Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

“No,” the doctor said.

Tully looked nonplussed. “But—”

“I’ll take good care of her, Tully, but this is between Marah and me. She’s in good hands. I promise. ”

Marah didn’t think so. In fact, she thought she was in weird hands, bony hands with age-spotted skin. The opposite of good hands. Still, she played her good-girl role and followed the doctor into her sleek, grown-up office.

A wall of windows looked out over the Pike Place Market and the sparkling blue Sound. A polished wooden desk cut the room in half; behind it was a big black leather chair. Two comfortable-looking chairs sat facing the desk and a black sofa was pushed against the back wall. Above it was a soothing picture of a beach in the summer. Hawaii, maybe. Or Florida. There were palm trees anyway.

“I suppose you want me to lie down,” Marah said, hugging herself. She was cold in here, too. Maybe that was why the other lady was so layered up. The weird thing was that there was a gas fireplace in the wall, and bright orange and blue flames sent heat splashing toward her. She could feel it and she couldn’t.

Dr. Bloom sat down behind her desk and uncapped a pen. “You may sit wherever you like. ”

Marah flopped into a chair and stared at the plant in the corner, counting its leaves. One … two … three … She really didn’t want to be here. Four … five …

She heard a clock ticking through the minutes, and the even in and out of the doctor’s breathing, and the rough hiss of her black nylons as she crossed and uncrossed her legs.

“Do you think there’s something you’d like to talk about?” the doctor asked after at least ten minutes had passed.

Marah shrugged. “Not really. ” Fifty-two … fifty-three … fifty-four. The room was getting hot now. That little fireplace was a real dynamo. She felt sweat crawling across her forehead. A drop slid down the side of her face. She tapped her foot nervously on the floor.

Sixty-six … sixty-seven.

“How do you know Tully?”

“She’s a friend of—”

“Your mother’s?”

The way she said it was all wrong, clinical, the way you’d ask about a car or a vacuum, but still Marah felt her stomach tightening. She did not want to talk about her mom with a stranger. She shrugged and kept counting.

“She’s gone, right?”

Marah paused. “She’s in my dad’s closet, actually. ”

“Excuse me?”

Marah smiled. Score one for the home team. “We rented a casket for the funeral—which was way weird, if you ask me. Anyway, we cremated her and put her in this rosewood box. When Tully wanted to scatter her ashes, Dad wasn’t ready, and when Dad was ready, Tully wasn’t. So Mom’s in the closet behind my dad’s sweaters. ”

“What about when you were ready?”

Marah blinked. “What do you mean?”

“When would you like to scatter your mother’s ashes?”

“No one’s asked me that. ”

“Why do you think that is?”

Marah shrugged and looked away again. She didn’t like where this was going.

“Why do you think you’re here, Marah?” the doctor said.

“You know why. ”

“I know what you did to yourself. The cutting. ”

Marah looked at the plant again. The leaves were really waxy-looking. Seventy-five … seventy-six … seventy-seven.