Mrs. Parker started dinner at four thirty while Jenny watched television in the living room, a bowl of ice cream on her lap, nobody worried she’d spoil her dinner. On the weekends Jenny had sleepovers, all the popular girls crowded on the living room floor, staying up late with popcorn and grape sodas. She knew who I was. I lived across the street, and not once did she consider me worthy of a hello. The only time she ever spoke to me was when Mrs. Parker dragged her over to deliver a pan of lasagna and say how sorry they were to hear my mom had died.
“After my mom died, I decided Mr. Parker was going to admit that he and my mom had an affair and come claim me,” I tell Sam. “I went into their house a few times.”
“So you got to know them?” Sam asks.
“No. I went when they weren’t home. I knew from watching that Mrs. Parker hid a key under a flowerpot on the side porch. I’d go Sunday mornings, when they were at church.” I look down at my feet, unsure why I’m telling him all this, prepared for him to echo the words I grew used to hearing back then: You’re a freak. But his tone is gentler than ever when he speaks.
“What was it like being inside their house?”
Cinnamon air freshener and clean laundry. Grape soda in the fridge. “It was thrilling,” I say. “I wouldn’t stay long. I just wanted to see what it was like. But then one of the girls got sick at church, and they came home early.” I was in Jenny Parker’s bedroom when I heard the front door open. “Mrs. Parker found me hiding in her daughter’s closet. It was terrible.” I bite down on my lower lip, willing myself not to cry.
“That sounds traumatic,” Sam says.
“I know,” I say. “Mrs. Parker was terrified every time—”
“No, you’ve misunderstood me,” Sam cuts in. “I mean traumatic for you. What you did was perfectly natural. But I can’t imagine anyone understood that.”
“It was?”
“Absolutely. You were grieving, and trying to find an anchor in your mother’s absence.”
“They made it seem like I was doing something perverted, but I wasn’t,” I say. “I swear to god. Mr. Parker kept me barricaded in the bedroom until the police came, and then my father was called.” I close my eyes, hearing the front door slam behind us after my father dragged me home, the absolute terror as he charged at me, calling me those names. I stand up. “Can I go now?”
Sam looks stricken. “You want to leave?”
“Yes, can I?”
“Of course.”
“I’m tired,” I say. “I think I need to lie down.”
Sam smiles. “Of course, Albert. I think that’s a good idea.” His posture relaxes, and he pats the arms of his chair. “And I think I need to sit up. Thanks again for the chair.”
I nod, and lift the foot brake on the cart. “You’re welcome,” I say. I step into the hall and go upstairs and shut the door, praying he won’t hear me cry.
Chapter 36
Someone in the kitchen drops a tray, startling Annie, the sole occupant of the dining room at Rushing Waters. The residents are off to Applebee’s in the strip mall for their weekly outing, but the nurses told Annie that Margaret has been having trouble sleeping—they found her roaming the halls at three in the morning, two nights in a row. Annie returns to the email she’s writing to Margaret’s doctor, urging him to prescribe something new to help Margaret sleep; whatever the white pills are that she’s taking have stopped working.
Annie sees Josephine, one of the women who works the reception desk, pushing a cart into the dining hall. “That’s a nice touch,” Annie says, as Josephine places vases of fresh carnations on each table.
“Trying to spruce this place up,” Josephine says, dropping a copy of the local newspaper on the table in front of Annie. “Free newspapers now, too.” They both see what’s on the front page at the same time: a photograph of Sam under a bold headline: LOCAL THERAPIST REPORTED MISSING LAST WEEK FOUND TO BE IN SIGNIFICANT DEBT.
Annie picks up the newspaper and scans the article.
It turns out that Dr. Sam Statler, a therapist known for helping people with their problems, may have been concealing a few of his own including multiple credit cards, maxed to the limit. According to Chief of Police Franklin Sheehy, this discovery is leading investigators to consider the idea that the missing Chestnut Hill man’s disappearance may not, in fact, have been accidental. The debt was a surprise to Statler’s wife, who teaches literature at the university.