Page 20 of Good Girls Lie
And the diagnosis could hardly be calledsome sort ofdepression.
But Ford dutifully updated the senator on her observations with an email earlier this evening.
Senator,
Becca seems to have settled in just fine. Excited for her classes, already showing true leadership for the student body. I will keep a close eye on her. Good luck in the midterms.
Fondly,
Ford Julianne Westhaven
Dean, The Goode School
Titles. People do love their titles.
Ford doesn’t see the same girl the doctor does, which is worrisome. Becca has never struck her as deliberately cruel, but perhaps Ford only wants to see the best in her girls. And she understands the desire to get attention from an absent mother, even if it’s negative attention. Ford was—is still—known to disregard her mother’s advice in favor of making some colossal mistakes of her own. Her mother made the worst one, and now Ford is shackled to Goode, for better or for worse, forced to read something much too personal about one of her students. Penance.
Yes, Becca needs some extra attention this year. She will be graduating in the spring, already has an early acceptance to Harvard. She might start slacking off, and Ford can’t let that happen. Perhaps Ford will offer a tutorial. Becca has shown a propensity for short stories. She’ll challenge her to write a small collection, with Ford editing. With the right topics and guidance, perhaps she can even submit to magazines at the end of the semester.
That’s Becca sorted.
So what else is bothering her?
Ford finally throws back the covers and goes to the kitchen. Makes a cup of tea, chamomile, and adds a few drops of CBD oil. She needs her rest.
She sits at her desk, sipping, allowing herself a few moments to worry. A good exercise, this. When her mind is cluttered, she indulges it for ten minutes. Then she puts it aside. She sets the timer and lets her thoughts tumble.
She is interrupted by the phone, an unrecognized number. She answers.
“Dean Westhaven? This is Dr. Aquinas, I’m at County General. I’ve been treating your Dr. Grassley.”
“Oh, yes. Is she all right?”
“I’m so sorry to have to share this, Dean, but you are Dr. Grassley’s primary emergency contact. She didn’t respond well to the epinephrine—I see in her chart that she’s had several incidents in the past year. Sometimes the body simply can’t get out of reactive mode and the flare-ups are too much for the heart to handle. These long-term anaphylaxis cases are so difficult—”
“Excuse me, what are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m sorry, Dean. Dr. Grassley passed away an hour ago.”
JUNE
Oxford, England
14
THE FIGHT
Gravel spits and an engine revs, then cuts off. The front door slams a second later, shaking the mullioned windows. My father screams my name from the foyer. I can hear him though I’m on the third story of the house. I wince. He knows. He knows I know.
“Ashlyn Elizabeth Carr! Where are you?”
I weigh my odds. If I stay here and he has to come up, will he be more furious or less? Time heals all wounds, though whoever penned this bon mot clearly didn’t have a teenage daughter. Our wounds only get deeper, wider, nastier. They fester.
“Ashlyn! Come down here immediately.”
I creep from my room to the hall. I can hear my mother now, emerging from the solarium where she keeps her office. She spends all day in there, arranging dinner parties and sojourns to the countryside, writing thank-you notes. She is useless. Meaningless. Living a pretend life in a pretend world. Since my brother died, she’s done nothing but plan her stupid parties and nip on the sherry.A tot in your tea, dear?
“Damien? Whatever is the matter? Why are you out here screeching like a lunatic? I thought you were in London today.”
