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Back Confess to Me Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Sharon Doering
  3. Title Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
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  69. 64
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  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. Author’s Note
  86. Acknowledgements
  87. About the Author

I laid my suit jacket on the ground as if I were a waiter setting a table, then I stepped back. “You’re right, I seem sort of crazy. I’m not.” I smiled. “Well, not in a bad way. My number is written inside my jacket. Call me or don’t.”

She studied me, judgmental, slightly annoyed. Her pump clicked off, and she pulled the nozzle from her car, rested it in the pump. “I’ll think about it,” she said casually but made no move to pick up my jacket.

“It’s a good song though, isn’t it?” I said. “Makes you feel like nothing is as serious as you think.” I grabbed my jug of gasoline and walked to the highway.

She rang the next day.

“You called,” I said, my heart fluttering.

“It’s a nice jacket,” she’d said. “I figured you wanted it back.”

Heather. She made me laugh. She was wary and skeptical, but warm. And her nonmaterialistic approach to life had never wavered like Trish’s had. Heather moved through life as if she didn’t notice things, as if she was too busy with whatever was going on inside her head. She was an old soul who had already lived a few different lives.

I didn’t want her to lose herself here. I didn’t want to lose her.

“When people say, ‘There’s no evidence. They’ve never found a body,’ that’s baloney. They found a body in Detroit of a child just last month. In my own town, we had a case. There have been cases and there have been bodies.”

Doctor Clifford Paulson, PhD Psychology
Transcripts from the Sixth Annual Conference on
Adult Manifestations of Childhood Trauma

THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO

17

17

HEATHER

My phone alarm was going off, bell chimes on low volume, and before I opened my eyes, I had that Where am I? moment. It was exacerbated by the recent move to Hunther.

For a moment I was back sleeping on the rough carpet of the Holy Spirit Catholic Church’s soundproof room for families. Churches, excessively vacant at night, made the best hiding places.

Then I was sleeping in my parents’ hallway closet in our home in Hunther, the shelf bulging with bath towels three feet above my head. Dark brown shag carpet beneath my blanket and pillow. Walls closing me in on three sides, bifold doors protecting my vulnerable side. This bed was one I’d loved and hated, one that was both the coziest secret fort and a cruel joke.

Next, it’s our king-size bed in our Chicago condo, white waves of billowing comforter and too many pillows. The overhead fan whirling fast, urging me to snuggle deeper under my comforter. The rumbling vibration of the train every twenty minutes, soothing, regular, rocking me to sleep.

I breathed in the sugary smell of my daughter, and felt hot skin against my bare stomach.

Emily’s bed.