Liza turns away and waits by the door, like the possibility of the graffiti being true upsets her. Meanwhile, my focus shifts to the ground. The floor is littered with broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty old underwear.
"I need a break," I tell Derik, suddenly feeling weighted down by all my loot.
"You?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, like the idea of me needing a break surprises him.
"Ditto," Chet chimes in. "I need to take a leak."
"Break time!" Greta declares.
"Fine," Derik says, still working his camera. "Let's go."
Using the map, we move through several more wards and wings, up and down a couple more flights of stairs, through a couple rec rooms. We somehow make it to the reception room of the administration building, where we finally dump our bags.
"Okay," Tony says. "A short break, then how about we get serious? Film something really dramatic." He pulls what appear to be a stack of scripts and a director's megaphone from his bag.
"Are you kidding me?" I ask him. "This isn't The Young and the Restless."
"More like The Young and the Sexless," Derik says, motioning to Chet.
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Chet asks,
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standing so close to Liza that he might as well be humping her leg.
"It means stop molesting my cast." Derik takes a portable dolly out of his backpack and sets it up so that his camera rests on top.
"Wait." Greta throws her hand up as though to stop traffic. "Don't you want a high-concept, no-filler film? I mean, you don't want to bore people to death only ten minutes in, do you?"
Derik swivels the dolly to aim the camera at her.
"She's got that right," Tony says, using the megaphone, his voice echoing even more. "People will be asking for their money back before they even make a dent in their popcorn."
"Right," Greta says, striking a pose for the camera-- hands on hips, back arched, stomach sucked in. "Which is why I was thinking we could have me act like I'm trapped in a room or something. I could be struggling to get out."
"Or maybe we could just have you trapped in a room," I suggest, faking a smile. "No acting required."
Greta lets out a huff, still overacting. "If I'm going to be involved in this project, I need it to have purpose ... to have edge ... to have spice."
"Spice?" Chet perks up.
Tony hands a script to each of us, but Derik totally ignores it, instead filming Greta's every bossy move.
"I thought we were supposed to be taking a break," I say, unzipping my coat to unload the tonnage of file
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folders I've squirreled inside, as well as the wax paper-covered notebook and the watercolor picture. I pile them on the floor, out of the way, and then pull a bunch of candles from my bag and set them up in a circle to establish a cozy area--if the word cozy could even apply here.
"Séance time?" Chet asks, rubbing his hands together.
"Yeah, I thought we could summon an evil spirit to take over your body and make you perform sadistic rituals."
"Sounds cool," he says.
I roll my eyes, noticing how Liza is sitting off by herself, eyeing my pile of stuff, probably wondering what my deal is. And so I listen to Chet ramble on about some candlelit picnic he attempted with a girl--how he accidentally burned his butt in the process--for exactly the length of time that it takes me to light all the candles. Then I join Liza, scooting in between her and my stack of file folders.
"Still feeling like this place doesn't want us here?" I ask.
"Make fun if you want."
"I'm not making fun. I'm just curious. What did you mean by all that?"
She shrugs instead of answering.
"You don't want to be here, do you?"
"Do you?" she asks. "Can you honestly say that this is fun for you?"
I shrug, wondering what she was thinking by coming
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here in the first place--Of if she was even thinking at all. "This place is definitely intense," I say, in an effort to play nice. "Part of it pulls you in. Another part wants to spit you out."
Liza's eyes lock on mine for just a second, and I almost catch sight of a trembling lip, like maybe she gets what I'm saying.
"Ate you okay?" I ask.
But instead of answering, she looks at the watercolor I found.
"This place is screwing with you, isn't it?" I continue, pushing the picture toward her. "It's screwing with me, too. Just look at this painting. One minute I'm drawn to it; something tells me to pull it down, that I have to know more, and so I do, only to find the artist's initials on the back. Then, two minutes later, I see a name on the wall-- a name that shares those same initials. I mean, it's quite a coincidence, don't you think?"
"I'm not sure I believe in coincidences."
"So you think it was intentional?" I ask, focusing on the place in the picture where there should be a heart. "Do you think that something greater--some external force, maybe--wanted me to make the connection?"
"External force?"
"Yeah. Like, maybe Christine Belle, maybe her spirit was reaching out to me. Maybe she's trying to haunt me." I flip the picture over to look at her initials again. Then I grab the journal from the stack of file folders. "I found this
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in the same room as the painting. It was wedged inside one of the mattresses. Do you want to read some of it with me?"
Liza stares at it, her mouth dropping open like she's seriously tempted. "Maybe not," she says finally, though unable to take her eyes off it. A moment later she gets up--just like that--as if the temptation is too strong and she has to get away.
Meanwhile, Derik's got the camera zoomed right at me. "We're heading downstairs to the tunnels," he says. "I want to shoot some of my storyboard stuff."
"Well, I want to take a break," I remind him.
"Break's over." He smiles. "Back to work."
"Not for me. I just sat down."
"Yeah for you," he insists. "Come on; we need to stick together."
"Why?" I balk. "I have a map. I have candles, a cell phone, a walkie-talkie, my flashlight--"
"I can stay with her," Chet offers. "Oh. Yeah. I feel safe," I say.
"Liza, I'd like you to come, too," Derik says, practically drooling as she pulls the elastic from her pony tail. Her hair spills down in silky waves, totally making me want to hurl.
And I'm not alone. Greta rolls her eyes, pausing a moment from running a hairbrush through her curly dark locks. She uses the brush to thwack her beloved Tony on the side of his head. The boy has got his eyes seriously
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lodged right on Liza's chest.
"I was thinking we could get a cool shot of you holding a candle," Derik continues.
"I don't know," Liza says, chewing nervously at her bottom lip. "I may just want to sit for a little while to get my bearings--to get used to this place, you know?" She readjusts her hair into a grandmalike bun, but she still looks nauseatingly perfect.
"Maybe you should stay behind," Greta says, turning to Liza. "I mean, it's probably going to be super scary down there."
"Really?" Liza's eyes widen.
"Totally," Greta continues, feeding Liza's feat. "I mean, there's probably going to be all kinds of creepy stuff happening down there--blinking lights, faulty equipment, spirits passing through us. And we're probably going to be a while. We have a lot to shoot, so you might want to stay up here with the crew."
"That wouldn't mean more screen time for you," I ask, "would it?"
Greta shrugs, but my comment doesn't seem to bother her. "I guess now that you mention it, I could do that candle scene."
"Or me," Tony pipes up.
"Don't worry," Derik says, drawing his sweatshirt over Liza's shoulders once again --obviously a regular maneuver in his repertoire of playerisms. "Nothing weird is gonna happen down there. Liza can stay close to me."
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Liza reluctantly joins him and the other two
Hollywood wannabes. Tony is helping Greta get ready for her close-up at this very moment. He's got some powder out, dabbing it across her rounded cheeks and pointed chin. "So you won't shine for the camera," he says.
Meanwhile, I pretend to ignore them by thumbing through a bunch of file folders.
"Seriously, Mimi," Derik says, copping an attitude. "I'd rather you guys just came with us." He looks back and forth between Chet and me.
"Go!" I tell him, flipping open one of the folders. "I'll be fine."
"Let's go," Greta demands. She runs a fingerful of Vaseline over her teeth, muttering something about how it keeps her lips from rolling up into her gums when she smiles. Like lip-rolling is some regular occurrence.
"We'll be right downstairs," Derik says. "We're gonna go by way of the cafeteria. Use the walkie-talkie if you need anything."
"Sure," I say to appease him.
But Derik doesn't look so sure. Still, he leaves me alone.
Finally.
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LIZA
IT'S ALMOST MIDNIGHT, barely two hours in this place, but I feel like I've been here for days. It's just kind of crazy ... this sensation I have--like somebody's watching me. Ever since I set foot in this hospital, I've felt like there's someone standing over my shoulder, whispering into my ear, telling me that I shouldn't be here. It's got me completely on edge.
It doesn't help that Mimi is making me nervous, too. I mean, I try not to judge people, but it stresses me out just looking at her--dark hair, dark makeup, shrouded in layers of black like it's Halloween. Like she truly enjoys excursions like this.
We'd barely even made it inside this place, and there she was, telling us all about some cemetery we passed--a noticeable twinkle in her eye. Then, only a few minutes ago, she asked me all these questions--if I believe in coincidence, if I believe in a greater power, and if I wanted to
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read some patient's journal she found.
She discovered the journal tucked inside a mattress in one of the rooms. I didn't tell her this, but when she wasn't looking, I opened it up and read one of the entries:
March 5, 1981
After dinner. There's a girl here named Jessica who really scares me. she's sixteen years old and she's got these dead black eyes and this really hard stare. She watched me while I slept last night. And so I couldn't sleep at all; I couldn't stop shaking inside. It felt like my skin was icing up. Somebody told me Jessica's in here because she hears voices. I can't even imagine what that must be like.
Still, my foster care counselor says this is a good place for me. The counselor at the emergency room said so, too. I don't know. The only thing I know for sure is that I want to go to sleep and never wake up. That's why I took those pills. But the treatment here are supposed to make me better. I just hope this place isn't as bad as my last foster home.
Or the one before that.
Or before that.
Or the girls home.
And maybe I can do my art again. Maybe I can even get my GED.
More tomorrow.
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I don't know why I read that journal entry, or what compelled me to even open the notebook in the first place. There was just something that made me do it--a sudden urge that I can't quite explain.
But I guess I've been doing a lot of weird things since I got here.
Case in point, I stuck around when I could have left. I had the perfect opportunity to back out of this thing. Chet was even willing to drive me home. I mean, yes, I felt really bad for Derik. He's put so much energy into this project. And yes, I need this project myself--time's a-tickin' and I need to update my college applications with some extracurriculars.
But it was more than just pity and school. It was this place--the pull on me it had as soon as I stepped inside. Like, I want to go home but I need to see more. Like there's something bigger going on here than just abandoned buildings and debris.
Like exactly what Mimi said.
As if my internal struggle isn't unsettling enough, earlier, when Derik and the others weren't paying attention, I wandered into one of the rooms on my own and opened a closet. I found a noose in there. It was hanging down almost like an invitation. For just a split second something called out to me; I wanted to touch it.
And so I did.
With trembling fingers, I reached out and grabbed it, noticing my breath quicken and my legs start to shake.
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I backed away right after I did it, wondering what I was doing, why I was still there.
Especially because the noose felt like death.
It was just like the watercolor picture that Mimi found. It called out to me, too. There was just something about it--the colors the girl used, the missing body pieces, the way the paper felt between my fingers. In that instant, sitting in the reception room when nobody was looking, I just had to touch it, to know more about the girl who painted it.
And so I can't help but wonder if maybe, like Mimi, I'm being haunted as well. The thought of it only makes me tremble more.
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MIMI
ONCE DERIK AND the others leave for the tunnels, I start flipping through the folders, searching for my grandmother's name. Since she was once a patient here.
I know it's not rational. I know the odds of finding any trace of her are slim to none. I mean, there are files everywhere in this place. It's hard to walk and not step on somebody's medical history. But I have to try anyway. Because after my grandmother was admitted here, it's like her whole entire family forgot about her.
But I'm not forgetting.
I may not have been around when it happened (I hadn't even been born yet), but I'm here now. And this visit is long overdue.
My older sister Micki has only filled me in on bits and pieces of what happened. She says that our family became ashamed of it--the idea of having someone in an asylum. She expects me to understand, to see their side of things,
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to consider the fact that my grandmother was admitted here long ago--when people were more private about things.
But I don't understand. And actually, when I really stop to think about it, it makes me sick. Because, what if something like that ever happened to me? What if I needed to be institutionalized? Would my family forget about me, too?
And so my grandmother lived here.
And then died here.
And no one even bothered to visit her.
Until now.
Chet plunks himself down next to me. "Come here often?" he asks, giving me the smarmy eye. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Come on." He laughs. "Where's your sense of humor?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"Yeah, but something tells me you're not in this for the laughs."
"Oh, really," I say, somewhat surprised by his perception. I mean, the guy's an absolute clown. To prove me right, he slips on the clown mask I found. It's the kind that has elastic across the back to hold it in place. A plastic version of Bozo, complete with a bulbous nose, happy lips, and fluffy red hair--even scarier than Tony's nest of thick brown curlicues and Chet's orange frizz put together.
The sight of it creeps me out. "Take that off," I snap.
"Not into clown kink, I take it." He takes the mask off.
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"What's with the black eye?" I ask, ignoring his attempt at humor, remembering how Derik had asked about the black eye yesterday at the diner, but how Chet had laughed it off.
"First answer my question," he says. "What's with the chip?"
"Excuse me?"
He reaches over to rub my shoulder. "There's a pretty bad one right there."
It takes me a moment to get it, and when I do, I can't help but smile. "Pretty clever."
"A curse I have to live with." He smiles back, his light brown eyes crinkling up. It's the first time I notice the dimple in his cheek. "So what's the deal?" he continues.
"No deal."
"Something tells me you have an agenda," he pushes. "So wh
at is it? Something more interesting than combat boots and a 666 attitude, I hope."
I shrug, glancing down at a profile sheet. "Gus Newman," I read aloud, avoiding the question. "Age seventeen. High school senior."
"Let me guess," Chet says. "Too much funny dust?"
"Social anxiety issues," I correct, reading from the chart. "It says here he had difficulty relating to his peers. Sound familiar?" I raise an eyebrow at Chet.
"Nope. Not to me," Chet says, using the clown mask as a hat now.
I flip through the pages, looking for something
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meatier, some legitimate reason for Gus to be locked up in this place, but knowing that it happened all the time-- that sometimes people got checked in for the wrong reasons. "I once read about this boy whose parents dumped him off here, saying he was too rambunctious for them to handle. A couple years here, and no word from his parents--and the boy really did go crazy."
"Sounds like something my parents would do."
"That explains a lot."
Instead of responding, Chet pulls the clown mask back down over his face and sticks his tongue out through the lips.
"Do you know how many germs that thing probably has?"
"Does that mean we can't make out later?"
"You can't be serious."
"Try me," he says, his tongue flailing away.
I go to rip the mask off, but Chet does it for me. "Maybe later?" he asks.
"There isn't enough mouthwash or money on the planet," I say.
At that he gets up, stretches his arms, and readjusts his headlight. "Playing hard to get? I like that." He winks. "Wait, where are you going?"
"Just thought I'd pop over to the brain lab on my way to get some shock treatments."
"Seriously," I bite.
"Seriously, come on" he says. "Let's go for a walk. When