“I’ve diagnosed him with depression,” Dr. Hill said, “but I’m certain there’s more to it.”
“Classic symptoms?” I asked. “And none of the meds are working?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I can handle it.”
He gave me the address and phone number. I grabbed a scrap of paper from the coffee table and scribbled it down. The address seemed familiar, but I couldn’t decide why. Dr. Hill was silent for a moment.
“Is there anything else?”
“Olive, this one isn’t quite like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s—well, he’s seven.”
Seven? “You know I can’t help kids. Those repressed memories don’t surface until adolescence. Sorry, but I can’t do anything about this one.”
“I think you ought to at least have a look.”
The tone of his voice made me shudder. “I wish I could help, but there’s nothing I can do.”
He paused. “Olive, it’s Jeremiah Benson.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“He’s your godson, correct?”
“Yes.” But he was more than that. Jeremiah was the closest thing I had to a real son. His mom, Shawna, died when he was four. Even though she was a couple years older than me, she’d been my best friend in junior high. But she’d started using drugs and dating the wrong boyfriends, so we’d parted ways. I hadn’t seen her until she called me a few years ago.
I remembered visiting Shawna in rehab before she died. She had two kids out of wedlock—Sissy and Jeremiah. Shawna had gotten addicted to heroin and knew how bad things were. She knew she couldn’t control the drugs, or the inevitable overdose, so she’d begged to me to watch over her children. I never forgot what she told me. I want you to be more than just their godmother, she said. I want you to be their guardian angel.
Despite Shawna’s faults, I couldn’t let her children suffer the same way she had. I’d given her my promise that day.
Sissy and Jeremiah had gone to live with a foster family—the Dickinsons. They were nice people. The kids were safe there.
A pang of guilt gnawed at me because I hadn’t visited for a couple months.
“What are Jeremiah’s symptoms?” I asked, almost not wanting to know the answer.
“He hardly wakes up. Sleeps almost twenty-four hours a day. From a medical perspective, it seems like a coma. But my gut tells me it’s something else.”
“I’ll rearrange my schedule and visit him in the morning.”
Han Solo bounded onto Dr. Hill’s lap. He gave the cat a half-hearted pat on the head.
“You still have the cat, I see.”
“Can’t seem to get rid of him.”
He moved the cat off his lap. Han Solo glared before stalking away. “Be careful tomorrow,” Dr. Hill said. “I know this magic, voodoo stuff is the norm for you, but something feels wrong about that boy. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Wrong how?”
He shook his head. “I wish I knew.”
What had happened to Jeremiah?
“Call my receptionist tomorrow. She’ll give you the insurance details.”
“Sure,” I mumbled as he stood.
He said a brief good-bye and good luck, shot Han Solo a glare as he brushed cat hair from his pressed suit, and left.
I leaned my head against the wall. Through the living room door, I glanced at my bed, the coverlet a ghostly gray under the moonlight streaming from the window.
Seeing a strange apparition in my mirror and learning that my godson was in some sort of coma worried me. Would I get any sleep tonight? Probably not. Those pills from Doc Hill were starting to sound more attractive. And Albert Einstein’s reassurance of my sanity wasn’t helping.
Chapter 3
I woke up in a bad mood. Before I’d even opened my eyes, I could tell it would be a long day. Han Solo leapt onto my face and made himself comfortable. It was hard to sleep with fifteen pounds of cat on my face, although I tried.
The shower didn’t help my bad vibes. I kept thinking about the night before, about that thing I’d seen in the mirror. As I dressed, I avoided the mirror. Last night’s vision conjured images from something I’d seen a long time ago, something I thought I wasn’t afraid of anymore—a dream I’d had as a kid.
I guess even grown-ups get scared of nightmares.
I wore my jade green sweater and leather boots, smoothed on some lip gloss, and hoped the circles under my eyes wouldn’t scare Jeremiah into a worse state.
My heart clenched at the thought of my godson. I couldn’t stop feeling guilty. Maybe if I’d visited more often, this wouldn’t have happened. What would Jeremiah’s mom think of me? Shawna had trusted me to be her son’s godmother, and I’d given her my word to protect him.
But I couldn’t blame myself yet. Maybe I could still help. I’d never been able to help kids before, but I would try.
A gust of November air stung my face as I opened the door and made my way down to my car. The humidity made the cold air seep through my clothes and burrow into my skin. Wrapping my knit scarf close, I headed for my Thunderbird. It fit the definition of transportation most of the time.
The car was a 1971 classic—yellow with black stripes down the sides. I’d fallen in love at first sight… I just wished I’d looked more closely under the hood before I bought it. Hoping it would be warmer out of the wind, I grabbed the handle, pulled the squealing door open, and climbed inside.
Nope, not much warmer. Smells of old car greeted me, scented with what was supposed to be a honeysuckle air freshener. My hands shook as I jangled the keys into the ignition. With a silent prayer, I turned the key. The engine cranked on the first try.
Lucky. Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the causeway. Driving down Seawall Boulevard, I noticed the ocean looked extra agitated today. Brown water churned like stomach acid, roiling and unhappy, cresting over the sand and
