“No!” I shout, pushing myself against him—fists and arms and chest and head.
Because he won’t hear me.
Because I have to make him hear me.
Everything that happens next feels like it’s been set to fast forward—like I’m watching it on a TV screen, like it isn’t actually happening to me.
The door whips open and I get pushed to the side. Two nurses grab me from behind. They pull up my hospital gown, exposing my legs. Detective Thomas’s eyes go straight to my knees—all bruised and swollen and purple and yellow—as a needle’s stabbed into my thigh.
His face falls flat—the tension replaced by something else. Surprise? Repulsion? Pity? Remorse?
My slipper has fallen off. My heel catches against a floor tile. A layer of skin scrapes free. It takes me a moment to realize that I’m being dragged through the common room from behind.
People are talking.
Fingers are pointing.
A plastic dish falls to the floor with a clatter.
I’m brought into a room. My head hits something soft. A pillow. Cold sheets. What happened to my notebook? Where is my map?
Ticktock, ticktock. Another clock on yet another wall. But this medicine seems to do the trick, darkening my mind, dulling all of my sharp edges.
Until I can no longer hear the ticking.
Until all of my fight slips away.
NORTHBRIDGE
PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL
INCIDENT REPORT
Date and Time of Incident: 9/13, 3:30 p.m.
Patient Name: Ivy Rose Jensen
Age: 18
DIAGNOSIS
* * *
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Depression, Anxiety Disorder
DESCRIPTION OF INCIDENT
(as reported to Amanda Baker, C.N.P., by Detective Clive Thomas)
* * *
Detective Clive Thomas had been in Private Meeting Room Two, per Ivy’s request, to discuss details of the “Dark House” case in which she was involved. When Detective Thomas tried to leave the room, Ivy became hostile and began shouting at him. (Note: the shouting was heard in the common area of the hospital, as confirmed by Brooke Cantor, L.P.N.) Thomas reported that Ivy took hold of the doorknob and tried to keep him from knocking on the door. When he was finally able to knock, she shoved herself into him headfirst, and swung her arms at his face. Thomas reported that Ivy punched his jaw and elbowed his neck. At that time, nurses Dan Leiberman and Jonathan Zakum entered the room to assist.
PATIENT MEDICAL HISTORY/SHORT FORM
* * *
Adoptive Mother’s Information
Name:
Gail “Apple” Jensen
Occupation:
Owner, The Tea Depot and the 24-hour Depot, Boston, MA
Marital Status:
Married
Adoptive Father’s Information
Name:
Steve “Core” Jensen
Occupation:
Owner/General Contractor, Crunch Construction, Singham, MA
Marital Status:
Married
Maternal Mother’s Information
Name:
Sarah Leiken
Deceased at 41 years old
Cause of Death:
Homicide victim
Paternal Father’s Information
Name:
Matthew Leiken
Deceased at 44 years old
Cause of Death:
Homicide victim
PATIENT’S DEVELOPMENTAL HISTORY
* * *
Past medical records for April Leiken (adoptive name, Ivy Jensen) show that April was the product of a full-term pregnancy and unremarkable birth. Neonatal is neither remarkable nor contributory, and developmental milestones for motor skills and speech/language acquisition occurred within average expectancies.
BEHAVIORAL PROBLEMS
* * *
(filled out by Gail Jensen, adoptive mother, upon hospital admittance):
Does your child currently have or has he/she ever had (place an X beside all that apply):
Problems with sleeping
X
Appetite change or sudden weight change
X
Irritability or temper outbursts
X
Withdrawal or preference for being alone
X
Frequent complaints of aches or pains
(headaches) X
Recent drop in grades
N/A
(she’s not currently in school)
Phobia or irrational fears
X
Difficulties separating from you
Bouts of severe anxiety or panic
X
Repetitive behaviors (i.e., washing hands, checking locks)
X
Pulling out hair or eyelashes
(pinching) X
Talk to him/herself
Have any imaginary friend
Appear paranoid or afraid of others
X
Have any odd ideas or beliefs
X
Ever tried to kill themselves or others
PAST PSYCHIATRIC HISTORY
* * *
After her maternal mother and paternal father were killed, Ivy saw Paula Laub, M.D. From the age of 9 to present, she’s been seeing Donna Lamb, PhD.
Has your child ever been admitted to the hospital for psychiatric treatment? No.
SHE’S HERE. SITTING AT A table in the rec room, in a chair that’s way too small for her. Dr. Donna looks like a little kid.
“Hi,” I say, in a voice that’s just as small.
She doesn’t hear me. The TV’s too loud. Wheel of Fortune. I snatch the remote from the bookcase and lower the volume. No one who’s watching seems to care, or maybe they just don’t notice.
“Hi,” I try again, taking the seat across from her. Somehow, despite the obvious change of space—not her stuffy office but the common area of a mental hospital—I still slip into rote routine, imagining this like a rerun on TV, suddenly wishing I could click away.
IVY: Thanks for coming to see me on such short notice.
DR. DONNA: Of course. I’m always here for you, Ivy.
IVY: So, I’ve been thinking a lot about the case.
DR. DONNA: Have you been thinking as much about healing?
IVY: It’s him.
DR. DONNA: What’s him?
IVY: The man who killed my parents, the Dark House amusement park killer...they’re one and the same.
DR. DONNA: That’s one theory that the authorities are working on.
IVY: Excuse me?
DR. DONNA: There are a number of theories, Ivy. The authorities are doing their job by looking into all of them. They want you to do your job too—by getting rest and getter better enough to go home. Don’t you want that as well?
IVY: So, they’ve obviously been keeping secrets from me.
DR. DONNA: Do you think that rather the authorities don’t want to burden you with the details of the case as you’re trying to heal?
IVY: I think they owe it to me be honest, especially when I’ve been telling them everything I know, everything I remember. I mean, I’m part of this investigation too, aren’t I?
DR. DONNA: This might feel like an injustice right now, but it’s important to put things into perspective. Your disorder can often make feelings seem exponentially bigger, stronger, and more profoundly relevant than they need to be.
IVY: This isn’t about my disorder. And my feelings are relevant.
DR. DONNA: Of course they are. That’s not what I meant.
IVY: My parents’ killer was a fan of horror movies. He re-created his favorite scenes from horror flicks for his crimes—just like the Nightmare Elf killer...the way he used Justin Blake’s films as his inspiration for the Dark House weekend.
DR. DONNA: Okay, but why would your parents’ killer go to all the trouble of organizing the Dark House amusement park weekend, holding a contest, and involving others if h
e only wanted to come back for you?
IVY: Because he wanted to make his own horror movie, and he needed more than one character. He handpicked all of us contest winners for his cast.
DR. DONNA: And how would he know that you, specifically, would enter the contest...someone who hates anything even remotely fear-inducing?
IVY: He kept e-mailing me his newsletters, ignoring my attempts to unsubscribe from his supposed list. He sent me contest opportunity after contest opportunity, awaiting the day I’d finally enter one of them. I told that to Parker—how I kept getting the Nightmare Elf’s newsletters—and he seemed really confused. He never knew the Nightmare Elf even had a newsletter. None of the winners did. They all found out about the contest through various fan-flavored sites—places the killer must’ve posted once I’d finally entered.
DR. DONNA: You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.
IVY: I have a lot of time to think in here.
DR. DONNA: What’s that?
IVY: What?
DR. DONNA: On your palm and wrists. Don’t try to hide it, Ivy. Have you been writing on yourself?
IVY: It’s just my notes. The doctor confiscated my notebook, so I have no other choice but to jot things down on my skin.
DR. DONNA: Why do you think he confiscated your notebook?
IVY: Because he’s a controlling asshole.
DR. DONNA: Because he must’ve felt it was holding you back from getting better.
IVY: I’ll be better once the killer’s behind bars, once the others are found. To think the killer’s been prepping me for years...sending me all those teaser gifts. The makeup kit for my theatrical performance, the star necklace pendant, because he wanted me to be his star.
DR. DONNA: And the soccer jersey and journal? Do you think that those things are related to acting and theater as well?
IVY: No, but they’re just as important. They’re clues that he knows who I am—before I was Ivy Jensen, that is, back when I was April Leiken, when I played soccer, and loved anything pink and covered in paisleys. Back when he killed my real parents.
DR. DONNA: Have you shared your theories with the authorities?
IVY: I’m done sharing with authorities. They’ve yet to help me with anything—not my parents’ crime, not this one either. I need to figure things out on my own.
IT’S SIX WEEKS LATER AND I’m sitting in the same meeting room with the same ticking clock. But this time I’m not waiting for the police. And my palms and wrists are clean of ink. Plus my knees are no longer bruised, not that you can see them. I’m no longer dressed in a hospital gown. I’m able to wear my own clothes: my favorite sweats, my fuzzy slippers. I also got my bracelet back—six long strands of T-shirt fabric woven into a fishtail braid that winds around my wrist. The fabric is from Parker’s T-shirt—the same one he wore on the Dark House amusement park night, the one he used to make a bandage for my ankle.
I touch over my heart, where my pendant used to dangle, reminded that he has something of mine too. My aromatherapy necklace. It’d fallen off as we were running to escape. One moment, we were fleeing the amusement park together, heading toward the closing exit gates. The next moment, Parker had stopped to pick something up. It took me a couple of seconds to figure out what it was.
That necklace was supposed to have been a gift for my mother. But she was killed before I could give it to her—just days before her forty-second birthday.
The necklace—a tiny bottle pendant with an even tinier cork, suspended from a silver chain—became my most cherished possession. Still, in that moment of trying to escape the park, I no longer cared about the necklace. I only cared about Parker—about him joining me on the other side of the exit gate. But time was ticking then too. The exit gates were closing. I strained my muscles, using all of the strength inside me to hold the doors open. But in the end, the iron gates closed with a deep, heavy clank, locking Parker inside the park.
And tearing my world in two.
At last, the door to the conference room opens and I sit up straighter. I smile—not too big, a closed mouth—and make direct eye contact as Dr. Tully comes in. He’s older, mid-sixties, with hair like Albert Einstein and the tiniest glasses I’ve ever seen. He’s the bigwig here. Patients don’t normally meet with him, except upon admission or when there’s a serious problem.
Or just prior to exit.
He starts with small talk, asking me a few basic questions—about the weather and the food here, and if I noticed the full moon last night. I haven’t missed a week of therapy for the past seven years, so I know just how to answer, lying straight through my teeth.
“I love the winter,” I tell him. “My foster parents rent a place in Vermont and we go up on the weekends to ski. I can’t wait to get back there.” The truth: I’ve never been skiing. But my answer shows that I’m looking ahead, excited about life, not intimidated by the thought of spending time with family.
“The food here?” I flash him a sheepish grin. “Well, it’s not exactly fine dining, especially for a food snob like me who wants to be a chef. Although, between you and me,” I lean in close, “the mac and cheese here kicks my recipe’s butt.” The lie nearly kills me, but the outcome is totally worth it.
Dr. Tully grins at my answer. I’ve shown him my sense of humor while, at the same time, conveying my aspirations.
And as for that magnificent moon: “Yes, I saw it. It was so big and glowing, like a giant snowball in the sky.”
It’s true that I noticed the moon. I’d have to have been an idiot not to, considering that a couple of the patients were howling at it. But it didn’t make me think of a snowball. It made me think of Parker—made me wonder if, wherever he is, he could see it too.
The remainder of the interview is key, because he segues into the reason that I’m here: “How often do you think about the Dark House amusement park night?”
I swallow hard, trying to keep a poker face. The truth is that I don’t remember what it was like to not think about that night. “I don’t know,” I answer, finally. “At least once a day. I no longer dream about it, though; and it’s not the first thing on my mind when I wake up in the morning. I’m hoping that with more time—and closure—I won’t think about it much at all.” Breathe in, breathe out. Ticktock, ticktock. I keep my hands on the table, where both he and I can see them, resisting the urge to pinch.
“And what if you don’t get that closure?” he asks. “What if the others aren’t found and they never catch the person responsible?”
“I’ve been working on my own form of closure, trying to think up things I can do, ways I can help people, maybe talking to crisis victims...people who’ve had loved ones taken away from them. I don’t know.” I feign a shy smile. “Does that sound dumb?”
Dr. Tully leans forward. A good sign; my answer has piqued his interest. “It actually sounds very ambitious.”
“I realize that. And I know I have a lot more healing to do before I can help others. But it’s definitely in my long-term plans.”
“Well, I think it’s a great plan.” He smiles, perhaps relieved by my newfound sanity and perspective—all thanks to Happy Hospital. “You’ve been through a lot in your lifetime—more tragedy than most people will ever know. It’s healthy to think of that tragedy as a springboard to do good. Talk about your notebook, and your maps and charts. Are you still writing down all of your theories and trying to track the person responsible for the Dark House weekend?”
I shake my head, glad that he asked. “I threw all of that stuff away—not long after the doctor confiscated my notebook, actually. It was feeding an obsession and keeping me from moving forward. I can see that now.”
“Do you still feel the need to help solve the case and find the missing victims?”
I shake my head again. “That isn’t up to me. The FBI know what they’re doing. My job is to get better and to get out of here.” The very same words that Detective Thomas used on me.
“Well, you’ve certainly come
a long way.” He eyes me for several seconds, studying my body language and nodding his head.
Meanwhile, I do my best not to swallow too hard or blink too often.
“I’d like to talk to you about the hospital’s outpatient program,” he says, finally. “It’s important that you continue your therapy upon discharge.”
I hold in my elation by squeezing my thighs together. “I’d like that.”
“You’ll be responsible for taking all of your medication. And should you ever feel overwhelmed, or overly stressed, or excessively anxious or fearful about anything, it’s essential that you tell someone. Before your discharge, we’ll establish a list of go-to people to call. How does that sound?”
“It sounds perfect.” I flash him another closed smile.
In my room, I celebrate my get-out-of-jail card by packing up my stuff. While my roommate is at her group session, I move to the far wall by my dresser. I peek over my shoulder to make sure no one’s looking in from the hallway, and then I scoot down by the heat vent and take off the cover. My notebook—a new one—is stuffed inside the duct. I snag it, replace the cover, and flip the notebook open to the back—to a letter I’m writing to Parker. The pages warm me like a blanket.
Dear Parker,
My mind reels, going over the details of the Dark House weekend, trying to come up with an answer—some unturned leaf, a magical pearl that might help to find you and the others.