Pushing the Limits (Pushing the Limits, #1)(19)

Nightly. Scary enough I didn’t want to fall asleep. Frightening enough that if I lost the battle and did sleep, I woke up screaming. My father and Ashley kept the pills in a locked cabinet in their bathroom and only gave them to me if I asked. I’d rather have poked my eye out with a bleach-laced needle than ask Ashley for anything. “I said I’m fine.”

With the word fine, my eyes shot back to the ribbon. What was it about that thing that attracted me to it? I felt like a moth flying toward an electric bug zapper.

“You appear very interested in the ribbon, Echo,” said Mrs. Collins. “You’re more than welcome to hold it if you’d like.”

“No, I’m good,” I replied. But I wasn’t good. My fingers twitched in my lap. For some insane reason, I wanted to hold it. Mrs. Collins said nothing and the silence sort of creeped me out.

My heart stuttered as I finally shifted forward and took the ribbon in my hand.

This wasn’t one of those cheesy blue ribbons. This was the real deal—large and made of silk. I rubbed the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. First in Show: Painting—Kentucky Governor’s Cup.

Someone at my school won the Governor’s Cup. How freaking cool was that? Every high school artist dreamed of winning that competition.

Maybe some lowerclassman had remarkable art talent. Screw my dad—the moment Mrs. Collins released me, I planned on checking out the art room and seeing this talent for myself. To win first place in the Governor’s Cup, you had to be a stinking genius.

As I ran my fingers over the ribbon again, applause echoed in my head. A still frame image of my outstretched arm accepting the ribbon sprang into my mind.

My eyes snapped to Mrs. Collins as my heart thundered in my chest. “This is mine.”

The thundering moved to my head and my chest constricted as another image squeezed out. In my mind’s eye I was accepting not only the ribbon, but a certificate. I didn’t see the name printed there, but I saw the date. It was the date.

Jolts of electricity shot up my arms and straight to my heart. Horrified, I threw the ribbon across the room and bolted from my chair. My knee slammed against the desk, causing needle-sharp pains to shoot behind my kneecap. I fell to the floor and scrambled backward, away from the ribbon, until my back smacked the door.

Mrs. Collins pushed slowly away from her desk, crossed the room to retrieve the ribbon, and held it in her hand. “Yes, it’s yours, Echo.” She spoke like we were sharing a pizza instead of me having a panic attack.

“It’s … It … can’t be. I … never won the Governor’s Cup.” Fog filled a portion of my mind, followed by a bright flash of red. A moment of clarity revealed a younger me filling out a form. “But I entered … my sophomore year. I won the county, then regionals, and moved on to state. And then … then …” Nothing. The black hole swallowed the red and the gray. Only darkness remained.

Mrs. Collins smoothed her black skirt as she sat down in front of me. Maybe no one told her, but sitting on the floor during a therapy session was abnormal. She reined in her Labrador enthusiasm and spoke in a calm, reassuring tone. “You’re in a safe place, Echo, and it is safe to remember.” She stroked the ribbon. “You had a very happy morning that day.”

I cocked my head to the side and squinted at the ribbon. “I … won?”

She nodded. “I’m a huge art fan. I prefer statues over paintings, but I still love paintings. I’d rather go to a gallery than a movie any day of the week.”

This lady was a feather-filled quack. No question about it. Yet in the middle of those annoyingly cheerful plaques hung honest-to-God legitimate degrees. The University of Louisville was a real school and so was Harvard, where she’d apparently continued her studies. I focused on breathing. “I don’t remember winning.”

Mrs. Collins placed the ribbon on the edge of her desk. “That’s because you repressed the entire day, not just the night.”

I stared at the file on her desk. “Will you tell me what happened to me?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid that would be cheating. If you want to remember, then you need to start applying yourself during these sessions. That means you answer my questions honestly. No more lying. No more half lies. Even if your parents are here. In fact, especially if your parents are here.”

I reached up to where Aires’ dog tags would have rested around my neck if I had worn them. My eyes never left my file. “Did you bother reading that thing?”

One finger methodically rubbed her jaw. “Of course.”

I bit the inside of my mouth. “Then you know. I tried to remember once and you know it isn’t possible.” Not without my mind fracturing in two. The summer after the incident, one psychologist tried to open the steel door in my brain and demons raced out from the crack. I lost myself for two days and woke in the hospital. My nightmares escalated into night terrors.

“You want the truth?” I asked. “You’re right. I want so badly to know what happened. To prove I’m not … to know … because sometimes I wonder … if I’m crazy like her.”

I could hear my father yelling at me to shut up in the dark recess of my mind, but the dam had burst open on my fears. “Because I’m like her, you know? We look the same, we’re both artists, and people always say that I have her spirit. I’m proud to be like her. Because she’s my mom, but I don’t want …” To be crazy.