I shake my head.

At least I am not voicing the lie.

You sure?

Momma says.

Haven’t laid eyes on it,

I say.

And that’s the truth.

I know,

in my brain,

where it is.

But for sure I’ve left it there,

in my memory and

in its hiding place

on purpose.

It seems a piece of something

I’m afraid to look at

and I have a feeling Liz

wants it left where it is.

At least for now.

Well,

Momma says,

her psychiatrist wants

to talk to you now.

And with your

hair looking like

that.

I put a hand to my head.

Her words of seeing the doctor

send a streak

through me that feels like electricity.

I jolt up.

Why me?

I say.

I don’t know nothing.

And I think,

Except where the diary is.

Momma gives a tiny smile,

one that I almost can’t see

though I notice her hands shake.

Has she heard my thoughts?

You have to talk to him,

Momma says.

I told him no,

but he insisted.

Now I am scared through

and through.

Will I end up with my sister,

drugged and sleeping most of the time,

wanting to be dead?

Will Momma complain

about my costs too?

I push myself

out of the chair and toss my book aside.

Heck, Spence, and Marion

are gonna have to

wait till my nerves settle before

I can finish reading about them.

I’m going for a walk,

I tell Momma,

then take off.

Up the sand and rock

driveway I go,

slapping at mosquitoes.

Why does this guy want to see me?

Why?

I haven’t done anything.

And I don’t know why

Liz didn’t want to live.

The moon rides high in the sky,

washing the fruit trees

and pines

and oaks

I pass with

a fine white light.

Full moon means werewolf,

I say

and a mosquito

answers me with a sting

on the cheek.

79.

Momma drives, hands clenched,

to the steering wheel.

Listen up,

she says

without giving me

a chance to speak.

We Chapmans

stick together.

We don’t tell

nothing about our

lives.

Not to doctors or nurses.

Momma pauses long enough

to get a cigarette

lit.

She draws in a deep

breath of smoke

then sends it out

through her nose.

When she speaks

again, smoke leaks

from her mouth

with the words,

Or with neighbors.

We keep our secrets

tight.

She looks at me

side-eyed, not quite

taking her eyes off the

road and says,

You understand, Hope?

I’m quiet a long minute.

Do you?

Yes, ma’am,

I say, watching palm

fronds and pine trees

zip past the car

window.

Yes, ma’am, I understand.

And I do.

I understand that

Momma is hiding

something to do with

my sister,

Lizzie.

80.

The psychiatrist

looks just like some guy right

offa the TV.

Little glasses,

pudgy belly,

even a beard.

What I don’t expect is his office.

No couch to lie down on.

Instead three beige

easy chairs circle a coffee table