The note
warned her to stay away.
Shakily,
April scanned the unsigned paper for the
umpteenth time. The message was simple:
If ever again you set foot inside
Calendar House you will regret it!
“What do
you make of this?” She asked, dropping
the note on her doctor’s file-cluttered
desk. Obviously, Nancy Merritt, the
psychiatrist at the Phoenix sanitarium
where April was an outpatient, had been
in the middle of evaluations when she’d
agreed to this appointment. “I haven’t
been home in twelve years. In
fact, this has been my home for most of
that time. And now, when I’m well enough
to face them, someone sends this!”
Dr.
Merritt was a plain woman whose cropped
brown hair hugged her head like an
overturned bird’s nest. Her features
lacked beauty, but not strength. The
preteen shapelessness of her figure had
long ago convinced April the woman fed
more on nervous energy than food. The
doctor read the mysterious note, then
turned her warn brown eyes to April.
“How does this make you feel?”
How did
she feel? Angry. Offended. A little
scared. Although morning shafts of
winter sun spilled in through two
windows, April hugged herself against a
sudden chill.
In the
background the soft upbeat sounds of
Kenny G filtered from concealed
speakers. Usually the music lifted her
spirits and soothed her. Today it
annoyed her. She stormed to the shelf of
books which also housed the stereo
equipment and punched the off button.
Dropping
her head back on her shoulders, she
stared at the ceiling, and drew a deep
breath. There was, she noted absently,
the usual overlaying scent of pine
cleaner in the utilitarian office, a
distinctive sign of normalcy. It should
have helped her pull things into
perspective. It didn’t. Slowly, she
faced Nancy.
If she
was surprised or offended by April’s
actions she showed no sign of it.
Irrationally this annoyed April all the
more. She paced, waving her hands in the
air. “How do you suppose I feel? I’m
upset.”
“And…?”
Avoiding
the real issue, April said, “And…I want
to know who sent that vile note. Other
than Daddy, I haven’t seen any of those
people in twelve years. Oh sure, they’ve
written, sent birthday and Christmas
presents, but none of them cared enough
to show up on my doorstep.”
“Was that
their idea…or yours?” Asked Nancy in her
gentle persistent way.
Some of
April’s bluster deflated. “You know it
was mine.”
Nancy nodded. “I’ve never understood
why.”
April
opened her mouth, but didn’t speak. She
still couldn’t bring herself to tell
Nancy the whole truth. Nor anyone else
either. Until she remembered all the
details, she couldn’t even admit out
loud that she might have killed Lily.
With her blood the temperature of ice
water, she eyed the foreboding note.
Perhaps the person who’d sent it already
knew and was afraid she’d murder them
all in their sleep. Her mouth felt as
dry as the desert outside, her palms as
damp as the dew on the cacti.
“It’s all
right, April. You can tell me your
reasons when you’re ready. Look, I
realize this is unsettling. But I
strongly caution you about giving this”
–she tapped the note again—“such
importance. I’d hate to see it undo all
the good we’ve accomplished, or to keep
you from achieving a complete recovery.”
April was
used to Nancy’s unobtrusive way of
letting her figure out what she
wanted. And more than anything else, she
wanted to be well. She steeled herself
against giving the note and its unknown
author even a modicum of power over her.
“You know what? Nothing is going to
deter my plans to return to Calendar
House.”
