Under Rose-Tainted Skies by Louise Gornall Read Free Book Online Page A

and creep up the hall, eyeing the door like whoever is on the other side is going to burst right through it.
    We have a staredown then, the door and I. It’s pretty intense, just short of an evil sheriff hiding in the shadows, chewing on a matchstick.
    Another knock.
    Without moving my eyes, I pump a blob of antibacterial gel into my hands and rub it away. Because I’m sure the only thing on any home invader’s mind, after being polite enough to knock first, is a sanitary victim. I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out of my skull.
    â€˜Norah. It’s Dr Reeves.’
    My shoulders fall down from around my ears and I exhale. ‘Just a second.’ I sprint over and unbolt the door.
    Dr Reeves stands on the porch wearing a perfectlytailored tweed pantsuit despite the blistering temperature.
    â€˜How are you doing?’ she says, smiling at me like I’m a box of abandoned kittens. It takes every ounce of restraint for me not to throw my arms around her neck and wail like a child.
    â€˜I’m good.’ My head is nodding too hard, but I can’t make it stop. ‘Really good. Great, in fact.’
    Her eyes narrow. My lies are made of glass and she sees right through them.
    â€˜I mean, at first I was a bit . . .’ I twirl my finger around my temple and make cuckoo noises, keeping it light because I’m eternally embarrassed by my breakdowns. ‘But I’m feeling much better now. Can I get you something to drink?’ I say, traipsing back up the hall, forcing her to step inside and follow me.
    â€˜I can’t stay long,’ she says, and it’s a balloon bursting behind me, or nails being dragged down a chalkboard. My teeth tighten and I wince. It’s unfair of me to expect her to want to be here after hours. She has a family to get home to. We never really talk about her personal life, but I did discover that she has a son in middle school. Still, I wish she would stick around. Not even to talk, just to kind of sit in a chair doing puzzles in her pyjamas, like Mom. This house is too quiet. I swear it feeds off silence. When I’m alone, it always seems bigger.
    â€˜But,’ she adds, ‘I am just on the other end of the phone. Do you still have that number I gave you?’
    I don’t spit out the not-much-point-if-you-don’t-pick-up comment that’s trying to claw its way across my tongue. Being a bitch is something that often happens when I’m forced to endure things I’m afraid of. It’s myleast favourite stage of anxiety. The first time Mom tried to get me out of the house I told her I hated her. Ugh.
    â€˜You sure I can’t get you a drink?’
    â€˜Norah.’
    I’m not listening. I head over to the fridge and pull open the door.
    â€˜We’ve got some Pepsi? SunnyD? Or I can make coffee.’ I point to the little silver machine on the kitchen counter. A fine layer of dust dulls its chrome finish. I think it’s been used twice in the four years we’ve had it. Mom likes herbal tea.
    â€˜Norah. I can’t stay.’ She throws that sympathetic smile my way again. ‘But, listen, I have Wednesday morning free—’
    â€˜Wednesday?’ Wednesday is almost two days away. There is a whole Tuesday to consider.
    â€˜I would call tomorrow, but I have patients all day. I could perhaps have a colleague of mine—’
    â€˜No!’ I yell. It comes out with the velocity and surprise of a sneeze. ‘I mean, no, thank you.’ It wasn’t my intention to snap, but if it’s not someone I know, I won’t open the door anyway. ‘Did Mom tell you when she was coming home?’ Paranoia has joined the party. It’s not that I think Mom lied to me, but she might have buffered the truth if she thought she was protecting me. I hate that my mind insists on questioning my own mother.
    â€˜She said it could be a couple of days, maybe a week. Did she not tell you