Free The Half Life of Molly Pierce by Katrina Leno Page B

sense.
    I’ve missed our appointments before, haven’t I? Or I’ve blacked out in the middle of them and woken up hours later, doing my homework or brushing my teeth.
    But if I’ve told him before, why hasn’t he ever brought it up again? Ever reminded me?
    I’m about to ask him this when he says, “I’ve tried to tell you. When you’re yourself. But you never remember. I’ve tried to remind you what you’ve told me, Molly, but you block it all out.”
    Oh.
    I guess that makes sense.
    Does it make sense?
    I’ve been having a hard time lately, figuring out what makes sense and what doesn’t make sense. What I should question and what I should accept.
    “Tell me now,” I demand. “Tell me what I’ve told you.”
    “I don’t think it works like that,” he says. “I think I understand it now a bit better. I think you have to work it out yourself.”
    Oh my god.
    I’m crazy.
    “I’m crazy.”
    “You are not crazy, Molly. Okay? Molly? You’re not crazy.”
    “I’m not crazy.”
    I’m not?
    I feel crazy.
    I feel like I’m losing it.
    My handle on reality.
    I never thought I had a particularly strong handle on reality, but I guess you can only evaluate something like that once it’s threatened.
    “Why is this happening to me?” I whisper.
    “I don’t think I can tell you,” he says. “I don’t think you’ll remember.”
    “But you know.”
    “I know, yes.”
    “What if you write it down?”
    “You’ll lose the paper.”
    “What if you sneak up on me and yell it in my ear?”
    “I’ve tried telling you. Molly. I think you have to work it out on your own. You said you remembered something? Something to do with Lyle?”
    “Do you know Lyle?”
    “I’ve heard about Lyle.”
    “He’s dead. I saw him die.”
    “I know.”
    “I knew him. We were friends.”
    “I know.”
    “You know?”
    “Yes, I know you were friends.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “You told me, Molly. Tell me what you remembered.”
    So I tell him. I tell him about the warehouse and the whiskey bottle and I tell him about the oak tree. About sitting underneath the oak tree by the graveyard by the ocean. After a storm. The smell of salt. How I told Lyle something that made him angry—that made him leave. How I can’t remember exactly what I told him, but I think it has to do with not being in love with him. That’s a guess, but that’s what it feels like.
    “Now tell me,” I say. “Tell me why this is happening.”
    “It won’t work,” he says.
    “I can stop it. I can stay here.”
    He sighs. I can tell he doesn’t want to tell me. But he has to. I can stay here now. I can listen. I can remember.
    “Call me later,” he says. “Anytime. Let me know you’re okay.”
    “Fine, fine,” I say, anxious. “Tell me.”
    Watching TV. That is what I’m doing when I wake up. Hazel is on the couch next to me and she looks at me with mild interest when I pull myself, irritated, to my feet.
    “The phone is there,” she says, pointing to the coffee table.
    “How did you know—”
    “You’re supposed to call Alex. It’s late.”
    “He said I could call him whenever,” I snap.
    “So here,” she says, picking up the phone and handing it to me, “call him.”
    “Are Mom and Dad home?”
    “Nope.”
    “Clancy?”
    “Upstairs,” she says.
    There are tricks to keeping it a secret.
    You wake up hours later sitting in front of a TV and you gather whatever facts you can about whatever it is you’ve been doing.
    “And, um, what are we watching?” I ask.
    Hazel smiles. It’s a sad smile. She looks at me like she wants to hug me, but she doesn’t move.
    “ Criminal Minds ,” she says. “You like this show.”
    “I know,” I mumble. “I know I like this show.”
    I take the phone to the backyard and dial Alex’s number. It’s his office number, the only one I know, but after so many rings it connects directly to his cell phone. He’ll be able to see it’s me calling. My family’s name on the