Roman worked as a janitor at the local high school. In the evenings he’d come home with a feral gleam in his eye, crack a beer, and threaten us with a fist he called God’s Will. He’d yell at Susan to fetch him things or change the TV channel. During this time, Cellie and I wished we could become ghosts, sweeping through the house undetected. I suspect that Susan also yearned for invisibility, especially when confronted with her husband’s fists.
When social workers came on Sundays, Susan would dress, bake, and make us bathe, and Roman read to us from the Bible. His favorite passages were from the book of Luke. I remember he’d stand in the middle of the living room, his own personal pulpit, and preach. “‘John answered, saying unto all, I indeed baptize you with water; but one mightier than I cometh, the latchet of whose shoes I am not worthy to unloose: he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost and with fire.’” Cellie and I pretended that we were good children, happy children.
It was the worst home yet, but it was also the best because it was there that we met Jason. He was tall for his age but skinny, an electric wire topped with curly brown hair and bright green eyes. A year older than us, he’d been in and out of the system since he was three, when his younger brother had overdosed and died on the prescription pills their mother had left out.
Jason’s real name was Valentine. His mom thought it was romantic. But he hated it, so he pinched it in between his fingers and rechristened himself Jason. He picked the name from a Greek mythology book he always carried with him. He had checked it out from the school library and decided he liked it so much he’d keep it.
We took to one another like mosquitoes to blood. I’m not sure what drew us together. Maybe it was because out of the ten kids in that home we were the only three around the same age. Or maybe it was because we knew what it meant to lose someone on a much deeper, more permanent level than the rest of the foster kids. Or maybe it was because Cellie and I refused to make fun of his real name and would only call him by his chosen one.
At night we hid from the heavy footsteps of Roman. Jason would lean over us, his ten-year-old body holding our quaking nine-year-old frames. Deep in the corner of a closet, he’d wrap his arms around us like a comforting blanket. He smelled of clean laundry, a smell that still makes me feel loved and protected. Cherished.
With every boot step, every squeak of an opening door, he would assure us. “It’s only the wind. It’s only the weather outside. It’s only the sound of your grandfather. It’s my mother coming to take us home.” It worked. Cellie and I would close our eyes and breathe in the smell of clean laundry, and our fears drifted away like a wooden boat in water.
During the day, Jason would tell us about his mom. Whenever social workers came to take him away, his mother would tap her index finger against his, and together they would say, “Keep in touch.” Sometimes her words were a little slurred or her eyes a little hazy, but she still said it.
We made the closet our space, and most nights we slept in there. Jason stole a flashlight and held it while I practiced folding origami. Then Cellie got worse. While we all feared Roman, Cellie had trouble containing her fear. Often she would rock back and forth in the closet. I tried to help her, to distract her by making paper lions and pressing them against her chest. But I was helpless, and so was Jason. And the more hopeless we became, the angrier Jason got. Finally his pent-up rage boiled over one night.
Usually Roman picked on the younger kids, the five- and six-year-olds, but that night he was inexhaustible. He trolled the hallway, his work boots shuffling on the hardwood. Back and forth he went, opening a door, then slamming it shut, like playing Russian roulette.
“My tummy hurts,” Cellie mumbled. She shook a little and flinched as a door opened and slammed shut. Roman’s low laugh echoed down the hallway and filtered in through the wooden slats of the closet.
“I’m going out there.” Jason stood, his hands clenched into fists, his head lost in a maze of hangers and clothes.
I reached up and closed my hand around his fist, tried to untangle his fingers, tried to unravel his anger. “Don’t. He’ll get tired soon and pass out.”
But Jason was adamant. Maybe he wanted to live up to his namesake, transform into the ancient leader of the Argonauts and become a hero, a conqueror. Our savior. He marched right out of that closet, out the door, and directly into Roman’s path.
The walls shook and voices yelled, and it did sound like something out of Greek mythology. An epic battle with a beast. The whole time Cellie shook and wept, as if the tremors in the walls were originating within her. And me, all I could do was keep folding in the dark, making one paper lion after another, until I had a whole pride, until the walls stopped moving and Jason stumbled back into the closet, broken and bleeding.
The hero had lost. That night I held Jason and whispered in his ear that the pain he felt was that of a warrior. I told him he was brave and strong and his mother would come soon. When he went to sleep in a tight ball, Cellie traded places with me. She stroked the bloody curls from his forehead while I placed the lions in a circle around us. Sometime during the night I woke to Jason moving around the closet. One of his eyes was swollen over, but the other was focused on the lions. He fingered one, picked it up, and held it in the palm of his hand. He looked at me, and I’ll never forget the intensity in his one good eye. How bright it burned with pain and anger. “Someday,” he said to me, soft and low and very matter-of-fact, “I’m going to burn this place to the ground.”
CHAPTER
6
Group Therapy
THE SLAMMING OF A DOOR JOLTS ME AWAKE. Amelia stirs in her bed as Nurse Dummel enters our room. Once she sees that we’re decent, she calls for the techs and tells us to wait outside.
Together Amelia and I stand with our backs pressed against the wall. A string of curse words scrolls through my head, and heat rushes to my skin. I look guilty. Could I look any more guilty? I’ve broken a lot of rules since my return to Savage Isle: hiding pills, sneaking out of my room after bed check, acting as an accomplice while another patient stole a staff keycard. Ugh. My rap sheet could go on and on, and on.
But there’s no possible way Nurse Dummel could know about the pills. Unless, maybe, Amelia ratted me out. But I don’t think she would, and even if she did, the evidence is gone; I’ve now swallowed every last one of those little white capsules.
As for sneaking around the hospital after hours, there’s no way the staff could know. Chase wouldn’t give me up. If we’re discovered, he stands to lose just as much as I do.
So they must be looking for the keycard. This has to be about the card. I hope to hell Chase got rid of it.
The door to our room gapes open like a yawning mouth, and in my peripheral vision I can see the techs as they lift our mattresses, open our drawers, and sift through our clothing, running their hands along the back sides of dressers and nightstands. Obviously they’re looking for something—which only confirms my belief that they’re hunting for the keycard. When they’re satisfied, one yells, “All clear.” They shuffle out like a tight military unit. Before Amelia and I can even blink, they’ve invaded the next room.
“Holy hell,” Amelia whispers. We stand in the doorway, a unified front, taking in the damage. It’s actually not too bad. Our beds are a little messier than when we bolted out of them, and some of my paper animals have fallen from the dresser onto the floor, but other than that, the techs were surprisingly respectful.
“That was intense,” Amelia says.
“Yeah,” I agree softly.
After our night in the rain and my mini meltdown, Chase apparently decides he is my super-special friend. At breakfast he plops down next to Amelia so he’s sitting directly across from me (Amelia’s mouth drops open, as if she’s scandalized). He seems his general annoying, happy self—a goofy smile on his face as he silently digs into his eggs and toast. I wonder if his room was searched. It must have been. They searched every room in the girls’ wing. Based on Chase’s attitude,
he’s in the clear.
Chase also sits by me during morning group and at lunch. Still we do not speak. Later he follows me into the computer lab, where we’re all required to do one hour a day of online classes, and ever the faithful companion, he takes up residence by my side. Amelia, who sits on my other side, is baffled.
Finally, when we’re supposed to be writing expository essays, he speaks, leaning over so far that I can feel his breath on my face. “I’m writing about procrastination, get it?” I glance at the blank screen in front of him. “What are you writing about?”
“Girls and their periods,” I say, enjoying the surprise and disgust that wash over his face. See, I can be funny too. He leaves me alone for the next hour.
Dr. Goodman opens group therapy with a poem about acceptance. He then asks us to partner up and talk about acceptance and what that means to us. Of course Chase, my new bestie, turns his chair toward mine, leans back, and crosses his arms. Our knees brush. He assumes we’re going to be partners. He assumes wrong.
“I don’t feel like talking today.” I pull out a piece of origami paper and begin to fold.
“And I accept that,” Chase says. “I knew we’d make a good team.” A couple of minutes pass, and Chase watches me make a starfish. Monica cries in the corner, and her partner awkwardly pats her on the shoulder. Chase drums his fingers on his thighs and yawns, saying, “I’m bored.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Not really, though.
He makes a face at me. “Is that all you do?”
I take out another piece of paper and fold the square in half. “I like it. It makes me feel . . . peaceful.”
“Teach me how to make something.”
“No.”
“No?”
I picture patterned paper crumpling in Cellie’s fist. “It’s really hard and frustrating.”
“Let me try,” he insists.
I sigh and level my gaze at him. “What is it you want, Chase?”
His lips twitch. I wait patiently, feeling both expectant and wary while he searches for the answer. Finally he says, “I’m not sure anymore.” Cue awkward silence.
I don’t think he’s going to leave me alone. Across the room Dr. Goodman watches us. I know he’ll step in if we refuse to talk to each other. I focus on Chase, the lesser of two evils and all that, and sigh heavily. “Did they find the keycard?” I ask.
His eyes dart to Dr. Goodman, who has now pulled up a chair with Monica’s group. “Jesus, keep your voice down.”
I frown at him. “Sorry.” I lower my voice.
He keeps his eyes on Dr. Goodman. “Would I be here if they did?”
His question doesn’t merit a response, but I roll my eyes just the same. Opening the origami paper, I fold it again, so that it’s divided into four quarters. Perfect. “When are we going back to the D ward? I was thinking—”
Chase relaxes and slumps back in his chair. “A dangerous pastime for sure.”
I ignore him. “I was thinking . . .” I flatten the piece of paper and contemplate what animal I should make. I’ll try a rabbit. “That I could do something, you know, to get me sent to the D ward.”
His smirk fades as he leans forward. “Do something? Like what?”
I shrug, keeping my focus on the rabbit I’m constructing. “I dunno.” It occurs to me that I can ask what he did to get himself sent there. But I already have an inclination. “It’d have to be something big, something that would make me unsafe to be around other patients.” His hand lands over mine, crushing the paper under the weight. “Shit,” I say. “Now I’m going to have to start all over.” I try to pry the rabbit from his hand, but he holds tight.
“Alice, promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
Goose bumps prickle my arms at the word stupid. But then Chase’s thumb moves ever so gently over mine, and all of a sudden the air in the room no longer exists. There’s only Chase and me, our breaths one symbiotic loop. Chase seems to feel it too. He licks his lips and shakes his head. “Promise me,” he says a little more forcefully, “that you’ll wait. I’m going to get a different keycard. Soon.”
I turn my head and bite my cheek. Chase releases my hand. Frustrated tears burn the backs of my eyes. Weak. I am so weak. I’m failing Jason. I smooth out the crumpled paper but it’s ruined. “Fine,” I say. Still, I can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see me cry.
In my peripheral vision Chase seems appeased. “Good.” Then he sniffles and coughs a little. “It’s dusty as shit in here, isn’t it?”
I swipe at my eyes. The sniffle and cough were poor imitations, but I can tell what he’s doing and I am quietly thankful for it. Gently, ever so gently, he takes the piece of paper out of my hands. “Teach me how to make something, Just Alice.” The way he says it, Just Alice, makes me feel like warm soup on a cold day. Then all at once I think of Jason, and the warmth is squeezed out of me.
Shaking it off, I show Chase how to make a butterfly. While we’re folding, I tell him about the short lives of butterflies, about how, despite their relatively low status on the food chain, they survive by clever camouflage and subterfuge, about how their paper wings drive some people to zealous heights of over-collection. And he listens.
“Are you really enjoying this?” I ask after a while.
He shrugs. “I like listening to you talk.”
My tongue feels thick in my throat. I don’t think I can speak. Dr. Goodman calls the group back together and asks if anyone would like to share. I don’t volunteer, and neither does Chase. But Monica does. While Monica shares her acceptance story, Chase’s words roll around in my head. I like listening to you talk. A tiny fissure opens in my closed-off heart. I draw in a breath and release it slowly. I’m taken aback. Not because he said he liked listening to me talk, but because I realize I like listening to him, too.
I come awake slowly, my shallow breaths dissolving in the eerie silence of the hospital room. It’s night. Something scratches the wall, the inside of the wall. The scratching is faint, right above my head, a seesawing noise that sounds like someone’s fingernails clawing the inside of a coffin. My heartbeat speeds up. I turn my head a fraction of an inch and look over at Amelia. She rests safe and sound in her bed. Slowly, I flip over onto my stomach and rise up so I’m on all fours, and I crawl toward the scratching noise. I smooth a lock of sweat-soaked hair from my forehead and press my palm to the wall. The scratching stops abruptly. Pipes. It’s probably just the heat kicking on in the old building. Yawning, I move to settle back into bed. I glance at the nightstand where my scrubs are folded, where a little white pill rests in the pocket. I can’t stop thinking about the vision of Jason all lit up and electric in the dark. His words from the fire linger. Shit, baby. I’m burning up. Why would he say that? And why with such happiness? I wish I could remember more about that night. The memory of escaping with Jason, running through the yard, and yanking open the heavy door of the barn is as clear as glass. But everything that came after is a blur, lost in the terrible heat of the fire. When I close my eyes, I can see only Cellie’s twisted face. If I take the pill, it will make my mind fuzzy and keep the frantic thoughts caged. I crack my knuckles, hesitating.
There’s a dull thump, like a body being dropped in a trunk, and then the scratching starts again, this time in the wall by the window. It’s louder, more hurried, frantic, like someone is trying to tear his or her way out. I turn my head to look at the wall, and just as my eyes pin the spot where the noise is coming from, the sound zooms around the room, one long scrape that circles, once, twice then stops. My mouth feels as if it’s filled with cotton.
The scratching starts again, quieter, right behind Amelia’s dresser. I slip out of bed and edge toward the dresser, careful to be as quiet as possible. The scratching speeds up the closer I get. In a few uneasy breaths I’m there. My hand touches the handle of the bottom drawer. I waiver, suddenly convinced that I’m going to see Jason in there, folded up like some mummy petrified in the Pompeii caves, mouth open in a
perpetual scream. There’s another long scrape, this time right inside the drawer, and then soft laughter right over my shoulder. A boy’s laugh. Jason’s laugh. I look behind me but it’s nothing, no one, only Amelia still sleeping.
With a shaky hand I take hold of the handle and pull the drawer open.
A hand comes from nowhere and slams the drawer shut.
“What the fuck, Alice?” Amelia stands in front of me, her body shoved between the drawer and me. “That’s my private stuff. What are you, some kind of klepto?”
Frozen, I stare at her freckled legs, pale in the moonlight. “I’m sorry. I thought I heard something in the drawer.”
She glances down at the drawer suspiciously. “Well, there’s nothing in there except for clothes. Do you think they’ve suddenly come to life?”
I feel embarrassed. “No, no. Look, I’m sorry. Like I said, I thought there was something in—”
Another sound from the drawer cuts me off—scraping, followed by a scuttling that makes the drawer jiggle in its tracks. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that?”
She sniffs and crosses her arms. “I didn’t hear anything.”
It’s my turn to swear. “Bullshit.” Before she can stop me, I rip open the drawer. “Oh my god!” It’s a rat. A huge, red-eyed, dirty white rat. I drop the drawer and it bangs as it hits the linoleum floor. The rat rises up and stands on two legs, sniffing the air. I jump back. “Holy shit, there’s a rat in your dresser.”
Amelia sighs. “Don’t call him that.” She leans down, picks him up, and cradles him against her chest. “His name is Elvis.”
My mouth gapes. “You’ve named him?” Nothing is registering fast enough. “He’s your pet?”
She brings the rat up to her cheek. “I found him a couple of hours ago during free time.”