Page 50 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
“Yes.” He shifts again. “The entries where you write about your Worries—how long are they, usually?”
“Long. Like, multiple pages, usually.”
“And at the end of all that writing, do you feel better?”
I consider the question. As I think, I tug at a thread of skin on the corner of my lip. It pops off. “Not really.”
He nods. “That’s common for someone of your temperament. As I said, sometimes journaling is a release. Sometimes it’s exactly what you need. But sometimes”—shift—“all that writing, those pages and pages of careful examination…they send you further down the spiral.”
The spiral. Huh. I suppose my thoughtsdolook like spirals. They don’t feel like it, though. If anything, they feel more like tunnels. Like digging deeper and deeper into a place you never wanted to go in the first place.
17
NOW
WE BROKE FOR LUNCH.
As the rest of my family filed into the cabin to grab the sandwiches Wendy and the Nurses had set out, I stood on the floating dock and toweled off the lake water, gazing at the horizon and longing for my laptop. I’d been on Cradle Island for almost twenty-four hours now, and I hadn’t opened my computer even once. We only had Wi-Fi in my parents’ cabin, which meant I’d need to sit in their living room if I wanted to check my email. I wasn’t particularly keen on all of the prying questions that Mom would ask if she cornered me down there.
Still, being away from my job was starting to take its toll.
I could feel it. I could feel it in the direction my thoughts had taken in the sauna, in the little flare-up of spit obsession I’d experienced the night before. At some point that day, I needed to make an escape to my computer. My boss had told me to take this week entirely off, that I deserved it, that I’d workedso hardon Blossom’s behalf for the last three years. There would be no immediate tasks for me to complete. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t get ahead on future work, right?
“You coming inside?”
I startled, turning around to find Manuel standing on the porch,staring down at me. His swim trunks were damp with water. His curls were messy, freshly rubbed with a towel. He wore a strange expression that I couldn’t quite decipher.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a minute.”
He nodded, then turned and walked into the cabin.
Taking a few deep breaths—and pinching my arms for good measure—I crossed the floating dock and started up the rocks, following him.
Inside, bags and chips and sandwich makings awaited. I put together a quick ham and cheese, topped it with a handful of Ruffles, and walked out to the dinner table, where everyone else was already seated. The closest open seat—of course—was right next to Manuel. I could walk all the way around the table and take the chair next to Karma, but the move would be pretty obvious.
I gritted my teeth and walked over to the chair beside Manuel.
“So. Eliot,” said my mom before I even sat down, “I meant to tell you, just the other day, I was watching this60 Minutesepisode on Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”
My fingers slipped, dropping the paper plate awkwardly onto the table. I said nothing, did not even react to my mother’s words. I lowered myself into my chair and carefully picked up the chips that had scattered over the checkered tablecloth.
“And I must say,” Wendy continued, “the victim in question…”
“Victim?” Clarence interrupted. “Does having OCD also make you the target of a serial killer?”
Karma snorted.
“No.” Mom spoke crisply, the word its own punctuation mark. “I meant…thepersonin question—the OCD patient—she wasn’t anything like you.”
“Hey, Mom.” Karma nodded at Helene and her parents. “Maybe don’t talk about mental health in front of the new folks, hmm? They might not want in on all the family secrets just yet.”
I glanced at Helene. She smiled kindly.
“I’m sorry,” said Mom. “I thought, since it’s all in the past now…”
I glanced sideways at Manuel. His face was resolutely neutral, betraying nothing. I took a deep breath.
“No, no,” I said. “Mom’s right. It’s in the past. It’s fine.”
