Page 14 of The Paradox Club

“I just stopped dyeing it. Damn, it’s good to see you, honey.” She pulled Tess into a tight embrace. “Come into the light where I can get a good look at you.”

She led Tess into a sitting room furnished with a hodgepodge of flea market furniture in every style—or at least every style that was wildly incompatible with the Victorian architecture. On every available surface were framed pictures of Tess—Tess and Vivian in front of a pile of leaves, Tess at her high school graduation, Tess next to a snowman.

“You look like hell,” said Vivian.

“I crashed and burned,” said Tess, dropping onto an overstuffed plaid couch.

“Oh, please tell me you’re seeing someone.” Tess knew that someone meant a therapist.

“I’m always seeing someone, Aunt Vivian. I can’t keep track of all the someones I’ve seen. When I fell apart a few days ago, the latest someone said I should come see you.”

“Don’t you have class, papers, midterms coming up?”

“All part of what led to the latest crisis. That’s what my current someone calls it. A mental health crisis. I kind of wish they still called it a nervous breakdown.”

“And it was definitely this therapist’s idea that you come here? You didn’t feel…I don’t know, pulled here in any way?”

“No offense, Aunt Vivian, but if I feel pulled anywhere, it’s to the island.”

“Of course.”

“What do you mean of course?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here. I was thinking it would be a good time for you to visit.”

“Why’s that?”

“No reason, the timing just seems…right.”

“I’m glad my mental breakdown happened at a convenient time for you.”

“It’s not that, Tess, not at all. Oh, Tess, there is so much that you don’t understand, and I don’t know how to explain it to you. Or whether to explain it to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just an old lady rambling.”

“Harry could always explain things I didn’t understand.”

“He could. I wish your father were here.”

“You’re not an old lady, you know.”

“I’m Harry’s age, and he would have been fifty-two.”

“Fifty-two isn’t old.”

“Tell me that when you’re fifty-one.”

“I told my therapist that the one thing that always stops the voices in my head is listening to you tell one of your stories.”

“I can’t tell you a story on demand, you know. They have to…to happen to me.”

“Have you ever seen anyone, Aunt Vivian?”

“You mean a therapist? Goodness no.” She knocked a fist against the side of her head. “This old noggin is working just fine.”

“And the stories?”