Everything You Are(70)
“How about something more specific?” Now that Phee has got him talking, the trick is to head him off before he gives her a one-hour lecture on the role of stress in immune disorders. “How about loss of function in a part of the body?”
Len’s gaze sharpens, and she keeps her face open and noncommittal, eyes wide, channeling all of the genuine curiosity she can summon up.
“What I think you’re asking isn’t necessarily connected to PTSD, although there is usually trauma involved. There is a fascinating condition we call conversion disorder. A person is faced with a set of circumstances so impossible to reconcile with their belief system, or a trauma so intense, that an elaborate defense mechanism emerges. I know of a four-year-old child who saw her father commit a murder. For months, she exhibited total blindness. Didn’t even blink if we shone a flashlight in her eyes. But there was absolutely nothing wrong with the eye or the optic nerve . . .”
Len stops himself, and Phee realizes she’s forgotten to manage her expression.
“What are you up to, Ophelia MacPhee?”
“Research. Like I said—”
“No, you’re plotting. I know that gleam in your eye. This is dangerous territory. Not some sort of game. If you are thinking for one minute about creating an adventure that’s going to make someone with PTSD confront their trauma—”
“I’m not an idiot,” she says stiffly, as if he’s hurt her feelings. “I’m just trying to understand.”
“I mean it, Phee. Even trained professionals mess this stuff up. It’s like dynamite, and you never know which way it’s going to blow. Dealing with it requires all kinds of safety structures in place. Are you listening to me?”
She pats his arm reassuringly. “I understand. Dynamite. Only for professionals. Thanks, Len.”
He doesn’t quite believe her, smart man that he is. She can feel his eyes boring holes into her back as she hugs Jean and Katie good night, thanks Oscar for running the extra meeting, exchanges jokes with Dennis about his upcoming consequences party. All the while she’s watching Braden and thinking about explosions.
Chapter Twenty-Six
ALLIE
Allie parks the car but just sits there, hands at ten and two, leaving the motor running. The headlights illuminate a yellow grocery bag caught up on the branch of a sickly shrub. She wishes it were daylight. She’d like to see the sun once more, or even the moon, but today was dim and gray even before the sun went down.
For the very last time, she asks herself if she has other options.
But just thinking about the year ahead shrivels her up inside. If she fails this semester, she’ll have to face the humiliation of going back to school in the fall, or settle for a GED. Even if she does pass, her grades are gonna suck. And then what? Even if she can get another scholarship to UW, she’d feel obligated to do premed, follow her mother’s wishes.
Her life was always music. That’s all she wants to do, all she is, but she can’t do that, either. She makes herself face the memory of the tragedy, the day that tore her life apart forever. If she’s going to chicken out of living, the least she can do for her mother and brother is face up to the memory, and she lets herself sink into it, one last time.
The sun is shining, the day full of promise.
She’s going to meet her father. She’s going to nail this audition and show him what she can do.
It all starts to go wrong when she swings by the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and a muffin. Her mom is usually sleeping, but instead she’s in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.
“I need you to pick up Trey after school.”
Allie whirls around in dismay, spilling orange juice all over her dress.
“I have plans.”
“Well, your plans will have to be changed. I have appointments this morning. I need to sleep before I go in to work.”
Damn it. There’s a stain right between her boobs. Allie’s mind skims over the other things she could wear today. “He can take a bus. Or walk—”
“There’s not time. He’s seeing a specialist about his knee.”
Allie, desperate, goes for a half truth. “Mom. I have a commitment. It’s an orchestra thing—”
“They can do without you for one day.”
“I have a solo!” This part, at least, is true.
“And your brother needs his knee fixed so he can keep doing track. Which is just as important as your music.”
“Like he’s going to spend the rest of his life running,” Allie retorts.
“Alexandra Marie Healey. Do you hear yourself?”
Allie takes a breath. “Music is—”
“A waste of your time. You’re going to be a doctor, not squander your life on music.”
“Can’t he Uber or something? I’ll pay for it. Out of my own money—”
“He’s fourteen! He can’t go alone, and I need to sleep. I need you to do this.”
“But—”
“Enough! You’re just like your father. Music was his god and nobody else mattered. Do you really want to be that person?”
“But—”
“Pick your brother up after school. Here’s the address and a note giving him permission to be seen.”