Splintered (Splintered, #1)(15)

“Allie, this isn’t the same as what they did seventy years ago. It’s done with electrodes while the patient is anesthetized. Muscle relaxants keep them oblivious to any pain.”

“Brain damage is still a side effect.”

“No.” He reads the upside-down text aloud. “Almost all ECT patients will experience confusion, inability to concentrate, and short-term memory loss, but the benefits outweigh the temporary discomforts.” He meets my gaze, his left eye twitching. “Short-term memory loss is a discomfort. Not brain damage.”

“It’s a form of brain damage.” I haven’t been the daughter of a mental patient for the past eleven years and not picked up on the definitions and levels of psychological anomalies.

“Well, maybe that would be a blessing, considering your mom’s most recent memories consist of nothing but the asylum and an endless procession of drugs and psych evaluations.” The deep lines around his mouth look like they might crack all the way through to his skull. What I wouldn’t give to see his Elvis smirk right about now.

My throat constricts. “Who are you to decide this for her?”

His lips tighten to that stern expression reserved for when I’ve overstepped my boundaries. “I’m a man who loves his wife and daughter. A man who’s tired down to his bones.” The mix of defensiveness and resignation in his brown eyes makes me want to curl up and cry. “She tried to kill herself right in front of you. Even if it is a physical impossibility for her to choke herself, it doesn’t matter. The meds aren’t working. We have to take the next step.”

“And if this doesn’t work … what then? A lobotomy with a can opener?” I throw the pamphlet across the seat. It hits his thigh.

“Allie!” His voice sharpens.

I see right through him. He’s desperate to get Alison back, but not for me. All these years he’s been pining for her, the woman he used to take to drive-in movies … who waded with him through puddles in the gutters after it rained … who drank lemonade on the porch swing and shared dreams for a happy future.

If he does this, she may never be that woman again.

I shove open the door and drop down onto the sidewalk. Even though the late-afternoon sun has found its way through the clouds, a chill coats my entire body.

“At least let me get your crutches for you.” Dad starts to dig them out from behind the passenger seat.

“I don’t need them anymore.”

“But Jeb said you sprained—”

“News flash, Dad … Jeb’s not always right.” I tug at the bandana covering my bandage. My ankle hasn’t hurt since Alison pressed her birthmark to mine. In fact, my scraped knee seems better, too. Chalk it up to more unexplained weirdness. I don’t have time to wonder about it. I’ve got bigger issues.

Dad glances off into the distance, his jaw tight. “Butterfly …”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap.

His face falls as two chatty shoppers walk by. The last thing I want to do is hurt him; he’s stayed by Alison’s side for years, not to mention raised me all alone.

“I’m sorry.” I lean in to see him better. “Let’s just do more research, okay?”

He sighs. “I signed the papers before we left.”

My mask of understanding slips, anger seeping out the edges. “Why would you do that?”

“The doctor offered this as an option months ago. I’ve been looking into it for a while. At first, I couldn’t bring myself to even entertain the idea. But now … they’re starting Monday. You can go with me to visit her afterward.”

An uncomfortable heat glides up my neck. The humidity from the storm and the white noise of surrounding bugs only make it worse.

“Please try to understand,” Dad says, “how much I need her home again.”

“I need her, too.”

“Then won’t you do whatever it takes to make that happen?”

Inside me, the flapping shadow comes to life again. It dares me to say exactly what I’m thinking. “Yeah. I’d even dive down a rabbit hole.” I slam the door.

Dad taps the horn, no doubt wanting an explanation for my remark. I rush into the shop without looking back.

The automatic doorbell chirps and a gust jingles the crystal teardrop chandelier centered in the ceiling. I stand there, dazed, while the air-conditioning ices my damp clothes. The rich coconut scent of the candles in the candelabras along the walls eases the crimp in my stomach.

“Is that you, Al?” Jenara’s muffled voice carries through the storeroom’s open door.

I clear my throat and grip the air freshener. In my rush to escape, I forgot to leave it in the truck. “Uh-huh.”

“Did you see my prom dress? It’s on the new-merchandise rack.”

I lift the only hanger on the rack. The clear plastic cover crinkles. Jen bought two dresses at Butterfly Threads months ago. She sliced and diced them to create a fitted lime halter bodice that flares into a mini zebra print/pink netting combo. Hand-sewn iridescent sequins catch the light as I hang it back on the rod.

“Nice,” I say. It’s actually amazing, and under normal circumstances, I’d be a lot more enthusiastic over one of her fashion creations. But I can’t find the strength today.