Page 33 of Everything She Feared

“We’ll go now.” Sara stood, taking Katie’s hand. “Thank you again, Sally.”

“I’ll go that way with you.”

They walked without talking and before Dr. Mehta took up the form for the next session, she stood at the hall door, watching Sara and Katie go down the sidewalk.

14

Bothell, Washington

Gifts wrapped withfestive paper and bows formed small mountains around her at their Christmas tree, her mom beaming, taking pictures while her dad’s booming laughter filled the house.

Sara was three, no, maybe four, at the time, and it was one of her earliest happiest memories.

Savoring it now while driving in the rain, she glanced at her tattoo, which catapulted her back through her life even further, to a hazy memory that she fought to keep out of her head...driving at night in the rain...wipers swiping like a beating heart...the scream...something seizing her...

Sara pushed away the painful thoughts until she was rescued by reflections of her parents: George and Marjorie Cole.

Her mom was an office administrator; her dad was an electrician. They were honest, hardworking, loving people, who lived their faith. Always volunteering to do whatever they could. Sara remembered the aromas of their kitchen, remembered standing on a chair after washing her hands, after Mom cut the onions and celery. “You scoop them into the pot, honey.” Helping Mom make sandwiches, soup and chili, then driving with Dad to deliver the food to a church basement or mission. “You have to help people, that’s what we do.”

But there were moments, in those early years, when they looked at her, that she saw dread behind their eyes, a fear of something coming.

A darkness.

Sara turned to her daughter in the car beside her.

It’s the same way I look at Katie.

Sara had been startled when Katie told the grief counselor about the boy.I should’ve expected it as part of the risk.Thankfully the session was confidential. Sara didn’t want to think about the boy, because the matter had been resolved long ago, and it didn’t fit with anything.

But maybe it does now.

Maybe it fits because of Anna’s death. No. Stop. Don’t think about it.

Sara took in the trees of the countryside.

“Isn’t this pretty, hon?”

Katie nodded.

“Grandma always loved driving this way,” Sara said. “When I was little, we’d come here to buy apples and Grandma made pies.”

After several more miles, Sara came to the Silverbrook Hills Senior Living Home and parked. They registered at the desk, then went through the lobby. Along the way they saw Bella Spencer, a woman in her fifties who volunteered at Silverbrook. She had large glasses and was pushing a wheeled cart filled with books.

“Well, if it isn’t Sara and Katie.”

“Hi, Bella,” Sara said.

“Let me know if your mom would like a book today. Got some new John Grisham and Stephen King.”

“Alright. Thanks, Bella.”

Bella glanced around, then whispered a warning. “Hetta’s here today.”

Sara nodded. They passed by residents in cushioned chairs or wheelchairs playing cards at a table. A few steps down the hall they met Hetta Boden, Silverbrook’s manager.

“Hello, Sara,” said Hetta, her hair pulled into a tight bun, her smooth face holding little warmth.

“Hello.”

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