The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond

Author:Michelle Richmond [Richmond, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Psychological Fiction, Missing Children, Fiction, Psychological, Loss (Psychology), General
ISBN: 9780385340113
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Published: 2007-03-26T03:00:00+00:00

45

THE WEEK before Christmas, Annabel calls to tell me there’s someone she wants me to meet. “Her name is Dr. Shannon. She’s a therapist.”

The lights on my Christmas tree are blinking. On the floor is a set of ornaments I bought from Emma during her school fund-raiser last year: a wooden reindeer with twigs for antlers, a tiny metal caboose painted blue, an angel with glittering gold wings. I had this vision of how Christmas would be—me and Jake and Emma decorating the tree together, with Booker T playing in the background and orange peels simmering on the stove. Jake in a Santa suit on Christmas Eve, making lots of noise as he puts the gifts under the tree.

“Are you listening?” Annabel says.

“I just don’t think therapy is going to help.”

“Dr. Shannon isn’t a psychiatrist. She specializes in hypnosis.”

The miniature angel has golden hair and a porcelain face with tiny features painted on. Bright red lips, a dot of a nose. She’s missing one eye.

“I already tried that, remember?”

“I know,” Annabel says, “but this one comes highly recommended. She has a Ph.D. in molecular biology from Stanford and has published important research on hypnosis. Her practice is in Palo Alto, and she’s done work for the CEOs of several Fortune 500 companies, not to mention that senator in Delaware whose intern was murdered a couple of years ago.”

“What makes you think she’d be willing to meet with me?”

“Rick just did a good turn in court for one of her biggest clients. She owes him a favor. She’s agreed to one meeting, but she can’t see you until the end of January. She’s expecting a call from you.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Annabel says. “Think of it as a Christmas present.” She clears her throat, pauses. “That’s not the only reason I called. I don’t know how to say this.” Another pause, longer than the first.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“There’s a letter,” she says, using our father’s phrase. “You know, in the mailbox.”

I swallow hard, trying to think of the right words. “That’s wonderful. How long have you known?”

“I’m almost eight weeks along.”

“When are you due?”

“July 17.”

“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you knew?”

“Rick and I agreed to wait a couple of months before we let the cat out of the bag.”

“Congratulations. It’s terrific news.”

Mentally, I’m doing the math. She must have conceived about three months after Emma disappeared. Is it possible that she and Rick decided to have another child in part because of what happened to Emma? I remember a conversation we had when she was pregnant with Ruby, her second. “I can’t imagine having just one,” she had said. I was sitting in a hard chair in a doctor’s office, and she was lying on the table. On the screen, a tiny white thing pulsed in its dark, mysterious sack. I stared at the large head, the small curled body, that living thing growing within my sister’s womb, and wondered if I would ever have the courage to bring a baby into the world.

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