Page 14 of Intersect
It takesa little over two hours to get to the small town where I grew up. I point out the road to the farm as we pass. I have good memories of my childhood there, but the bad memories are enough to kill any nostalgia I mightfeel.
“I guess your mom is no longer there?” heasks.
“God no,” Ireply.
“Why so adamant?” heasks.
For a moment my pulse begins to trip and sputter, as I contemplate telling him the truth of what happened, but it’s too engrained, this habit of keeping those secrets tomyself.
“Farms are a lot of work. Although the storage-unit passcode is our farm address so maybe she didn’t hate everything.” I inhale deeply. “Shit. I hope she didn’t change thecode.”
He frowns. “Can’t you just call and ask her for the newone?”
I take another deep breath. “No, because then she’s going to want to see me, which means she’ll seeyou.”
“You’re doing wonders for my egohere.”
“You expect me to believe a super-hot neurologist who’s also a former college athlete could get his ego damaged overthat?”
He laughs. “It might take one or two more serious blows, but you do intend to introduce me to her at some point,right?”
I smile at him. It sort of thrills me to seemysuper-hot neurologist so adamant about meeting my mother. “Of course. Just not one week after I cancelled my wedding. Turnhere.”
He follows the direction of my hand and we pull up to the storage facility, me breathing a quiet sigh of relief when the code works. Nick lifts the rolling door and flips on the light…where we discover wall-to-wall boxes. My shoulders sag. “I moved most of these in here myself, but I forgot how bad itwas.”
He shrugs. “At least they’re labeled.” His face lights up as he grabs a box that saysQuinn Photoson it. “I think we should starthere.”
“The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we get to the lake,” I remindhim.
“Right as always,” he says, putting the box back where he got it. In the end I have him retrieve a box labeledPhoto Albumsand two boxes labeledFiles.
I flip through the photo album of my father’s family. There are pictures of my father and Sarah as toddlers, two towheaded babies with sunny smiles. And thennothing.
“Nick, look at this,” I tell him, drawing him away from the files. “There are pictures of Sarah as a baby and a toddler, but then they just stop.” His eyes follow mine to the remaining pages, which feature only my father, as if Sarah never existed. His life is documented thoroughly…each birthday party, his high school graduation andwedding.
But nowhere in the entire book is there a picture of Sarah past her babyhood. Nick releases a slow breath. “Okay, yeah, that’s prettyweird.”
I glance over at the stack of papers he’s set on the floor. “How’s it going with the files? You findanything?”
He shrugs. “Well, I’ve discovered that your parents have saved their tax returns going back to 1980, which seems a little paranoid. But I did find this,” he says, handing me a file, labeledQuinn, Psychologist Reports. “I didn’tlook.”
I hesitate and then hand him a sheaf of papers from it while I take the other. “I’m not too worried about you discovering my innermost thoughts when I wasfive.”
I read through the first few pages of mine. It’s mostly background and psychobabble about tests they performed. It angers me more than anything else. My parents didn’t have two pennies to rub together during most of my childhood. Yet I’m sure this psychologist had no problem insisting I needed a bunch of irrelevant tests. My IQ? A cognitive-motor assessment? How could these things possibly have made adifference?
“Holy shit,” whispersNick.
My heart thumps hard in my chest. “What?”
He’s still staring at the paper. “You really did remember everything.” His voice is empty with shock. “You told them my name and that I was a doctor. You told them our address in London. You told them I swim. My name is all over this, and not in some vague way. I cantellit’sme.”
I still. Waiting for the look, the one I saw all through childhood. When these things happened, my mother would grow purposefully quiet, trying to hide her fear, and her eyes wouldn’t meet mine for weeks afterward. But when he finally turns to glance up at me, his eyes are gentle, awed. “It’s fucking amazing,” hesays.
The relief is so sweet and sharp, I have to look away from him, worried I mightcry.
He continues to read, whipping through pages as if it’s the most fascinating thriller ever created, and I return to mine, skipping ahead to the final few pages—a transcript of what appears to be my lastsession.
Patient was asked to draw a picture of her family, it says.Unlike previous drawings, “Nick” isexcluded.