Appetite for Innocence: A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 22

  “You can do it,” she cheers, waving me through the door.

  I nod, take a deep breath, and square my shoulders. I follow Blake through the door and back into the divided room from a few days ago. Nothing has changed. They file in the same way as before. This time John is number five. He’s wearing the same orange jump suit. I wait until they are lined up facing me.

  “Do you recognize the man who kidnapped Paige and Ella?” Blake asks in the exact same manner he did before.

  I freeze. Once I step over this line, there’s no going back. I know that and I don’t know what happens next. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to say it’s him, but then I think about Jocelyn waiting outside for me and what she’ll say if I tell her I couldn’t do it. She might make me leave their house. I don’t want to leave her.

  “He’s number five,” I say.

  “Do you see the man who kept you in his basement?” Blake asks.

  “It’s the same man,” I hear myself say in a voice that isn’t connected to me.

  I’m so sorry, John. Please forgive me.

  ELLA

  (NOW)

  I have no idea what to expect when I walk into the therapy room. Everything is neat, organized, and in its place. There’s a long leather couch in the center of the room as the focal point, but it’s not set up like a couch in a living room. There’s no throw pillows or blankets to make you more comfortable. Two fabric, winged-back chairs create a half circle around the couch. The book shelves hold nothing but self-help titles. The artwork on the wall frames pictures of nature lined with inspirational quotes. There’s even some kind of fountain in the corner surrounded by plants.

  The therapist looks nothing like I expected. I’ve gotten used to Randy’s hippy attire and her laidback approach, but this woman is formal and stiff. She’s dressed in a pantsuit like she has an important meeting to get to when she leaves. She’s wearing heels that click on the wooden floor as she walks over to introduce herself and the sound makes me cringe.

  “Hello, Ella. I’m Dr. Hale.” She sticks out her hand formally like we’re business acquaintances meeting for the first time. I take it. Her grip is tight. She turns to Mom. “I’d like to meet with her alone first. You can have a seat in the waiting room.”

  Mom looks taken aback. Randy always asks permission to meet with me alone but Dr. Hale has left no room for objection. Mom quickly heads out of the room, throwing me an anxious look over her shoulder as she shuts the door behind her.

  Dr. Hale clicks back over to the center of the room and takes a seat in one of the wing-backed chairs. She crosses her legs and waits for me to join her. I have no choice but to sit on the leather couch because it’d look too weird if I sat on the chair to her right.

  She reaches onto the end table beside her and picks up a yellow legal pad behind the box of Kleenex. She flips over a piece and grabs a pen from the table. She stares at me expectantly like I’m supposed to know what to say.

  The couch is as uncomfortable as it looks. My body doesn’t fit right. I don’t know what to do with my legs. I feel like I have four arms and I don’t know what to do with any of them.

  “Let’s talk about why you’re here.”

  Is she serious? She knows why I’m here. Randy set this whole thing up. There’s nothing to talk about. Her eyes bore holes in me as she waits for me to speak.

  “Randy says I have to start seeing you now.” It sounds lame but I don’t know what else to say.

  She nods, tucking her long, blond hair behind one of her ears. “Yes, that’s right. I’m not sure how much Randy explained to you about me, but I’m a clinical psychologist with a specialization in traumatic stress. I work with children and families who have experienced traumatic events. I help people process what they’ve been through.”

  I’m glad I had a drink while I was getting ready because this is going to be intense.

  “My goal is to help minimize the long-term effects of traumatic experiences. We work on important tools like learning how to deal with trauma reminders and reducing some of the internal effects. I emphasize restoring a sense of safety and protection through identifying the family’s core strengths and using them as a way to develop resiliency.”

  She keeps explaining but she sounds like she’s reading out of a textbook and I can’t follow her. It’s a while before she’s finished and when she’s done, I nod my head like I understand what she’s just said but I don’t have a clue.

  “Let’s start with something small. Why don’t you begin by telling me what it’s been like since you’ve returned home?”

  “It’s been hard.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Of course it’s been hard. We’re trying to go a bit deeper than that and figure out specific areas where you’re struggling.”

  She doesn’t make any sense. At least Randy makes sense when she talks to me. I shrug.

  “How about this? Why don’t you tell me what a typical day looks like for you now that you’re home?” She’s holding her pen, ready to write when I start talking.

  “Well, mostly I just stay in my room.” The leather underneath me sticks to me whenever I move my legs. I feel like I’m sitting on tape.

  She scribbles on her pad. “What do you do while you’re in your room?”

  “I sleep.”

  And drink, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “What’s your sleeping like?”

  What kind of a question is that?

  She recognizes the confusion on my face. “Let me be a little more specific. Are you able to fall asleep when you want to?”

  “Usually,” I say.

  “Are you able to stay asleep?”

  “I guess.” I shrug.

  She takes a moment and scribbles some more. What is she writing? I haven’t even said much.

  “Do you have nightmares?”

  I nod.

  “Can you tell me about some of your nightmares?”

  I freeze. I don’t want to talk about my nightmares.

  “I can see this is making you uncomfortable.”

  It’s making me want to throw up.

  “Let’s get back to your nightmares later. I have some other questions. Maybe those will be easier for you.”

  She spends the next thirty minutes asking me about all kinds of things. Am I eating? What kinds of things am I eating? Have I been outside? What’s it like when I leave the house? Am I scared of loud noises? All of her questions make my head spin. I have no idea if I give her the right answers. They come so fast, I don’t have any time to think about them and she writes everything down. Her writing makes me nervous.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when it’s finally over and it’s Mom’s turn. I hope I don’t have to do this every week. I sit in the waiting room picking at my fingernails, counting the minutes until we can leave. I need a drink.

  SARAH

  (NOW)

  “No! No! No!”

  She’s been screaming like that for the last fifteen minutes like a spoiled toddler. I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s only a picture. They’re not even going to ask us any questions. Jocelyn made them promise not to. I think it’s exciting. I’ve never had my picture taken by a professional before. John’s the only person who’s ever taken my picture. They’re even going to do our hair and make-up.

  I can’t decide what to wear. Jocelyn’s friend Greta dropped off a bunch of clothes for me last week. I gave her back the things that didn’t fit, but a lot of it did and there’s some nice stuff. People were really generous. I’m deciding between the black jeans with a cute light blue top or the jeans with the holes in the knee that make me look more relaxed when Jocelyn knocks on my door before coming in.

  “Did she finally calm down?” I ask. She’s not screaming anymore so that’s a good sign.

  Jocelyn shakes her head. The lines in her face grow by the day. “She doesn’t want to do it.”

  My heart sinks. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.

  “Did
you tell her she had to?”

  “No, I can’t make her.” Her shoulders droop.

  “But did you tell her why she needed to?” I press.

  Jocelyn tells me things she doesn’t tell Ella because she knows I can handle things she can’t. When she first brought up allowing ABC News to take a picture of us to release to the press, she confessed she was only giving in to them because she needed the money.

  “I didn’t want to make her feel bad,” she says with a frown.

  “Well, you should tell her. She’ll do it if you tell her why.”

  She better do it. Jocelyn needs her to.

  “I’m just so tired.” She sits down on my bed. “I feel like everything I do for her is wrong. I fail at every turn.” Her eyes fill with tears.

  I rush to her and put my arms around her. “You’re not failing.” I can’t believe she even thinks that. “You’re doing everything you can for her.”

  She pats me on the back. “Thanks, Sarah.”

  “I’m going to go talk to her.”

  I head for the door.

  “No, don’t do that,” Jocelyn calls. “It will only upset her.”

  I ignore her and march into Ella’s room without knocking. She’s curled up on her bed, laying on her side, and staring at the wall. “Get up,” I order just like I used to when I needed the girls to do something. “You’re going to do this because our mom needs you to.”

  She jolts like I’ve shocked her. Her eyes are wide, manic.

  “She’s only doing this because she needs the money.” I point to the clothes scattered on her floor. “Get moving and put something on.”

  She stands like she’s in a trance and moves toward her clothes. She picks through them in a daze. I push her aside. I grab a long skirt and matching top and toss them to her. “Wear this. You’ll be fine.”

  I head out her door and back into my room. Jocelyn is still sitting on my bed with her head in her hands.

  “She’s getting dressed now,” I say. “She’ll be ready soon.”

  Her face lights up. “Are you serious? How’d you get her to change her mind?”

  I shrug and smile. “I have my ways.”

  ELLA

  (NOW)

  I can’t stop shaking while I get dressed. I pull out my bottle and drain the last of it. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve drank everything in our liquor cabinet. Last night, I finished off the Kahlua. Mom is going to freak when she finds out. Somehow, I have to replace it, but I have no idea how I’m going to do that.

  I throw on the clothes Sarah laid out even though I don’t want to. I’ve never liked getting my picture taken, even before. I brace myself for what’s to come and head downstairs. Mom and Sarah wait at the bottom for me. Mom’s eyes are puffy underneath. She’s been crying again. I can’t seem to do anything but make her cry.

  “You look pretty,” Mom coos.

  “Thanks,” I say sheepishly even though I look awful. My hair looks like I belong in the military. I liked it better when I was bald.

  The camera crew is set up in the living room. Mom only allowed one photographer, the producer, lighting crew, and make-up artists, but our small living room is still cramped. They’re buzzing around trying to decide where they want us to sit. The make-up people grab us and shuffle us into the kitchen. They get to work quickly.

  “You have such beautiful eyes,” the guy says as he starts rubbing foundation all over my face. He’s close enough to kiss me and it makes me so uncomfortable it’s hard to sit still. I hold my breath so he doesn’t smell the alcohol. It makes me dizzy because he stays in front of me a long time before grabbing his palette of colors.

  He keeps trying to talk to me while he works on my face but I can’t think of anything to say. I never can anymore. I’ve forgotten how to talk to people. I sit like a statue, mute, while Sarah rambles on and on with the guy doing her make-up. She giggles and laughs while he dabs on her lipstick commenting about her full lips and how pretty they are.

  They move on to her hair, but since I don’t have any hair to do, I’m finished and I can’t get out of the kitchen fast enough. I’m still mad Sarah made me do this. The producer has Mom cornered. She’s talking her ear off, trying to convince her to let her ask us a few questions. Mom keeps shaking her head and saying no, but it doesn’t seem to be getting through to her. What did she expect would happen when she let them into our house? Mom spots me and uses it as her excuse to get away.

  “How are you doing?” she whispers in my ear.

  “Fine,” I say with a clipped tone. I’m still mad at her too.

  In our last session, Dr. Hale told us we need to work on re-establishing our relationship and getting to know each other again. She said it after Mom cried because I don’t talk to her like I used to and still haven’t opened up about what happened to me. She explained how we used to be able to talk about anything and how I always confided in her. She doesn’t feel like she knows what’s going on with me or how to help me. She looked really torn up about it. Normally, I can’t stand it when she cries and there’s nothing I hate worse than hurting her feelings, but I feel so dead inside.

  It takes forever before they finish with Sarah’s hair, but they finally do, and when she walks into the living room to join us, I’m shocked by her appearance. She looks amazing. They’ve done her hair in long spiral curls, flowing down her back. Whatever they’ve done to her eyes makes them pop. Her lips are plump and full, lined in red. I look like the ugly duckling next to her.

  They start by putting us in front of the fireplace. The crew arranges the things on the mantle, making sure everything looks perfect. We sit on the stoop. Sarah crosses her legs and I cross my ankles. The lights start flashing and then the clicks start. I force a smile. It’s awkward and forced, out of place.

  “Can you put your arms around each other?” the photographer asks.

  Sarah throws her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. Someone else rushes up to us and flips her hair around. They adjust my hands, setting them on my lap. They move our bodies this way and that. Then, the flashing starts again.

  They move us from the fireplace to the couch, scurrying around to rearrange everything again. They work fast. Mom gives us the thumbs-up sign from behind the camera and Sarah beams at her. We go through the entire process again—the primping and adjustments of our bodies, lighting moved.

  “We’re done. Thank you, girls,” the producer gushes once it’s finished.

  I jump up from my seat and head back upstairs. All of it makes me feel sick. Nothing feels real. I look over my shoulder when I get to the top of the stairs. Mom and Sarah are laughing together. Mom has her arm thrown around her lovingly like they’ve known each other for years.

  I can’t get to my bedroom fast enough. My skin is crawling. I’m sweating. My face feels hot. My heart races. I need to calm down. There’s nothing for me to drink and being without it fills me with a horrible sense of impending doom. I can’t shake it.

  I creep into the bathroom and throw open the cabinet. Tylenol. Benadryl. Cough syrup. Moisturizer. Our sleeping pills.

  I grab the bottle of sleeping pills and pour a handful into my palm. I shut the cupboard door and move to the drawers underneath the sink. There’s an unopen bottle of Scope. I read the label. 15% alcohol. I ignore the shame of knowing I’m about to drink mouthwash. I grab the cough syrup too, remembering that kids used to drink it in junior high and get really messed up. They called it a robo-trip.

  I peek out the door, listening to see if anyone is coming upstairs. They’re still talking and laughing downstairs. I rush back into my bedroom. It calms my heart just knowing I have something to help me feel better.

  I open the mouthwash and take a huge drink. It burns all the way into my gut, settling like a firecracker. I take another drink. My stomach threatens to reject it. I toss the pills into my mouth. I use the water on my nightstand to wash them down.

  I sit, taking small sips of the mouthwash, and wait for th
e bubble to come. I don’t have to wait long. As they start to work their magic, everything relaxes and I settle into it. Everything becomes dull and faraway. Nothing matters as I sink into oblivion.

  SARAH

  (NOW)

  Jocelyn goes upstairs to see if she can get Ella to come down for lunch. I doubt she will. She usually takes her food up in her room and even then, she barely eats anything. She’s skinnier than she was before.

  “Ella! Ella!” her blood-curdling screams pierce the air.

  I drop my coffee mug and run for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I run to Ella’s room and throw open the door. Ella is crumpled on her bedroom floor. Yellow vomit spills out of the corner of her mouth. Her head is limp, eyes closed. Jocelyn hovers over her.

  “Call 911,” she screams.

  I run back downstairs, grab the kitchen phone, and punch in the numbers.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “I’m not sure. Ella’s passed out on the floor. She might have choked on her puke.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I keep the phone to my ear and race back up the stairs. Jocelyn leans over Ella’s body, rubbing her back. Her shoulders shake with sobs.

  “Is she breathing?” I ask.

  “Yes. I checked,” she says.

  “She’s breathing,” I tell the operator.

  “Tell them to hurry. Hurry!” Jocelyn screams. “I can’t wake her up. She won’t wake up.”

  The operator hears her. “How is she laying?”

  “On her side.”

  “Good. Keep her there. Can you see anything in her airway?”

  “Check her airway,” I order Jocelyn. “See if there’s anything in there.”

  She lifts her head, opens her mouth, and peers inside. “I don’t see anything.” Her voice grows more frantic with each word. When she lets go, Ella’s head flops to the side.

  “Keep monitoring her breathing. The ambulance is on its way.”

  ELLA