Happiness gurgles in my throat and a smile touches my lips.
“I have to admit, Sara did most of the persuading. I’m not sure how, but she managed to. I thought it might be better if you stayed. But I can see her reasoning. We convinced the judge that it would be beneficial to your therapy. You’ll be in Sara’s care the entire time. She will have to sign you out and back in. And unfortunately, you’ll be searched again when you come back.”
He goes on telling me about hospital policy and protocols, but I don’t hear what he’s saying anymore. All I can think of is Jason. Jason, who kept the sun in the sky and the stars apart and the water in the oceans.
Donny walks with me back to my room and I’m locked in for the night. Amelia’s still in the Quiet Room, or she may have been moved by now. After the Quiet Room, patients usually go to seclusion, so I probably won’t see her for another twenty-four hours. The room seems vast, empty, and lonely without her. I run a finger over the paper animals. Taking out a piece of gray paper, I fold it into a mouse. I lay it on her pillow and turn out the light. I don’t bother to get undressed or brush my teeth. I just huddle under my covers and pull them up over my head. Closing my eyes, I wait for sleep and hope I won’t dream.
…
FROM THE JOURNAL OF ALICE MONROE
The first time Cellie and I were institutionalized, we were sent to Pleasant Oaks, a privately run mental health hospital that received state subsidies for treating foster kids. We spent three days there, but it felt like an eternity. The facility, a converted Victorian mansion, made me think of gingerbread and dollhouses. If only the kids inside had been as welcoming as the building’s façade.
Rebecca brought our things from Pam and Gayle’s; they had decided that we might not be “the right fit” for their family. I blamed Cellie, and it showed. We didn’t talk much, and Cellie kept following me around, apologizing. We stayed in separate rooms and met individually with psychiatrists who prescribed all sorts of medications. I perfected the art of compliance. How to nod my head when I really wanted to shake it violently back and forth. How to open my mouth for pills when I really wanted to clamp it shut.
We were older than most of the patients at Pleasant Oaks, yet nearly everyone we met, even the younger children, seemed more deeply disturbed than we were. A seven-year-old boy with a patch of hair missing and a dead tooth said he would nibble on our toes and make soup out of our hair. Cellie pushed him down and said, “Not if I get to you first.”
After that encounter, I stuck close to Cellie. I accepted her apology, since all I ever wanted was to forgive her.
I loved her.
When we were released, Cellie promised Rebecca (and me) that she would be better. But that promise was impossible for her to keep.
Rebecca took us to a new living situation. A group home. A woman named Candy ran it and lived onsite with us. As Candy’s name suggested, she enjoyed sweet things. Well, any food item, really. She was more wide than tall and had to ride around on a scooter when we shopped at the grocery store. Candy smoked menthol cigarettes and watched soap operas all day. Cellie used to say she looked like Jabba the Hutt’s less attractive sister and kind of spoke like him, too. Candy insisted we call her Mama.
On our first day there, Mama sent Cellie and me down the street to get her some food at Carl’s Jr. “Don’t forget the hot sauce,” she said, handing us a twenty.
We skipped out of the house. Out of the twenty-dollar bill she’d given us there was enough for us to get milk shakes. We drank them on the way back, our fingers bumping along the chainlink fence. Summer was coming, and we liked the idea of what the warmth would bring.
When we got back to the house, the Carl’s Jr. bag clutched in my hand, Candy was where we had left her, sitting on the threadbare black and yellow bumblebee couch.
“Here we go, my boy, this is Mama’s favorite,” she said. An hourglass appeared on the screen. She turned up the volume on the TV and leaned back before seeing Cellie and me in the doorway. “There you are. Did you get my food?” A box fan spun in the window, mixing Candy’s cigarette smoke with spring air and the smell of the barbecue shack down the street. Tendrils of hair blew into my neck and stuck there.
A low chuckle emanated from the recliner. I crossed the room to hand the bag to Candy, the chuckled ceased, and I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. “Alice?” the voice from the recliner asked.
I turned and dropped the bag of food. Jason. He unfolded himself from the recliner and stood, stretching to his full height. Our five-year separation had been kind to him, well, physically at least. He was bigger, much bigger than the last time we’d seen him. Broad and thick, he could have easily taken Roman now. But his hair was still a familiar mess of curls, and in them was a glimpse of the boy I once knew. Above his right eyebrow was a small scar, courtesy of Roman. “Jason!” I exclaimed, and then I was running toward him, leaping onto him.
His arms snaked around me and he laughed, tucking his chin into my neck. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispered. For a moment we just stared at each other, and then Cellie cleared her throat behind us. She hovered in the entryway, her eyes wide and curious.
“Cellie?” Jason asked. He smiled at her, opened an arm, and motioned for her to join us. She came to him, softer than I had. He enfolded her in one arm and me in the other. We stood like that for a while, with him covering our bodies just as he had before, sheltering us from the echo of angry footsteps and a fist called God’s Will. For the first time in years, I felt like I’d come home.
CHAPTER
9
Jellyfish
I IGNORE THE OPENING OF THE DOOR. It’s late, the last bed check having come and gone hours ago. For once, the rain has stopped and it’s quieter than a ghost ship. I’m already awake, hyperalert and vigilant. Earlier in the night, I’d fallen asleep, huddled under the covers. Though it felt like I’d been asleep for a long time, the moon was still in the same position when my eyes popped open. The burns on my shoulders and hand ache, and my thoughts race like dogs at the greyhound track—thoughts of Jason. His funeral. His unicorn tattoo. The door to my room closes with a soft click. A person loiters in the entryway. I go completely still, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and leave. No luck. The person comes closer and stands at the foot of my bed. Maybe it’s Amelia, back from the Quiet Room. That thought has me moving. I shuck the covers away. “Amelia?” I peer into the dark.
The silhouette at the end of my bed is most definitely not Amelia’s. Broad shoulders, a black hat, and a baggy sweatshirt eclipse my view of the wall.
“What’d you just call me?” Chase asks.
“I thought you were my roommate.”
“Your roommate?”
I sit up and wipe nonexistent sleep from my eyes. “Yeah, she went to the Quiet Room yesterday, and I thought you might be her.”
“What’d she go to the Quiet Room for?” He walks over to Amelia’s empty bed and picks up the origami mouse, inspecting it.
“Don’t touch that,” I snap. “It’s for Amelia.”
Chase holds up his hands like I’m pointing a gun at him. “Sorry.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I was bored.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not here to entertain you, Chase.”
He grins, and I ignore the surge of pleasure that runs through me as he sits down on my bed, positioning his back so that it touches my thigh. “Want to get out of here?”
What is he asking? My mind fills with winding stairs. An expanse of green lawn. A lightning storm. My body winds tight with anticipation. “You want to go back to the D ward?”
“Nah, nothing like that. But I thought we could go exploring.” He dangles the plastic keycard in front of my face. “You know, see where this might lead us?”
I grab the keycard. “I can’t believe you still have that.”
He scoffs. “Like I’d get rid of it . . . You know how hard it was for me to lift? I mean,
not that hard, because I’m super awesome. But no way would I get rid of it. Whaddaya say, Alice? Want to get out of here?”
It’s tempting. I chew on my thumbnail and my stomach grumbles. I barely ate a bite of dinner, too consumed with thoughts of Jason’s funeral. Now my appetite is rearing its ugly, embarrassing head, right in front of Chase.
He laughs. “You’re hungry. C’mon. I’ll take you to the kitchen.”
I stare at Amelia’s bed, at the little paper mouse. Since I can’t fall back to sleep and I’m apparently starving, Chase’s offer seems like the next best option. “Okay,” I say. And I won’t have to think about Jason and his unicorn tattoo and what that means.
We’re almost to the kitchen when I realize the gravity of my mistake. Jason’s funeral is in the morning, and if I’m caught, I won’t be allowed to go. I may even wind up with an all-access pass to the Quiet Room. I let my stupid hunger and childish desire for company get the best of me. The knowledge that I’ve put every truly important thing in jeopardy is paralyzing.
Chase pauses outside a big black door with a sign that reads KITCHEN—STAFF ACCESS ONLY.
“Still hungry?” he asks.
Suddenly I’m not. My belly is too full of panic and regret.
“Alice?”
But it’s too late to turn back now—even though that’s exactly what I want to do. Turning back would cause Chase to ask questions, and I can’t bear the thought of telling him the truth. That Jason’s funeral is only a few hours away. That I don’t know if I’ll survive it.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask.
He snorts and swipes the key over a black box. The door unlocks. We’re inside and it’s black. Pitch-black. I break from Chase’s side and trace the wall with my hands, searching for a switch. I find one and flick it up. Suddenly the room is bathed in harsh light. It’s an industrial kitchen. Stainless steel counters run along the walls, interrupted by two huge refrigerators and an equally huge dishwasher and oven.
“Shit, warn me next time you’re going to turn on the light.” Chase squints and rubs his eyes.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He opens the door to the fridge and peers inside. “What are you in the mood for?” For some reason, bacon dances behind my eyelids. I can almost taste the salty flavor. Chase rummages through the contents of the refrigerator, removing giant packs of generic cheese (the kind you buy with food stamps and tastes like cardboard), some funky-smelling deli meat, and iceberg lettuce (which looks surprisingly fresh, all things considered) and places them on the stainless steel island. A piece of what I think is fruit rolls off and drops to the floor with a thunk.
“What’s this?” I pick up the unfamiliar food. It’s oval-shaped, like some kind of weird prehistoric egg. The green, red, and yellow color of the smooth, soft skin reminds me of the changing of autumn leaves.
Chase turns from the fridge and gives me a get-the-fuck-out-of-here sort of look. “You’ve never had a mango before?”
I shake my head.
Chase finds a butcher knife in a nearby drawer and sinks its gleaming, serrated edge into the flesh of the fruit. Amelia’s warning rings in my ears. He killed someone. I stare at the knife in his hand, at his fist closed around the wooden handle. He doesn’t seem like the violent type. In fact, I really don’t think he could hurt anyone. Then again, maybe he did hurt someone, someone who hurt him. That I can understand.
The fruit slices easily. The flesh inside is a brilliant orange. “Here.” He holds a square of mango between his thumb and pointer finger. Juice drips down, making a path over his knuckle.
I take the mango from him and pop it into my mouth. All thoughts of bacon are forgotten. My lips pucker at the tangy taste. It’s a heady combination of orange and apple infused with pineapple. I can feel the sugar somersaulting through my veins. I want more.
He laughs, low and husky, and slips a piece of mango into his own mouth. “It’s good, right?”
“It’s . . . all right,” I say.
“You’re a shitty liar, you know that?”
I shrug, purse my lips. And smile. A real smile. One that I feel all the way down to my toes. Happy. I’m happy. How long has it been since I’ve felt this way? “It’s kind of awesome,” I say.
And all of a sudden I’m ravenous.
I devour almost the entire mango in the short time it takes Chase to throw together a simple sandwich. I’ve just shoved the last piece of gooey-delicious awesomeness into my mouth when Chase turns to me with a goofy grin on his face. “You’re a messy eater.”
I swallow hastily and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“You missed,” he says.
I wipe at my face again, but he just shakes his head and goes to get a paper towel from the dispenser by the sink. I can feel my cheeks heating up. I bet they’re bright red. Now he’s staring at me, his expression serious. The look he’s giving me is scary and exciting—more exciting than scary—speaking to a part of me that only Jason could ever speak to.
“Here, let me.”
I wince a little as he wipes some of the sticky juice from my cheek. His hands on my face are like a hurricane. A storm of nervousness and anticipation begins to churn inside me. He’s close enough to kiss me. Jason was the first and only boy ever to kiss me. I wonder what Chase’s kiss would feel like. Would it be like Jason’s, rough and hard, with a glimmer of conquer behind it? Or would it be softer and sweeter, without pretense? Somehow, I think the latter.
Laughter sounds from outside the door. We come apart like grass split by a bolt of lightning. Chase flicks the light switch and the room plummets into darkness. Muted voices come from the other side of the door. Whoever is there has stopped right outside the kitchen.
Even though we’re no longer touching, I can feel Chase across from me, our fear ballooning between us. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable beep of the lock and whoosh of the door opening. But it doesn’t come. The voices fade, and then they’re gone. We’re safe. For now. Chase waits a few seconds more and then turns on the light. “We should probably clean up,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I mumble. While Chase returns the food to the refrigerator, carefully arranging everything so it’s just as we found it, I wipe down the counters.
Chase moves behind me, brushing my back as he walks to the kitchen door. “Ready for the next adventure?” he asks.
Am I ready? Yes. I am.
“I think some of the techs come up this way to smoke,” he says.
We’re back in the stairwell, but this time we’re going up, up, up. There’s a black metal door at the top, but this one is different from the others. It’s got a bar across it and a big sign that reads CAUTION EMERGENCY EXIT ALARM WILL SOUND. The door is propped open with a wooden triangle, wedged at the base. Chase opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead. Ladies first. I step outside, but I’m not prepared for the rush of frozen wind that blasts my cheeks. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my hoodie to ward off the chill. Still, the night is clear and beautiful, with a thousand stars winking in the sky and the crescent moon hanging low and bright. My grandfather and I used to go on walks at night. We would gaze up at the stars and bask in their glow. That’s when I thought I could be anything, an astronaut, a doctor, a dancer on a star—then Cellie ripped it all away.
Chase closes the door carefully, making sure the wood stopper stays trapped in the threshold. The roof is littered with antennae, chimneys, and other stuff I don’t recognize, stuff that’s probably part of the building’s internal organs. A couple of rusted lawn chairs are off to the right, and there’s a bucket filled with murky water and floating cigarette butts. To the left, another square rises from the roof and a ladder leads to the top. I make a beeline for the ladder. I want to get as close to the stars as possible.
I climb. My face is wind-stung and the cold of the ladder’s metal bars bites into my fingertips. I climb faster, place my foot on the last rung, and hoist my body up over the ledge. The D ward
looms in the distance, dark and silent. I study it, waiting for a sign of life in the windows, but everything is calm. From here you can see all of Savage Isle, the A and B wards, the water, the city lights that twinkle in the distance. We’re even standing above the thick gray mist of the fog line. Another breeze comes, cuts across the rooftop, and pastes my jeans to the backs of my knees.
Chase’s hand touches my shoulder. I whirl around and the wind whips my hair into the side of his face.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I study the white oblong scar on his cheek. “I like it up here.”
He gives me a soft, sad sort of smile. I wonder what I said to make him look like that. “Me, too. You want to sit?”
There aren’t any chairs up here, so I assume he means we should sit on the ground. It’s dry, but I bet it’s really cold. “Sure,” I say. We sit at almost the exact same time. An involuntary shiver ripples through me.
“I hate it here.” Chase stares off into the distance.
“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being cooped up.”
A question hovers on the tip of my tongue. The question I’ve been waiting to ask since we met. What did you do to get locked up? Chase breaks the silence. “You’ve been here before, right?”
“Once. With my sister.” I trace the cracks in the roof with my finger.
Maybe he senses my reluctance to talk about my past stints at Savage Isle, because he quickly changes the subject. “What’d your roommate get Quiet Roomed for?”
I don’t want to talk about Amelia, either. Her story isn’t mine to tell. Plus we’re friends. And friends keep each other’s secrets. So I ignore his question and ask one of my own. “What about you, have you ever been to a place like this before?”
His scar twitches. “No. I’ve never been to a place like this before. And, God willing, after this, I’m never coming back.”