The Psychiatrist Behind the Mirror

One

Rowan

Piper’s car is parked crooked in the driveway. That’s how I know.

The front door is unlocked, so I push it open with my shoulder, kick off my shoes without looking, and step inside. My keys bite into my palm hard enough to leave dents.

The house is blazing with light. Every lamp is on. Every window glows against the dark street, as if the house were trying to warn the neighborhood.

Then the smell hits me.

Bleach.

So much bleach it makes my eyes sting.

Piper’s voice carries from the living room. “Mom, please just sit down.”

My stomach drops just before I round the corner and come to a stop.

The sofa is shoved into the middle of the room. Mom is on her hands and knees, scrubbing spotless hardwood with frantic, jerky movements.

Dad stands near the hallway, looking helpless in a way I can’t process right now.

Piper curls into herself at the edge of the couch, white as paper.

Madison still isn’t here. The air feels off without her, like we’re all waiting for the real adult to arrive.

I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything. My hands. My breathing. The way everyone keeps looking at me like I walked in carrying answers.

I’m twenty-five years old. I misplace parking tickets and forget to buy milk. I have never known what to do in a situation like this.

When I finally hear the front door open and then close, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Madison walks in without looking at me, her focus already on the living room. She’s wearing that mask she wears when everything is about to fall apart.

I cross to Piper and pull her into the kitchen. She’s shaking so violently she can barely stand, and the second I touch her, she folds into me like a little kid.

My wrist twinges under her grip, but I don’t let it show.

“I’ve got it,” Madison says as she enters, though her voice already sounds strained.

She crouches in front of Mom. “Mom, stop. Look at me.”

Mom doesn’t stop scrubbing.

“The nursery, Madison,” she says frantically. “We didn’t prepare the nursery. The baby is coming, and the floors are filthy. Arthur won’t help. He just stands there, but it has to be perfect. Everything has to be perfect.”

Piper lets out a tiny, broken sound against my shoulder.

“Mom,” Madison pleads. “There is no baby. Piper’s wedding is soon, remember? There is no baby.”

She reaches down to pull Mom upright, and Mom snaps.

She lunges at her. Her fingers clamp around Madison’s forearms hard enough to leave bruises.

“You don’t understand!” Mom shrieks. Her eyes are huge and unfocused, darting around the room like she’s seeing things none of us can. “You’re always trying to stop me. You’re just like them. You want to keep me in the dark.”

“Mom, let go of me!” Madison struggles to steady her.

“We have to call the hospital,” I say.

Mom recoils from me. “No!” she screams. “Not back there. I won’t go back. Arthur, tell them! Don’t let them take me!”

Dad finally moves, stepping forward to cradle her face in his hands. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

“Did you give her the meds, Dad?” Madison demands. Exhaustion bleeds through every word. “You said you gave them to her. Piper, Rowan, you two were here. You told me she was fine.”

We were here. We promised Madison we’d look out for Mom, but we failed.

Mom said she didn’t need to be watched like a child.

“She said she took them,” Piper cries. “She told us she was fine. We didn’t know. We haven’t seen her like this in years.”

“Because I shielded you!” Madison’s voice cracks across the room. “I stayed here while you went to school. I handled the doctors. You didn’t see it because I didn’t let you.”

I stare at the fury on her face and the grief beneath it.

Every missing piece of our childhood rearranges itself into something uglier than before.

All those weekends Madison couldn’t visit me at university. Every night she sounded tired on the phone.

She wasn’t able to live while the rest of us escaped.

She was surviving this.

Madison drags a hand over her face. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That wasn’t fair.”

Mom has started pacing the hallway, muttering to herself. “The light,” she whispers. “The arrival.”

Madison follows her upstairs, and for one horrible second I consider following, but my feet remain rooted to the kitchen tiles.

Coward.

Piper’s grip on my arm tightens as muffled voices echo overhead.

Then Madison’s voice again. “Mom, please. Just tell me. Have you been taking the pills?”

Mom’s voice drifts faintly down the stairs. “I’m happy, Madison. Don’t you want me to be happy? The pills make the world gray. They make my head heavy. I’ve had so many good days lately. I’m finally awake.”

I close my eyes because part of me understands.

A few seconds later, we hear drawers opening upstairs.

“Madison, don’t! Stay out of there!”

The silence that follows sends my pulse racing.

“Mom,” Madison chokes out.

“I felt good. I thought I was cured. I wanted to feel the sun, Madi. Just for a little while.”

I think about the scent of her coconut conditioner, the pull of the comb through my hair at six in the morning before school, and the way she used to hum off-key to a song only she could hear.

How terrifying it is to lose control of your own brain. That your own mind can betray you while you’re still trapped inside it.

When Madison enters the kitchen, she’s holding orange pill bottles, and they’re all full.

She’s the fixer. She’ll know what to do.

I watch her pull out her phone, her hands shaking.

Our brother Noah answers on the second ring. “I’m booking the next flight. I’ll be there tonight.”

“I need help now,” Madison whispers.

“Do what you have to do. I trust you.”

She hangs up and disappears into the hallway. Then I hear another call connect.

“Madi?” a man answers.

“Beckett,” she whispers.

There’s a long pause, and then his voice softens completely. “Talk to me, baby.”

I stare at the floor as my sister quietly falls apart in the next room.

For the first time in my life, I realize Madison was never carrying this burden because she was strong enough.

She was carrying it because nobody else did.

∞∞∞

Madison called Beckett.

He’s her upstairs neighbor, a trauma doctor, and—I’m pretty sure—the guy she’s sleeping with.

Turns out that when things go sideways in your family, you don’t dial 911. You call someone who knows how to step into chaos without letting it explode.

Beckett brought in a psychiatrist friend, someone who could assess my mother, sparing us the flashing lights and neighbors peeking through their curtains.

Dr. Hudson Vaughn has been up there with her for over an hour. Long enough for the adrenaline to crash. Long enough for the house to settle into that brittle silence that follows a disaster.

I couldn’t breathe in there, so I stepped outside thirty minutes ago. I’ve been hiding by the hedges ever since.

When I hear the front door click shut again, I don’t turn right away, but I listen to the measured footsteps on the gravel.

Shifting slightly, I spot Hudson in the dark.

He’s already halfway down the path—tall and broad, wearing navy slacks and a crisp shirt, untouched by the wreck he just stepped out of.

He looks like he belongs somewhere controlled. Somewhere sane. Not here.

He reaches his black SUV, opens the door, and places a work bag inside. Then he stops and looks directly at me.

“Are you alright?” he finally asks.

My eyebrows jump. “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t show even a flicker of surprise.

“You’re Madison’s sister.”

“What gave it away?” I deadpan. “The red hair?”

It’s sharper than it needs to be, but I don’t take it back. Politeness takes energy I don’t have. My joints ache, my head throbs, and my mother is upstairs, sedated into something resembling peace.

He turns fully, slipping his hands into his pockets like this is a casual sidewalk chat. I draw myself up, though at five-four, the effect is limited.

He stops a few feet away. In the dim light, his eyes are a pale, piercing blue.

“Your mother is sleeping,” he says.

“I know.” I scuff my shoe on the gravel. “She always sleeps after she breaks.”

I don’t know why I offer that up. It just leaks out.

“That kind of exhaustion isn’t unusual after a bipolar episode.”

“So what?” I shake my head, kicking a stone aside. “You just pump her full of meds until she seems sane?”

“With the right treatment, she can live a full life.”

I wave a hand toward the house. “She was getting the right treatment. That’s what the last guy said.”

He doesn’t bite. He just stands there, letting my frustration bounce off him. “Sometimes medication needs adjusting. Finding the right combination can take time.”

I cross my arms. “Are you her new doctor?”

“No. This was a favor to Beckett. Your mother already has a team.”

Right. He didn’t have to come.

“Thanks,” I say, because I realize I sound like an asshole. “For helping her.”

He dips his chin once, then turns toward the car. As he grabs the handle, he pauses and looks back at me.

“You should have Beckett look at that leg.”

My head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re favoring it,” he says, glancing down before locking eyes with me. “Get it checked.”

I instantly shift my weight onto my bad leg. “I thought you were a psychiatrist?”

“I am.” He slides into the driver’s seat. “I notice things.” He pulls the door almost shut, then catches it with one hand. “Goodnight, littlest Callahan.”

I blink. “Hey—”

The door closes, the engine turns over, and the taillights disappear down the driveway.

Littlest Callahan?

I fucking hate that nickname.