Don't Look Back(74)

“I don’t have schizophrenia. Good news.”

He arched a brow.

I sighed, handing him my prescription for BuSpar. “He said I have severe anxiety disorder plus post-traumatic stress or something. The pills should take effect in about two weeks. This one”—I waved another prescription around—“is called Ativan. I’m supposed to use it in case I have a panic attack or whatever, which he thinks is what is happening when I ... see the shadow guy.”

“Shadow guy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve nicknamed the guy I see but isn’t really there.” I paused, recalling what the therapist said about him. “He thinks the shadow guy could be stress-induced hallucinations or memories of that night, that I’m shielding myself from seeing his face.”

And see, that was the kicker. If the shadow guy was a product of my lost memories, taking these pills could hinder what I’d remember from that night. I was caught between wanting to take them so I’d feel normal and not wanting to because they’d cut off my only avenue to remember what happened that night.

“Okay.” He took that piece of paper from me. “And how long will that take to work once you...”

“Once I start seeing or hearing things?” I felt bad when he flinched and looked away. “About thirty minutes and I’ll be high as kite and happily sedated.”

“Samantha...”

“It’s okay.” But it really wasn’t. I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, hating the idea of having to take pills. “The doc didn’t say how long I’d need to be on them.”

“What did he say about the notes?”

A fine drizzle covered the windshield before I answered. “He said it was probably my subconscious trying to make contact with me.” My laugh was dry. The therapist had asked how I’d felt before I found a note, if didn’t remember what I was doing before then. And I realized that each time I’d found a note, I’d had a dizzy spell or a brief flash of memory. During those times was when I’d supposedly written the notes to myself. He’d said that I could’ve actually remembered everything during those moments but was still blocking them out.

I sighed. “It’s like I have an alien living in my body. He said that may or may not stop with the medication.”

He gripped the steering wheel. “And the memories?”

I shrugged. “They could keep coming back or stop completely, but the pills might affect them.”

Dad nodded, stuffing the papers into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll drop you off at home and get them filled for you.”

“Thank you.” I buckled myself in. “Dad—”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, honey. Okay? I don’t want you to feel like there’s something wrong with you.”

“There is something wrong with me,” I said drily. “Remember—hallucinations, panic attacks, blah, blah?”

“You know what I mean.” He started the car, carefully angling it out of the parking spot. “I just want you to get better.”

“Me too.”

He glanced at me, and my heart ached at the sadness dulling his eyes. Stopped at the edge of the parking lot, he reached out and palmed my cheek. “I just wish...”

“Wish what, Dad?”

A weak smile flitted across his lips as he removed his hand and pulled out onto the road. “I just wish you didn’t have to go through any of this.”

Tipping my head back against the seat, I closed my eyes, listening to the rain smack off the roof. “I know.”





chapter twenty-one





en minutes till eight, I placed the prescription

T bottles unopened in my medicine cabinet and grabbed my hoodie. I was supposed to take the BuSpar with dinner, but because I had no idea what it would do to me, I wanted to talk to Carson without being doped up. Before whatever it was we had going on could go any further, I had to tell him the truth.

I slipped out through the basement, letting Scott know that I was going to meet up with Carson. He’d cover for me in case our parents came looking.

I shoved my hands into the center pocket of my hoodie and followed the thin slice of moonlight that seemed to lead right up to the edge of the lawn. From there, I stayed on the trail, busying myself with how I was going to tell Carson I was crazy.

When I saw the tree house, Carson stuck his head out the opening to the observation deck. A baseball cap was on his head, pulled backward. “Come on up.”

In spite of what was going on, I grinned as I climbed up the wooden planks. He grabbed my hand through the opening when I reached the top, hauling me up. “Thanks,” I said, looking around the square room built for kids much, much younger than us.

A thick blanket had been spread out, and I crawled over to it, sitting down. He sat beside me, stretching out his legs. “Nice touch,” I whispered.

Looking proud of himself, he grinned. “I thought it would make it a little more comfortable.”

I clasped my hands together, throat dry. How did I start this? There wasn’t a manual on these kinds of things.

Carson nudged me with his shoulder. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay.” My fingers dug into palms.

“I did have an ulterior motive for luring you out here, away from your brother.”