienced the Bronx egg cream.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s not food.”

She blinked. “You said egg—”

“I did. But it doesn’t have eggs or cream.” He went to the pantry and took out a bottle. “Genuine Fox’s U-bet chocolate syrup.”

He thought chocolate syrup would help when she was reeling from imagining Mom’s world? Waves of sorrow coursed over her as she watched him make her drink.

“Two parts milk, one part chocolate, and seltzer poured over the back of a spoon. That’s essential to form the head. Don’t let anyone tell you different. People have other ways to do it, but this is the only way to make a perfect egg cream.”

What was he rattling on about? How could he think she cared when her own mind could be…

He brought the thing and placed it between her hands. “Drink up.”

She took a sip, coating her upper lip with froth. “Chocolate soda?”

“Made any other way with other ingredients, sure. But this is an egg cream.”

“Why is it called that?”

“I have no idea.”

Maybe she wasn’t the only one losing her mind. She pressed her fingers and thumb to her eye sockets.

Lance pulled her hand away. “Rese, do you really think if you made me up you’d have put a diamond in my ear?”

She licked the milk from her lip. “If I was crazy enough.”

“Well, you’re not. You’d have come up with some truck-driving, cigarettesmoking, hammer-wielding hotshot.”

The description materialized into the person she probably would have conjured, and a blush burned her cheeks.
Don’t let him notice
. Fat chance.

He tipped her chin up. “Too true?”