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  “Me neither,” he replies, but he glances toward the kitchen with a tell-tale look of hunger in his eyes. He looks back at me. “Are you all right?”

  Am I all right? Did he really just ask me that? My mother happens to be in a coma, but I’m just dandy. What about you?

  “I’m good,” I say.

  Papa pulls off his black leather gloves one finger at a time. He holds them in one hand and absentmindedly slaps them against his other palm.

  “I should know what to say to you,” he says finally. “I’ve run a major corporation and I’m going into politics. I always know what to say, right? This has been a rough day—for both of us.”

  He pauses, waiting for me to respond. My robe is damp from the rain, and I’m starting to feel the cold against my skin. I want a hot shower. I want to go to bed. The chili smell makes me feel ill.

  Papa continues, “Your mother had an insulin reaction in her sleep. You heard what Dr. Zimmerman said. Too much alcohol, too many sleeping pills, too much insulin.” He comes to the stairs. He’s close enough to touch me, but he doesn’t. He tries to smile, but his lips won’t obey.

  “Mira,” he says gently, “you did everything you could. Don’t blame yourself.”

  Don’t blame myself. How can I not blame myself? What’s more, how can Papa not blame himself? Isn’t it natural for people to blame themselves when tragedy strikes?

  Papa walks away and slips into the kitchen and I continue up the stairs. In my room, I take off my robe, letting it fall to the floor in a soft, fuzzy, wet heap. Then I crawl into my bed. I spy my cell phone on the nightstand—not where I left it. I’m sure Helen must have found it and brought it in here for me. The screen shows I have a text. Reaching for it, I power it down. I’m not in the mood for messages tonight.

  All I want to do is close my eyes and let Mama’s memories fill me up. The initial jolt of her psyche colliding with mine was like the stab of pain you get from an electric shock—only times a hundred. But after the shock subsided, the floodgates of my mind burst open and a deluge of everything Mama entered my skull. The memories came in a jumble, but lying here now I have time to sort them out, to reflect on each one.

  I see her as a child, the youngest of five, happy and loved by parents who adored her. Her mother was affectionate and her father was even-tempered and kind. Though I saw no evidence of wealth in Mama’s memories, she lacked nothing to make her feel safe and loved at home.

  On her fourth birthday, she got a yellow lab pup named Squiggles. She and the pup grew up together. He was her best friend, guardian and confidant until he died quietly in his sleep when Mama was fifteen. Losing him was the second greatest sorrow she ever experienced. The greatest came not from loss, but from never having what she yearned for the most.

  I felt Mama’s emptiness and heartache after years of infertility. I experienced the discomfort and disappointment of in vitro fertilization and four miscarriages. And then I felt her immense joy at holding me for the first time, a motherless newborn healing the heart of a childless mother.

  I felt her love for Papa, her pride in his successes. But I also felt her pain at being so often overlooked and cast aside when those successes pulled Papa further and further away from her. When I came into the picture she hoped it would change things, but Papa spent more and more time away from home.

  There were so many times she tried to protect me, like when she told me Papa missed my eighth birthday party because he was away on a business trip, when he was just working late again. I felt her anger at the fact that he couldn’t love me as much as she did.

  I saw Mama last night drinking at the bar, coming home half asleep in the car, leaning against Papa and Jordan’s shoulders to get upstairs, and feeling the warm, enveloping comfort of sleep as her mind slipped into a dark and painless void.

  I lie in my bed and let every bit of Mama occupy my mind. I push my own thoughts and feelings away to make room for her, knowing that once I fall asleep most of it will fade. In the morning all that will remain are vague images and a few scattered details—only remnants of the few moments when Mama and I were one.

  A faint chiming penetrates my room from downstairs. It’s the grandfather clock again. An hour has already passed. The chimes call me back to my own mind, my own being. I leave Mama somewhere deep inside me.

  I count the chimes. When I reach six, I remember.

  David. I was supposed to meet David.

  Outside my bedroom window, the rain is insistent. He wouldn’t have waited in the rain, I tell myself. And if he did…

  But I can’t worry about that now. I don’t really care anyway.

  I close my eyes again, abandoning David in the rain. I am with him there, standing in my blue bathrobe soaked through. I leave them both—David and me—and drift away deep into my mind where Mama waits.

  Bacon. I smell bacon.

  My mouth starts to water before I’m even fully awake. Not fair. Helen’s playing dirty this morning.

  With my eyes still closed, awareness seeps in. Mama’s been in the hospital almost a week. Papa has left me mercifully alone. Helen did manage to coax me to eat some fruit and yogurt on some days. The remains of other barely touched meals still sit on a tray beside my bed. But today is different. The sweet, oily fragrance of breakfast seeps into my room and tugs me out of my stupor.

  As I sit up, the horrible details of that day drip into my consciousness one drop at a time—a leaky faucet of fear and pain. I realize once again that I’m alone. Mama has gone. All I have left is the hazy memory that, for a while at least, she was with me—in me.

  I feel so empty.

  I don’t even bother with my robe or slippers. I drag myself downstairs and into the dining room where a feast has been laid out on the table. Steam rises from a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs, and a tall, frosty glass of orange juice stands beside a glistening china plate. I lift a strip of bacon from a white ceramic platter and insert it into my mouth. Why does bacon have to taste so good?

  I sit down. I eat. My stomach begs for more. I feel guilty.

  Papa comes in, a newspaper folded beneath his arm. “Well, well. Morning, Mira. I see you’ve started without me. Good girl.”

  He takes the chair across the table from me and fills his plate. He lifts his first forkful of eggs, but then pauses, setting it down again.

  “Doesn’t seem right, does it?” he says. He stares at his fork for a while, then slowly lifts it again and deposits it into his mouth. He sets the paper on the table beside him, but he doesn’t even glance at it. I watch him as he eats.

  “It’s a relief to see you up finally,” he says quietly. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come out of your cave again.”

  I fill my plate with more eggs, all the while wishing I didn’t have to eat. Papa takes more bacon.

  “Papa,” I say after a while.

  “Hmm?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” he replies. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what Dr. Zimmerman said—about Mama. Remember?”

  He takes a sip from his glass.

  “He said Mama had Trazodone in her blood sample that night.”

  Papa nods. “You know she uses it from time to time. She keeps the bottle on her nightstand.”

  I turn my fork between my fingers, swirling what’s left of my eggs. My appetite has calmed down a bit. The smell of food has lost its power over me. “Is it possible the blood test was wrong?”

  Papa slips a slice of bacon into his mouth and chews, washing it down with more juice. “Blood test? What do you mean, Mira?”

  “I mean, could there have been a mistake? An error in the results?”

  “No,” says Papa. “I doubt it.”

  “And Mama’s insulin. How do they know she took too much?”

  Papa sets down his fork, wipes his mouth on a napkin. “Mira, what’s this about?”

  The sound of shattering glass bursts through th
e kitchen door followed by Helen’s version of swearing. After spending her last summer vacation in Europe, she’s taken to using the word bugger in lieu of what she calls “offensive American profanity.”

  Papa cracks a smile. He pushes his chair back from the table. “If you’re concerned about the tests,” he announces, “you can certainly ask Dr. Zimmerman about them. I’ll make sure he knows he can disclose any information to you that you like. Will you be visiting your mother today?”

  “Will you come with me?” I ask. I lift another bite of eggs to my lips, but it’s cold now, so I drop it back onto my plate.

  Papa gets up from the table, the newspaper tucked securely beneath his arm once again. “I wish I could, but I have another day of inquiries to face. Damn tribunal, that’s what this is. Well, so far they haven’t got a stitch of evidence linking me to that rogue researcher, Stark. So hopefully this will all blow over soon, and I can get on with my campaign.”

  He pauses a moment as a hint of sadness flits across his face. Just then his cell phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his suit pocket. “Jordan? I’m on my way now. I’ll meet you at the courthouse.” He snaps it shut and slips it back into his pocket. From his other pocket he removes his gloves. He slides the first onto his right hand, flexing his fingers to get the fit just right. He does the same with his left.

  “Supposed to rain,” he comments nonchalantly, turning to leave. “Give your mother a kiss for me, all right?” But then he stops. His forehead creases in thought. “I mean—tell her I love her. I’ll try to stop by later tonight.”

  And then I’m alone. Just me and enough scrambled eggs to feed a third-world nation. Helen comes in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s a short, squat woman who resembles Mrs. Santa Claus, right down to the white hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Anything else I can get you, sweetie?” she asks. The tone of her voice is gentle and compassionate. She’s done all this for me—for Mama. It’s her way of grieving.

  “I’m good,” I tell her. “This is delicious.”

  I take another slice of bacon to prove my sincerity. She seems pleased, but there are tears in her eyes.

  “Well, I’m just happy to see you up and about today.” She smiles, dabbing her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “I’ll be up later to get your trays. And if there’s anything else you want, just say the word, all right?”

  I watch Helen turn and push through the swinging door into the kitchen. Only after she’s gone am I struck with the realization that I haven’t seen Papa cry. Not a single tear.

  The silence in Dr. Walsh’s office is thick between us, like a swirling unseen mist that acts as a barrier, giving us time to collect our thoughts. I missed the last couple of weeks and would have preferred to skip today, too, only Jordan insisted I come.

  Walsh has that clipboard again, and she’s reading over her notes from last time. After a minute or two she makes eye contact. “I’m so sorry about your mother.” Her voice sounds considerate, as if she truly cares. “Has there been any improvement in her condition?”

  Sponge Bob smirks up at me. I want to tear his eyes out.

  “No,” I say. “It’s been almost two weeks now with no change.”

  “How are you coping?”

  “I’m—I’m not.”

  She jots a few words down on her clipboard. “How’s your father holding up?”

  Something inside of me cracks, something fragile and vulnerable. I fight the urge to scream. Instead I keep it all packed down deep inside me. “He’s doing fine,” I reply in a voice that sounds cold and judgmental to my own ears.

  Dr. Walsh must sense the turmoil because she nods as if in agreement. “He’s not hurting as much as you think he should be.”

  “He’s not hurting at all.”

  She contemplates this for a moment before responding. “He’s in the public eye, Mira. He may feel he’s got to keep up appearances.”

  “Oh, he’s perfectly tormented when he’s in public, Dr. Walsh,” I reply. “But in private it’s a whole different story. He doesn’t care that Mama’s in a coma.”

  “Now, Mira, think about what you’re saying. This is your father. He’s got a huge burden to carry. Couldn’t it be possible you’re misreading him?”

  My father. Burden. Yes, it makes sense. Of course he’s as torn up about Mama as I am. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s never been outwardly emotional, so he’s probably keeping it in. Hurting in his own private way. What was I thinking?

  Even the tone of my thoughts is cynical. I can’t help it. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re right. I can’t even sleep at night. I’m all messed up.”

  “Of course you are,” Dr. Walsh replies. “You need someone to turn to, but your father is so wrapped up in everything he just can’t be there for you the way you need him to be right now.”

  She opens a drawer beneath the table and rifles through it, extracting a small pad of white forms. “Hang on while I have my colleague sign this,” she says, scribbling something on the paper. She leaves the office for a couple of minutes. When she returns, she tears off the prescription and hands it to me.

  “What is it?”

  “Just some Trazodone to help you sleep.”

  Trazodone. The same medication Mama took—takes. I accept the prescription from Dr. Walsh and slip it into my back pocket. I don’t want it, but I don’t feel like explaining why right now.

  “There’s something else I want to discuss,” Dr. Walsh continues, returning to her chair. “I’ve spent some time researching your case.”

  “My case?”

  “The symptoms you described to me in our first session. It seems that what you’re experiencing—the flashes of insight, seeing into other people’s minds—may not be completely unique. Have you ever heard of Edgar Cayce?”

  The name sounds vaguely familiar.

  Dr. Walsh goes on, “Mr. Cayce was a clairvoyant who lived in the early twentieth century. He performed thousands of readings over the course of forty years. He would put himself into a trance and answer all sorts of questions, including questions about complete strangers living in other parts of the world.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of bull to me,” I remark.

  “Maybe so. Some people claim Edgar Cayce was a prophet. Others think he was a con artist. The truth may lie somewhere in between.”

  This is unreal. I look at Dr. Walsh, searching for some glimmer of humor in her eyes, something that proves she’s joking. But her expression remains serious.

  “I’m not a clairvoyant or a prophet,” I tell her. “And I’m no con artist. You can believe whatever you want about me. Heck, I don’t know what to believe about me. All I want is. . .”

  My voice trails off. What do I want? Two weeks ago I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to be normal, to be able to touch someone without their whole life being zapped into my brain. But now there’s Mama.

  Dr. Walsh is writing again, this time on the blank backside of a prescription form.

  “The Cayce Institute for Intuitive Studies is located in Virginia, but they’ve recently established a West Coast office about twenty minutes from here in Glendale. If I could arrange it, would you consider letting them evaluate you?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I think your particular—gift—might be right up their alley. With your permission, I’ll call in a referral.”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Good. I’ll schedule an appointment for tomorrow morning. If there’s any conflict, let me know. In the meantime, tell me about the emotions going on inside of you.”

  After the appointment is over, I see myself out. Dr. Walsh wanted to know if I was still feeling suicidal. She seemed surprised when I said ‘yes’, though I’ve been too worried about Mama to worry about me. In addition to the Trazodone, she also renewed my prescription of Gaudium.

  “Maybe you have a higher tolerance to it than most people,” she explained, “but one more round should do the trick.”

  One m
ore dose—as if feeling depressed is a virus like the common cold, and Gaudium is nothing more than a mega dose of Vitamin C.

  I’m thinking about Mama when I step out of Dr. Walsh’s office. I don’t notice David until he’s standing right in front of me, a pained expression on his face.

  “You ditched me,” he says.

  I don’t come out of my thoughts easily. It takes me a couple of seconds to realize what he’s talking about. “The park.” It all comes back to me.

  “I waited for more than an hour.” He speaks in a clipped, hurt voice. “I even came to your house.”

  He did? He came to the mansion?

  “Your place is like Fort Knox. I couldn’t even get to the door before a security guard ushered me away.”

  He came looking for me. In the pouring rain.

  “I texted and called you,” he continues, “but you never replied.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but the look on his face tells me he’s not buying my apology. I don’t expect him to.

  He slips his hands into his pockets. His arms are stiff. An invisible wall has already risen between us.

  “Let me explain—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything,” David says. He starts to turn away like he’s cutting off this conversation. He doesn’t want to hear any more.

  “It’s my mom,” I say. “It’s been all over the news.”

  “I don’t pay attention to the news. Too busy,” he says.

  For some reason his indifference hurts deeply. “Well, if you had paid attention you’d know why I couldn’t meet you that night.” I push past him out the door into the parking lot. It’s hot and humid. Sweat gathers on my skin under my hoodie. Jordan’s car isn’t here yet. When David follows me outside, I have half a mind to walk home just to get away from him.

  “So, are you going to tell me?”

  I ignore him as best as I can, but he steps in front of me. Does this guy ever stop?

  “Okay, look, I didn’t mean to be rude,” he sighs. “If you didn’t want to meet me, just say so and I’ll leave you alone. But I have a right to know.”