guard my words.

Dr. Marino settles

us in his office.

We’re uncovering a mystery here,

he says,

and Momma

lets a sound out of her nose

that is something

like a snort.

Dr. Marino ignores her,

looks right at me.

A mystery about Elizabeth

and why

she would want to

kill herself.

Now, Hope,

I’ve talked with your mother

and we have discussed this.

I glance at Momma

and her eyes bore

into me.

We’re all worried about Elizabeth,

Dr. Marino says.

And I think,

Yes, I am. Yes,

I

am.

Dr. Marino put his fingertips

together, then rests his chin

on the pointers.

He waits, expecting.

And soon I am thinking, I

I do know where the diary is.

I do know.

I do

know.

I do.

I

do.

Like something

from The Wizard of Oz movie

and the Cowardly

Lion.

Your mother is here

because this is

tough stuff

we’re going to talk about.

Okay?

I don’t look at Momma.

When people change so much,

change so fast,

he says to me

and Momma,

like Elizabeth has,

that many times means

something has happened

in that person’s life.

In this case,

in Elizabeth’s

life.

Momma shifts in her seat.

When I look at her,

she looks

back at me like

I was the one who

made the appointment

with Dr. Marino.

So we know,

Dr. Marino says,

that something

must have changed

in Elizabeth’s life,

for her to try and

kill herself.

He leans forward in his chair.

Your mother told me, Hope, that this

started with your sister

three months ago,

maybe a little more.

What?

I say.

That Elizabeth

tried to kill herself several times.

Several times?

I say.

It feels like hands

have pushed me

down in the chair

and will not let

me up.

Several?

I say.

I look at Momma.

Tears crawl down

her cheeks.

Several, Momma?

You didn’t know?

Dr. Marino says.

I shake my head.

I didn’t know,

I say.

I didn’t know more than once.

More than the gun.

The words somehow

make it

past the fist

in my throat.

But you knew later?

he says.

I stopped her,

I say,

I stopped her before she

came here,

I stopped her

from leaving us for

good.

Guilt courses through

me so I feel it on

my skin, like

I could scrape it

away with my fingernails,

if I dug hard

enough.

Several times is serious,

he says.

I told you,

Momma says,

her voice strained

in the office air,

that Liz is sensitive.

That’s true,

I say,

and I think of

her crying at night.

Dr. Marino nods.

But even sensitive people

don’t try to kill

themselves without a

reason. So

three times is

serious.

One time is serious,

I say.

Momma laughs and says,

Even without

a degree

she figured

that

one out.

It’s like Dr. Marino

doesn’t hear Momma.

Why might she

want to end her life?

he says.

I try to say,

Not sure,

but my voice squeezes