Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

scared.”
    “Haunted by what?”
    Avoiding his gaze, I rose and moved to the window. In the parking lot an elderly man struggled to keep his black poodle from getting at the cat carrier a young blond woman had just pulled from her car.
    I hadn’t yet told Luke what Mother revealed about her family—my family—the night she fell ill. Suicides. Insanity. My heritage, my bloodline. I wasn’t sure I’d ever want him to know. But if I kept something like that from him, what right did I have to let him get deeply involved with me?
    I had to answer his question. What haunted my mother? I turned back to him, shrugging. “My father’s death, I guess. She’s tried hard to put it out of her mind, and I keep bringing it up.”
    “Rachel, why are you so ready to blame yourself? Maybe she’s worried that you’re going to find out what she’s hiding from you. Maybe she knows you’ve uncovered her sick little mind control game—”
    “Luke!” I pressed my fingers to my temples. The last thing I needed was a tension headache just as I started afternoon appointments. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”
    “When will we talk about it? I can’t even get you alone these days unless I drag you into my office.”
    “I’m telling you I can’t take any more of this right now.”
    “Okay, okay.” He lay a hand along my cheek, his skin warm on mine. “Look, it’s you I’m worried about. I don’t give a damn about your mother’s emotional life, or her health either, for that matter.”
    Stepping away from his touch, I said, “I think I need to find out more about my father’s death. About the accident. I’ve got a feeling—I don’t know, maybe it’ll jog my memory.”
    “How can you find out about it? You don’t have any relatives to ask, do you?”
    “No. Newspaper stories, maybe.”
    “Stories more than twenty years—”
    A knock on the door, then Megan’s high musical voice. “Dr. Campbell? Dr. Goddard? Your two o’clocks are both here.”
    ***
    Day after day passed in a haze of rainless heat. High temperature records were broken, health advisories were issued. Under the relentless sun the air grew murky with pollution and humidity, and weeds along the roads yellowed and died in the dust-dry earth. I moved the sprinklers around the yard according to Mother’s instructions, and they swirled and sprayed for hours each morning, keeping her plants alive.
    The stifling air of early evening kept us indoors. Unable to putter among her flowers, Mother decided to revive our old habit of reading aloud to each other for an hour after dinner. With an enthusiasm that seemed to baffle Michelle, she compiled a list of possible books, presented it to us at dinner one night, and urged us to contribute our own ideas.
    “Mother,” Michelle said, “I have work to do in the evenings.” She frowned at the list in her hand.
    “Oh. Of course.” A sudden drawing-back, a quickly hidden hurt. Usually I was the one who caused Mother to react that way. With thumb and index finger she lifted the sheet of white paper from Michelle’s hand. “Well, then, Rachel and I could read together. Rachel?”
    “Sure. Let me see what you’ve come up with.”
    Michelle glanced from Mother to me, a frown etched between her eyes, her mouth puckering into petulance. “I guess I could spare a little time,” she said.
    “Oh, wonderful!” Mother beamed and reached to squeeze her hand.
    So we gathered in the den after dinner, and I sat staring up at the proud-Mother wall while she began reading Rebecca . Except for the book choice, I felt like a child again, enclosed in our tight little circle, sheltered from the world of strangers outside.
    ***
    Mother never mentioned the terrible memories I’d forced her to talk about on the night of July 4. Instead of withdrawing from me as I’d expected her to, she seemed to need my company more and more. She discussed the news with me, asked my opinion about relocating her office when her lease was up. She talked to me about my job and my rehab animals as if she truly cared.
    This closeness was something I’d yearned for all my life, but it came too suddenly, and too late, to feel natural. I gave her my company and attention but kept up my guard, torn between love and concern for my mother and suspicion that she was simply trying to silence my questions.
    ***
    My own reflection could mesmerize me. I sat at my dresser and studied my face, picking out this feature and that, proving and