Page 2 of For Her Own Good

This house is too goddamn big and it takes forever for Milo to lead me to a bedroom plastered with posters of snowboarding and concerts with laundry strewn about, including on the queen-sized bed, and into an en suite.

There she is. Everything else melts away because she’s here. In rough shape, yes. But alive. I can see her breathing, narrow shoulders heaving while she’s curled into herself on the bottom of the tub. Her dark hair is soaking wet, stringy and sticking to her face and neck; her skin is pale and goose-pimpled, and she’s clutching a towel while her entire body shivers.

The momentary relief I experienced at seeing her alive is eclipsed by rage, and the only thing stopping me from ripping a towel bar out of the wall and beating Milo to death with it is that I’d lose my license and go to prison. No way to look after Starla then.

Instead, I start digging through the linens on the floor to find a dry towel, and speak to Milo in a tone I’m sure he doesn’t realize is a knife’s blade on the edge of slitting his throat for being an irresponsible, negligent dilettante.

“Why is she in your bathtub?”

He wrinkles his nose as if I’m the blockhead here. “That’s where she was when I got home. Look, I turned off the water and gave her a towel, okay? But she wouldn’t get out.”

“You didn’t move her? You didn’t dress her? She’s not violent.”

“I don’t know what the fuck to do with her. Look at her!”

I am and it’s killing me. Milo can fuck off and go to hell. He’s not my concern. Starla is. With the towels I grabbed, I get down on my knees beside the tub. As much as I want to touch her, I don’t. Can’t.

“Starla?”

She clutches the towel tighter beneath her chin and doesn’t look at me. I can only imagine she’s scared, but also mortified, and because she’s so damn hard on herself, likely disappointed and angry at herself. And depending on how firmly Milo’s opinions have taken root in her head, she’s probably wondering what is so very wrong with her that she can’t be like other girls. She’s said these things before in sessions, and I try my best to help her understand that the fact her brain chemistry isn’t the same as other people’s doesn’t make her broken, doesn’t make her less than in any way.

It’s been so long too, since her last ECT that her depression is probably drowning her. Making it hard to get out of bed—Christ, she’d probably been proud that she’d made it into the shower at all—yelling at her that she’s useless and pathetic and no one wants her or loves her. She’s wrong about all of that. But that’s the kind of shit depression pulls, and it’s my job to make it quiet enough that she can hear the good and true things over it. And to never, ever mention the unseemly thoughts I have about her.

“Starla, come on. Look at me.”

She shakes her head, though, and my heart crumbles. It’s not the first time she’s refused to look at me, but it’s usually out of bullheaded intransigence, not anguish and embarrassment. I’ve got to do something, got to fix this. No matter what it takes.

“Hey. If you’re worried I’m mad, I’m not. I’ve been worried because I was concerned something had happened to you. I’m happy you’re okay, and your father will be so relieved. No one is angry and no one thinks you’re a failure. I know it’s hard to hear, so let me make it easier. You know it can be better. It wasn’t so long ago that you did feel better. If you come with me, we can make it better again. Together. I promise.”

The slightest turn of her head lets her peek out between the lank strands of hair plastered to her face. “Promise?”

Her whisper reaches deep into me, twists my gut until I can barely breathe. I rarely make promises to my patients. I don’t bullshit them, I don’t lie. Mental illness is really fucking hard, and it’s a crapshoot seeing what will work and what won’t. If, in fact, anythingwillwork, and then how well, and at what cost. But in this case, I know what works for Starla, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t work again. Even if it doesn’t? I will be there to help her figure out something that does, if it takes the rest of my life.

“Promise.”

Chapter 1

Lowry

“You knowyou didn’t have to bring me to the airport. Even married people don’t bring each other to the airport. ‘Take a Lyft—no way in hell I’m going to O’Hare at that time of day. Are you completely daft?’”

Maeve gives me the same kind of look she’s been leveling at me for the past decade which translates directly to “Shut up, Lowry.”

“I know I don’t have to, but it’s a nice thing to do and I can do it. You never let me do enough nice things for you. I’m surprised you said yes to this.”

I scratch at my jaw. “Well, I would rather spend an hour in a car with you than with a chatty cab driver. And at least I know Denny obeys traffic laws.”

Maeve’s chauffeur gives me a salute in the rearview mirror. I’ve always liked that guy. Made me feel better during the split knowing he’d be around. Not that Maeve’s ever needed much in the way of help, but you never know what’ll come up.

“I’m flattered you think so highly of us both,” she responds archly. “But I also wanted to see you before you took off. I wasn’t sure when you’d be back. If you’ll be back.”

I shrug. “Truth be told, I don’t know either. It’s not like I’ve got anything against Chicago, I just feel more at home in Boston. I’ll ring you up if I’m in town for a conference or something. And if you’ll be in Boston, drop me a line. I’ll make room in my busy social calendar.”

“For your favorite ex-wife? I’d hope so.”

She arches one of those perfect dark brows of hers as Denny guides the car up to the curb in front of the terminal.

“Eh, you’re my favorite wife I’ve ever had too.” I lean over to give her a kiss on the cheek and she accepts it regally, like most things she does, no doubt refraining from rolling her eyes because she’s been my only wife. “Don’t be a stranger, and don’t get into too much trouble. At least that you can’t get yourself out of again, aye?”

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