Chapter Twenty-Three
Outside, the sky is still blue. Maggie and I do not belong in this sunny day. We are white as sheets as we make our way down the stairs that lead away from the front door. We pause at the street, looking a little lost.
“What now?” I ask. Our cab is long gone.
“Now, we g-get the hell out of here. We’ll walk back t-to the main road and call a cab.”
Overhead, a seagull cries happily. I feel my eyes welling up, my throat getting tight. “Is that going to happen to me?”
“No.” She turns back to me, finger up, looking angry. “D-don’t you go there. Not even for a second. D-do you hear me? Julien is sick, Chloe. Like really sick.”
“I know. I know that. But when she grabbed my hands, I remembered what she was talking about. Dr. Kirkpatrick was in that study group telling us how to breathe.”
“So what if she was? I mean, I know it’s creepy, and yes, you all t-turned into freaking robots—”
“So what if somehow that creepy stuff turned Julien into this? If I remember what they did, maybe I can help her. I have to remember, Mags.”
She settles a cool hand on my shoulder. “No, you don’t. Chloe, it’s schizophrenia, okay? That’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”
I can’t believe this. I throw up my hands in disgust. “So that’s it. Julien is sick and somehow that means Dr. Kirkpatrick is innocent?”
“I d-didn’t say that. I’m just saying she didn’t have anything to d-do with this. And we shouldn’t either.”
I know she’s right. There isn’t a single logical explanation for anyone causing schizophrenia. But still, I can’t stop thinking about her flashes of sanity. Sometimes, the lunatic shutters cracked open, and I could see the completely normal girl trapped behind them.
“Let’s just get back,” Maggie says, interrupting my thoughts.
I nod, scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hands. We’re just walking down the sidewalk when I hear a faint tapping from the house behind us. Maggie’s glancing around, so I know she’s heard it too. We search the scrubby yard and the palm tree, and then finally the house itself.
Julien.
She’s standing at one of the windows upstairs, making a motion with her arms.
“Is she drawing something?” I ask. “Why doesn’t she just open the window?”
“Maybe they won’t open,” Maggie says. “Maybe they think it’d be t-too risky.”
I ignore Maggie and shake my head. I try to look as confused as I can, hoping Julien will somehow manage to read my body language.
“Let’s j-just go.”
“No! She asked me to help, Mags.”
In the window, Julien tosses her hair. She’s frustrated, I think. And then she’s just gone. Maybe she sat down or walked away, but it doesn’t matter. The window is empty, and there is no saving happening here. Not today.
I turn back to the road, where Maggie’s already walking, but the tapping comes again. Julien, of course. She’s just watching us, palms pressed to the glass and a desperate look in her eyes. Like she’s waiting for me to do something.
“What d-does she want?” Maggie asks.
I sigh and push my hair behind my ears. “I don’t know. You were right. We should go.”
***
“I just don’t know what she meant with all that Wicked Witch stuff,” I say, doodling a cartoon of a stick figure on a broomstick on the paper place mat beneath my burger and fries.
Maggie picks at her own plate and frowns. “Maybe none of it really means anything. I don’t understand why you’re trying t-to make sense of it, Chlo.”
“Because she doesn’t make sense. Schizophrenia doesn’t come on like that. It comes on slowly, like over months or even years. It doesn’t just crop up at the end of one summer.” I push away my plate, my appetite lost. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s another reason they left.”
“Or maybe this is a d-dead end, like I said. Julien has problems, Chlo. And I don’t know that we need to be d-digging around in her messed-up family d-dynamics anymore.”
The rest of our train ride passes in silence. Maggie listens to her music, and I watch the skyline, one interesting building after the next slipping past my window. I try not to think of Adam. And fail miserably.
I want to call him. I mean, I really want to. But all I can think about is our last phone call. And his extracurricular visit to the local pharmacy.
What a mess.
I want to hear his side of the story. Because I know he’s not a bad guy. His room, those college applications, that freaking wall of architecture? That has to mean something.
But there’s another part of me that knows an explanation isn’t going to fix this. My parents already think I’m crazy. And now I’m going to date the criminal my mom sewed up in the emergency room? They’ll ship me off to a boarding school for troubled children.
God, I just wish it didn’t feel so right—so easy with him. If it could just be hard, I’d walk away. But it’s not hard. It’s as simple as my own damn instinct, and that means more than whatever stupid thing he did two years ago.
I’ll have to worry about the fallout with my parents later. I have to call him.
As if on cue, my cell phone rings. I spring out of my seat and into the narrow aisle, waving at Maggie to let her know I’m stepping away. I answer it without even looking, positive it’s him.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Chloe. It’s Blake.”
“Oh.” I sound every bit as disappointed as I am. I try again, clearing my throat. “Oh, hey.”
It’s not much better, but I don’t care. I’m not ready for this call today. Or ever, really. I reach for the wall beside me, bracing myself as the train rocks over the tracks. I’m pretty sure he’ll hear the background noise, so I can’t just hang up.
“So how’ve you been?” he asks.
His tone seems casual enough, but I feel like tiny invisible bugs are crawling up and down my arms.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Is something wrong?”
He laughs a little. “No, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about you and thought I’d give you a call. Day before Thanksgiving and all.”
“Right,” I say, shaking my head a little. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Same to you. Though yours will probably be more interesting than mine since you’re spending it in San Diego of all places.”
My heart stops beating. I’m sure of it. My mouth drops open, but I can’t form a single word right now because I’m completely paralyzed.
“I’m sorry?” I finally manage, because I had to have misheard him. I’m paranoid or tired or something.
He laughs as if it’s all very funny. “Your mom told me when I called this morning. I asked if I could bring by a pie, and she told me you were in San Diego.”
No, she didn’t say that. She couldn’t have said that because she has no idea I’m in San Diego. According to my mother, I’m in the Ritz-Carlton in Los Angeles and we told Maggie’s mother that we were heading out to some botanical garden for the day. Not once, did the words San or Diego exit either of our mouths.
“So how’s the weather?” he asks.
“Warm,” I say, croaking it out despite my now-roiling stomach.
I will not throw up. I will not throw up or pass out, and I will not start screaming. My hand feels slick with sweat on my phone. Someone’s coming toward me in the narrow little corridor, so I have to get out of the way.
“Sounds great. I’ve never been lucky enough to spend Thanksgiving in California.”
I force a laugh, but it’s worse than the canned stuff they play on sitcoms. His is as flat and as stale as mine and all I can think is how? How does he know where I am?
“So what are you doing all the way down there?”
My self-preservation kicks in, and the lies come pouring out of me. “Oh, this and that. Checking out the bay. I’ll probably come back with a killer tan.”
/> He murmurs something agreeable, and it’s horrible and awkward and I can’t believe either of us are acting like this isn’t completely transparent.
“Well, I really should go,” I say. “We’re about to grab lunch.”
“Sure,” he says, and I know full well he doesn’t believe me. “Oh, and happy Thanksgiving, Chloe. You’ve got a lot to be grateful for this year, don’t you?”
“This year?”
“Well, everything is different for you now, isn’t it?”
There’s something to his tone I don’t like. Hell, there isn’t a thing about this phone call I do like, but this little preachy undertone grates me like a brick of cheese.
I guess he thinks last year was just too tragic. What with my second-rate social and academic rankings, I probably should have just stabbed myself with the wishbone and done the world a favor.
“Oh, I’m grateful all right,” I say. My voice is so sickly sweet, I could pass for a flight attendant. I keep it up, like poisoned honey, as we exchange our good-byes.
I stare at the screen on my phone for a long time after he disconnects. One of the attendants asks me to take my seat. I point at the restroom like a mute and stumble toward it on legs that feel like cooked noodles.
The bathroom is cramped and loud, and I know I can’t hide here the rest of the way back. But I can’t tell Maggie. Our lunch made it pretty clear what she thinks of my conspiracy theories.
I palm my phone, knowing who I want to call. I can’t push the idea out of my head.
It takes me two minutes to gather the courage. I half expect myself to dial the number and immediately hang up, but that’s never been my style. Once I dial, I press the phone to my ear and square my shoulders.
Adam’s phone rings to voice mail after four rings. I wait a minute and call back again. This time, it goes straight to voice mail. And I’m not too stupid to know what that means. Call rejected. Chloe rejected.
I think this must be what it feels like to be slapped.
I return to my seat feeling like there’s a gaping hole where my important parts should be. Mags looks up briefly, returning to her notes without noticing my expression or even asking where I’ve been.
It wouldn’t matter if she asks. She’d only think I was crazy if I tried to explain it.
And maybe I am. Maybe I’m every bit as lost as Julien now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After eating for what feels like twelve straight hours on Thanksgiving Day, we take the red-eye home. We land at oh-dark-thirty Friday morning. Instead of getting sleep like a sane person, I change my clothes and brush my teeth and spend an hour reciting fun-filled antics of our trip to my parents.
And then I head out the door on the pretense of celebrating my early ungrounding with some Black Friday shopping.
Of course, I’m not going shopping. Unless I plan to buy a pack of gum from the convenience store across the street from Adam’s apartment.
Mrs. Corwin’s cat has probably barfed up things that look better than I do right now, but vanity will have to wait. And so will my wishy-washy pros and cons list about what I’m doing with Adam. This isn’t about that. It’s about Julien.
She needs help and she asked me. Which means I need to remember. And other than that brief moment holding hands with Julien in California, the only person who’s made me remember anything is sitting inside this apartment.
I knock and wait at least a minute before knocking again. Adam answers maybe a half second before I lose my nerve and bolt. If I was worried about my looks, I needn’t have bothered. He’s sporting four or five days of stubble at least and eyes so red I wonder if he’s slept since I’ve been gone.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
“No,” he says. He’s flat. Cold. Still edgy as all hell too, looking around his apartment like he’s waiting for a hit man to show up.
“I went to California,” I say, but I’m not really thinking about my trip. “I saw Julien Miller.”
He flinches, and for a moment, I can see the old Adam. The one who worries about me.
Then it’s gone, the indifferent mask in place. “California. Sounds great. I’m really busy.”
Lie. He’s not busy. He just wants me to leave. It stings like hell, but it reeks like a lie too.
I should be thinking about Julien and talking about all of the things she said or hinted at, but I can’t force my brain to go there. I can’t think about anything other than how horrible it feels to stand here and not be okay with him.
“She’s sick, Adam. God, she’s so incredibly sick.” I take a breath because I don’t want to be emotional. I want to be calm and make sense, but I’m not. “She’s sick, and I’m scared and I missed you. I still miss you.”
His eyes meet mine then. He cuts me right to the quick with that look. And he won’t say it back, I know that, but he doesn’t need to. His eyes are speaking for him.
I flex my fingers and then ball them into fists because I’m aching to touch him. “I saw all these buildings. Our hotel room looked over Balboa Park. The houses and storefronts or whatever—they all sort of look the same, like the same style.”
“Spanish Revival,” he says, and I can practically feel his eyes caressing my face. He steps closer and then backs away. It’s killing me.
“Adam…”
He swallows hard and shakes his head as if he can’t imagine why I’m here saying this. Acting like this. “Chlo, this needs to end. You’re right to stay away from me.”
“You don’t believe that. I know you don’t believe that.”
“I do believe it. Because it’s true,” he says, and it’s like someone’s ripping the words out of him.
I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, blurring my vision. “Maybe I don’t care about what’s true.”
Adam lets out a breath that sounds shaky. “You have no idea how hard you’re making this.”
“This isn’t hard. You know it isn’t,” I say, half whining. He touches me then, hand on my face and fingers moving into my hair. Everything in me melts into his hand, drawing into the soft, warm press of his fingers.
“I wish it was different, but it isn’t. Your mom was right, Chlo. I did break into that pharmacy.”
“No. There’s more to it than that. I know you, Adam.”
He flinches, and I can tell I’m right. Still, he shakes his head. “It happened. I did break into that pharmacy, and she’s right to want you to stay away from me.”
I feel like I’m sinking in quicksand. Or maybe that I’ve become quicksand and that all of this darkness and fear is swallowing me from the inside out. “Tell me why.”
He looks away and shifts his feet with a shrug. “Money.”
“Liar.”
That gets him to look back. He throws up his hands in surrender, and I feel cold where he’s let me go. “Fine, then go with drugs. What’s it going to take for you to get this?”
“Get what? There’s nothing to get because you’re not saying anything! And I know you’re not a user, Adam. Give me some credit.”
“What does it matter? I did exactly what you’re so afraid I did.”
“Yeah, I got that part. What’s still missing is the why.”
“You didn’t like my why.”
“That’s because it’s a freaking lie! Just tell me!”
Adam growls in frustration, ripping a hand through his hair. He still smells the same and sounds the same, and I wish to God I cared about what that scar on his arm means, but I don’t. Not anymore.
“Tell me why you did it.”
He turns, muttering something about being busy, and I can’t wait anymore, so I touch him. His arms first, and that’s enough for him to take a breath and hold it. He closes his eyes when I touch his face, and I take a breath as another memory runs through me.
Me a nervous wreck as Adam helps me jiggle the lock on the school cafeteria. I feel it give way underneath my fingers. Despite the thrill, I roll my eyes.
“I still don’t get
why I’d need to break in here.”
“To study,” Adam says with a shrug. Off my look, he smirks. “Well, it’s a hell of a lot quieter than my house.”
I pull my hands free to bring myself back to the present. Adam’s here too, but there isn’t anything close to a smile on his lips. Still, his eyes make me want to use big, flowery words. Azure. Cerulean.
Beautiful.
“I’m not giving up until you tell me,” I say.
He looks away, and I can tell he’s thinking it over. Maybe measuring my resolve. Finally, he nods and takes a half step back, needing the space, I guess. “She has Alzheimer’s. My grandmother.”
“How long?”
Adam shrugs, plunging his hands into his pockets. “Maybe three years. Do you know anything about the disease?”
“Enough to know I’m sorry she has it,” I say.
He doesn’t respond to that, just goes on like he’s talking about the weather or something. “She gets confused a lot. She had a period where she flushed her medicine down the toilet all the time.”
“Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Sometimes she thought it was poison. Sometimes she thought they were mine—stolen or whatever.” He waves like none of this is very important or interesting. “The doctors helped at first, but it happened too often. That month they refused. Said if she was having so much difficulty, we should consider an evaluation for assisted living.”
“What is that? Like a nursing home?”
He nods. “Sort of. I told the caseworker I found the meds, and she’d been doing better. We didn’t have money for more. I stupidly figured the pharmacy wouldn’t notice a missing bottle of blood-pressure pills.”
“But you got hurt. Your arm.”
“I was going to slide in through the drive-through window. The pharmacy was closed, but the owner was there. He closed my arm in the window. Glass broke…” Adam trails off, gesturing vaguely at the white scar on the inside of his forearm.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
That gets a laugh. A cold one. “Don’t be. It was stupid, and I’m damn lucky he didn’t shoot me.”