Lizzie Page 13

  There’s something kind of creepy about a bunch of boats shaped like swans drifting down a river. Like I’ve fallen into Wonderland, which maybe isn’t a terrible analogy, since the whole of the Public Garden is kind of a tribute to children’s literature.

  I perch at the edge of the bridge, staring down at a pair of real swans floating by and a cluster of tourists whose cameras blink and flash, click and snap. Beside me, Bridget leans over the railing, her feet dangling off the ground.

  “Hang on to me,” she says.

  I grab onto her hips and brace against the railing. She clicks through a series of shots, her lens pivoting along the riverbank. The hum of her camera thrums against my chest, as though imprinting the memories from her lens through to my heart. White and purple blossoms reflect off water that ripples under a light breeze.

  Bridget tips forward, her torso bent almost in half, and my breath catches. “We’re not quite equipped for bungee jumping,” I say, eyeing the drop below. It isn’t far—maybe six or seven feet—but the sun turns the surface of the river dark, making it difficult to see the water’s depth.

  “An artist must make sacrifices,” she says.

  She flips upright and uses my shoulder for balance to readjust her shirt, and tug at the bottom of her denim skirt. “Though admittedly, flaunting my booty wasn’t exactly part of the plan.” She double-raises her eyebrows. “Not that I don’t have an impressive booty.”

  A nervous giggle seeps out. “I won’t argue that.”

  Bridget grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s get in line.”

  We kind of half run, half stumble across the bridge, and even as I will my ankles not to break, my knees not to give out, my feet not to trip over a wayward pebble, stick, discarded tissue, the pit in my stomach begins to shrink. I am lighter. Happier.

  Free.

  It’s the most amazing feeling in the world. And for the second time in just a few hours, I convince myself I can do this, escape from my father’s clutches, leave Fall River behind. My stomach flutters with hope. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this.

  And I’m without medications!

  “Come on,” Bridget says, tugging on my hand. We line up behind a group of teens around our age, watching as a giant swan boat winds its way toward us. Bridget grabs a bag of licorice from her backpack and hands me a stick. “Here, for our guard dog.”

  My mind locks in on a single word: our.

  Maybe I shouldn’t cling to hope like it’s a lifeline, but when Bridget slips her hand in mine, I get this weird tickle in my throat. I’m sure I’ll never get used to the way it feels when we touch.

  I steal a glance at the line of people behind us, and my hand goes clammy. Are they watching? Judging? What are they thinking? My heart flutters a thousand beats per minute, and the first inkling of paranoia creeps up onto my shoulder. It digs its claws in with a force that takes my breath away.

  This will never be your life.

  The words whisper across the back of my neck, so real I can almost hear Abigail’s voice. Her cackle sends a shiver up my spine.

  Swipe.

  Bridget leans close and lowers her voice. “We’re next.”

  Anticipation coils around my chest. “I need pictures of everything.” When I get back to Fall River, I want to remember this, us, everything about this trip. In time, the memories will fade, drift behind matters of more urgency and importance, but in Bridget’s snapshots, I will always find truth.

  Comfort.

  Bridget turns the camera so it’s facing us, and we tilt our heads together. She snaps off a series of pictures. My eyebrows rise, her tongue sticks out, we laugh, we frown. The click, click, click goes by in a blur.

  The line slinks forward, and we all spill onto the boat. Bridget and I settle into spots at the back. Beside us, our captain perches on a chair behind the swan’s enormous plastic neck. He tips his hat at me and smiles.

  My grin is brilliant. Radiant.

  “Bridget,” I whisper, as our boat begins to float across the water’s surface. “I really love you.”

  A ghostly smile lifts the corner of her lips. “I know.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Bridget’s finger trails across my knee.

  I suck back a gasp. Exhale slow, steadying. My head is still light from this afternoon’s amazing interview at Le Cordon Bleu, and the feeling intensifies alone with Bridget in our hotel room.

  Her hand slips onto my upper thigh and traces the thin line of an old scar.

  “What’s this from?”

  Our game of Twenty Questions has taken a new twist. My skin tingles beneath her touch and I try to focus on the question. But then her fingertip drifts to a new scar. “And this one?”

  I swallow unease. “Shaving accidents,” I lie. The truth is, I’m not sure where they came from—only that they emerge after each episode, as though counting down through an invisible time line. The one that’s most fresh is from the night I spent in the closet, desperate to contain the madness from rearing up in front of Bridget. She can never see its full extent. Never.

  Bridget shifts on the mattress and gently slides my dress up over my thigh. I take a deep breath, nervous under her scrutiny. Her eyebrows pinch, and she purses her lips together with concern.

  I can tell she’s counting the number of thin lines that have been carved into my skin with a sharp blade. Fifteen—plus five that are too faded to show. “That was a lifetime ago,” I say, though it’s obvious more than one of the scars is less than a year old.

  “I can’t imagine how much pain you must have been in to do this,” Bridget says. Her voice is choked with emotion, and her sadness gets under my skin, burrows deep into my bones. “Does your sister know?”

  I look away, embarrassed. I try to laugh, but it comes out more a snort. “She’d have me committed too.”

  Isn’t that where you belong?

  I blink to block out Abigail’s face. She is here, with me, even when she isn’t. Bridget squeezes my hand. “You’re not crazy,” she says. “You’re . . .”

  “Sick,” I say, and sink lower into the mattress. We’ve never talked about my condition—conditions?—and even now, I’m not sure how much to explain. Will my honesty keep her with me, or cause her to run?

  She squeezes harder. “Don’t say that.”

  My fingers ache, but I don’t pull away. “It’s true, though. Something is very, very wrong with me. There’s this”—I swallow the lump lodged at the back of my throat and feel it inch down my esophagus like a slow-moving snail—“darkness inside of me. And I don’t know where it comes from.”

  I’ve tried to rationalize it, blame it on my menstrual cycle, or my father’s abuse, the loss of my mother. But how do you explain something you can’t prove? It’s like trying to explain God to a child—you can’t see Jesus, can’t speak to him, at least not literally. You just know He’s there. If you believe, you can feel His presence.

  That’s how it is with my madness and the hallucinations that come with it—even those I try desperately to swipe clear.

  None of it can be explained away by depression, erased by medication. At least not when the pills don’t match my symptoms. Maybe if my parents were honest with Dr. Driscoll, he’d have a different diagnosis, a more effective cocktail of drugs.

  Another impossible wish, because in order for that to happen, my father would have to admit to what he’s done, continues to do.

  “It’s because Abigail says things to you,” Bridget says, her voice clipped. These days, talking about my stepmother makes her angry.

  “My father thinks I’m not well too,” I say quickly. The question of my mental health is an ongoing debate in the Borden household. Emma doesn’t say it aloud, but sometimes I can see it when she looks at me, the sadness in her expression, knowing that something isn’t quite right about me.

  “You can only hear something so much before you start believing it,” Bridget says, shuffling closer. “Don’t listen to them.
They don’t know you, not the way I do.”

  The truth cuts deeper. Lately Bridget has asked more questions, pushing for answers about the black holes in my memory. She clings to incidents and episodes, like my burnt journal, trying to come up with excuses and explanations.

  “Maybe you have PTSD,” she said once.

  I laughed, even though it wasn’t funny, and changed the subject like I always do when the feelings get too real. Maybe I’m taking a gamble by opening up to her now, but I can’t risk losing her altogether. Can’t bear the thought of her leaving.

  Everyone leaves.

  “Why are you here, Bridget?”

  She scoots down so we’re lying next to each other, our faces only inches apart. Her hair splays out on the pillow, framing her porcelain features made whiter by the soft moonlight leaking in through the windows.

  “Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  My heart pulses. “Not here—in Fall River. At the B and B. With Abigail and my father. With me.”

  Her smile slips. “Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” she says again louder, as though that should be explanation enough.

  I want to believe her, but my chest squeezes with unexpected doubt. I roll my thumb along her hand, trying again to draw out an acceptable response to the question she keeps dodging. “Of all the places you’ve traveled . . .”

  “I like Fall River the best,” she says. “Because that’s where you are. Can we drop it?” Her voice softens. “Please?”

  Our gazes meet, and in her eyes, I see what is reflected in my own: need. I thought I was the one with all the secrets. What could she be hiding from me? She cups her palm to my cheek and I whisper, “I’ll stop asking questions.”

  “Good, because I’m going to kiss you now.”

  My skin ignites. “Okay.”

  She finds my lips with hers, warm despite the cool air that surrounds us. Her mouth presses against mine softly and slowly, like stepping into a wide, unknown ocean, one foot at a time. It’s not the first time we’ve kissed, but something about this feels different.

  Bridget’s hand slides over my hip, and beneath my thin cotton T-shirt. Her thumb hooks under the waistband of my underwear, and I suck in my stomach. I inch closer, as if drawn by an electrical current. Her purr deepens. Every inch of me feels like it’s on fire, tingling with anticipation of her touch.

  Bridget’s tongue darts between my lips. I gasp, pull back, and reconnect.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. My flesh is peppered in goose bumps.

  Bridget kisses the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose. “Lizzie, did you burn your diary?”

  Yes. I resist the knee-jerk reaction to lie—but the truth is, I’m not sure. “Maybe. I guess.” I wait for her to say something, to do something, expecting the confession to scare her away. I should have known Bridget was too strong, too brave, to walk away from this, from us, from—

  Me.

  “Thank you,” she says, touching her forehead to mine. “For being honest.”

  Bridget kisses me aggressively, scraping her teeth against my mouth, biting at my lips. By morning, I’m sure they’ll be swollen and bruised.

  She pulls back a little. “Too much?”

  I weave my hand into the back of her hair and pull her mouth to mine. “More,” I say, breathless, weightless. Every cell in my body begs for more of this, more of her.

  Bridget curls her hand around the base of my neck and presses our foreheads together. The air between us crackles. “This . . . ,” I say, voice quivering. “It won’t be easy. I’m . . .” I breathe out a sigh. “I’m messed up, Bridget.”

  “We all are, Lizzie,” she says. “In some way or another.”

  “But . . .” My heart feels like it’s beating through my chest. At any second, my rib cage will shatter into a million tiny pieces. “What if my family is right? What if my madness can’t be controlled?”

  “We’re not so different, Lizzie.”

  My mouth opens in surprise. “How can you say that?”

  “Because I love you,” she says, and a ghost of a smile curls up her lip. “And love is a kind of madness, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER

  21

  I spot Emma weaving her way down a sidewalk clustered with early-morning traffic. Her blond hair is piled under a newsboy cap that matches the rustic material of the messenger bag slung over her shoulder. Camouflaged among the crowd as though she’s belonged here her whole life.

  My body hums with restless energy. I fold my hands on my lap, threading my fingers together to stop from fidgeting, but it doesn’t stop the tap, tap, tap of my shoe against the laminate floor.

  I take a sip of coffee. It scarcely eases the dry itch at the back of my throat. My mouth is so raw, I’m afraid to speak. Excuses and explanations flip through my mind like a film reel, pausing to catalog each frame. Click, click, click.

  I’m still not sure of my decision to meet with Emma. Bridget thinks my sister will be thrilled to see me, to hear about my interview at Le Cordon Bleu, but one look at her furrowed brow, the slight redness to her cheeks, and I know I’ve worried her sick. And yet somehow, her distress fills me with relief, gives me comfort that however she feels about Abigail and our father, she hasn’t fully abandoned me.

  I scratch at the edge of my skirt.

  Emma swings open the door, our eyes connect, and the tension drains from her face. I stand, knocking over my cup, spilling coffee onto the Victorian tablecloth.

  “Izzy,” she gushes, part surprise, part annoyance at the scene I’m creating. I launch myself at her, wrapping her in a hug she returns with such force, my breath blows out in a raspy gasp. We hold on for what seems an eternity before she pulls back and places her cool hands on either side of my cheeks, staring deeply, curiously, into my eyes. “Happy birthday! What on earth are you doing here?”

  Her voice is a prism of conflicting emotion, putting me on immediate defense. My spine stiffens. “It’s kind of a road trip,” I say, because I can’t figure out how to explain the rest just yet. I blink, wishing Bridget would materialize with one of her tension-melting smiles. How silly of me to ask her to stay behind.

  “Alone?” Emma says, her voice high-pitched and incredulous. I shrink lower into my seat while she scans the café, like she thinks she’s been duped. Does she expect to see our father lurking behind the mug display with an apology and blanket acceptance of Jesse? No, Ems knows better than that.

  Her eyebrows narrow. “Why do I get the sense this isn’t a parent-approved adventure?”

  “I’m eighteen, not twelve,” I spit out, frustrated that I have to get through this part before I can tell her the good news.

  Ems shoots me a look of annoyance and flags down a waitress. Her lips aren’t moving, but I can read my sister’s mind. She always says she wants me to escape Fall River, but sometimes, I think she just says what I want to hear.

  “How did you get here?” She holds up her finger. “Wait. I need a coffee first.”

  I grin, trying to convey just how excited, how happy, I am. “Better make it a double.”

  Emma’s eyes widen. “Start talking.” She giggles nervously. “How long are you staying?” She lowers her voice. “Where does Andrew think you are?”

  The way she says Father’s name sends a chill up my spine. “At Father Buck’s annual church retreat.”

  Fresh guilt slicks my tongue at the confession.

  Emma’s skin pales. She sets her elbows on the table and squishes her cheeks between her palms. “I think I need a cinnamon bun too. You?”

  I shake my head. “We—I—had breakfast.”

  Ems catches my slipup and again scopes out the café, straining her neck over the crowds gathered around tables, and at the line at the coffee bar. For a split second, I see Bridget, peering from behind the tall, spindly barista, and my pulse ratchets up. She gives me a thumbs-up. I blink. No. That girl isn’t Bridget at all.

  “Izzy, tell me
what’s going on.” There’s an edge to Emma’s voice that lets me know that she’s scared. Confused. “You’re acting strange.”

  Strange or crazy? I wonder if she sees any difference. A low vibration hums in the pit of my belly. The accusation irks me, but I know how this must look. Emma used to be my best friend, and keeping secrets from her is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  The waitress sets two coffee cups on the table and whisks my old mug away. I stir in two sugars, absently watching the heart-shaped foam blend in and disappear. My shoulders slump. “Or maybe you just don’t know me anymore.”

  Emma’s eyes harden. “That’s not fair.”

  “You left,” I say, choking out the words. It’s not just that she went off to college, or got engaged to Jesse. It’s not even that she stormed out of the house, vowing never to set foot in it again. Emma knows what it’s like there. How it can be stifling and cold—and she still walked out that door. Leaving me alone. With them. “I needed you.”

  “Are you in trouble, Izzy?”

  Yes.

  Of course that would be her first thought. And dang if I haven’t allowed my excitement to fade. I’ve always seen Ems as my savior, the only person who ever saw me for me—I was wrong. My eyes shimmer. “For the first time in my life, I think things are going well.” I can feel my breath quickening, my pitch rising, the thump, thump, thump of my pulse. “I had an interview at Le Cordon Bleu and—”

  “The culinary school?”

  I nod, expecting to see pride, but her lips press together in a straight line. My fingers wrap around the porcelain coffee mug, trembling hard enough to make the liquid inside ripple. “I know it sounds impulsive, but Bridget—”

  “Bridget? Who is that?”

  I take a deep breath, forcing myself to slow down, to take things one step at a time. “My girlfriend.”

  Emma’s pupils grow wide. I scan her face, trying to read her reaction, listening for the click, clunk, chug of the gears in her mind churning through questions. She cranes her neck over her shoulder. “Is . . . Bridget here?”

  I lick my lips. “I wanted to tell you about her first.”