21. Margo
Chapter 21
Margo
D r. Sayer is… not quite how I pictured her.
Long black hair in beautiful, intricate braids, dark eyes and skin. She wears a long flowing dress that isn’t weather appropriate, but it’s warm in her office. There’s even a fireplace behind her.
The whole office has a cozy vibe. Dark wood walls and furniture, a cream-colored rug on the tiled floor. One whole wall filled with books and baubles. Some related to psychology and talk therapy, plus a healthy mix of classics.
I spend the first fifteen minutes of our session standing by those books, running my fingers along the titles.
“ To Kill a Mockingbird ?” I ask, the first thing I’ve said besides our introduction.
“Do you not like that one?”
I shrug. She’s at her therapist chair, which faces a couch and a chair. I guess I could’ve got my pick of the two, but instead… here I stand, silently counting down the minutes.
“I found myself drawn to Scout’s attitude,” she says quietly. “There’s a lot we can learn from a girl like her.”
My finger travels next to The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. “Envy is dangerous.”
“Are you envious?”
I sigh. “Isn’t everyone?”
“Probably,” she agrees. “It’s why the book is so widely regarded. But it strikes each person differently.”
“I’ve always been labeled the foster kid. And before that, the poor scholarship kid.” I pull the book out and flip through it. There’s writing on a few of the pages, tight cursive that I don’t bother trying to interpret. “Isn’t that… well, obviously it’s not racism. But being followed around shops just because I don’t really fit in, that’s not fun.”
Dr. Sayer stays silent.
“That’s not why I’m here, though,” I say. “I’m here because I was kidnapped.”
I put the book back on the shelf.
“We can discuss whatever you’d like.”
I exhale. “How many foster kids do you talk to in a week? Six? Ten? Thirty?”
She just watches me.
“I’m just the same as them.”
“I’m sure you share some qualities, but that doesn’t mean you’re the same. Isn’t that kind of like erasing your own identity?”
I finally sit. “I don’t think I really have my own identity.”
“Is that your own standpoint or one you might’ve had put on you?”
How did we get talking about this? Instead of thinking about the answer—a painful consideration—I shake my head. “You don’t want to know about me being kidnapped?”
“We can talk about it.”
I regard her. “I feel bad about it.”
“Why?”
“Lenora, my foster mom, shouldn’t have had to deal with that.” I rub my wrist. “Her daughter died in a car accident. And then I just imagine what she had to go through with her husband… Robert was in the car with me.”
“How is he doing?”
I brighten. “Good. He’s going home today, which means I get to go home, too. It’ll be nice to be back in a routine.”
“You were staying with a family friend? Your social worker mentioned they had been registered as a respite home a few years ago, so they were eligible. And your boyfriend lives there.”
I slowly nod. “Yes. Is that bad?”
“Perhaps he offered you a bit of stability that a different respite home wouldn’t have been able to.”
“Right.”
“So, you feel guilty because Lenora was going through all of that alone.”
“Right,” I repeat. “I shouldn’t have gone to see my dad. That was where we were coming back from… The prison. It’s my fault we were out on that street in the first place.”
“But you were taken?”
“I was, but I don’t remember a lot of it. I was drugged with something, and… I don’t know. I think the detective brushed my case off when Caleb’s alibi held up.”
I wait for her to say something like, And how do you feel about that? For once, I have an answer: angry. Angry that I’m forgotten about yet again, tossed to the side. We’re well on our way to figuring this out ourselves—shouldn’t a detective, with more resources, be able to do far better?
She doesn’t ask. She instead stands, crossing to her desk. “Have you talked to your foster parents about how you feel?”
I frown. “No. There’s been a lot going on.”
“Understandable.” She comes back with a composition notebook in her hand. She extends it toward me, and I reluctantly take it. “Maybe you feel like people don’t listen.”
“It isn’t that they don’t listen, it’s that they won’t .”
“Can you try something for me?”
I lean back, setting the notebook beside me and folding my arms over my chest.
“Hear me out,” she says, smiling. “I’ve found it’s easier to be heard when the words can’t be ignored. When it’s in black and white in front of them.”
“You want me to write down my feelings.” I should’ve known .
“Maybe put it in a letter,” she suggests.
“To who?”
Mom? Lenora and Robert? Dad?
“Whoever you want.”
I chew on that request for a moment. Bounce it around. Are there people who I could write a letter to, get the emotions off my chest, and move on from it? Sure.
But right now, that’s at the bottom of my list of priorities.
“It was scary,” I finally say. “Knowing someone had taken me away from Robert. The second before they knocked me out, they kept apologizing. Even when I was in the barn, and they were arguing…”
I press my lips together.
“How are you sleeping?” she asks.
“I’m… barely.” Every night is a struggle, although I haven’t told another soul that. I’ve scarcely admitted it to myself—that my sleep troubles might be a result of being taken. And the accident.
It doesn’t help that every time I close my eyes, I feel Robert’s arm across my chest, protecting me as we careened toward the ditch.
“I told my boyfriend I love him,” I blurt out. “Because I definitely do. But he didn’t say it back. I know he does, but I was really hoping to hear him say the words.”
She takes the subject change in stride. “First love?”
“Only love,” I say firmly.
She smiles. “When you know, you know. And maybe, since he didn’t just automatically say it back to you, it’ll be more special when he does.”
I hum. “That… makes me feel better, actually.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Pep talks?”
Her smile turns into a grin. “Perspective.”
“Ah.”
She glances at her watch. “And now, unfortunately, our time is up. Try writing in the journal. Bring it back with you on Friday.”
My cheeks heat up. “Am I going to be reading it out loud?”
She shrugs, and I catch a mischievous gleam in her eye.
Honestly, I need some personality other than serene from her. Still, I take her expression to mean, maybe . Maybe I’ll read it aloud. Maybe we won’t even crack the notebook open.
Lenora is parked at the curb, waiting for me. She looks at me expectantly when I slide in, but I just shake my head.
“Right, right, I shouldn’t ask.”
I laugh and tuck the notebook into my bag. “It is supposed to be confidential.”
“Well, fine. But did you find it helpful?”
I think back on my conversation with Dr. Sayer. The more I think about it, the more I like her definition of her job: to give perspective. She’s not out to heal or fix me—not that I can tell anyway.
“It was,” I decide.
“Good. Robert is home, eagerly awaiting our arrival.”
I straighten. “He is? Already?”
“Yep. He got a clean bill of health from the doctors. As long as he takes it easy, he should be okay to return to work next week.”
I touch my forehead. The stitches came out this morning, before therapy, but they said to keep a butterfly bandage on it for another day. Under it, though, is a new pink scar.
And I’ve never been so excited to wash my hair without inhibition.
It starts snowing when we’re almost home. My muscles tense, and I grab on to the door.
“Margo, are you okay?”
It was snowing when Robert and I crashed. It was easy to push down the fear of vehicles when it was Riley driving me, or Ms. McCaw. Or Eli. The skies have been clear, the roads dry.
I lean forward, eyeing the side streets. A car could come out of nowhere and sideswipe us.
She slows our car until we’re crawling down the street. “Honey, breathe.”
I take in a ragged breath. It’s snowing hard and fast. I close my eyes.
“Can we just get home?” I whisper.
“Absolutely.”
She reaches over and holds my hand the whole way back, and it helps. It’s her form of a lifeline—and maybe she understands my sudden anxiety.
I wonder how long it took her to get into a car after Isabella died.
“We’re here,” she announces, turning into the driveway.
I open my eyes and release her hand, embarrassment flushing my cheeks.
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Nodding, I get out of the car. The embarrassment is replaced by anticipation, and I rush ahead of her to get in the house.
“Hey, kiddo,” Robert calls. He walks back toward the living room with a glass of water. “Let me just put this down…”
He sets it on a side table, then holds out his arms.
I dive into them, holding back a fraction for fear of hurting him. He wraps his arms around my back.
“There she is,” he says into my hair. “Good as new, the both of us, yeah?”
“You said that exact same thing before,” I mumble into his chest. “And then you almost died.”
“Ah, well. Old habits die hard. My father used to say that to my brother and me. We were always getting hurt.” He chuckles and pats my back.
I pull back, wiping at my cheeks. I’m ashamed of the tears there, but they’re more happy than sad. He’s home. I’m home.
It isn’t just a house anymore .
My heart swells.
“Len, we should order Chinese and watch some movies.”
She laughs behind me. “May as well. I don’t have any food in this house. Margo, want to take this up to your room?”
I turn. She holds the bag I had packed for the Blacks’.
“Oops, sorry.”
“I know you were in a rush to get in here.” She winks at me.
I loop the strap over my shoulder and hurry to the stairs. Up to the second floor, where pictures of the Bryans stare at me. They’ve replaced some of them with new pictures, doing their best to make me feel welcome. Pictures of me and my friends, Caleb and I from the ball, a selfie I took with Robert and Lenora on Thanksgiving.
I smile at that last one, the three of us with our faces so close together. They frame me in, their arms looped around me. It’s easy to see why they picked that one to display in high-definition color. We’re so happy.
My first stop is the bathroom, unloading my toiletries and makeup bag, then I push open the door to my room.
It meets some resistance, like it’s caught on something.
I frown, pushing harder, and manage to get it open most of the way.
But my room…
Horror radiates through me. Horror and disbelief.
I can’t help it.
I scream.