Supernormal (2 page)

He shook his head, not wanting to talk.  Talking would break him.

“If you don’t like it, you can change whatever you want.  I don’t mind.  I just thought you might like not having to worry about unpacking.”

He made it to the bed and sat down, hard.

“Cam?”—and, understanding—“oh, baby
.
”  The mattress dipped as she sat next to him, and she massaged the back of his neck, murmuring, It’s okay, it was okay, that this was what family was supposed to do.

He nodded, thinking, Supposed to.  He wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t in him.  He just felt old and weary and wrung out.  Meg rumpled his hair, her callused fingers so gentle and caring he had to squeeze his eyes shut.  She told him, “I love you, Cam,” and he nodded again, and then she said, “Welcome home,” and that did it.  He held on—he felt small, but he held on—and Meg folded him in close, until he was five years old again with scraped knees.  He wasn’t crying.  He wasn’t.  Scotts didn’t cry.  But he held on until he could breathe again.

Ch. 2

The walls of the doc’s office were blue.  Mostly.  Light, and mostly blue, but with enough hints of gray and green to make pinning the exact color down an exercise in futility.  Last time, Ashley figured robin’s egg. 
Knew
it was robin’s egg.  And now—she wasn’t so sure.  It drove her crazy, not being able to pin it down. Like a splinter just under her skin where she couldn’t dig it out.  She should’ve known by now.  She’d been making an intensive goddamn study of those walls three times a week, ninety minutes at a stretch, for the past eleven months.

She glanced over to the calendar, without meaning to, without wanting it.  Twelve months soon.  Almost twelve months.  And then they’d decide.

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose.  Forced her way back to the paint.  Maybe she was just picking up stuff that wasn’t supposed to be there.  Maybe the paint was just supposed to be blue.  Maybe, as Dr. MacNamara remarked, she was obsessing over the paint because she didn’t want to deal with being in another goddamn doctor’s office and the days running past like water in a sieve.

She hated this.  Hated doctors, hated having to sit here while another one peered at her and tried to pull her apart.  That’s all a shrink was, just another doctor.  There to wrench open her head and make nice, neat little notes to put in her file.  Ashley wondered if the doc even knew what that file meant, down the line.  If she even cared, or if it was just another job to her.  Good one, too, cause when you were this messed up, the paychecks kept rolling in.  But to Ashley, that file was her
life
—it was the difference between being able to sit here and chat and then go back to Brody’s on her own, and being strapped to a gurney with needles in her arm.

It would have to be poison.  Have to be.  Bullets hadn’t worked last time.

Ashley heard Brody’s voice in her head, telling her to
play fair
.  Okay, Dr. MacNamara probably did know some.  Brody would’ve told her—not all, but enough.  Brody was fond of the “need to know” line, but he did actually mean it; he told you what you
needed
to know.  And the doc—Ashley swallowed hard—she didn’t seem completely heartless.

“Ashley.”

Dr. MacNamara’s mild voice brought her back, enough for Ashley to realize she was gripping the arm of the couch a little too hard.  The wood had started to splinter.  She forced her fingers to let go, relax.  She got them to let go.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.  Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Ashley looked up sharply.  The doctor met her stare straight on, but her face was impassive, like one of those freaky Japanese people-robots.

“Brody's being a jackass,” Ashley stabbed at her, biting off each word.  “I get to be pissed off if Brody’s being a jackass.”

“You get to be angry about a lot of things.  What is it this time?”

Ashley gripped her hands together so tightly her knuckles ached.  Did they have to play these
games
?  She was hanging on by a thread and the doc wanted to play Twenty Questions.  The doc
knew
why Brody’s a jackass, he would’ve told her why during their weekly
Ashley’s-still-a-psycho
phone call.  Ashley wasn’t
that
stupid.  Why did the doc need her to say everything out loud?

Dr. MacNamara cocked an eyebrow and repeated, “What is it this time?”  She held her pen at the ready.  Ashley wanted to jam it— She cut that thought right off.  Shaking a little that she’d had it.  Shaken enough that she told the truth.

“Ian offered me a job.  At the store.  Said I could come in, work off some of my tab.  Earn something.  Brody said no.”

“Why do you think he said no?” the doc asked, making another note. 

The scratch of pen on paper raked across Ashley's brain, and she hissed, “‘Cause he’s a jackass.”

“Do you think he might have another reason?”  When Ashley didn’t answer, the doctor set her pen down and did that laser thing with her eyes.  “What would you do if a customer came in angry?  Yelling, confrontational?  They’ve been known to do that.”

They both knew what she would do.  The answer hung in the air, waiting for someone to say it. 
Please don’t make me say it.

Ashley stared down at her hands and concentrated on the aches.  It hurt, coming to these sessions.  Physically hurt.  It was like all of her joints jammed up ‘til she felt like piano wire, wound way too tight and out of tune.

She hated this.  Hating having them point it out, hating feeling stupid.  She was stupid, thinking she could get a job like a normal person.  Thinking she could have anything normal.  But,
god
, she’d wanted the money.  Wanted to pay her way, at least some.  All expenses paid came with a price.

“There could be another way,” the doc said.  “Brody is concerned about how you will react to customers, correct?  Who says customer interaction is a required part of your job?  Did Ian specifically request that you to work the floor?”

Wary, Ashley shook her head.

“Perhaps you could work off your tab in the back room, or after hours.  Stocking, inventory, that sort of thing.”

Ashley was quiet for a long moment.  “You…think he would go for that?”

“It never hurts to ask,” the doc replied, and then offered, “I could talk to Ian, if you like.”

“I thought—you weren’t supposed to interfere,” Ashley said awkwardly.  “Because of your relationship.”

Dr. MacNamara gave her a rare smile.  “Sisters are supposed to interfere.  Now, if you came in with a problem regarding Ian that you wanted to work out, I would have to recommend you to another psychiatrist.  However, I don’t think this falls under that purview.

“Besides,” the doc continued, “there could be an argument made that taking on some responsibility might be good for you.  I would need to speak to Mr. Brody, however.”

Ashley braced herself for the requisite,
How would you feel about that?
,
but the doc glanced at the clock and snapped her folder closed.  Ashley felt herself sag like a puppet cut from its strings.  “That’s our time.”

On cue, the phone rang.  The doc answered, eyeing down Ashley.  “Diana MacNamara.  Could you—”

The tinny voice on the other line cut her off.  “Please hold for Dr. Proom.”

“—of course.”  She lowered the phone and gave Ashley a pointed look.  “Get out.”

As soon as Ashley was free, she ran. Her legs stretching, eating up the distance.  She passed from pavement to the beach in a blink, and sand flew up under her feet.

The sand was too easy, so she headed for the water, cutting in deep before starting on laps.  The resistance made her fight for every stride.  But only at first.  Only until she got her momentum, and then she was flying, wind snapping through her hair, until there wasn’t water or trees or sand but just colors blurring past.

Satisfaction purred through her as she cut through the water, satisfaction at what she could do, that in this moment, for the moment, she didn’t have to hold back.  She didn’t need that small part of her constantly watching everything she did.  She could shut her brain off, and just feel the sun on her face, the water splashing her skin.

She shouldn’t enjoy it, she knew.  It wasn’t right.  You weren’t allowed to hate someone for hacking you apart, playing Mr. Potato Head, and then enjoy the results.  And she needed to hate him.  It was the only thing she had left.

Ashley ran her muscles to rubber, until her legs were shaking so bad she could barely stand and she could feel the water push back again.  At some point the sun had started to set.  The beach was mostly empty, and the air had gone cool.  Her stomach clenched.  She ran ‘til she got tired.  She usually got tired faster than this.  She was getting stronger.

Proom would be so happy.

Stop it
.  Ashley picked her way up the beach.  She was due back home—at Brody’s—she was due back at Brody’s house by dark.  But first she had to stop by Level Up; Ian stuck around the store late when he knew she was heading over, and she owed him twenty for the
Red Son
incident.

She scraped the sand off her legs the best she could and, still sticky with salt water, headed over to Ian’s.

Ashley waited in the alley until she smelled a lull, heard only him moving around.  As she waited, she concentrated on being still.  Silent.  On making her breathing slow and steady, on willing her pulse to drop, wondering if she could catch him off guard this time.  When she heard him move to the small office at the back, Ashley slipped in the front door.

“‘Sup, Ash!”

She should really just give up.  The door hadn’t even swung shut.  She caught it before it slammed and flipped the Open sign to Closed.  “Hey, Ian.”  She laid two crumpled tens on the counter.

He jogged out of the back, a glossy
Hush
in his hand.  “Number Two, just for you.  I was thinking
Marvels
next, but it’s best if you have, like, a stronger background in the Marvel-verse and I know you’re a DC gi—the hell is this?” he demanded, seeing the money.

“
Red Son
.”

“Brody said no, huh?”

“He thought it wouldn’t be a good idea.”  It sounded almost normal, considering how tight her throat was.

“And what about Dr. Doom?”

“You know, I don’t have to tell her everything,” Ashley said.  Her legs were trembling under the fatigue of trying to hold up her weight.  She desperately wanted to sit.  And she found she still had the strength to stand.

“You should.  She’s your therapist.”  And she hadn’t been here yet.  The doc’s scent—clean and refined, with hints of the lavender water she used as perfume—was a day old.  It lingered by the counter, and in the back room.  “Hey, it’s cool.  No big deal, right?”  Ian quickly rang Ashley up.  “Offer’s still open if you change your mind.”

It wasn’t her mind, but she felt a deep stab of gratitude that he pretended it was.  “It’s probably a stupid idea.”

“Nah, that’s bull.  All my ideas are great ideas.”

Ashley took
Hush
, forced herself to say, “We’d have to get permission anyway.  Brody’s already said no, and…”  And she was pretty sure they would, too.  They’d been nervous enough sending her here in the first place.  Besides, if she was well enough for work, they probably had a lot that they could suggest for her.

Ian moved from around the counter, started shelving.  “Fuck ‘em.  Don’t tell him.”

He’d find out.  Brody found out everything.

Ian nodded at a pile of mail on the counter.  “He sent another offer, you know.  Your buddy Proom.”

“He’s not my buddy.  What—”  She stopped herself, but Ian answered anyway.

“Upped it from disgusting to obscene.  But Rhoda said her cousin down at city hall fielded a few calls from someone sniffing around about buying up property in Sugar Beach.  Including…”  He rapped a knuckle on the wall.

“And?”

Ian turned back to her, grinning.  “Please.  As if I’d give up the chance to have you shred all my stock.  Talk to your not-friend recently?”

It took a second for Ashley to pull back, into herself.  “I don’t talk to him.”  It was one of Brody’s rules, one that she was actually grateful for.  “Ask Brody,” she added.  Because she couldn’t help it.  Because she was an idiot.

“Will do.  Don’t forget about the sign.”

Ashley was reading in her room when Meg’s voice exploded in her ears.  She pushed back a little too hard, tipping her chair over, and crashed into the floor.  There was a moment of blind panic as she landed and her legs tangled.  She scrambled, kicking; her foot caught the chair and it flew across the room and crashed loudly into her desk.  Where the
fuck
were her earplugs—nightstand?  bookcase?—dammit, when was the last time she cleaned?  She wished Brody would just
tell
her when people were going to stop by.  Her ears had that stinging, echo-y thing going.  It’d clear in a minute but, still—she should’ve known better than to take her earplugs out early, with Meg popping over unannounced half the damn time—couldn’t she just pick up the goddamn phone, how
hard
could that—

“—doing with her?”

Ashley stopped.  Froze.

Brody’s voice rumbled through the floorboards.  “She says better.  She’s started talking to her at least.  But you know Ash.”

“So you’d recommend her.”

“Ain’t like there’s anybody else, Meggie,” Brody said.

“And Ashley?  Is she getting better?”

“Not really a choice there.”

Meg sighed.  Ashley tried to focus on the anger she felt when Meg sighed like that.  Not the pain.  Not the fear.  “There’s always a choice, just not a good one in this particular instance.  What does Diana say?”

“Thinks there’s been improvement.  Least, that’s what she told Cole on their last phone call—”  And the next few words were lost in Meg’s laughter, ‘cause of course Brody had the doc’s phones bugged.  He could do it.  He had the technology—leftovers from the stuff that he used to do for the government.