Read the Witness by Nora Roberts Online Free

The barb in the arrow of childhood suffering is this:

its intense loneliness; its intense ignorance.

OLIVE SCHREINER

1

June 2000

ELIZABETH FITCH'Southward SHORT-LIVED TEENAGE REBELLION BEGAN with L'Oréal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and 20-one days she'd dutifully followed her mother'due south directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her female parent created, ate the meals designed by her mother's nutritionist and prepared by her mother'due south melt, wore the apparel selected past her female parent'south personal shopper.

Dr. Susan 50. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position equally chief of surgery of Chicago's Silva Memorial Infirmary. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the bookish programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she'd return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical caste. And so she could become a doctor, similar her mother—a surgeon, like her mother.

Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She'd traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the man body and play Chopin's Piano Concerto—both Nos. 1 and 2, past rote.

She'd never been on a engagement or kissed a male child. She'd never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

She was, at 16 years, eight months and xx-one days, a product of her mother's meticulous and detailed agenda.

That was about to change.

She watched her female parent pack. Susan, her rich brown pilus already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung some other suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week's medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every result, appointment, meeting and repast, scheduled with the selected outfit, with shoes, purse and accessories.

Designer suits; Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. I must wear good cuts, good cloth. But non ane rich or bright colour amongst the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could exist then beautiful and deliberately wearable the dull.

Afterwards 2 accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she'd begun—maybe—to develop her ain fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky-heeled boots in Cambridge.

With cash, so the receipt wouldn't show upwardly on her credit card bill, in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

She'd felt similar a unlike person wearing them, then different she'd walked straight into a McDonald's and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

The pleasure had been so huge, she'd had to become into the bath, shut herself in a stall and cry a picayune.

The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that twenty-four hours, she supposed, or perhaps they'd always been at that place, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

Merely she could feel them, actually feel them, sprouting in her belly at present.

"Your plans inverse, Mother. It doesn't follow that mine have to change with them."

Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe purse in the Pullman, tucking it just and so with her beautiful and clever surgeon's hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, every bit always—no color in that location, either.

"Elizabeth." Her voice was as polished and calm every bit her wardrobe. "It took considerable endeavor to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You'll complete the requirements for your access into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule."

Even the thought made Elizabeth's tum hurt. "I was promised a iii-week suspension, including this next week in New York."

"And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn't had this coming calendar week off, I couldn't fill up in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference."

"You could have said no."

"That would have been selfish and shortsighted." Susan brushed at the jacket she'd hung, stepped back to check her list. "You lot're certainly mature enough to understand the demands of piece of work overtake pleasure and leisure."

"If I'm mature enough to understand that, why aren't I mature plenty to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need information technology."

Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. "A girl of your age, physical status and mental acumen inappreciably needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week prowl, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. In that location'south no one to fix your meals or tend to the house."

"I can fix my own meals and tend the house."

"Elizabeth." The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. "It's settled."

"And I have no say in information technology? What nearly developing my independence, being responsible?"

"Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibleness and freedom of choice. Y'all nonetheless require guidance and direction. Now, I've east-mailed y'all an updated schedule for the coming week, and your parcel with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summertime term."

As she spoke, Susan closed the garment pocketbook, then her small Pullman. She stepped to her agency to check her pilus, her lipstick.

"You don't listen to anything I say."

In the mirror, Susan's gaze shifted to her girl. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to really look at her since she'd come into the sleeping accommodation. "Of course I practice. I heard everything you said, very clearly."

"Listening's different than hearing."

"That may be true, Elizabeth, but we've already had this give-and-take."

"It's not a word, information technology'due south a decree."

Susan'due south rima oris tightened briefly, the but sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were coolly, calmly blue. "I'1000 sorry you feel that mode. Every bit your mother, I must do what I believe best for you."

"What'southward all-time for me, in your opinion, is for me to practice, be, say, recollect, human activity, want, become exactly what you decided for me earlier you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm."

She heard the rise of her own vocalism but couldn't control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her optics but couldn't terminate them. "I'chiliad tired of beingness your experiment. I'm tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to come across your expectations. I want to brand my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books I want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours."

Susan's eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. "Well. Your attitude isn't surprising, given your age, simply yous've picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative."

"Sorry. It wasn't on the schedule."

"Sarcasm's also typical, but it's unbecoming." Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. "We'll talk about all this when I get dorsum. I'll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe."

"I don't need therapy! I demand a mother who listens, who gives a shit about how I feel."

"That kind of linguistic communication only shows a lack of maturity and intellect."

Enraged, Elizabeth threw upward her easily, spun in circles. If she couldn't be calm and rational similar her female parent, she'd be wild. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

"And repetition inappreciably enhances. You lot take the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator o

r freezer, and labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the academy at eight on Monday morn. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS adjacent fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My automobile will be here any infinitesimal."

Oh, those seeds were sprouting, great that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the get-go fourth dimension in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother'southward eyes and said, "No."

She spun around, stomped away and slammed the door of her bedroom. She threw herself down on the bed, stared at the ceiling with tear-blurred eyes. And waited.

Whatsoever second, any second, she told herself. Her mother would come in, demand an amends, demand obedience. And Elizabeth wouldn't give one, either.

They'd have a fight, an bodily fight, with threats of penalization and consequences. Maybe they'd yell at each other. Maybe if they yelled, her mother would finally hear her.

And mayhap, if they yelled, she could say all the things that had crept up within her this past year. Things she thought at present had been inside her forever.

She didn't want to be a doctor. She didn't desire to spend every waking hour on a schedule or hide a stupid pair of jeans because they didn't fit her mother's dress code.

She wanted to have friends, not approved socialization appointments. She wanted to mind to the music girls her historic period listened to. She wanted to know what they whispered nigh and laughed about and talked most while she was close out.

She didn't desire to exist a genius or a prodigy.

She wanted to be normal. She just wanted to exist like everyone else.

She swiped at the tears, curled upwardly, stared at the door.

Any second, she thought again. Whatsoever 2nd now. Her mother had to exist angry. She had to come in and assert authority. Had to.

"Please," Elizabeth murmured as seconds ticked into minutes. "Don't make me give in once more. Delight, please, don't brand me give up."

Love me enough. Just this once.

Merely as the minutes dragged on, Elizabeth pushed herself off the bed. Patience, she knew, was her female parent'southward greatest weapon. That, and the unyielding sense of being right, crushed all foes. And certainly her daughter was no match for it.

Defeated, she walked out of her room, toward her female parent's.

The garment bag, the briefcase, the minor, wheeled Pullman were gone. Even every bit she walked downstairs, she knew her female parent had gone, too.

"She left me. She just left."

Alone, she looked around the pretty, tidy living room. Everything perfect—the fabrics, the colors, the fine art, the system. The antiques passed downwards through generations of Fitches—all placidity elegance.

Empty.

Zilch had changed, she realized. And nothing would.

"So I will."

She didn't allow herself to think, to question or second-guess. Instead, she marched support, snagged pair of scissors from her report area.

In her bathroom, she studied her face in the mirror—coloring she'd gotten through paternity—auburn hair, thick similar her mother's but without the soft, pretty moving ridge. Her female parent's high, abrupt cheekbones, her biological father'south—whoever he was—deep-set dark-green eyes, pale pare, wide oral fissure.

Physically attractive, she thought, considering that was DNA and her mother would tolerate no less. But not beautiful, not hitting like Susan, no. And that, she supposed, had been a thwarting fifty-fifty her mother couldn't fix.

"Freak." Elizabeth pressed a hand to the mirror, antisocial what she saw in the glass. "You're a freak. But equally of now, you're not a coward."

Taking a big breath, she yanked up a hunk of her shoulder-length hair and whacked it off.

With every snap of the scissors she felt empowered. Her hair, her choice. She let the shorn hanks fall on the floor. Every bit she snipped and hacked, an epitome formed in her heed. Eyes narrowed, head angled, she slowed the clipping. It was only geometry, really, she decided—and physics. Action and reaction.

The weight—concrete and metaphorical, she thought—just fell away. And the girl in the glass looked lighter. Her eyes seemed bigger, her face not so thin, not then drawn.

She looked … new, Elizabeth decided.

Carefully, she gear up the scissors downwardly, and, realizing her breath was heaving in and out, made a conscious effort to boring information technology.

Then short. Testing, she lifted a hand to her exposed neck, ears, then brushed them over the bangs she'd cut. Also even, she decided. She hunted up manicure scissors, tried her paw at styling.

Not bad. Not actually practiced, she admitted, but unlike. That was the whole betoken. She looked, and felt, unlike.

But non finished.

Leaving the hair where it lay on the floor, she went into her bedroom, changed into her clandestine cache of apparel. She needed product—that's what the girls called it. Hair production. And makeup. And more clothes.

She needed the mall.

Riding on the thrill, she went into her female parent's home office, took the spare motorcar keys. And her heart hammered with excitement as she hurried to the garage. She got behind the bicycle, shut her eyes a moment.

"Here nosotros go," she said quietly, then hit the garage-door opener and backed out.

SHE GOT HER EARS PIERCED. Information technology seemed a bold if mildly painful movement, and suited the hair dye she'd taken from the shelf after a long, careful study and debate. She bought pilus wax, every bit she'd seen i of the girls at higher utilize it and thought she could duplicate the wait. More or less.

She bought two hundred dollars' worth of makeup because she wasn't sure what was right.

Then she had to sit downward because her knees shook. Simply she wasn't done, Elizabeth reminded herself, as she watched the packs of teenagers, groups of women, teams of families, wander past. She just needed to regroup.

She needed dress, just she didn't have a plan, a list, an calendar. Impulse buying was exhilarating, and exhausting. The temper that had driven her this far left her with a dull headache, and her earlobes throbbed a piffling.

The logical, sensible thing to exercise was go home, lie down for a while. Then program, make that list of items to be purchased.

But that was the onetime Elizabeth. This one was merely going to catch her breath.

The problem facing her now was that she wasn't precisely sure which store or stores she should get to. In that location were so many of them, and all the windows full of things. And then she'd wander, watch for girls her age. She'd become where they went.

She gathered her bags, pushed to her feet—and bumped into someone.

"Excuse me," she began, and so recognized the girl. "Oh. Julie."

"Yes." The blonde with the sleek, perfect hair and melted-chocolate eyes gave Elizabeth a puzzled look. "Practice I know you?"

"Probably not. We went to schoolhouse together. I was pupil instructor in your Spanish class. Elizabeth Fitch."

"Elizabeth, sure. The encephalon trust." Julie narrowed her sulky eyes. "You look dissimilar."

"Oh. I …" Embarrassed now, Elizabeth lifted a mitt to her pilus. "I cutting my hair."

"Cool. I thought you moved away or something."

"I went to college. I'm habitation for the summer."

"Oh, yep, you lot graduated early on. Weird."

"I suppose information technology is. Will yous go to college this autumn?"

"I'k supposed to go to Dark-brown."

"That's a wonderful school."

"Okay. Well …"

"Are you shopping?"

"Broke." Julie shrugged—and Elizabeth took a survey of her outfit—the snug jeans, riding very low on the hipbones, the skinny, midriff-baring shirt, the oversized shoulder bag and wedge sandals. "I just came to the mall to see my boyfriend—my ex-young man, since I broke upward with him."

"I'm sad."

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