“And did that help?”
I remember how dismissive of the group Laurel had been. And I remember the story she’d told—my story about Esta. “I think the problem for me was that hearing all those other women’s stories when I was in such a fragile state made me . . . I guess . . . be influenced by those stories. I started getting confused.”
Dr. Hancock makes a noncommittal sound. “Tell me about Daphne.”
I relax, relieved to be on firmer ground. “Well, the thing about Daphne is we had so much in common.”
“Such as?” Dr. Hancock asks, his face impassive.
“Well, we had both lost our parents when we were young and we both went to library school.”
“Aren’t you being a bit self-effacing?” Dr. Hancock asks. “I’d hardly equate a degree in archival studies from the University of Edinburgh with being a school librarian.”
Stung, I remember what Laurel had said when I pointed out the same thing. “We both needed to put order to the world. Besides, Daphne was thinking of going back to school for an archival degree.”
Were you? Laurel asks but I ignore her.
“Really? That doesn’t sound like someone planning to kill herself.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Then it occurs to me that this might be an opportunity to find out more about “Daphne’s” death. “Are they sure that she did kill herself? I mean, have the police ruled out—”
Murder? Laurel says. The word you’re looking for is murder.
“—any other explanation?”
“There was a note,” Dr. Hancock says, keeping his eyes on me.
I want to scream that this is impossible. I never wrote a suicide note. But I only nod. “Well, I guess I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. She seemed . . . sweet. Maybe a little stressed, coping with a new baby. And, as I said, we had a lot in common. We even looked alike.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Don’t you have a picture of her?” Why haven’t I thought of this before? If Dr. Hancock would just look at a picture of Daphne Marist, he’d know it was me. “I mean, wasn’t there a picture of her in the paper when she . . . died?”
“I don’t think so. Peter Marist wanted to keep it very quiet, especially with his daughter still missing. There were a couple of lines in the local paper.”
That’s all I warranted? There would have been more if it had been Laurel.
It was me, Laurel points out.
You know what I mean, I snap back.
To Dr. Hancock I say, “Poor Daphne. But yes, we did look alike. Especially after she dyed her hair and lost a few pounds.”
“She dyed her hair to look like yours?”
“No . . . I mean, she—I—took her to my colorist, who thought it was a good color for her.”
“And you didn’t mind that she was imitating you?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. Was it? I ask Laurel, but she’s gone quiet. “I mean, I encouraged her. I guess it was like a compliment to me that she wanted to be like me. And it wasn’t all one-way. There were things about her I admired and wanted to emulate.”
Such as? Laurel asks.
“Such as?” Dr. Hancock asks at the same time.
I search my brain. There were things Laurel had told me she admired—that I’d done so well on so little, that I’d put myself through school—but those weren’t things she’d have wanted to emulate. Had there been any change in Laurel over the two months we knew each other that I could attribute to my influence? I thought of the last time I’d seen Laurel: pasty-faced, in baggy sweats, couch-bound. While I had gotten fitter, started dressing better, and applied for a new job, Laurel had sunk into despondency.
“No, I don’t suppose she was a very good influence,” I say, “but that wasn’t really her fault.”
Dr. Hancock clucks his tongue. “I know you must feel badly that Daphne killed herself, Laurel, but unless you’re honest with yourself we won’t get anywhere.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say cautiously. “What part of what I’ve said hasn’t been honest?”
“Your attitude toward Mrs. Marist, for one thing.”
“What do you mean?” I say, genuinely surprised. “She was my friend!”
“Was she? Your journal tells a different story.”
“My journal?”
“You don’t recall keeping a journal?”
“No . . . I mean . . . yes. We were all supposed to in the support group. . . .” I want to say that Laurel had mocked the idea and I hadn’t thought she had bothered, but Dr. Hancock is pulling a sheaf of printed pages from his folder. My heart beats harder.
“Is that Lau—my journal? I only kept it because Esta said we had to. I don’t really remember what I wrote.”
“Well,” Dr. Hancock says, handing me the pages, “why don’t you refresh your memory?”
DR. HANCOCK ALLOWS ME to bring the pages back to my room. It’s the first time I’ve been allowed any reading material and it makes me realize how much I miss books. Maybe I can ask for books now—and to go outside. From my window I’ve seen patients sitting on benches reading. This place would be bearable if I could just go outside and read—and see Chloe. My Chloe. All I have to do is stay calm, keep playing the game that I’m Laurel, and eventually I will get out of here. Then I’ll prove that I’m Daphne Marist. There must be a way—fingerprints on record, a DNA test comparing my DNA to Chloe’s—and then I’ll get her back. I just have to go through these steps that Dr. Hancock has laid out as my “road to recovery.” Apparently one of them is reading Laurel’s journal.
I move the pile of papers an inch to the right and then half an inch back to the left. Why am I so reluctant to read it?
Because it’s an invasion of privacy? Laurel suggests. Because it’s ghoulish to read a dead woman’s diary?
No, I tell her, it’s because I’m afraid to find out what you thought
