Oh, hell, no! I will not be seeing a shrink!
He crosses his arms, sensing my change in mood. “Mandatory,” he repeats. “Abigail will see you make it there on time. For now, if you need anything, go to her. She’ll be your aide. Feel free to use anything in the house, and know that the house is under constant watch for everyone’s safety. Of course, the bedrooms and bathrooms are not under video surveillance, but the windows and doors all have sensors so we can keep track of who is coming and going. Please understand that the use of phones to call outside of this area is strictly prohibited, as is the use of the internet for communication. We’ve worked extremely hard to keep this place secret. Only a select few know its location, and they know the consequences if they should ever reveal it. I’ll give you a week to decide if you want to stay, and if so, we’ll talk more about the rules.” He moves to sit behind his desk. “Any questions?”
Yes, about a billion.I shake my head and walk back out the door, closing it behind me. Jesus, there is so much to take in, my mind is reeling. I need to get back to my room and think. Am I really ready to live like this? Trade one prison for another, however posh? Or do I go home and take a chance and risk it all?
Dr. Roberts is a tall, skinny man with blond hair, in his mid-fifties. His hazel eyes look warm against his crisp navy suit, the thin tie resting over his belt buckle. He repeatedly taps his right heel against the floor while he thinks.
We are in a small room next to Logan’s office. The color scheme is yellow and shades of green. It is quite pretty.
“Not much of a talker?” Dr. Roberts asks, trying to lighten the mood.
We’ve been staring at one another for the past forty-five minutes. When I first arrived, he asked a few questions, but when I didn’t respond, he just watched my behavior, as I did his. I know he is going to go with a shock question to get a response out of me. Oh, here it comes. I can practically smell the smoke from his brain gears turning.
“What’s your feeling on Jose Jorge?”
I don’t flinch.
He nods and continues scribbling on his tablet. “Savannah, would you like to go home?”
Ah, the follow-up shocker question. Nice one, Doc. I’ve got to hand it to you. Using family would have cracked me at one time, but not now.
He leans forward, setting his tablet on the table. “Well, I guess we’re not going to accomplish anything here today.” He removes his thick framed glasses and rubs his eyes, sighing. “If you don’t let people in, Savannah, how can we help you? Aren’t you tired of being alone?”
Okay, that hit a nerve, almost broke my mask. I am terribly lonely, but when you live with no one to talk to and no one to trust for as long as I have, you almost forget how. People are sneaky creatures.
“Can you at least tell me your favorite color?”
I silently watch him shake his head.
“Okay, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.” The door opens, and in walks Abigail.
“Hello, Dr. Roberts. Will you be joining us for lunch?” She smiles at him.
“No, I’m afraid not. Thank you, though. I do love your chicken pot pie.” She blushes a little.
Huh. This is interesting. Does soft-spoken Abigail have a crush on the snappy-dresser therapist? I think so.
“Ready, Savannah?” she asks, holding the door open.
I wake in a layer of sweat, my heart still wild from my nightmare, and glance at the clock. It’s barely past midnight. I can still smell the foul sheets of my prison room. They had been changed only three times during what I now know was over seven months. I bet they never saw any soap even then—probably only rinsed and dried.
Knowing I’ll never get back to sleep with the memories of my nightmare still fresh in my mind, I toss my blankets off and grab the robe Abigail left out for me. The cool silk feels amazing against my hot skin.
I make my way downstairs to the bottom floor. The entertainment room window overlooks the lake, and the space is filled with the glow of the lovely, soft moonlight. A black grand piano sits in front of one of the windows. My hands twitch as memories flood over me. I slide onto the cold bench and lift the cover to run my fingers over the keys, feeling how smooth and familiar they are as goose bumps prick along my skin. It has been fourteen years since I’ve played, fourteen years since I’ve seen my mother, fourteen years since I promised myself I’d never play again.
“Sweetheart,” my father says, coming to my side, “it would really mean a lot if you played for her one last time. Please, play her favorite.”
“I—I can’t,” I whisper through a sob.
“I really need you to do this, sweetie.” He nods toward the press that is gathering in the church. Of course, the new up-and-coming politician would have press at his wife’s funeral. I look up at him through my tears. It’s always a show with him. He stands, pulling me to my feet. “Now.” He takes my hands in his. “You can do this, Savi.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek and points me toward the front of the room. I shake as I pass by the coffin. My dear mother looks so peaceful. As I sit at the piano, all eyes are on me. I glance at my father, who brushes a tear away and nods at me to start. I feel sick as I look down at the black and white blur. I take a deep breath, not wanting to disappoint. I can’t bear to sing, so I only play. Leonard Cohen’s oft-coveredHallelujah.
“Thank you,” my father whispers.
Still, to this day, I don’t know if he was thanking me for doing it for Mom, for him, or for the media.
I shake off the memory and test a key, pushing down, making the first note. I close my eyes and feel the melody. I quietly sing the familiar opening line, hardly recognizing my voice as the tears drop—feeling my mother beside me, playing her part. This was one of our favorites, and she had taught me how to play this same song I would play at her funeral.
“Only play if you want to, Savi,” she whispers, glancing over at my father on the phone, pacing the kitchen. “If it makes you happy, then play. That’s why I do.” She kisses my cheek. “It helps me escape my disease. It sets me free.” She starts to sing again, winking at me, her head swathed with a wrap hiding the fact that she’s lost all her pretty dark brown hair that matched my own. Her voice would warm the coldest soul.