“No. They can’t know. This has to be our little secret.”
My brows furrow in confusion. “Brooke, they’re devastated. They argue all the time. Mom won’t stop crying, and Dad is barely home anymore. We need you. You’re the one that kept this family together. Please.”
“I’m sorry, Jenna. I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Because then they’ll lose both daughters.”
“What?” I blink, trying to make sense of what she said, and she’s gone. Just like that. Where did she go? I look around anxiously, searching for her in the closet, behind the curtain, under the bed. I had a small taste of having her back and now she’s gone. Again. Maybe she changed her mind? Maybe she ran off to tell Mom and Dad. Excitement rushes through me. I open the door and run down the hall, entering every open door and leaving just as quickly when I don’t see her. I jog down the staircase, rushing to my father’s office. My parents are in here, but there’s no Brooke.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” My father searches me with his eyes from behind his desk. He looks worried, like he can sense my anxiety.
“Yeah,” I whisper as I glance at my mother. She’s standing beside him with a document in her hand.
“Can we help you?” My mother asks warily.
“Uh…” I step forward and dart my eyes around, but still no Brooke. I focus back on them, on their narrowed, curious eyes. My lips are dry, so I moisten them before asking, “Did you see her?”
My mother places the document down on top of the desk. “See who?”
“Brooke.” At the sound of Brooke’s name my mother’s eyes change and I instantly regret saying anything.
“Jenna.” My father stands, his voice eerily calm. “What are you saying?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Can they handle it? What if they don’t believe me? Oh God. My eyes flash from my father to my mother and back to my father in quick succession. “Brooke was here. She’s alive.”
“That’s enough!” Mom screams, startling both my father and me, and before we know it she’s coming after me. Dad grips her arm to stop her. With angry eyes, she turns her head and glares at him. “I’m tired of this, Gregory! Sick and tired.” Her lips tremble as she tries to pull away from him. I stand frozen, tears running down my cheeks. “Don’t you see it? It’s painful enough to go through this grief, but I will not stand by and have her…” She raises her hand in my direction, pointing at me as she locks her furious eyes on mine. “Have her lie for attention. Brooke deserves better than that.”
Attention?
“Laura.” Dad pulls Mom closer, cages her face with both hands, and forces her to stare back at him. “She’s sick, honey.”
Sick?
Mom bursts into tears, shakes off Dads grip, and runs out of the office.
“Daddy,” I cry. Oh God, I feel sick again. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Oh, baby.” In three strides he’s in front of me, holding me in his arms and trying to protect me from all harm. I bury my face in his chest, shut my eyes, and try to picture myself as a five-year-old little girl again—when my father’s arms were the safest place to be. Where in his arms I felt free from harm, like nothing could take me away. As hard as I try, I’m not that little girl anymore, and nothing can save me from me. I break down and allow the pain of the last thirty days to pour out onto my father’s neatly pressed shirt.
“Why is this happening to me?” My voice is muffled against his chest.
He pulls me in tighter, rocks me in his arms, and hushes me to sleep.
Hours have gone by. I’m lost in the past as I stare at the last incomplete canvas. I remember every detail of that day, though I’ve tried to forget it. That’s the day I stopped painting. It brought back too many memories, too much pain—pain that I don’t want to resurface. How does Dr. Rosario expect me to start again and get better if painting is the very reason it all began? The hallucinations didn’t stop because I stopped painting. They still come and go, leaving confusion and anxiety in their wake. And not all of my hallucinations are of Brooke—I have scarier ones too. I’m just afraid if I paint again, my condition will worsen. Sometimes I can’t figure out why I’m like this. Yeah, yeah, it’s a chemical imbalance, but it’s also hereditary. My grandmother is schizophrenic. It skipped my mother and jumped right to me.
Footsteps and the clearing of a throat alert me that I’m no longer alone. I try to pull myself together by running my hands over my face and wiping away any smudged liner left behind by my tears. With a forced smile, I straighten my shoulders and turn to face…him. “Are you lost?” I ask.
Logan’s smile fades, but I don’t think it’s due to my rudeness. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“Something was caught in my eye.” I wave it off as if it’s nothing. Crossing my arms, I raise a brow. “Again, can I help you?”
He’s hesitant at first, as if he doesn’t want to let it go, but he shakes his head and moves on. “By any chance do you have a measuring tape?”
“Really? You’re the contractor. Shouldn’t you be a bit more prepared?”
The corner of his lip tugs into a tiny grin, but clearly he seems to be annoyed. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s stupid, actually. We brought all the main equipment needed for today, but Santino forgot to pack the box with our measuring tapes. The one I had just broke. We just figured we’d ask before running off to the nearest—” He pauses and then waves a hand. “You know what, forget I asked. Sorry to waste your time.” Logan turns to walk out.
Well crap. Can I be any bitchier? “Wait,” I blurt out. He turns around to face me. “I think my father may have one in one of these boxes.” I point toward the left side of the room to a shelf filled with equipment and neatly stacked boxes. To make up for being a complete bitch, I walk over and begin searching through some of the boxes. I can hear his footsteps move around behind me.
“These are good. Did you paint them?”
Small talk. I despise small talk. What’s the point? Why can’t he just stand here, wait for me to locate this damn object, and be on his way? “Yeah, they’re mine,” I mumble.
“Pretty cool,” he replies. Finally, I find the measuring tape. I straighten and turn to face him. He’s directly in front of the third painting. With his head tilted, he crosses his arms and examines it. “This one isn’t finished. Are you working on it?”