Complicit Read online

  I stop walking. Play at stupefaction. “Wait. You’re asking me to stay over? At your house?”

  Her cheeks go pink. “Well, not like that.”

  I bend to catch her eye. “I know.”

  “Maybe a little like that,” she admits.

  Even in my doom-and-gloom state, I can’t help but grin. Then I walk Jenny to her class. When we get there I don’t want to let her go.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” I tell her. “I promise.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  I arrive early for my appointment with Dr. Waverly so I sit on the waiting room couch and try reading some of the book Cate gave me. With this choice comes the inevitable worrying—I should be doing homework because winter break is coming up and that means finals. And I should be preparing for my fifteen-minute presentation on the Jimmy Carter grain embargo in U.S. History that’s due in class tomorrow. However, not only is hell having to give a fifteen-minute presentation on the Jimmy Carter grain embargo, but if I’m serious about deconstructing this so-called miracle life of mine and putting out any and all fires I may have helped spread, maybe homework shouldn’t be my top priority right now.

  So Sophocles it is.

  I start with Electra. A few pages in, I’m reminded what it is I don’t like about Greek tragedies—they’re weird. They also have something in common with me in that they don’t seem to say what they mean. From what I’m getting, though, Electra and some other people are angry about her father’s murder and vow to avenge his death. After that, Electra does a lot of crying and scheming and there’s not so much in the way of action. This bores me. I do however make note of the fact that Sophocles’s take on fate is far different than mine, what with all the oracles and premonitions.

  I lose focus after a bit, so I lean back and close my eyes. Listen to the burbling of the fish tank and the hum of fluorescent lights.

  Cate, I think. Why are you doing this?

  I am not an oracle.

  I am not your goddamn mind reader.

  My reverie is short-lived. Sally June, Dr. Waverly’s receptionist or bookkeeper or whatever, gets on the phone and it’s obvious she’s not happy with whoever’s on the other end. The white noise machine sitting outside Dr. Waverly’s office door is running so no one can hear what’s being said inside, but I can hear Sally June loud and clear. She’s fighting with somebody.

  “Axis one, two nine six point three two. Gaf is forty-eight.” There’s a pause, then she says, “Forty-eight!” in an irritated sort of way. I crack my eyes open. Sally June’s twirling purple-streaked hair around a pen and staring at her computer screen like it’s done her wrong. She hangs up the phone with a huff.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  Sally June blows air out of her cheeks. “Just trying to fix something billing code related. They’ve got it all screwed up on their end.”

  “Codes for patients?”

  “For insurance companies. Coverage is dependent on the primary diagnosis. If they get the diagnosis wrong, well, they don’t pay. Because they’re assholes.”

  “So those numbers were a diagnosis?”

  “Yup.”

  I sit up. “What’s the diagnosis you just said? Two nine six point three two?”

  Sally June shakes her head. “I can’t talk to you about patient charts.”

  “Well, what’s my diagnosis?”

  “You need to ask Dr. Waverly that. Also, don’t quote me on the asshole thing, okay?”

  “But—”

  “It’s the law, Jamie.”

  I nod and slouch back down, but my hands close around the arms of the chair to the point of pain. I understand not sharing other people’s information, but why should the law protect me from having information about myself? That doesn’t make any sense. Unless maybe there’s something so horribly wrong with me that no one wants to tell me. But then, what good is therapy if it involves secrets? Wasn’t the whole point of Oedipus Rex to know thyself?

  I’m pretty damn sure it was.

  “Here,” Sally June says, standing up and walking over to a bookshelf adjacent to the waiting area. She pulls a large silver book off and hands it to me. I half expect to see the name Sophocles printed on the front, but instead it reads Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Book of codes. Knock yourself out, kid.”

  “Thanks.”

  Before she goes to sit back down, Sally June jogs over to the white noise machine and turns it on high. This time when she makes a phone call, I can’t hear a thing.

  I lean forward as I crack open the big silver book and start to flip through it. Sally June’s right. In the index are tons of codes. Some are for psychological conditions I’ve heard of before, things like social phobia and schizophrenia and eating disorders, but there’s also a whole section on sexual dysfunctions. I can’t help but take a glance at these. Who wouldn’t? They’ve got everything listed from sexual sadism to premature ejaculation, and I can’t exactly imagine the circumstances under which I’d want to talk to Dr. Waverly about any of these issues. If I had any of these issues, I mean.

  Which I totally don’t.

  After some hunting around, I spot the entry that reads 296, which is listed as Major Depressive Disorder. I turn to the page that describes this condition, and damn, it’s depressing to read about depression. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not finding pleasure in things previously found pleasurable. Sounds like they’ve nailed it. My heart patters with lightning-strike curiosity. What was it Cate said was wrong with me last night? A convert something. I flip back to the index and run my finger down the page, looking for …

  I blink and hold my breath.

  There it is.

  300.11 Conversion Disorder.

  What is that?

  “Jamie?”

  I look up.

  Dr. Waverly is smiling at me.

  “You can come in now.”

  I sit in the black leather chair. I count the clocks.

  Five. There are exactly five clocks in this room.

  Dr. Waverly settles across from me. Adjusts her glasses. “So how are things?”

  I let my fingers tap against my knees, releasing an uneven bass line of nerves. “Did you hear about what happened on Dove Lane this morning?”

  “No, what happened?”

  “Someone lit the Dumpster in the church parking lot on fire.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s the church my family goes to.”

  “Is that why you mentioned it?”

  “I mentioned it because it’s bothering me.”

  “The fire’s bothering you?”

  “Yes!”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know how,” I say, because like I told Jenny earlier, it’s just a feeling I have. Feelings aren’t always easy to explain. Even to a shrink.

  Dr. Waverly clears her throat. “Well, I received a few phone calls from your parents. Do you think we could talk about that?”

  My parents? “Yeah, sure.”

  “They’re worried about you. They told me you’ve been spending all your time locked in your bedroom lately. That you’ve been moody and irritable, lashing out whenever they try to speak with you. That you’re not going to class.”

  I stare at the floor. Feel the back of my neck grow warm. “Oh.”

  “Is your anxiety bothering you again?”

  “Not really. Not like before.”

  “Well, they also said you brought a girl home in the middle of the night, that you got sick all over your car and broke a window, along with some things in your bathroom. Is this right?”

  “I … I guess.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what else to say. If I did something, then it is me. By definition.

  “Are you using drugs?” Dr. Waverly asks gently.

  I look up. “No!”

  “Or drinking? I know we’ve talked
about the importance of not mixing alcohol with your Prozac—”

  “I’m not even taking the stupid Prozac,” I mutter.

  “What was that?”

  “I stopped taking it last week. I hated it.”

  “I see.”

  I resent the way she says those words. I see. Like she knows me better than I know myself.

  “What’s a conversion disorder?” I ask.

  “A conversion disorder? It’s a type of psychosomatic condition. Jamie, look, you can’t just stop taking medication like that. There can be bad side effects. Confusion. Rebound depression—”

  “But I didn’t have depression to start with! And I don’t know what that means. Psycho whatever you said.”

  “Psychosomatic. It means the mind is capable of impacting the body. For some people, when they’re sad or anxious, they feel that way. But for other people, sometimes their sadness or anxiety is expressed physically. Like getting a headache or a stomachache.”

  “So a conversion disorder means getting a headache or a stomachache?”

  She frowns. “That’s what psychosomatic means. Physical symptoms manifested by psychic distress. Conversion disorders are more specific in that the patient displays severe or dramatic neurological symptoms, often linked to a past trauma. Say a woman tried to yell out to her husband before he was hit by a car, but wasn’t able to; she might have bouts of muteness when triggered by things that remind her of the accident. She would literally be unable to speak. Sort of like a physical echo of pain. Think of it like a stuck memory.”

  “Is that what’s wrong with me, then? Do I have a stuck memory?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “My hands keep going numb.”

  “It’s happened again since I last saw you?”

  “Three times in the last week.”

  “Since you stopped taking your Prozac.”

  Since Cate came back. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And you think what happens to your hands might be the result of a conversion disorder? Not cataplexy?”

  “My cataplexy isn’t normal in the first place. And you’re told me before it could be a stress reaction, not a real nerve thing.”

  She blinks. “True. Well, is there an event in your past that your numbness might be connected to?”

  “Yes,” I say. “There is.”

  Dr. Waverly leans forward. “What is it?”

  I suck in air and think of fate. I think of bloody hands digging in the dirt to bury my sister’s secrets. Of raw skin and even rawer emotion. It’s on the very tip of my tongue to tell Dr. Waverly what I did, burying Cate’s stuff like that and the phone and the texts and the whole murderous truth of what I know about my sister and why I feel so bad about it.

  But I don’t.

  Because what I’m also thinking about is:

  Does Cate know what I did?

  Oh, God.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I get to my feet. The back of my heel bumps against the chair and comes close to tripping me. I grab for my backpack. “I need to go.”

  “Jamie, please. I don’t think—”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, but now I’m walking away. I have to leave. Dr. Waverly calls my name again, but I’m already at the door and there’s nothing she can do to stop me.

  FORTY-SIX

  Cate knows.

  Cate knows I have a conversion disorder.

  Cate knows I buried evidence of what she did.

  Cate knows I know she tried to kill Sarah.

  Back out on the sidewalk, I march away from Dr. Waverly’s office and the neat rows of Victorian cottages with all the grace of an ungreased windup toy. My limbs jerk and twitch and resist any sort of harmony. I don’t understand this. I don’t understand anything. When I buried Cate’s things, I was so careful. No one saw. I made sure of that.

  So how does she know?

  The way she knows everything, I guess. Magic. Persuasion. Brute force.

  But what does it mean?

  That’s a question I don’t have an answer for.

  I pull my hands from my pockets and stretch them out in front of me.

  “Are you really all in my mind?” I ask them. “Is that what this is about? Because yes, yes, I know I did something wrong. God, do I know that. But I am so, so sorry—”

  “Who the hell are you talking to, kid?” Someone bumps my shoulder as they pass by. I shy strongly to my left, cheeks burning, then skitter forward with my head hunched down. I don’t turn to see who it was. I don’t care. I know I look crazy.

  You’re talking to your hands.

  Yeah, okay. That is crazy.

  But maybe, just maybe, all this time, they’ve been talking to me.

  Next thing I know, I’m in my Jeep.

  I’m driving toward the Ramirez ranch and my phone’s ringing. The syncopated rhythm of “Evidence” fills the car, only it’s no longer mournful and no longer beautiful. It’s taunting now and I refuse to answer it. I won’t talk to her. Not yet.

  Instead I focus my attention on the breathing exercises I’ve been taught. The ones that are meant to keep me from snapping when my anxiety spins out of control. Like now.

  Inhale for four.

  Hold for four.

  Exhale for eight.

  Repeat.

  There’s an almost physical ache pulling at me as I head farther and farther into the valley. And away from Jenny. More than anything, I want to see her, feel her, experience more of her solace. But there’s something I need to do first. Something I’ve needed to do for the past two years. Because if Cate knows I have a conversion disorder, then she knows I’m the one that took her bag.

  So maybe this has all been about her needing to confess.

  The muscles in my neck stretch catgut taut. Because the truth is Cate might feel guilty about a lot of things. Because giving me a book of Greek tragedies and having me unearth her buried secrets might only be the beginning of what she has to say. Because my sister could have more in common with the matricidal Electra than just a bad temper and a flair for the dramatic.

  Just so you know …

  The ranch is up ahead. I twist the wheel to park Dr. No on the shoulder, but the Jeep’s moving too fast. It jolts into the underbrush, leaves slapping against the windshield, before coming to rest not far from where I left my bike all those years ago. I get out and look around. I still can’t walk up to the front door and announce my arrival so I’ll have to cut through the woods on my own. Light rain starts to fall. I pull the hood of my jacket up over my head.

  I jam my keys into my back pocket. Then I start hiking.

  I don’t know what I expect to find when I get there—an empty hole in the ground. Cops with their guns drawn. Cate waiting in the shadows, plotting an ambush.

  Anything.

  What I don’t expect to find is nothing—an undisturbed patch of rain-soaked earth nestled amid swirling mist at the foot of a leaning eucalyptus tree I’d discovered the day I’d come across the monstrous truth about my sister. I’d run through the woods with evidence of her crimes in my arms, panting, past flora and fauna, leaping over trickling streams, trying to get as far off the beaten path as possible.

  Then I’d ended up here. Among swaying trees on the far side of a meadow filled with briar bushes and three-pronged poison oak leaves that glistened wet with oil and the promise of pain. One of the trees stood stunted and malformed. Its branches didn’t grow up toward the sun, but instead twisted and turned back in on itself so that the whole structure looked like a sick kind of maze, one that bowed and barely cleared the ground, ruined by the weight of its own mass.

  The perfect place to bury my sister’s sins.

  Lazy rain comes down harder. I fall to my knees and begin to dig. Like then, the only tools I have now are my own two hands. The dampness of the earth aids me, but rocks and grit bring up blisters and tear my skin. I break off a stick from the leaning tree and poke around with it to loosen up the clay pack beneath the topsoil.
>
  Then I dig more.

  About two feet down my mud-caked, bleeding hands strike nylon. I pull the bag out, wiping it down as best I can. After two years the fabric itself has rotted; the fibers frayed and blackened. But the waterproof lining still protects the contents. I rifle around. Everything’s still there: the damning cell phone, long dead, the scorched gloves, the silver lighter, Cate’s journal. The three books on hypnosis.

  Deep Trance Hypnotism.

  Induction.

  Self-Hypnosis: A Guide to Mindful Self-Control.

  I squint. Well, that last title is strange, considering Cate didn’t hypnotize herself. Her inductions were meant for others. Schoolgirls. Me, even. I mean, she was kind of brilliant that way.

  Curious, I crack the spine and hunch forward over the pages to keep them from getting soaked. Water streams down my nose and chin. The ink is smeared slightly and the paper stock holds a musty smell, but I have no problem seeing the passages that have been highlighted, the notes scribbled in the margins.

  unable to validate mem. recovery; sstr uncooperative

  per freud, repression as defense mech.

  induction attempt per tx protocol

  brain abnormality possible?

  I’m confused. The handwriting’s foreign and the language in these notes isn’t Cate’s. It’s too full of sophistication, too void of emotion. I flip back to the inside cover of the book and that’s when I see it—a stamp, not unlike the purple one marking Cate’s stolen Sophocles as belonging to the Ventura Youth Correctional Facility. Only this one reads: Property of Janette Waverly, MD.

  My jaw drops.

  Apparently the Sophocles isn’t the first book Cate has stolen.

  I jam the books back inside the rotting nylon bag, ready to stuff everything into the backpack I’ve brought with me. A small object slips through a hole in the frayed threads from one of the front pockets. It lands at my feet, splattering mud across my shoes. I bend at the waist to pick it up. It’s not something I’ve seen before.

  It’s a statue. A small one. Of a tiger.

  Or a tigress.