All About Evie

by Cathy Lamb

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Set against the natural beauty of the San Juan Islands in the Pacific Northwest, acclaimed author Cathy Lamb's latest novel tells the emotionally compelling story of one woman's life-changing discovery about her past....

As a child, Evie Lindsay was unnerved by her premonitions. As an adult, they have become a simple fact of life — sometimes disruptive but also inescapable, much like her quirky, loveable family. Evie's mother, Poppy, and her aunts, Camellia and Iris, are well known on San Orcanita island for their free-spirited ways and elaborately decorated hats. Their floral shop and Evie's bookstore draw streams of visitors all summer long. This season promises to be extra busy: Evie's sister, Jules, is getting married on the island.

As Jules plans her unconventional wedding, she arranges to do a DNA test with her mother, sister, and aunts, to see how much accepted lore about their heritage holds true. The results blow apart everything Evie has grown up believing about herself and her family. Spurred on by the revelations, Evie uncovers the real story of her past. But beyond her feelings of shock and betrayal, there are unexpected opportunities — to come to terms with a gift that has sometimes felt like a curse, to understand the secrets that surrounded her childhood, and to embrace the surprising new life that is waiting for her...

Release date: October 29, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

I knew she was going to be hit by a white truck.

The little girl was skipping up the main street in our small town, several blocks past my yellow bookstore. I was carrying a box of books I’d been reviewing at home in one arm and a cat kennel with Ghost in it in the other. Ghost the Cat loves to go to my bookstore and hang out, so sometimes I bring her. She was meowing with excitement. She’s clearly a book lover.

It was early in the morning and sunny. People were up and about, tourists eager to explore the island, townspeople chatting, fishermen headed to their boats, bread lovers entering the bakery, coffee lovers drinking a cup on the bay, the farmers’ market open . . . and there was the young girl up ahead with her mother, a red ribbon in her brown hair bouncing about.

I closed my eyes. I reenvisioned the premonition, what I’d seen in a flash when I noticed her. I paid attention to the clothes she’d been wearing, her placement, right in front of the library, a greyhound on a leash behind her, and Mr. Hayes eating a doughnut across the street.

I opened my eyes, saw that the little girl was almost in front of the library, a greyhound was on a leash behind her, and Mr. Hayes was eating a doughnut across the street.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

She was going to be hit soon . . . no, she was going to be hit immediately by a white truck.

I dropped the books and Ghost. She squealed and hissed in outrage. I started running up the street, my white summer dress easy to run in, my red flip-flops not so easy.

“Hello, Evie,” my friend Gracie called out, but I didn’t greet her, I didn’t have time.

“Evie,” Mr. Jamon croaked, leaning on his cane as I flew past him. “Everything okay, dear? Did you see something?”

I kept running. The girl was two blocks ahead, and I had to catch up. I so hate running. It makes me breathless. Now and then I see people running or jogging, and I think, My, that looks miserable. And it is, it so is. I tried to breathe and heard a gurgling, choking sound in my throat as my legs started to burn.

The sun was streaming through the towering fir and pine trees, blinding the road up ahead, but I heard it, loud and clear: a delivery truck, rumbling and groaning, the type with huge loads so it can’t brake quickly. It turned the corner on top of the hill and barreled down the road toward town, the engine grinding.

I ran harder, faster, darting around Koo and Darrell Jones, who moved out of the way when they heard me panting behind them. I heard Koo say, “It’s happening again!” and Darrell yelled after me, “Can we help, Evie?” I heard them running after me.

I could hardly breathe. I need to get in shape, but what a drag that would be. Ugh.

The truck was flying down the street, way too fast, passing the post office, the old white church, the knitting store. I saw the little girl, her eye caught by a dog—a fluffy, white, cute dog across the street. She smiled at the dog, waved at it as if it would pick up a paw and wave back.

“No!” I shouted at her as loud as I could, my lungs burning. “No! Don’t move!” But she didn’t hear me and her mother was distracted, staring into the picture window of my mother and aunts’ pink store, Flowers, Lotions, and Potions. The store was filled with the wild, intricate bouquets that my mother makes, the scented potions and lotions my aunt Camellia makes, and the peculiar/sexy/oddly compelling flower photographs my aunt Iris takes.

“No! No!” I screamed again, puffing hard as the girl took that fateful, disastrous step and darted into the street to pet the fluffy, white, cute dog on the other side, her red ribbon flying about, a smile on her face before she was going to be turned into a human pancake.

I saw the truck driver’s expression, suddenly panicked as he saw her. He hit the brakes and they screeched, but the brakes couldn’t work fast enough.

I flew off the curb toward the truck, lunged and grabbed the girl, yanking her back, stumbling against her weight, both of us crashing to the street, my back and butt bouncing on the asphalt, the air shoved out of my lungs. I pulled my feet in just in time as the truck rumbled past, its brakes smoking, horn blaring.

The girl’s back was on my chest and stomach, my arms wrapped around her waist, her head on my collarbone, her red ribbon slinking down my arm. Red for blood. At least there was no blood. I don’t like blood. Blood should always be inside of a body, not outside. I was panting, wiped out. I should exercise more and lose some weight, I know this, I do, but it’s so boring. And I hate dieting. Garfield the cat had it right: Dieting is die with a t.

But still. I could hardly breathe from this short sprint, and that was embarrassing. I would have to make a change in my life. Exercise. Eat more vegetables. That sort of dreariness. But not today. Lord, not today. My aunt Camellia was making a chocolate cheesecake for dessert tonight. I probably wouldn’t begin a diet and exercise program tomorrow, either, because there would be leftover chocolate cheesecake and I would not want it to go to waste. Maybe next Saturday I’d begin.

Maybe not.

The girl wasn’t moving, but I knew she was okay. I could feel her breathing on top of me. She was shocked, that’s all. I sucked in air like a beached whale, my heart protesting my run, first thing in the morning, too!

I heard a scream, piercing, circling around me, then the scream seemed to circle North Sound before it headed out to the ocean, alarming any and all whales and fish. It was a scream of pure terror.

It wasn’t me. I couldn’t scream. I am too out of shape. The scream was from the mother. She was crying and screaming as she hobbled over to us. She bent over her daughter, cradled in my arms, my dress no doubt hitched up way too high. “Maggie, oh, my God, Maggie. Are you all right? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

I felt Maggie nod. “Yep. I’m good.”

So casual. “Yep.” I was near to dying from running, my legs were almost flattened by truck tires, and the kid, yep, was fine and dandy.

“Why did you do that?” her mother wailed, as if I weren’t there underneath her naughty daughter. “Why did you run in the street? You know better than that!”

The girl didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She had wanted to pet a white, furry, cute dog and now she was lying in the street. She had seen the truck tear past us. She was young, about seven, but she knew what had almost happened to her.

Maggie, dear Maggie, burst into tears. “I only wanted to pet the doggie!”

The mother was now holding her daughter close, shaking, tears streaming out of her eyes, keening over my near-dead body. Dang. I did not want to start my day like this, but whew. That was a close one.

“Thank you.” The mother wept, her pale face inches from mine, her tears falling on my face. “Thank you so much.”

I gasped again and said, “No problem.” But it was a problem, as my poor legs would probably ache for days. I would eat more chocolate to compensate. Maggie’s mother pulled Maggie up and was cradling her in her arms, rocking and sobbing.

My friend Gracie, her blonde hair piled up in a ball, sat down next to me in the street, her legs crossed as if she were sitting on my bed and chatting like when we were teenagers. “You had one of your premonitions again, didn’t you, Evie?”

I shook my head, sucking air in. “No. I don’t have premonitions.”

“She did,” Koo Jones said, also kneeling beside me. She squeezed my hand. “She started running and dropped her cat before the truck was even in view. We saw it. The cat’s not happy, Evie—that one is a hisser—but are you okay?”

I nodded. “No premonition. I saw the truck coming.”

Darrell shook his head as he and Gracie and Koo helped me up. Wow. Even my butt hurt from that run. I put my hands on my butt and rubbed. Ouch! Gracie handed me my missing flip-flop as Koo yanked my dress down so the whole town wouldn’t see my pink underwear that says “Cats Rule” on the back.

“You couldn’t have seen the truck. It was up and around the bend,” Darrell said. He’s an organic farmer. Sells his crops to our local grocery store and to the other islands. “I feel for you. Those premonitions must be awful. You see something and you have to go save someone. You’re a right kind person, Evie. Always helping others.”

Gracie ran her hands over my black hair and flicked out small rocks from the pavement. “There. You’re good to go. No more rocks in your waves. Hey! Rocks in your waves. That sounded pretty cool. Maybe I should be a songwriter.”

“Thanks, Gracie.” I had hoped to see Marco today, a tiny sighting, and I would not want rocks in my waves.

The driver ran over, puffing and pale. “Man, I am so sorry. You okay, lady? Is the kid okay?”

“We didn’t die,” I snapped, my anger rising like a mini volcano. “My legs are still attached.”

“The brakes wouldn’t work. I kept pumpin’ ’em, pumpin’ ’em.”

“You were going way too fast,” I said. “What is this, a racetrack? Who are you, Evel Knievel?”

He looked embarrassed. Ashamed.

“Don’t go fast again. Ever.” I was pretty dang ticked. “You almost killed that girl.”

He hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m really sorry.”

The girl was now jumping and bopping about on the sidewalk, twirling here and there, everything happy! Her mother was leaning against a light post, bent in half, looking like she might lose her cookies, her eyes never leaving the bopping daughter.

“Lucky she had a premonition it was going to happen!” Mr. Jamon croaked out. “She’s been having them since she was a wee little girl.”

“I don’t have premonitions,” I said. I knew no one believed me, but it’s my standard line.

They all nodded, humoring me.

“Sure, you don’t,” Koo said. “Sure.”

“Not a one,” Gracie said. “When you suddenly jumped into the lake in your clothes and swam to the center to rescue my grandmother at the exact moment she stood and fell out of the boat a week ago, it was purely coincidence. How funny you were there at the same time!”

That was a wet one.

“Uh, yeah,” Darrell said. “Want some tomatoes? They’re ripe. I’ll bring them over to you and your mom and aunts tonight.”

“Whatever,” Gracie said. “You’re a bit flushed and you’re still panting. Maybe you should run more. For when this happens again.”

“Hey,” Koo said. “I need a scary book. Did you get any super scary books in?”

“And I need a romance,” Mr. Jamon said. “I’ve got a date on Saturday night, and it wouldn’t hurt to take a lesson, right?”

Right. You go, Mr. Jamon, you go.

We all trooped into my bookstore, another friend, O’Dierno Rhys, handing me Ghost, who was unhappy with her disrespectful treatment, but not before the girl and her mother thanked me again and hugged me.

“You came out of nowhere,” the mother said.

“Evie does that,” Gracie said with a lot of enthusiasm. “She can see the future. It’s like she has a crystal ball in her head.”

“I think it’s those pretty gold eyes of hers,” Koo said, slinging an arm around my shoulders, which were beginning to ache from the fall. “Something magical about them.”

I rolled my pretty gold eyes. “No, I can’t see the future.”

Yes, I can.

I can’t always see the future, but now and then, curse it all, I can.

It’s been a plague my whole life.

I started having premonitions as a kid. I would see the future for someone. Sometimes it was scary, or bad, and sometimes it was wonderful. It led to a whole lot of mental distress and trying to save people, or choosing not to save people, and committing minor crimes along the way, like breaking and entering, trespassing, small robberies, destruction of property, hiding things people owned like their car keys so they couldn’t drive, one time locking my favorite librarian up in her home so she wouldn’t get hit by a train, things of that nature.

All of my tiny criminal acts or legal interventions have been to slow someone down so that the premonition will pass them by. So many times in life an accident hits that if you waited one minute, one, it would have shot past you. I try to make that minute happen. All the crimes were necessary. I don’t regret any of them. I knew what was going to happen to those people—innocent people, often friends, people I loved and cared about—if I didn’t.

That’s the curse of having premonitions: You know what’s upcoming for people.

You may have to become a criminal momentarily to save them.

But I have had one premonition off and on my whole life, starting when I was about five years old.

In that premonition there are two women, one of them me, and one of us dies. I don’t know if it’s me or the other woman who heads up the golden staircase to heaven. I have not been able to figure this out, which is strange. My endings for my other premonitions are all quite clear, but there’s a fuzziness here, as if the premonition doesn’t even know precisely who is dead at the end of it.

I don’t know who the other woman is. I don’t know how old I’ll be. I don’t know when it will happen. What I do know is that I’m driving on a road, wide enough for only one car, alongside a mountain on my right. On my left side is a steep cliff. The ocean is in the distance, peeking through the pine trees, and there’s a whole bunch of orange poppies. I see the oncoming car, and we both swerve, and crash.

Sometimes one car shoots over the cliff, sometimes both cars. Sometimes there’s an earsplitting explosion, crackling flames and black smoke bubbling up from the bottom of the cliff, sometimes not. Sometimes we’re sandwiched together, teetering over the cliff, up and down, sometimes not. It’s blurry, this premonition. Like rain is blurring the full photo, but there is no rain.

It’s troubling to know that a car crash, on a cliff, may kill me.

Or it may not.

Other than the premonitions? I am utterly, completely normal.

Which means that I’m one hot mess.

The young woman screamed, head back, sweat and hot tears dripping down her agonized face into her thick black hair.

The nurse fastened the leather straps around the woman’s wrists. She didn’t want to do it, but she had to. It was the rule. All prisoners giving birth in the jail’s infirmary had to be strapped down, wrists, ankles, and one around the waist. One never knew! A woman could attempt an escape, yes, even one in the throngs of labor, minutes away from giving birth! She could waddle down the hallway, moaning in pain, teeter down the stairs and through the prison yard, without anyone noticing, her hand on her crotch to keep the baby in as she lithely leaped over the barbed wire fence. Escapes were definitely against the rules. So straps were always required.

The nurse, Clarissa Hortensen, knew how asinine the rules were. They were made up by men—what could one expect after all? Men thought with their nether regions most of the time. Still. She had to follow the rules or lose her job. She couldn’t lose her job. She had four kids, and her clumsy husband had lost his job when he’d broken two vertebrae in his back falling off their roof. She had told him not to get on the roof to fix a hole, but he did it anyhow.

If they had been lucky, this woman would have been in a real hospital. But an unexpected snowstorm hit, the streets were icy, and the prisoner hadn’t told anyone she was in labor until it was too late to transport her anyhow. It had also been too late to give her an epidural.

“Let me sit up, let me sit up so I can push!” The woman struggled against the restrictive leather straps as she was hit with another excruciating contraction.

The doctor snapped, “Push, woman, push.”

“I can’t push right when I can’t sit up!” the prisoner yelled back at him, her voice hoarse with pain. “I can hardly breathe!”

“Push unless you want this baby stuck in you forever.” The doctor was sweating, too. Dr. Rothney was heavy, in his late fifties, his face blasted with broken red veins.

There were two guards nearby. Both young, both pale and sickly looking. Guarding a murderer awaiting trial giving birth wasn’t what they’d signed up for. One leaned over, as if queasy, as the prisoner released a blood-curdling scream again. The other one swallowed hard and stared at the yellowing, cracked wall and tried to think about baseball. They were there to guard the inmate from leaving, but it didn’t look like she could get anywhere fast, so it didn’t make much sense.

The nurse held the woman’s hand. This was against the rules, but no one said anything. Everyone respected Clarissa. Or feared her. Depending on if she thought you were competent or an idiot, and she would tell you which one you were. “You can do this, Betsy. You can do it.”

“And if I do?” the murderer, Betsy, panted out. “You’re going to take it. You’re going to take my baby!” She roared, raw and pained, as another contraction dang near split her in two.

The nurse was tough, but she wanted to cry. It was true. They were taking the baby. Betsy’s father, a hypocritical minister, wanted nothing to do with the baby. He had told Clarissa on the phone when she called him and his wife weeks ago about the baby, and told them they could make a claim with the state for the child.

“The girl has sinned,” the minister thundered. “She has broken God’s law, may Jesus forgive her. She has fallen into sexual sin. She has fallen into the devil’s hands. She has committed a crime, and she is bound for hell. We will pray that the Lord removes the evil spirits from within her.”

“But do you want the baby?” she’d asked.

“No,” the minister said. “It is illegitimate. It is a bastard. We don’t want it. We will not bring more of this cursed affliction into—” He stopped then, in the middle of his rant. “Praise the Lord, we are not taking that baby.”

Clarissa thought she heard a woman in the background protesting, her voice tearful, but the minister boomed, “Be quiet and obey me, wife,” and hung up.

Fortunately, the adoptive parents were waiting downstairs. They had been told that the mother had to give up the baby, as she would be in prison, after her trial, for years. In the highly unlikely, ludicrous event that Betsy was found innocent, the adoptive parents would have to give the baby back to her, as agreed by signed legal papers, but everyone with a brain knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“If you don’t push, Betsy,” Clarissa said, “the baby will die.”

Betsy cried then, a gush of tears and hysteria. “I don’t want the baby to die,” she panted, near hysterical with pain. “I don’t want the baby to die. I don’t want the baby to die.”

“Save her then, Betsy,” Clarissa said. “Save her.”

Dr. Rothney made a choking sound in his throat. He had worked here in the jail for five years. He hated the job, but it was the only place that would hire him after two—well, three—problems at other hospitals. He had almost lost his license but had liquidated his retirement fund, the money that had not been used for gambling and alcohol, and had hired an expensive, effective attorney. He lost his job at the hospital downtown, but here, with lousy pay, they had overlooked his reputation to be an in-house jail doctor.

This young woman had killed a man, that’s why she was locked up. But he knew this one’s history. He knew about the upcoming trial. He was not convinced Betsy was guilty in the first place. When women killed men, it was usually in self-defense. Like his mother, when she shot her boyfriend in front of him when he was seven years old because he kept slamming her face into a wall.

Between Betsy’s shaking legs, Dr. Rothney bent his head. He knew he was a lousy doctor, his alcoholism had a dark, unbreakable grip on him, but he still had a heart. It was covered in regrets and guilt, it was drowned by a painful childhood, but it was still there.

“I want my baby,” Betsy cried, chanting to herself as if she’d half lost her mind to pain and grief. “I want her. I love her. I want her. I love her.” She convulsed and screamed again, a scream that wound down the corridors of the jail where some women were playing cards, some were chatting, and one was sneaking up on another and then jumped her. The woman who was jumped would end up in the infirmary, slashed with a toothbrush that had been carved into a knife, right across the neck. The woman who attacked the prisoner would end up in solitary, where she would sing to herself about rabbits.

“I love her,” Betsy sobbed. “I love you, Rose. I love you. . . .”

Dr. Rothney’s eyes filled with tears, but he told himself to buck up. He didn’t know how Betsy knew the baby was a girl, but he didn’t doubt her. He had checked on her and the pregnancy on several occasions and she was . . . interesting. Almost ethereal. Courageous. He had been brusque with her, though, maybe a little cold, he thought guiltily, not wanting to get involved. Quickly the doctor pushed down his feelings, as he’d done all his life. He stood up, put his hands on Betsy’s knees, and ordered, not without compassion, “Push, or you will die, too. Push, Betsy.”

Betsy leaned back, sweat dripping, and pushed, not for her but for the baby. It would have been easier if her wrists and waist had not been bound down. It would have been easier if she had been able to sit up, knees bent, but the belt around her prevented that. She pushed. For the baby. Her sweet baby. Their sweet baby. Their love child. Hers and Johnny’s daughter.

When nothing happened, and the situation deteriorated to a dangerous, chaotic level, with yelling on both sides, the doctor, after getting a nod of approval from Clarissa, removed the straps around Betsy’s waist and ankles so she could sit up and bear down.

The baby’s head emerged amidst the mother’s guttural screams.

“Almost there, Betsy,” Clarissa said, encouraged. “One more push. Huge push. Come on, Betsy.”

“She’s coming,” Dr. Rothney said, red and flushed. “Push! Push!”

Betsy yelled and the guard who had been leaning over his knees, overcome with nausea, tumbled to the floor. The other guard leaned over to check on him, then put both hands to his own forehead. He thought he was going to lose his lunch.

The baby slipped out, head and tiny shoulders, a tummy and legs, but she was quiet, too quiet.

“Is the baby okay?” Betsy cried, collapsing against the bed, her voice exhausted, her body spent. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t she crying? Is she okay?”

Dr. Rothney took the baby and turned it in his hand, his hands shaking, and gently tapped her back. Lord, he needed a drink.

The baby’s eyes met Betsy’s. She blinked. Betsy cried, this time with joy tinged with utter, lost sadness. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, Rose.”

The baby blinked again at Betsy, still, solemnly quiet, then, after another slap on her back, she started to cry. One wail only, though, as if to say hello, and then she settled back down.

“It’s a girl,” Clarissa said to Betsy. “But you already knew that.” She had seen Betsy several times in the infirmary here because of the pregnancy. They had talked about the daughter Betsy was expecting. Clarissa liked her, even though she assumed she was delusional. Betsy seemed decades older than her years—there was wisdom behind those gold eyes—but she was in mourning for a baby she knew she couldn’t keep if she was found guilty at trial. Betsy expected to be found guilty.

Clarissa could hardly wait to go home tonight to her three daughters. She could not imagine giving one of them up. Watching what was to come next for Betsy would rip her heart out. She would hate herself, she knew it, even though she wasn’t responsible for what was going to happen. Sometimes women gave birth in here and they were awful criminals, or neglectful and abusive mothers, and their other kids had already been taken away from them, and she was glad the baby was going somewhere else. Not this time.

“Give her to me, please,” Betsy begged, sobbing like she was breaking inside. “One time, let me hug her one time. Please. Please.”

The doctor knew he shouldn’t. It was strictly forbidden. Betsy was in jail awaiting a murder trial. They were taking the baby downstairs to the adoptive parents immediately. But he looked at Betsy, crumpled in the bed, her pale face a mix of tears and desperation and devastation. She was so young. Thick, dark black hair. Thin. High cheekbones. Huge eyes, golden, like he’d never seen before. He needed a drink so bad. God almighty, he needed a drink.

The doctor turned to the guards—the one who had fainted now leaning woozily against the wall, and the other one who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here—and spoke with authority. “You may go now.”

After the guards scuttled out, Dr. Rothney glanced at Clarissa. She nodded and unstrapped Betsy’s wrists. The doctor did not bother to strap her waist or her ankles up again, breaking all rules. The doctor gave the baby to the nurse, who cleaned her quickly, wrapped her in a pink blanket, and gave the baby to Betsy while the doctor finished his job between Betsy’s legs.

Betsy cried over her daughter, the nurse’s hand on her shoulder.

Thirty minutes later someone knocked on the door when Betsy was singing to Rose, a song about a girl who is loved by her mother and dances in a rose garden. “Privacy for the patient,” the doctor ordered. The knocking stopped.

Thirty minutes later, while Betsy cooed and sang and told her daughter, Rose, that she loved her, would always love her, there was another knock. “Privacy for the patient! Don’t interrupt.”

Dr. Rothney felt ill. He knew that he would have to take this baby from the mother soon. He would have Clarissa help. It was going to be an awful scene. It would haunt him, he knew. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, but this time it would be the worst, by far.

He hated this job, he did.

He watched Betsy cradle the little girl in the pink blanket, the baby’s eyes wide open, the two of them staring at each other. Betsy kissed the baby on her forehead, her little nose, her full cheeks. She was a gorgeous baby, alert, with dark hair and golden eyes—not blue, as usual, but golden, like her mother. It was so strange, the doctor thought, he had never seen eyes that color in a newborn . . . it was almost unheard of....

After forty-five minutes there was another knock. “The parents are waiting.”

“Privacy for the patient!” the doctor yelled, irritated, bracing for the excruciating scene to come.

“Oh no!” Betsy cried. “Oh no, please, please! I need more time.” She clung to the baby, sung to her, told her she loved her, that she looked like a pink rose.

The doctor wanted an entire bottle of scotch.

The nurse wanted to go home and hug her daughters. She sniffed and tried not to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” Clarissa said. “I’m going to have to take her.”

Betsy refused, tears running down her cheeks and onto the baby’s face, through the black hair that grew soft around her gentle features. “No, no, I am begging you. Let me hold her.” She started to get hysterical. The baby never cried as she stared into her mother’s eyes, the same as hers.

The doctor ran a shaking hand over his bald head as Betsy begged for her baby.

Dr. Rothney wearily nodded at Clarissa. The nurse went to a cabinet and got a shot ready. The shot was administered when Betsy was staring into the soft eyes of her daughter with such love. “I’ll always be with you, Rose,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Within seconds, Betsy was asleep, her arms slack, and Clarissa took the baby away and gave her to her new parents, who were so happy they cried, too.

Later that night, Dr. Rothney and Clarissa, both emotionally wrung out, checked on Betsy together. Betsy was restrapped to the bed, wrists and ankles, with another strap around her waist.

Betsy had woken up from being drugged and had leaped into hysteria. She screamed, fought to get out of her restraints, and pleaded to see her daughter. She had sobbed, right from the heart, a wrenching, pathetic sound. Clarissa had tried to calm her, but of course it hadn’t worked.

Betsy glared at them with a ferocity that took both of them back. Still, they were used to it here. Patients often looked at them with hatred. They had taken her baby from her; there was no other way for her to look at them.

“You,” she said to the doctor, “are going to die in two years. Your liver is like a pickle. Your girlfriend is going to leave you soon. She’s going to take your guitar collection.”

The doctor swallowed hard. How did she know about his liver problem? How did she know he had a girlfriend? How did she know about the guitar collection?

“And you,” she said to the nurse, “are pregnant. It’s a boy.”

The nurse knew that wasn’t true. Her husband had a vasectomy three months ago. He’d told her so.

“Your husband lied to you,” Betsy said. “Also, your oldest daughter is going to overdose on drugs.” Then she softened, some of her anger gone. “She’ll be wearing a red dress and knee-high black boots when it happens, so look for that outfit.”

That was ridiculous, Clarissa thought with a healthy dose of anger. She had even had sympathy for this girl! Well, that was all gone now. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare talk about my