Page 20 of The Last Session

Amani was scribbling on a piece of paper, looking bored. She looked up and spotted me, then motioned me inside.

“Hey.” She smiled as I approached. “You just get here?”

“Yup.”

Catherine acknowledged me with a nod but kept the headphones on. Her face was less swollen, back to sharp lines and planes. She still had a fragile air to her, but appeared worlds different from the dead-eyed Jane Doe of the last two weeks.

Amani noticed my stare. “She said podcasts calm her down. Diane told us to draw, but we’re not six, so…”

“Is she—does she need to call anyone, or—”

“Her parents are picking her up tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

“Oh.” Disappointment flooded my chest. Which was absurd—it was a good thing, agreatthing, that Catherine was going home.

“They’re in Hawaii, so it’s taking them a day to get here.” Amani cleared her throat.

With a sigh, Catherine pulled off the headphones and handed them back to Amani.

“What were you listening to?” I asked.

She grinned, the full beam of her perfect smile startling me.

“Just a podcast,” she said. “They really chill me out.”

“Hey.” Amani got to her feet. “Thea, would you mind staying here while I do my morning rounds?”

“Of course.” The prospect thrilled me—one last private conversation with Catherine. Though it also made me a little nervous. At thirteen, despite my grand fantasies, I’d known that if I ever met Catherine in person, I’d go speechless with overwhelm.

Catherine studied me as Amani left. It gave me the same prickly feeling as the day before, as if she were searching for something specific on my face.

“So.” She grinned again, but this time it felt like an offering, vaguely pleading. “Someone in my room told me about how I attacked you.” The smile dropped. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I picked at a crayon wrapper. “Do you remember… what you were thinking?”

“No. Nothing.” She stared into space. “All I remember is waking up yesterday tied to a hospital bed.” She rubbed at her right wrist. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“I can imagine.” I didn’t want to push, but I couldn’t help it. This was my one chance. “Do you remember what happened before coming here? Why you were walking on the expressway?”

She glanced down. “The last few months… I guess I have amnesia or something? Is that what it’s called?”

“It is.”She’s lying.She was a good actress, of course, but somehow I could tell. She rememberedsomething—whether it was part or all of it. She just wasn’t going to say.

“Yeah, I was in LA, everything normal, and just…” She trailed off, looking down at the table. The silence stretched out.

“You know…” I tapped the crayon against a sheet of paper. “I do art therapy here.” That was innocuous enough.

She looked up. “You do?”

“I do. Every week.” I pulled Amani’s paper towards me; it was full of childish flowers and plants. “Sometimes people like to draw things, even if they don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you an artist?” she asked.

I paused, unsure how to answer. “Well, I used to be.”

“What kind of art?”

“Drawing and painting, mostly.”

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