Secret for a Song

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S

aylor Grayson makes herself sick. Literally.

 

She ate her first needle when she was seven. Now, at nineteen, she’s been kicked out of college for poisoning herself with laxatives. The shrinks call it Munchausen Syndrome. All Saylor knows is that when she’s ill, her normally distant mother pays attention and the doctors and nurses make her feel special.

Then she meets Drew Dean, the leader of a local support group for those with terminal diseases. When he mistakes her for a new member, Saylor knows she should correct him. But she can’t bring herself to, not after she’s welcomed into a new circle of friends. Friends who, like Drew, all have illnesses ready to claim their independence or their lives

For the first time, Saylor finds out what it feels like to be in love, to have friends who genuinely care about her. But secrets have a way of revealing themselves. What will happen when Saylor’s is out?



Where did the idea for Secret for a Song come from?

The idea of a girl with Munchausen who pretends she has a terminal illness came to me first, before the rest of the plot did. I’d studied Munchausen Syndrome as a psych major in college, and I’d read about patients who pretended they had cancer or other illnesses to gain sympathy and attention. When the idea just wouldn’t let go, I knew I had to write it. And that’s when I realized she’d fall in love with a boy with a degenerative disease, that she’d come to deeply care about people who had terminal illnesses. From there I went on to figure out how to put Saylor in the most impossible situations and how, if at all, she’d redeem herself.

Why did you decide to write a character with Munchausen Syndrome? Did you worry she would be unlikable?

I was a psychology major in college, and I’m a huge psychology geek still. When the idea for a character with Munchausen came to me, I was immediately entranced. I knew I ran the risk that she’d be completely unsympathetic, but that seemed like it would be a fun challenge to get around, from a craft point-of-view. I hope I was able to portray that Saylor had a lot to contend with from a very young age, and that her choices, though despicable at times, were still made because she was very sick, not because she was a bad person.

Is Secret for a Song a standalone book?

Yes, it is. When I wrote it, I intended to wrap up the entire story in one go, which I think I did fairly well. However, I’ve learned never to say never.

Is Secret for a Song available in paperback?

I’m currently in the process of setting up paperback distribution through all the major retailers. I’ll update this with the link once it’s online!

Will you sign my copy of Secret for a Song?

I’d be happy to! Contact me if you’d like to mail me a copy of the book or order a signed copy. Alternately, if you’re a digital reader, you can request an autograph for your e-book through this free website.

I’m part of a book club and we were wondering if you’d speak to us.

I’d love to! If you’re in Charleston, SC or the surrounding areas, I’m happy to stop by. If not, we can Skype, chat on the phone, or you can email me questions. Also, check out the book club tab for a discussion guide.

Where can I find more information about Munchausen Syndrome?

The Mayo Clinic has detailed information on the symptoms, causes, and risk factors of Munchausen Syndrome.

I have a foreign rights and/or other publishing-related inquiry.

Please contact me to discuss anything publishing-related.

You didn’t answer my question!

Contact me and ask away.



Here be spoilers! If you haven’t read the book yet, you might not want to read the questions below.

1. In chapter four, Saylor is convinced her mother calls her a “poisonous little monster.” However, when confronted, her mother insists she said, “Must you act like such a little monster?” What is the significance of this argument? Who do you believe and why?

2. About her Munchausen Syndrome, Saylor says in chapter five, “Send a junkie to rehab and she’d get on with her life. Send me to the hospital and I wanted more.” What do you think of this assessment of Munchausen Syndrome? What does it say about the mindset of the patient with the disorder?

3. In chapter eleven, Saylor says, “To me, it seemed an unfathomable luxury to be a cancer patient.” What do you make of this controversial statement? Why does Saylor say this?

4. In chapter fifteen, Saylor scratches the dollhouse floor under the bed in the master bedroom. Why does she do this? What is the significance of her replacing the bed exactly as it was after she damages it this way?

5. In chapter eighteen, Saylor says of her friendship with the members of the TIDD group: “I was there because I wanted to be like them, because I worshipped the mutation in their genes, the stumble and stutter of their limbs.” Do you think she’s rationalizing her deception, or does she honestly feel this way? Does her personality disorder have a part in her disordered thinking?

6. In chapter twenty-two, we learn that Dr. Daniels, Saylor’s physician since childhood, has a history of sexually assaulting her. Saylor insists that his behavior toward her has nothing to do with her Munchausen. Do you agree? How do you think Dr. Daniels’s abuse of power and trust affected Saylor’s development, if at all?

7. What role do you think Sarita Grayson’s alcoholism played in Saylor’s development of a fictitious disorder, if any? Why?

8. What was the significance of the yellow Roman shade to Drew? Why did that symbol mean so much to him, and how did it come to mean a lot to Saylor?

9. Saylor states that even though she took an overdose of Tylenol, she wasn’t trying to kill herself. Do you believe her? Why do you think she chose that moment in time to overdose?

10.  How did Drew’s decision to leave at the end of the novel strike you? Do you think it was justified for Saylor to not have a chance to say goodbye?

Chapter One

I

 

ate my first needle when I was seven.

You’d think something like that would be preceded by a major emotional moment, perhaps the slowing of time itself or some other heavy-handed bullshit. But no, there was nothing. I just remember thinking it was much too quiet in our seven-bedroom house. My mother was present—in a physical sense anyway—but I hadn’t seen her since she’d put out my breakfast. I was out of school, it being another glorious summer here in tiny, bucolic Ridgeland, New Hampshire. The oak tree, bowed over the roof like a curling hand, tapped on my bedroom window.

I opened my drawer, the one where I kept all the goodies I found—discarded plastic gemstones, spent toy gun pellets, dried earthworms—that I thought, for some unknowable kid reason, were worth saving. There lay the sewing needle, a perfectly small, lethal sword. I wanted to be a sword swallower, like the ones in the circus. I knew people came from all over the world to see them.

So I put the thing in my mouth. It was cold, and the sharp point pricked my tongue on the way down my throat. I imagined it seeking the softest spot of my stomach to pierce. I imagined my stomach filling with blood, imagined it gushing out my mouth and nose and ears, and then who wouldn’t be looking at me? Even my mother would be forced to look.

But I waited and waited, and nothing of the sort happened. I couldn’t feel the needle anymore. I opened my mouth, knelt on the tufted stool before my painted white vanity, and peered into the dark cavern of my throat. I didn’t see any rips. Where the heck had the needle gone?

I went searching for my mother, my (sadly un-bleeding) stomach twisted in knots of excitement and dread. What would she say? What would she do?

Tucked away in the corner of the dining room, she was reading the newspaper with a cup of tea at her elbow. She was East Indian on the surface and English at heart, my mother. I don’t think she’d ever forgiven my dad for whisking her away to the States when they married, though from what I understood, she’d gone willingly enough. Her black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail—the kind of thing that my mass of curls refused to be even back then. She didn’t even look up when I slid into the chair beside her. I remember grabbing her sleeve and pulling.

“What, Saylor?” Yanking her arm away, she turned a page and kept reading.

“I swallowed something.” I wiggled in my seat. What if it came out of my butt when I pooped? Would it hurt?

She kept reading.

“I swallowed a needle.”

There was a pause. I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me. But then her head turned, and I saw her eyes: the deep brown coated with a mixture of fear and anger and irritation. An actual flurry of emotion.

She grabbed my shoulder. “You what? Why on earth would you do something like that?”

I shook my head, still astounded at the sheer weight of her hand on my skin, the warmth of her breath on my face.

Mum pushed her chair back and ran for the phone.

The rest of that episode came back to me in waves every now and then. An image here, an image there, scattered through the trails of my memory. I remembered going to the hospital. I remembered them putting me in some scary machines, looking at pictures of my stomach. I remembered Mum reading to me in the waiting room, out of some kids’ magazine, her breath still sweet and metallic from her tea.

I remembered I never wanted it to end.

I stood with my hands in my hoodie, looking down at the street below. New Hampshire was pitching a hissy fit complete with sleet that refused to be rain, the kind of weather that made people want to curl up inside with coffee and a book. I, of course, was a different story.

I did love this kind of weather, but not for the reasons most people did. I liked it because the lines in the hospitals were usually small, as sick people decided to risk taking their at-home medications another day. I liked it because the doctors lingered longer in my room; the nurses were more likely to make small talk. I liked the way rain sounded against Plexiglas windows.

“I’m double-parked, so hurry. We don’t want to be late.”

Turning, I nodded at Mum. I trailed my hands along the boxes the movers had arranged by the door. My first apartment, and I was leaving it already. I’d honestly planned to stay here more than six months.

 

I supposed I should’ve seen this coming. My grades had taken a steady nosedive since the beginning of the semester. The freedom had, quite literally, gone to my head. The credit card my parents had given me, and probably never checked before paying off, had been going to medical supplies more often than not. Though, had they thought to check, they’d only have seen my charges at the local pharmacy and assumed I was buying condoms or tampons.

Laxatives were cheap and easy, and my condition baffled the doctors. I’d forgotten the kind of high I got from seeing a new doctor—the one in my hometown was so used to seeing me. That wide-eyed sense of honest to God wanting to help was so rare to capture anymore.

But they’d done blood tests. Of course the laxatives had showed up. I thought they metabolized quicker than they actually did. It had been a mistake on the website I’d used as my guide to getting sick; a website I definitely wouldn’t be using anymore.

 

The car purred as we crossed downtown, spraying parked vehicles and light poles with muddy slush. The steady squeak and drag of the windshield wipers was lulling. I inhaled deeply, breathing in Mum’s tea rose perfume.

“Is it a left here?”

I nodded.

When we parked, she got out and slammed the car door behind her. I tried to hold in a smile. She was angry. She was here.

 

The mannish college psychologist stood when we walked in, her hand outstretched, stubby fingers waiting. Next to my mother, she looked ridiculous in her cheap black pantsuit and gelled cropped hair.

“Mrs. Grayson, it’s nice to meet you. Have a seat.”

“Please call me Sarita.” Mum grasped the collars of her cream-colored coat and pulled them together at the base of her throat, as if she was trying to protect herself from what was coming next.

I sat next to her, positioning the toe of my boot so it was right next to her shoe. I looked at our feet, side by side on the threadbare carpet. They were the same size.

“Sarita.” Dr. Milton looked down at the folder on her desk, shuffled a paper or two, and then sat back. “Are you… aware of the nature of Saylor’s ailment?”

Mum glanced at me. “I’m aware she’s been lying about her health again. She’s been doing that since she was small, exaggerating how bad things are.”

Shame and anger turned my blood to molten lava. Just the way she said it—as if I was intrinsically broken or had come defective without a receipt.

“It’s unfortunately a bit more serious than that.” Dr. Milton cleared her throat like she’d done the past couple of weeks every time she was uncomfortable. I wanted to rip her folder into pieces and shove the pieces down her throat. “Saylor has what’s called a factitious disorder. That means she creates symptoms in order to play the role of the sick person. But the thing that concerns me most, as a mental health professional, is that she could put herself at some serious risk if she’s not careful.” She paused, itching her chin. “As I said in my phone call, the campus clinic found traces of laxatives still in her bloodstream, which explained the seemingly untreatable upset stomach she reported. But Saylor still denies her involvement in her disease. In addition, she’s doing poorly in all of her classes, something that’s to be expected from someone with such a chronic condition. I’m afraid it’s only going to progress and get more serious until she accepts help.”

Mum refused to look at me, but I saw the lines bracketing her mouth. The lines that emphasized just how disgusting, how disturbed, she thought I was. “We’ve made her a series of appointments with one of the best psychologists in her home city.” She rose.

Dr. Milton stood too, speaking quicker when she saw we were about to leave. “While that’s excellent, I’d really like to encourage you and Mr. Grayson to go to these sessions too. Factitious disorder is really a disorder of the family system, and—”

“Thank you. We’ll look into it.”

We strode out, me at Mum’s heels, breathing in her scent. Behind us, Dr. Milton cleared her throat.