Burning September Read Online Free PDF Page B

to daytime TV.
    It was one hell of a surprise when Detective Slater pounded on our front door that night.  I was shocked stupid, rendered mute, unable to pick my jaw up from the floor.  I couldn’t even say goodbye as they towed her out, since I’d forgotten what my voice was for. 
    Back my noon , my ass.  It wasn’t until five days later that I was able to see her at her new home, Breakthrough Recovery Center, with bandaged wrists and dull eyes underlined with purple shadows.
    Her appearance surprised me more than her alleged crimes and her new residence combined.  Nobody had taken the trouble to mention the specifics of what went on after her arrest.  I’d assumed she’d done something marginally crazy to land in a loony bin, like screamed colorful obscenities to the point they’d thought she might have become possessed.
    Breakthrough’s visiting room was bland and cold, and my sister never looked sicker against that gray backdrop.  She smiled for me though, which I thought counted for something.  But when she didn’t reach over to hug me, I suddenly learned why.  The bandages.  The restraints.  She’d done something awful.  And not just to Brian.
    “It’s not what it looks like,” she said right away, bobbing her head at her wrists.
    “It looks like you’ve tried to off yourself,” I managed to choke out, collapsing on the worn couch beside her wheelchair.  “What the hell, Caroline? What happened?  Wait—don’t tell me.  They’ve probably got cameras, microphones everywhere, God, this is lunacy, this whole fucking thing—”
    “They don’t have cameras or mikes here.”  She shook her head.  “You watch too much TV.  I’ve been saying it for years.”
    And as if it were a monster that had lain dormant within me my entire eighteen years, waiting for the dam to break, I was livid.  Ragged breathing, flexing fingers, a sharp pain springing up behind my eyeballs.  Her pithy attitude and snappy words couldn’t lighten the mood, and if she kept it up, I’d tie her slippery tongue up in knots. 
    “I hate to break it to you, but it looks like you’ve been locked up somewhere for the criminally insane, and if you think they wouldn’t love to catch you saying more than you should, you’ve got another—”
    “This isn’t an asylum.”  She rolled her eyes, supremely unconcerned.  “It’s not run through the prison system.  There aren’t cameras or mikes or undercover cops working as aides.  They don’t record phone calls and visitor’s conversations.  It’s a mental health joint.  They’re here to help me get over my loss and suicide attempt.”
    I don’t think I’ve ever been madder at anyone in all my life, and I loved Caroline more than anything.  I poked a finger hard into the bandaging on one of her wrists, hoping to hurt her like she’d hurt me.  “Jesus, how could you do that, how could you do that to me , to yourself , how could you, after Mom—” 
    “As much as I enjoy seeing the role switching here,” she stage-whispered over my hoarse lecture, “This isn’t Freaky Friday , and Lindsay Lohan you are not.  I didn’t do anything too fatal.  I’m fine.”
    “If you were fine they wouldn’t have you straight-jacketed.”
    “Velcro restraints do not a straightjacket make.”
    “Oh, shut up , Caroline.”  I pounded my fist against my forehead, kneading my knuckles into the space between my eyebrows.  “This isn’t some drama skit, you’re not the lead actress, this is serious , real life—I never thought you’d ever be this—this—”
    “Stupid?” She supplied, an amused arch in her brow.  “Reckless?  Sallow and unhealthy?  Am I getting warmer?”
    I gagged on a derisive snort, opened my mouth to retort, but her eyes shot warning daggers, and she found her voice first.
    “Enough,” she said, and I knew, just like old times, who was boss.  She knew how to lay down the law better than most actual mothers.  Even with suicide