Fear kept her there a moment, and then concern for her mother made her creep out of the closet on stocking feet. She remembered the smell of cinnamon...toast, the feel of the wall on her hand, cool and rough, as she made her way down the hall toward the living room. She remembered the angle of the doorway to the kitchen and standing next to the sofa that her mother had been asleep on less than an hour ago. Susan could see only their heads as they lay on the faded, dirty linoleum, his face. ”“You have me more than a bit off kilter,” I said.“I do that to people,” she smiled. “It’s what my counselor called ‘being too smart for my own good’.”“Guidance counselor?”“Yes, but she’s also a licensed clinical psychologist. Not because I’m crazy — well, I am — but because of skipping grades. I liked talking to her, so I continued seeing her. I see her when I go home, just to touch base, make sure I’m dealing OK with the adult world, and so on.”“I’m seeing one, too. It started when my sister. More

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