An Anonymous Girl(80)

Mrs. Voss nods. “I think so . . .” Her voice trails off. “The worst part is not knowing. I wake up every morning thinking: Why?”

I have to look away from her shattered eyes.

“She was always so emotional,” Mrs. Voss said. She picks up the teddy bear and hugs it to her chest. “It’s no secret she’d been in and out of therapy.”

She glances at me questioningly and I nod again, like April had shared this information with me.

“But she hadn’t tried to hurt herself in years. Not since high school. It seemed like she was getting better. She was looking for a new job . . . She must have been planning this, though, because the police said she had taken all that Vicodin. I don’t even know how she got the pills.” Mrs. Voss drops her head into her hands and releases a small sob.

So the police did investigate, I think. Given that April had tried to hurt herself in the past, it probably was a suicide. It should make me feel safe, but something still isn’t adding up.

Mrs. Voss lifts her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “I know you hadn’t seen her in a while, but didn’t she sound happy to you?” she asks, sounding desperate. I wonder if she has anyone else to talk to about April. Thomas had said April wasn’t close to her father, and probably April’s real friends have moved on with their lives.

“Yes, she did seem happy,” I whisper. The only way I can keep from bursting into tears and running out of the room is by telling myself that maybe the information I’ll get could help Mrs. Voss in her search for answers, too.

“That’s why it surprised me that April was seeing a psychiatrist,” Mrs. Voss says. “She showed up at the funeral and introduced herself to us. She was stunningly beautiful, and so kind.”

My heart skips a beat.

There’s only one person this could be.

“Have you talked with her recently?” I ask. I make sure my voice remains soft and uniform.

Mrs. Voss nods. “I reached out to her in the fall. It was April’s birthday, October 2. It was such a hard day. She would have been twenty-four.”

She sets the teddy bear back down. “We’d always do a mother-daughter spa day on her birthday. Last year she picked this awful light-blue nail polish shade that I told her looked like an Easter egg.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe we actually had a little argument about that.”

“So did you see the psychiatrist that day?” I ask.

“We met in her office,” Mrs. Voss says. “Before, when April had gone to therapy, we always knew about it. We paid for it. So why was it different this time? I wanted to know what she and April talked about.”

“Did Dr. Shields tell you?” I ask.

I immediately realize my mistake in giving the therapist’s name. I flinch, waiting for Mrs. Voss to notice.

How can I explain it? I can’t say April mentioned the name of her psychiatrist to me months ago and I’ve remembered all this time. Mrs. Voss will never believe it; minutes ago I told her I’d lost touch with April.

Mrs. Voss is going to know I’m an impostor. She’ll be furious, as she’ll have every right to be. What kind of sick person fakes a friendship with a dead girl?

But Mrs. Voss doesn’t seem to catch my slip.

She shakes her head slowly. “I asked if I could see her notes from April’s sessions. I thought there could be something in there, something I didn’t know about that could help explain why April did it.”

I’m holding my breath. Dr. Shields is so scrupulous, her notes would detail the date when she first saw April. They could reveal whether Thomas or Dr. Shields was the one who drew April in. If Dr. Shields initiated the contact, she’s probably even more dangerous than I thought.

“Did she share the notes?” I ask.

I’m pushing too hard; Mrs. Voss looks at me curiously. But she continues.

“No, she reached for my hand and told me again how sorry she was for my loss. She said my questions were natural, but that part of the healing process was needing to accept that I might never have an answer. No matter how hard I pressed, she refused to let me see them. She said it would violate confidentiality mandates.”

I exhale a little too loudly. Of course Dr. Shields would safeguard her notes. But was it because she was protecting April’s secrets, or was she protecting herself—or her husband?

Mrs. Voss stands up and smooths down her sweater. She’s looking me directly in the eye now, and all traces of her tears are gone. “Remind me again, were you and April in the same study-abroad program? I’m sorry, I don’t remember her mentioning your name.”

I lower my head. I don’t have to fake my shame.

“I wish I’d been a better friend to her,” I say. “Even though I was so far away, I should have stayed in touch.”

She walks over and pats my shoulder, as if absolving me.

“I haven’t given up, you know,” she says. I have to tilt back my head to see the expression on her face. Her sorrow is still there, but now it’s mingled with determination.

“Dr. Shields seemed like a good therapist, but she must not be a mother. Otherwise, she would know that when you lose a child, there is no healing,” she says. “That’s why I’m still looking for an answer.”

Her voice grows stronger as she stands up straighter. “That’s why I’ll never stop looking for an answer.”