The Evolution of Mara Dyer Read online

  “Those questions are different, Mara. Rapists—”

  “He didn’t rape me.”

  Dr. Kells stared at me a beat too long.

  “He didn’t. I—” I stopped him before he had the chance. “He didn’t,” was all I said. “What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that rape is about power, not sex,” she began. “It’s about using force or the threat of it to take control over another person.”

  “So maybe, if he were alive, which he isn’t, he’d stalk me to show that he can control me. That he can make me afraid.” That fit.

  Dr. Kells looked at me intently. “You’ve told me a lot of things, today, Mara. And I’m going to be thinking about them for a while. But if you’re interested, I can tell you what I’m thinking right now.”

  I was about as excited for her insight as I would be for an enema. “Sure.”

  “When you were at the police station,” she said, “you told the detective that you killed Claire and Rachel.”

  Here it comes.

  “That makes me think that you feel very guilty, very responsible for the death of your best friend. For moving your family to Florida. For everything that has happened to your family since. I think that you’ve experienced two traumas—the sexual assault by Jude, and then the collapse—and I think that, in some way, it makes you feel more powerful to imagine that you stopped Jude from doing what you thought he was going to try to do. And that for every negative event or coincidence that has happened since, imagining that you triggered them, that you made them happen makes you feel like you possess a degree of control that you don’t have. But subconsciously, you believe that you don’t have control; and that’s manifesting in your fear that Jude is actually alive.”

  I wasn’t sure how I would manage staying sane while I was constantly being told that I was crazy. “That’s really interesting,” I said slowly.

  “Can I ask you something, Mara?”

  Do I have a choice? “Sure.”

  “What do you want?”

  I tilted my head. “Right now?”

  “No. In general.”

  “I want . . . I want.” I tried to think. What did I want?

  To go back? To when my biggest problem was that Claire was trying to steal my best friend? To rewind to before I even met Claire? And Jude?

  But that was also before Noah.

  I saw him in my mind, kneeling at my feet. Tying my shoelaces. Looking up at me with those blue eyes, flashing that half-smile I loved so much.

  I wouldn’t want to go back to before him. I didn’t want to lose him. I just wanted—

  “To be better,” I said finally. For my family. For Noah. For myself. I wanted to worry about things like early admission, not involuntary commitment. I would never be normal but maybe I could figure out how to live a somewhat normal life.

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” Dr. Kells said, and stood up. “We can help you be better, but you have to want it, or there’s nothing we can do.”

  I nodded and tried to stand too, but stumbled. I tried to lean against the desk to steady myself, but my synapses were slow, and I just hunched.

  Dr. Kells rested a hand on my back. “Are you feeling ill?”

  I heard an echo of her words—in someone else’s voice.

  In my mind.

  I blinked. Dr. Kells’s eyes were full of concern. I managed to nod but the movement blurred my thoughts. What was wrong with me?

  “What’s the matter?” Dr. Kells asked. She looked at me curiously and I felt strange. Like she was waiting for something to happen.

  I felt paranoid. Suspicious.

  As I tried to speak, she shifted out of focus.

  “Water?” she asked, and I heard an echo again, from far away.

  I must have nodded because Dr. Kells helped me sit and said she’d be right back. I heard the door open behind me, then close.

  And then I blacked out.

  16

  BEFORE

  Calcutta, India

  I RESTED MY CHEEK AGAINST THE OPENING OF THE carriage and peeked out from behind the curtain at the creamy wax blossoms that sprouted from the trees and the thick green growth that clung to their trunks. Creepers hung from the branches above us, low enough for me to touch, but I did not care to. I knew that world, the green world of moss-covered rocks and glistening leaves, the jewel colored world of jungle flowers and sunsets. It no longer interested me. It was the tiny world of this carriage that was fascinating and new.

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  I heard the white man’s words, the question in them, but I did not understand their meaning. His voice was weak from deep within the carriage. I did not care to look at his face.

  The carriage jerked, and my small fingers sank deep into the plush seat. Velvet, the man said when I first ran my fingers over it in wonder. I had never felt anything so soft; it did not exist in the world of fur and skin.

  We moved at a slow pace, much slower than the elephants, and we crept forward relentlessly, for several days and nights. Eventually the wet forest gave way to dry earth and the green gave way to brown and black. The sharp smell of smoke filled the air, mingling with the scent of sandalwood in the carriage.

  The horses slowed, and I peeked outside again. I was shocked by what I saw.

  Huge, still beasts—larger than any I had ever seen—rose from the water. Their skinny trunks stretched up to the sky and they swarmed with men though they themselves did not move. There were noises I had never heard, foreign and strange. The taste of spices coated my tongue, and my nostrils filled with the scent of wet earth.

  The white man reached up to point out at the large beasts. “Ships,” he said, and then dropped his trembling arm. His muscles were slack and weak, and he sank back into the shadows, his breathing heavy.

  Then we stopped. The door to the carriage opened, and a kind-faced man in bright blue clothing held his arm out to me.

  “Come,” he said to me, in a language I understood. His voice felt like sun-warmed water. I was not afraid of him, so I went. I waited for the white man to follow behind me as he had when we left the carriage on our journey, but he did not. He did shift toward the door, though his face was still in shadow. He held out a small black pouch to the man in blue, his arm shaking with the effort.

  “Return here on the last day of each week and my clerk will fill it, so long as the girl is with you.”

  The Man in Blue took the pouch and bowed his head. “The Raj is generous.”

  The white man laughed. The sound was weak. “The East India Company is generous.” He beckoned me back to the carriage. I moved closer. The white man gestured for me to open my hand.

  I did. He placed something cold and gleaming into it. I was repulsed by the dry texture of his skin.

  “Let her buy something pretty,” he said to the Man in Blue.

  “Yes, sir. What is her name?”

  “I do not know. My guides have tried to coax her into telling, but she refuses to speak to them.”

  “Does she understand?”

  “She will nod or shake her head in response to questions asked in Hindi and Sanskrit, so I do believe so, yes. She has an intelligent eye. She will take to English quickly, I think.”

  “She will make a lovely bride.”

  The white man laughed, stronger this time. “I think my wife would take exception. No, the girl will be my ward.”

  “When will you return for her?”

  “I sail today for London, and business there will keep me occupied for at least six months. But I do hope to return soon after, perhaps with my wife and son.” The man coughed.

  “Water?”

  The white man’s coughs grew violent, but he waved his hand.

  “Will you be well enough for the journey?”

  The white man did not answer until his fit had ended. Then he said, “It is just the River Sickness. I need only clean water and rest.”

  “Perhaps my wife could make a tincture for
you before you go?”

  “I shall be fine, thank you. I studied medicine after the Military Seminary at Croydon. Now then, I must be off. Do look after yourself, and her.”

  The Man in Blue nodded, and the white man withdrew back into the darkness. The door of the carriage closed.

  The Man in Blue walked to the front then, to the horses, and spoke to the man seated at the top in his own language. Ours.

  “Make for him a mixture of dried garlic, lemon juice, honey, tamarind, and wild turmeric. Have him drink it four times each hour.” He then handed the man two shining circles from the black pouch. The coachman, the white man had called him. He nodded once and lifted the reins.

  “Wait.” The Man in Blue held up his hand.

  The coachman waited.

  “Were you present when they found the girl?”

  The coachman’s black eyes shifted to mine, then darted away. He shook his head slowly. “No. But my friend, a porter in their group, was.” He said nothing more but extended his hand to the Man in Blue, who sighed and placed two more silver discs on the coachman’s calloused palm.

  The coachman smiled, revealing many missing teeth. His eyes flicked to mine. “I do not like her listening.”

  The Man in Blue turned to me. “You may go explore,” he said, and urged me toward the ships.

  Yes, I nodded, and pretended to leave. I made myself flat against the other side of the carriage instead. They could not see me. I waited and listened.

  The Man in Blue spoke first. “What did you hear?”

  The coachman’s voice was low. “They were hunting a tiger a few days’ journey from Prayaga. They followed it into the trees on the backs of their elephants, but without warning, the beasts stopped. Nothing could urge them forward—not sweets or sticks. This fool,” he said, tapping on the carriage, “insisted they continue on foot, but only three men would accompany him. One was a stranger—the white man’s guide, perhaps. Another was the cook. The last was a hunter, the brother of the porter, my friend.”

  “Go on.”

  “They followed the tracks of the animal into a sea of tall grass. All hunters know tall grass conceals death, and the brother, the hunter, wanted to turn back. The other man, the stranger, urged them forward, and the white man listened. The cook followed them, but the hunter refused and left alone. He was never seen again.”

  “What happened?” The Man in Blue sounded curious, not afraid.

  “The three men followed the tracks of the tiger for hours, until they vanished in a pool of blood.”

  “From a recent kill?”

  “No,” the coachman said. The horses stamped and snorted uneasily. “If it had been a tiger’s kill, there would have been tracks leading out of the pool of blood. There would have been bones and flesh, skin and hair. But there was nothing. No carcass. No hide. And no flies would touch it. They circled the pool and examined the grass. That was when they saw the footprints. A child’s footprints, soaked in blood.”

  “And they led to this girl?”

  “Yes,” the coachman said. “She was curled up in the roots of a tree, asleep. And in her fist was a human heart.”

  17

  MY EYES FLEW OPEN. THE VIVID COLORS OF MY nightmare were washed away by whiteness.

  I was in bed, staring at a ceiling. But I wasn’t in my bed; I wasn’t at home. My skin was damp with sweat and my heart was racing. I reached for the dream, tried to catch it before it drifted away.

  “How are you feeling?”

  The last traces of it dissolved with the voice. I let out a slow breath and leaned up on stiff, creaky elbows to see who it belonged to. A man with a brown ponytail edged into my field of vision. I recognized him, but didn’t remember his name.

  “Who are you?” I asked cautiously.

  The man smiled. “I’m Patrick, and you fainted. How are you feeling?” he asked again.

  I closed my eyes. I’m feeling sick of feeling sick. “Fine,” I said.

  Dr. Kells appeared behind Patrick then. “You scared us, Mara. Do you have hypoglycemia?”

  My thoughts were still slow but my heart was still racing. “What?”

  “Hypoglycemia,” she repeated.

  “I don’t think so.” I swung my legs over the side of the hard little bed. I shook my head but that only intensified the ache. “No.”

  “Okay. The blood work will let us know for sure.”

  “Blood work?”

  She glanced at my arm. A piece of cotton was taped to the crook of my elbow; someone had taken off my hoodie and draped it over the foot of the cot. I pressed my hand against the sensitive skin there and tried not to look freaked out.

  “It was an emergency. We were concerned about you,” Dr. Kells felt the need to explain. Which meant I apparently did look freaked out. “We called your mother—she sent your father here to pick you up early. I’m sure it’s nothing, but better safe than sorry.”

  I stewed in silence until he arrived. He smiled widely when he saw me, but I could tell he was worried. He hunched down.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  Upset that they drew blood. Angry that I fainted. Scared it will happen again, because it happened before.

  It happened before a flashback at the art exhibit Noah brought me to, and after a midnight hunt for my brother. It happened after I drank chicken blood in a Santeria shop that no longer seemed to exist. And each time I fainted, the borders of reality blurred, leaving me confused. Disoriented. Unsure of what was real. It made it hard to trust myself, and that was hard to bear.

  But of course I couldn’t tell my father any of this, and he was waiting for an answer. So I just said, “They drew blood,” and left it at that.

  “They were scared for you,” he said. “And it turns out your blood sugar was low. Want to go for ice cream on the way home?”

  He looked so hopeful, so I nodded for his benefit.

  He cracked a smile. “Fantastic,” he said, and helped me up off the cot. I swiped my hoodie and we moved toward the exit; I looked for Jamie on the way out but he was nowhere to be found.

  My father leaned over a hutch by the front door and pulled out a thick-handled umbrella from a bin. “Cats and dogs out there,” he said, nodding through the glass. Sheets of rain battered the pavement and my dad struggled with the umbrella as he opened the door. I hugged my arms across my chest, staring out at the parking lot from our haven beneath the overhang. I wondered what time it was; the only other car in the lot besides my father’s was an old white pickup truck. The rest of the spaces were empty.

  My dad made an apologetic face. “I think we’re going to have to make a run for it.”

  “You sure you can run?”

  He patted the spot beneath his rib cage. “Fit as a fiddle. Are you sure you can run?”

  I nodded.

  “Otherwise you can have the umbrella.”

  “I’m good,” I said, staring into the rain.

  “Okay. On the count of three. One,” he started, bending his front knee. “Two . . . Three!”

  We dashed out into the deluge. My father tried to hold the umbrella over my head but it was pointless. By the time we threw open our respective car doors, we were soaked.

  My dad shook his head, scattering droplets of rain onto the dashboard. He grinned, and it was infectious. Maybe ice cream was a good idea after all.

  He started the car and began to pull out of the parking lot. Reflexively, I checked my refection in the side mirror.

  My hair was plastered to my face, and I was pale. But I looked okay. Maybe a little thin. A little tired. But normal.

  Then my reflection winked. Even though I hadn’t.

  I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes. I was seeing things because I was stressed. Afraid. It wasn’t real. I was fine.

  I tried to make myself believe it. But when I opened my eyes, a light flashed in the mirror, blinding me.

  Just headlights. Just headlights from the car behind us. I twisted in my seat to see, but th
e rain was so heavy that I couldn’t make out anything but the lights.

  My father pulled out of the lot and onto the road, and the headlights followed us. Now I could see that they belonged to a truck. A white pickup truck.

  The same one from the strip mall parking lot.

  I shivered and huddled into my hoodie, then reached out and turned on the heat.

  “Cold?”

  I nodded.

  “That New England blood is thinning out fast,” my father said with a smile.

  I offered a weak one of my own in return.

  “You okay, kid?”

  No. I glanced into the fogged glass of the side mirror. The headlights still hovered behind us. I twisted around to see better through the rear window, but I couldn’t see who was driving.

  The truck followed us onto the highway.

  I felt sick. I wiped my clammy forehead with my forearm and squeezed my eyes shut. I had to ask. “Is that the same truck from the parking lot?” I tried not to sound paranoid, but I needed to know if he saw it too.

  “Hmm?”

  “Behind us.”

  My father’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “What parking lot?”

  “At Horizons,” I said slowly, through clenched teeth. “The one we left ten minutes ago.”

  “Dunno.” His eyes flicked back to the road. He obviously hadn’t noticed, and didn’t think it was a particularly big deal.

  Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the stress of the pictures, of the interview, triggered the fainting, which triggered my hallucination of a disobedient reflection in the mirror. Maybe the truck behind us was just an ordinary truck.

  I checked the side mirror again. I could’ve sworn the headlights were closer.

  Don’t think about it. I stared ahead at nothing in particular, listening to the hypnotic, mechanical swoop of the windshield wipers. My father was quiet. He reached to turn on the radio when we heard a squeal of tires.

  Our heads jerked up as we were bathed in light. My father spun the steering wheel to the left as the pickup truck behind us swung into the right lane, nearly swiping the rear passenger side.

  My father was yelling something. No, telling me something. But I couldn’t hear him because when the truck pulled up next to us, my mind blocked out everything but the sight of Jude behind the wheel.