Romantic love story

Chapter Eighteen: A Safe Place for Madison

She didn't answer.

"If you can't tell me, then maybe you'll tell Dr. Jacoby. Or maybe you want me to take you back to Dr. Nelson?"

"No."

"She's your primary physician, Maddie. You can trust her."

"No."

"Then speak with Dr. Jacoby."

"NO."

Terry's mouth opened, he sucked in a sharp breath. "Okay." He pushed to his feet. "I have to start clearing the table. Go brush your teeth, get anything you'll need for the night, then we're going home." His eyes didn't meet hers as he gathered the dishes, then headed for the kitchen.

Relief washed through her. She breathed deeply, got up and started for the stairs. She wouldn't have to see anyone, and they wouldn't find out about her cutting.

A muffled sound came from the kitchen, one that stopped Madison in her tracks.

It couldn't be. She'd seen him do it once before-- that time he stood in the rain, when he thought no one was watching-- but surely, not now.

She crept back through the dining room, hesitated at the kitchen and peeked inside.

He stood at the sink with his back to her, his shoulders heaving.

With a pang of shock, she realized Terry was crying.

Not knowing what to do, she stood there and watched him clamp a hand over his mouth, most likely to keep the sounds from traveling upstairs, where he thought she was.

She edged away from the kitchen, not wanting him to catch her watching.

Terry, oh Terry. She wanted to put her arms around him and make him feel better, but couldn't.

Why was he crying? She tried as quietly as possible to go upstairs without making any noise. If her belly didn't already hurt so much, she'd take the knife and cut again.

What had he said to do? Brush her teeth? She needed to obey.

She went into the bathroom at the top of the stairs, leaned heavily against the bathroom door and wished she were anyone but herself. If she were normal, he wouldn't be crying. That woman-- that Emily-- she would know what to do. Emily would soothe away his tears and make him forget he was sad.

He was sad because of her-- Madison Crawford-- and no one else. This was Madison's fault.

She had made him cry.

Seeing Dr. Nelson again was out of the question. A physical exam would prove she hadn't stopped cutting, so Madison could not, and would not, go back-- not until her scars had healed over so they looked old enough to escape fresh notice.

But that psychiatrist. She wouldn't have to take off her clothes for an exam, would she? What did psychiatrists do, anyway? Talk?

Please, Terry, don't cry.

She slumped onto the floor, her tears coming faster than she could stop them. This wasn't fair, but he was crying and the thought of that was more than she could bear.

Glimpsing the clothes hamper, she remembered the knife and pushed herself up. She reached behind the hamper, drew out the knife and clamped a hand over her mouth to smother her sobs the way Terry had done. Tugging down a bathroom towel, she wrapped the knife and continued to cry. She hated tears. They were a sign of weakness, and yet she was helpless to stop them.

She pulled herself up, located one of the shopping bags with her clothes and shoved the towel inside so it hid under the jeans and shirts. This wasn't fair, she thought as she found her pajamas and put them into another bag to take to the Johanneses' house. It wasn't fair. Terry wasn't playing fair.