Daire Meets Ever

by Alyson Noel

  “O—kay…” I drag the word out as my eyes meet hers. “And exactly what did I do to deserve such a verdict?”

  But before she can reply, the rest of the memory flares. More flickering images of glowing people, thousands of crows, and a square crowded with severed, talking heads hanging on spikes…

  One in particular…

  And then Vane.

  Something happened with Vane.

  He grabbed me. Tried to convince me that all was okay. But he couldn’t see what I saw. Couldn’t begin to comprehend what I knew to be true. Insisted on calming me, subduing me—leaving me with no choice but to do whatever it took to break free, get as far from the scene as I possibly could…

  “You really made a mess of things.” Jennika’s voice catches as she stifles a sob. “You scratched up Vane’s face and arms pretty good. They had to delay the rest of the shoot until he’s fully healed since there’s no way to hide the wounds with makeup—and believe me, I tried. Not to mention the harm you did to yourself.” She trails a gentle finger down the length of my arm until she reaches a spot where I can no longer feel it. And that’s when I realize I’m bandaged. From my elbows down, both of my arms are covered in gauze—the tips of my exposed fingers bearing only the faintest trace of my mehndi tattoo.

  Just as I thought—he loves me not.

  I sink my head back onto the pillow, not wanting to see any more than I already have.

  “Daire, you completely freaked,” she continues in typical Jennika fashion—her expression is sad, but she doesn’t mince words. “You had a meltdown, a total breakdown—a rift with reality, according to the doctor who treated you. It took a whole group of locals to intervene and pull you off Vane, and once they did, you went after them too. Luckily, no one’s pressing charges, and Vane’s publicist is working overtime trying to bury the incident and keep it out of the press. But you know how these things go in the age of the Internet.” Her shoulders lift, as her eyes tug down at the sides. “I’m afraid at this point damage control is the best we can hope for.” She lowers her voice until I can just barely hear, speaking to me like a fellow conspirator. “Vane claims there were no drugs or drinking involved, but Daire, you know you can tell me the truth. You know our deal. You come clean with whatever you did, and I promise you won’t be in trouble.” She leans close. So close I can see the whites of her eyes are now shot with spidery lines of red—evidence of a recent crying jag. “Were you two partying? I mean, it was your birthday and all. Maybe you just wanted to celebrate in a really big way?”

  Her voice lifts at the end, propelled by a sudden surge of hope. She’s looking for a fast and easy explanation—something solid to pin the blame on. An episode of teenage debauchery gone too far would be preferable to the horrible, hard to swallow truth: That after I attacked Vane, a host of innocent bystanders, and myself, I babbled like a crazy person, going on and on about crows, severed talking heads hanging on spikes, and a tribe of scary glowing people intent on capturing me for purposes unknown. Continuing to fight, kick, and scream until I was finally subdued, carried away, tied to this bed, and injected with something that burned and stung its way through my veins before it sunk me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The memory now fully resurfaced. I remember it all.

  My eyes slew toward Jennika’s, seeing the fear displayed on her face, begging me to give her what she wants, confess to something I didn’t—wouldn’t—do.

  But I won’t. Can’t. She and I have a deal. She’ll trust me until I give her a reason not to, and so far I haven’t broken that trust. Vane’s the one who drank; I refused to touch it. And as far as drugs go, I’ve been offered plenty over the years, but I’ve always said no.

  What I saw was no fantasy. I was totally sober. I wasn’t hallucinating. I need at least one other person to believe that—and if I can’t convince my own mom, then who?

  I shake my head, voice small and tired when I say, “I wasn’t partying.” I shoot her a meaningful look, desperate to convince her of the truth. “I didn’t renege on our deal.”

  She nods, presses her lips together until they turn white at the edges. And despite patting my arm in a way that’s meant to be comforting, I can tell she’s disappointed. She’d rather I’d broken our pact than deal with a truth she can’t comprehend.

  The silence looming between us so heavy and fraught I’m just about to break it, desperate to find a way to convince her that the crazy things I saw really did exist—that they weren’t the imaginings of a freaked-out mind—when there’s a knock at the door, a muffled exchange of voices, and a thick-figured man looms in the archway that leads to my room, with the ever-present Fatima lurking behind.

  My gaze glides the length of him, starting with his highly shined shoes, freshly pressed suit, starched white shirt, and boring blue tie. Noting the way his eyes fail to shine, the way his lips practically disappear into his skin, and how his tightly controlled curls seem to repel the bright light shining just overhead.

  “Daire, nice to see you’re awake.” He turns to Fatima, motioning for her to grab the chair by the desk and drag it over to my bedside where he drops a heavy black leather bag to the floor and takes up residence. Nudging Jennika out of the way, he lifts a stethoscope from his neck, secures it in place, and tries to lower my sheet so he can get down to business and eavesdrop on the inside of my chest.

  But before he can get very far, I squirm and buck and do what I can to push him away, glaring as I say, “Aren’t you at least going to introduce yourself first? I mean, it’s only polite, don’t you think?”

  He leans back, his dark eyes meeting mine as an insincere flash of stretching lips and widening cheeks stand in for a smile. “My apologies,” he says. “You are most right. I have forgotten my manners. I am Dr. Ziati. I have been attending to you since the night of the…incident.”

  “The incident? Is that what you call it?” My voice bears a sneer that matches the one on my face.

  “Is there another name you’d prefer?” He crosses his legs, runs a manicured hand along the sharp crease in his pants, settling in as though he’d like nothing better than to sit around and debate this.

  Jennika shakes her head in warning, urging me to let it go, to not push my luck. And while I choose to give her that, she can’t stop me from saying, “How come your English is so good?”

  I eye him suspiciously, noting the way his sudden laugh causes the skin around his eyes to crinkle and fan, while his teeth flash straight and white in a way not often seen in these parts. A clue that leaves me not the least bit surprised when he says, “I studied medicine in the States—at the University of Pennsylvania, to be exact. Though the truth is, I was born right here in Marrakesh. So after several years of residency abroad, I returned home. I do hope this meets with your approval?” He nods, waits for my reply, but I just shrug and look away. “Is there anything else you’d like to know before I check all your vital signs?” He waves his stethoscope at me.

  Interpreting my sigh as consent, he lowers the sheet, causing me to cringe under the press of cold metal that works its way along the edge of my tank top as he orders me to take several deep breaths. And after looking into my eyes with a harsh lighted instrument, staring into my mouth and depressing my tongue with a smooth wooden stick as I’m told to say, Awwww, he places two fingers to the side of my neck, just under my jaw, where he locates my pulse as his gaze tracks the second hand on his expensive gold watch.

  “Excellent,” he says, nodding when he adds, “I trust you slept well?” He tucks the stethoscope into the bag, and busies himself with inspecting my bandages, turning my arms this way and that without bothering to untie them, which really burns me up.

  “You want to know if I slept well?” I lift my head and frown. “Untie me. Untie me right now, and I’ll fill you in on whatever you want to know.”

  The disingenuous smile that seemed glued to his face just a moment ago quickly fades, as Jennika rushes to my side and rubs her hand over my shoulder
in a failed attempt to subdue me.

  “You can’t keep me like this! I have rights and you know it!” I shout, but my words fall on deaf ears.

  Dr. Ziati just looks at me and says, “Young lady, do you have any idea what brought you here in the first place?”

  Yeah—glowing people, decapitated heads, and crows—thousands and thousands of them. And because of it, I had no choice but to maul a major up-and-coming movie star so that I could break free. What of it?

  But of course I don’t say that, it’s a truth no one wants to believe, much less hear.

  “Do you remember the things that you did—the things that you said?”

  I shrug in reply. There’s no use going on. One look at his smug expression tells me he’ll never be on my side, wouldn’t so much as consider it.

  “You exhibited all of the symptoms of one who is under the influence of drugs—a hallucinogen of some sort. I’ve witnessed this type of behavior before—always with tourists.” His tone smacks of the same disdain that glints in his eyes. “Only in your case, it has just been confirmed that the blood sample we took came back clean. Which leads me to my next question—have you experienced this sort of delusion before?”

  I glance between him and Jennika—her face stricken with worry—his creased with morbid curiosity—then I roll my head ’til I’m facing the other way, preferring a view of the elaborate blue-tiled bathroom to either of them. There’s no point in defending myself to those who refuse to be swayed.

  “You spoke of glowing people chasing you, large black crows taunting you, along with thousands of severed bloodied heads that filled up the square and beckoned to you.”

  A gasp fills the room, prompting me to turn just in time to see Fatima clutching the small golden hamsa charm that hangs from her neck, her head bowed in hushed, fervent prayer, until a sharp word from the doctor warns her to stop.

  “I’m afraid these can easily be classified as delusions of a rather paranoid nature.” He returns to me. “And while I have no idea as to what might have provoked the episode as there were no drugs or alcohol involved, I will say that it’s not uncommon for a genetic, chemical imbalance to begin showing signs of itself during the latter part of adolescence.” His words Somewhere out there is a grandmother I’ve never met—my dad’s mom. But Jennika refuses to talk about her. From what little I’ve managed to glean, my grandma disappeared right after she lost her only son. Pretty much just fell off the face of the earth, as Jennika tells it, and since she had no way to reach her, my grandma doesn’t even know I exist.

  All of which brings me right back to…nothing. I have no idea who in the family might have gone psycho. Might’ve caused me, through some faulty genetic link, to go psycho too. Jennika is the only family I know. And while she certainly has her fair share of crazy, it’s normal crazy, not clinical crazy.

  Like any parent, her only goal has always been to protect me, but from the distraught look on her face, she’s beginning to doubt that she can.

  Dr. Ziati glances between us, his voice calm, face placid, looking as though he’s spent a lifetime dispensing exactly this kind of life-changing news. “I’m afraid your daughter is in serious need of help. Left untreated, this sort of thing will only get worse. And while we’ve managed to stabilize her for now, it won’t last. It is imperative that you return to the States as soon as you can. And when you do, you must get her to see a mental health care provider, preferably a psychiatrist, without delay. They’ve made great advances in psychiatric drugs in the past several years. Many people with imbalances such as Daire’s go on to live normal, healthy lives. With the right kind of treatment, regular counseling, and provided she stay on course with her prescribed medication, I see no reason why she can’t move forward in a productive and positive way.”

  Jennika nods, her eyes so watery, face so weary, I can tell she’s this close to crumbling.

  Then before either of us can form any sort of reply, the doctor reaches into his bag, retrieves a needle, flicks it on the side, squirts a spray of whatever into the air, and stabs me in the crook of my arm. Causing my body to sag, my tongue to grow heavy and flat, and my eyelids to droop until I can no longer lift them.

  Dr. Ziati’s instructions to Jennika are the last thing I hear: “This should hold long enough for you to pack up your stuff and make preparations to leave. When she wakes, give her one of these tablets every four hours to help you get through the flight. After that, you need to get her the kind of help she so desperately needs. If not, I’m afraid the delusions will only get worse.”

  ***

  “Close your window so I can crank up the heat—it’s cold out there.”

  I glance over my shoulder, long enough to shoot Jennika a scathing look, but I’ve been shooting her so many of them over the last few days it washes right over her. She’s grown as immune to my scowls as she has to my protests.

  I bring my knees to my chest, allowing my heels to hang off the edge of the seat as my index finger prods the small square switch next to my armrest.

  Pushing, then letting it go.

  Pushing until it’s almost there—then lifting my finger and watching it pause.

  The window rising and halting in annoyingly short little spurts, but she ignores that as well. Preferring to divert her attention to more pleasant things like driving within the lines, and fiddling with the rental car’s radio—correctly assuming her refusal to acknowledge my game will bore me into obeying.

  I force the window all the way up and shift toward the door until I can no longer see her. My shoulders hunched, arms hugging my knees, trying to make myself smaller, more distant, pretending as though I’m not really here.

  I wish I wasn’t here.

  My forehead pressed flush to the window, I blow a small patch of foggy circles onto the glass as I say, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  “And you trust her?” My lip curls to a sneer. “You trust some woman you don’t even know? You trust her to tell you the truth—to not drug me—or—or do something worse? And what about the guy she’s sent to meet us? You’re just going to hand me over to some creepy old man you’ve never even met? What if he’s a pervert—or a serial killer—or both?”

  The accusation hangs heavy between us, a barrier that cannot be breached—or at Aleast that’s what I think until she says, “I trust you.” And when she looks at me, my throat goes so lumpy I can’t speak. “I trust that what you see and experience is all too real for you, even if I can’t see or understand it myself. But Daire, we’ve been given a chance, an opportunity to help you in a nonclinical, all-natural kind of way, and I feel we have to at least give it a go. It kills me to sit back and watch you suffer like this. As your mother, I should be able to help you, spare you the pain you’re going through—and yet, everything I’ve done so far, every choice I’ve made, only seems to make you feel even worse than before. So yeah, I think we have to at least give Paloma a chance—see what she can do. You may not know her, but she is your grandmother. And just so you know, I would never just drop you off and hand you over to some creepy, old, serial killer, pervert as you claim. He happens to be Paloma’s close and trusted friend. He’s also a well-respected, much-sought-after veterinarian. I did Google him, you know.”

  “Oh, so you Googled him? Oh, well, that changes everything then, doesn’t it? What could I possibly worry about now that I know you’ve conducted such a thorough Internet search?” I roll my eyes, shake my head, and gaze out the window again, adding, “As for my dad—if Grandma’s so great, then why’d he leave home at sixteen? Hunh? Do you have an excuse for that too?” I frown. Slide a finger under my bandage where I pick at the thick trail of scabs on my arm, waiting to see how she’ll wiggle out of that one.

  “For your information, Django wasn’t running from her—he was running from what he considered to be a stifling life in a very small town.”

  “A stifling life in a very small town?” I repeat the words back to her, my voice loaded with sa
rcasm. “Charming, Jennika, seriously charming.” I huff under my breath, push my hair off my face. “Do you even listen to the things you say? You actually sound happy about condemning me to live in the same stifling Siberia my dad couldn’t wait to escape.”

  “So you’d prefer the institution? Is that what you’re saying?” She looks right at me, her green eyes narrowed on mine, but I refuse to respond. “Besides,” she continues, pushing her pink strip of hair off her forehead and tucking it behind her multipierced ear. “According to you, Paloma’s already helped. According to you, you’ve been feeling much better since we got you off the drugs and onto the herbs, and you certainly seem to be doing better from what I can see.”

  “whatever,” I grumble, unwilling to tell her the truth, that the effect is temporary at best. As much as I don’t want to go to Paloma’s, I want to go to the mental institution even less. “But did you ever stop to think that there might be a third choice—one that you never considered? Now that I’m doing so much better, I don’t see why I can’t just continue with the herbs and follow you to Chile.”

  “No,” Jennika says, though her tone lacks the venom the word implies. “It’s not even an option. The fact that you’re doing better only leads me to think that Paloma just might be able to help you kick this for good. Besides, it’s not like I won’t check in. I’ll call every day—I’ll write to you too! And before you know it, I’ll be headed your way. As soon as we wrap, I’ll catch the first plane out, I swear.”

  She lifts her hand from the wheel, extends her pinky toward me, her silver ring catching the light, winking at me, as she waits for me to curl mine around it. But I don’t. Instead I just say, “So it’s settled, then. There’s no room for debate. I’m going to live with some crazy old witch doctor who counts a creepy, old, perverted, serial killer, veterinarian among her friends. Awesome.” I nod, gracing her with a smile that’s anything but genuine. “If I live through it, I’ll be sure to include it in my memoirs. And if not, you can include it in yours.”