Page 81 of I Will Mend You
He’s had enough, and I don’t blame him. Our entire lives are spiraling out of control, and I have no idea how to fix it.
I yelled his name over and over until he yelled back to keep quiet because he was trying to think. I told him Amy needs professional help and asked if we could take her to an out-of-town child psychiatrist. We could tell them Charlotte never even existed. She’s an imaginary friend Amy thinks she’s murdered.
Lyle told me I was being ridiculous. His younger brother has mental problems. That’s not how it works. All that talk of sacrificing a baby would have the professionals calling the police. They’d interrogate Amy a hundred different ways until they uncovered the truth.
I waited for Lyle to use his big FBI brain to come up with a solution. All he did was clasp his hands over his face and take deep breaths, looking like a man on the verge of a breakdown.
Heath started fussing, so I sat at the other end of the sofa to feed him, while waiting for Lyle to break out of his fugue.
He didn’t.
When Amy started wailing upstairs, I shook Lyle, asking if he was in a fit state to hold the baby. His only response was a tired nod, so I handed Heath over and raced to the source of the sound.
Her bedroom was a mess. The sheets hung over the window and all her clothes lay scattered across the floor. I searched for her in the chaos, only to find soft whimpers echoing from behind the closet door.
I knew better than to fling it open in case she was hiding there with a knife. Instead, I knocked on the wooden panel and asked if she was alright.
She cried, saying she was only trying to help, which broke my heart. I thought back, wondering how the hell we got into this situation. We were such a happy family until I announced the pregnancy.
That’s when the problems started, I’m certain. That was the week Amy first came to me complaining that Dolly had cut a chunk of her hair while she slept. When I confronted Dolly, her hair was missing in exactly the same place. The next night, Dolly complained her mattress was wet.
Dr. Forster dismissed their antics as sibling rivalry, saying that Amy was threatened by a potential baby. Then his theorychanged to the twins working together to stop me from having another child. He told me to speak with them and explain how the baby would complete our family.
I was a fool to have listened to him. Everything he suggested was like putting a Band-Aid on a festering wound.
It took every effort to push aside my resentment for Dr. Forster and focus on Amy. When I finally coaxed her out from the closet, she crawled out, holding a doll and a pair of shears. I asked what those were for, and she told me Charlotte wanted a lock of Heath’s hair.
Charlotte wants to turn the doll into a body she can inhabit to avenge her murder. For reasons Amy couldn’t explain, Charlotte also needed a few drops of the baby’s blood to complete a ritual.
I asked a lot of questions to get to the bottom of the request. Amy said she convinced Charlotte that the true murderer was back at Three Fates. Charlotte wanted Amy to transfer her soul into a doll that she can mail to the facility, to punish Dolly.
Amy has the makings of a master storyteller. I have to admit that it’s an imaginative plot, but I’ll be damned if I hand over parts of my baby to appease a figment of her imagination.
I held out my hand and ordered Amy to give me the shears. She did, but only after stabbing me in the palm and drawing blood. When I screamed, Lyle didn’t come charging up the stairs to see what was wrong.
For the next several seconds, I froze, watching Amy spread the blood on the doll. She believed she was doing this to save the family. I wondered if I’d dispatched the wrong twin. Maybe I failed to notice they’re both disturbed because of Dolly’s flair for the dramatic.
One more incident like that, and I might have to send Amy away, too.
FORTY-FOUR
AMETHYST
My consciousness floats from the confines of a heavy sedative, bringing with it the sound of gentle beeping. Every muscle aches like I’ve run a marathon, my skin burns, and my insides are wrung dry. It’s as if someone took out my batteries and left me out in the desert to die.
Memories float back to my awareness like pollen. The autopsy room, the weed jungle, the bus… And Delta. I tried to fight him, but he was too strong.
My heart splinters. He brought me back.
I wait for Xero to wrap his arms around my waist and give me a summary of what I missed, but all I hear is the rapid beat of my pulse. If he isn’t here, helping me sift through my jumbled thoughts, then they must have drugged me with an anti-hallucinogenic to keep us apart. My chest squeezes. I can’t endure Delta’s punishment alone.
Xero?
When there’s still no answer, I crack open an eye. I’m in an infirmary. It’s mostly dark, with moonlight streaming in through its windows.
The walls are white and sterile, but at least they’re not padded. And I’m lying on a hospital bed instead of the floor. Thick straps secure my body to the hard mattress, but I couldn’t move right now even if the room was on fire.
I glance at an array of machines with bright LED displays that make my eyes sting. Whatever happened between being captured at the bus and now has to be traumatic enough for me to need life support.