We'll Never Be Apart

by Emiko Jean

  He raises his eyebrows at me. I’m sure he was expecting another freeze-out this evening. When we sat down he pulled out some huge medical journal and started reading it, didn’t even try to ask me any questions this time. Interesting. He puts the book down on a side table and picks up a pen. “Would you like to go?” he asks.

  I nod my head.

  Dr. Goodman writes something. “That would be a considerable undertaking, Alice. We’d have to get the judge’s permission.”

  I want to ask why, ball my hands up into fists, and wail. It was Cellie’s fault. It’s always been Cellie’s fault. I’ve never done anything wrong. Just because we share the same face doesn’t mean anything. I picture Jason’s body in the casket, being laid to rest with no one there. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold in the hurt that threatens to spill over. “Fine.”

  “I’m not saying it can’t be done, Alice.” Why does he always have to say my name in such a perpetually concerned tone? “But the judge will want to know that you’re making progress. And I’m afraid based on the last couple of days . . .” He trails off.

  “But I haven’t done anything in the last couple of days.”

  “That’s the key, Alice. You haven’t done anything. You share the minimum in group therapy, and today is the first day you’ve spoken more than twenty words to me. I need you to participate in your recovery.”

  Mentally, I build myself a hole and crawl into it. I take out a piece of black and white striped origami paper and fold it into an angelfish. Doc goes back to reading his medical journal. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time talking to him. Then I would’ve had time to make another angelfish. Then I would have two angelfish and they could kiss.

  When the session ends, Dr. Goodman holds the door open for me to exit. “Remember what I said, Alice. Participate.”

  Donny escorts me back to my room. We’re just rounding the corner to the girls’ wing when a scream splits the hum of the fluorescent lights. The ear-piercing cry echoes through the hallway, bounces off the walls, and makes my heart stand still. Without thinking, without breathing, I go toward it. All along the wall, doors open and curious patients peek out. Their faces become a blur of white as my footsteps hasten. Donny shouts behind me. It’s coming from my room. Briefly, I think that Cellie must be in there. She’s returned and is demanding to see me.

  I’m afraid, and I know it’s crazy to be going toward her, but I’m even more afraid of not answering her cry. When I get to the doorway, Cellie isn’t there after all. But my relief is short-lived. A lump rises in my throat. The stifled and strangled cry comes from Amelia.

  …

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF ALICE MONROE

  Rebecca, our old social worker, caught a glimpse of bruises on Cellie’s upper arm, and she asked to look at my back and Jason’s chest. When she saw the fresh black-and-blue marks the size of meaty fingers, she squeezed our shoulders and told us we’d never have to go back to Roman’s again. Jason said goodbye to Cellie and me, stretched out his index fingers and pressed them against ours, promising to stay in touch. But we knew we’d probably never see him again. His mom wanted him back, wanted to try again with her only remaining son.

  Time went by. Our tumbleweed existence continued. The foster system liked to keep siblings together, and for that I was grateful. And I had so few things to be grateful for.

  We stayed for a while with a lesbian couple, Pam and Gayle. They had a bunch of dogs and a kitchen decorated in a rooster motif. Cellie giggled the first time she saw all those red roosters and whispered to me, “They sure love cocks.” They had two kids already, adopted them right out of foster care. At night, while Cellie fitfully slept across from me, I’d clasp my hands together and pray that they’d also adopt us.

  Pam and Gayle’s yard stretched into a field, and Cellie would spend days out there running around with the dogs. She fit in more out there than at school. We’d been to five schools in under two years, and she’d always had a hard time blending in. At all of our schools Cellie and I were placed in different classrooms. Something else I was grateful for. I promised Cellie we’d never be apart, but that didn’t mean we always had to be together, attached at the hip. Sometimes she would come find me. I’d be sitting in class, and suddenly I’d see a patch of dark hair right outside the door. She’d pace outside until I asked the teacher for a hall pass to go to the bathroom. We’d duck inside the same stall and I’d ask her what she wanted. Most of the time it was to complain.

  “I don’t like it here, Alice,” she said one day.

  “The school day is almost over. Maybe we can ask Pam and Gayle to get pizza tonight.” She looked hurt and blinked furiously, trying to keep her tears at bay. “Look,” I said. “I have an English test next period, but I suppose I could skip last period.”

  Her face brightened. “Maybe we could go over to Highland Park?”

  I chewed the inside of my lip. She always wanted to go to Highland Park, the middle school where we would’ve gone if we still lived with Roman. I knew she was hoping we’d see Jason again. She looked for him all the time, at bus stops, through the windows of well-known foster homes and social worker offices. “Sure,” I said. “Go back to class now. I’ll meet you by the boys’ bathroom after fifth period.”

  She smiled and skipped away. But Mr. Winters held me up after English class. He wanted to talk about my essays. He said I had an aptitude for writing and asked if I would consider an advanced placement class for high school next year. I smiled, but the rush of victory was quickly drowned by worry. I glanced at the clock. I was late to meet Cellie. Scooping my books into my backpack, I took off toward the boys’ bathroom. Students scurried out of my way as I passed them in the hall. They always gave Cellie and me a wide berth, afraid the rumors about us were true, that we’d lived with our grandfather’s dead body for days on end and the stench of death we carried about us might somehow rub off on them.

  I expected to find Cellie pacing, murmuring to herself and pulling at her hair. But she wasn’t there.

  I checked the girls’ bathroom, looked under each of the stalls, and quietly called her name. No sign of her. It was then that I smelled it. The average person might have dismissed the odor as something that had gotten caught in the wind and would soon disappear. But I knew what she had done.

  Every fire has a special smell, depending on what’s used to spark and feed it. Like a recipe, all the ingredients come together to create an aroma and a taste that are unique. When Cellie set the doll on fire, it smelled of sulfur mixed with chemicals, plastic, and fiber. The forest fire was like a perfume, wet earth drying out, pine and sap boiling. This smell, on this particular day, was a whole new scent—paper and hair. But with all the fires, the underlying notes were the same, hauntingly familiar. Sadness. Rage. Fury.

  I found her in the boys’ bathroom, sitting next to a smoking metal garbage can. She rocked back and forth, the same way she did in Roman’s closet. A book of matches hung loosely from her fingers.

  “Cellie?”

  She looked up at me.

  “What have you done?” It was the first time I had ever asked her that. What have you done? Perhaps I should have asked her why or how come. Maybe she would’ve answered, and we could’ve dealt with it, boxed it up, and put it away.

  “You didn’t come,” she said simply. “I thought you’d left me.”

  My mouth hung open. I can admit it now: I was angry with her. But under that anger was sadness and sweet forgiveness. I could never leave her. But I didn’t have time to tell her that. A flame jumped up and caught onto the paper towel that hung from the dispenser right above the trash can. It was the fastest I’d ever seen anything burn. Just like that, fire erupted in the bathroom. Thick black smoke rose to the ceiling like an ominous cloud. I coughed and waved my hands in front of my face. Fire alarms sounded and sprinklers went off, and just as quickly as the fire had started, it was put out. My hair was drenched, my shoes soaked.

  “Shit, Cellie,” I said,
gaping wildly at the damage done to the bathroom, damage that had taken only minutes to occur. “We have to get out of here.” All I could think about was what would happen if she got caught, where they’d send her. Foolishly, I didn’t think of myself. How bad it looked for me, to be soaked and covered in the remnants of black smoke and ash right along with her. I grabbed her hand and we ran out the bathroom door toward the nearest exit, our sodden shoes leaving an easy-to-follow trail. The school was being evacuated, and behind us a tidal wave of students walked single file to the nearest exits. They must have seen us. But we kept running. Out the back doors, down the side of the building, toward the athletic field. We kept going until we ran directly into a security guard.

  I stopped short a few feet shy of his glinting badge and bulging navy uniform. Cellie skidded into me. She pinched the tender flesh on the back of my arm. I could feel the bruise blossom under my waterlogged T-shirt. I rubbed the spot and glared at her.

  Officer Davis looked at us suspiciously, and I saw the foregone conclusion drawn all over his face. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

  Cellie rolled her eyes. “There’s a fire alarm. We’re evacuating per school regulation.”

  Officer Davis made a little sound of disbelief. He radioed for help, and we were escorted to the other side of the building. The principal came, then the firemen, and finally the police. We were taken to the emergency room, where we were checked for injuries. And when the doctors asked me if anything hurt, I wanted to say only on the inside. But I kept quiet and so did Cellie. When we refused to talk, kept our lips sewn shut, we were cuffed and escorted out to a waiting police car. When we had been driving for a while, I finally got up the courage to speak. Through dry, cracked lips and with a shaky voice I asked, “Where are we going?”

  The police officer didn’t answer. He didn’t bother to turn his head or look at us in the rearview mirror. We weren’t even worth the eye contact.

  Silver cuffs jingled around Cellie’s wrists. “I did a bad thing, Alice,” she said.

  “Yeah.” I couldn’t look at her. I felt her hands slide over mine. Her skin was dry and cracked, her nails bitten down to the quick.

  “I’ll make it better,” she said.

  A tear slipped down my cheek. “I’m not sure you can.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  The Quiet Room

  AMELIA STANDS BY HER DRESSER, the bottom drawer pulled all the way to the end of its tracks, spilling from the frame like blood from a slit wrist. Her body is hunched and she cradles something in her arms. She cries again, this time lower and more mournful. A sound like the shriek of an animal with its foot caught in a trap.

  “Amelia?” I say tentatively and softly in the doorway.

  She turns to me, eyes wild. “He’s dead.” She moves her hand so I can see what she’s holding. Elvis lies in her arms, his little body limp and broken.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Amelia,” I say.

  “I hate this place. Everything turns to shit here,” she bellows, stomping her foot like a child throwing a temper tantrum. “See what happens when you care for something? See what happens?” She holds up the rat and its head flops over her hand.

  A chorus of footsteps sounds behind me. Suddenly I’m being pulled and pushed aside. Five huge techs, Donny leading them, enter the room, closely followed by Nurse Dummel and Dr. Goodman.

  “Amelia, it’s Dr. Goodman. What’s happened?” He eyes the rat. When she doesn’t respond and continues to sob, Dr. Goodman goes on. “I’d like to give you something to help you calm down.” He motions Nurse Dummel forward. She leans over and he whispers to her, “Ten milligrams of diazepam.” His eyes flick to me standing in the doorway. “And close the door.”

  Nurse Dummel nods, radios the nurses’ station for the drug, and softly shuts the door in my face.

  Through the door I hear Amelia. “No,” she says, loud and feverish. “I don’t want anything to calm down.” And then, “Don’t take him from me. Don’t take him.”

  A nurse rushes down the hallway, a syringe held upright in her hand. She doesn’t notice me as she opens the door. Through the crack I briefly see Amelia, her back pressed to the wall, shaking her head like a feral animal, holding on to that damn rat like a lifeline. The door closes and I’m shut out once again.

  On the other side of the door, there’s a scuffle. The louder Amelia screams, the quieter the five plus people in the room get. I stay by the door, frozen and trapped, unable to leave, but at the same time wanting to run away so badly. For a moment my head feels as if it’s detached from my body, and everything seems like a memory—a washed-out echo and an imprint of the past. Patients begin to crowd the halls, their hungry eyes devouring the commotion.

  The door opens, slams, and ricochets against the wall. A couple of techs walk backwards, holding Amelia’s legs. Two more walk sideways, holding her arms. Another keeps her torso steady, and Dr. Goodman holds her head.

  “My parents will sue, you son of a bitch. They’ll sue all of you,” Amelia cries, thrashing and kicking the whole time. A nurse comes from the side and hurries in front of them. A couple of doors down the hallway, she swipes her keycard over a red box. The door automatically swings open wide. The interior is padded and coated in white.

  They get her into the Quiet Room and the door closes with a soft whoosh. The thick walls muffle her cries, cries that started strong and unbreakable and have ended in a sort of whimpering that is swallowed by the eerie silence of the hospital.

  The techs and nurses huddle around Dr. Goodman and listen while he gives them instructions. By this time the patients have scurried back to their rooms, not wanting to draw attention. When the techs disperse, Nurse Dummel pulls up a barstool next to the door, where there is a shuttered window in the upper half. She clicks it open and quietly watches Amelia. I slip back into my room. It looks as if a storm has passed through. Amelia’s mattress is overturned and the bedsheet is crumpled on the ground. The dresser drawer has landed halfway across the room. The origami animals I have so lovingly and painstakingly made are tipped over, crushed, some with dusty footprints on them. I take the time and carefully clean up everything. I don’t want her to come back to a room like this.

  I make Amelia’s bed, push the drawer back, and safely restore our menagerie. Some of the animals can’t be saved, but I can’t stand the thought of throwing them away, not when I love them so much. So I hide them behind our dresser in the hole in the wall where Amelia and I have been keeping our razors ever since our room got searched.

  After I’m done, I go to the door and press my ear against it. I wait. When the unmistakable sound of Nurse Dummel’s quick strides disappears down the hallway, I step out of my room. I walk down the hallway. When I get to the Quiet Room, I rest my cheek against the cool metal door. “Amelia,” I whisper, even though I’m sure she can’t hear me. “I’m here.” I sit on the floor and then lie down so that I’m facing the crack under the door. I slide my palm along the cool linoleum floor until my fingertips are inside the room. “I’m here,” I say again. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

  Nurse Dummel makes me go see Dr. Goodman. I don’t say anything when she asks what I’m doing in the hallway. Nor do I ask about the haunted sort of grim expression that shadows her face when she sees where I’m lying. I don’t knock when I get to Dr. Goodman’s office; instead I sink into the plastic chair just outside his door. I’m anxious to get back to the Quiet Room in case Amelia wakes up. I want to be there for her.

  The door opens, and two security guards followed by Dr. Goodman emerge. Dr. Goodman shakes each of their hands. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he says. “Please keep me apprised of the investigation.”

  “We will,” says a guard whose body is the opposite of slim. “Let us know, as well, if there are any other incidents or anything else goes missing.”

  Dr. Goodman nods his head and murmurs, “Will do.” He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, contemplating. He looks
down and his gaze registers me in the chair. “Alice, you’re here. Why didn’t you come in?”

  I shrug, stand, and jam my hands into my hoodie pockets. “I wasn’t sure I could.” I follow him into the office.

  “Of course you can, Alice. My door is always open.” He sits and picks up his yellow legal pad. “Please.” He gestures to the seat across from him. I sit. He clasps his hands together, laces his fingers. We stare at each other. “How are you doing, Alice?”

  “Is Amelia all right?” I blurt.

  Doc frowns in disapproval. “Alice, you know I can’t discuss other patients with you.” He crosses his legs. “Are you worried about Amelia?”

  Inside my hoodie pocket I crack my knuckles. “I guess.”

  “Did you know about the rat?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, Dr. Goodman, you know I can’t discuss other patients with you. Instead I look him directly in the eye. “Of course not,” I say.

  “You know, Alice, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you did know about the rat. I would understand.”

  “Understand what?” I ask, confused.

  “Sometimes, when we think it’s in the best interest of someone, we may choose to withhold things.”

  I bite my cheek and lower my chin so my hair falls in a curtain over my face. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I think it means you’re trying to get me to admit to something I don’t know anything about.” The air between us changes.

  “All right, Alice.” His tone is placating. “Let’s change the subject. I have some good news for you.” I blink at him. “I’ve spoken with the judge just this evening.” I straighten up a little in my chair. He scratches the back of his head. “Well, Sara and I both spoke with the judge, and he’s agreed to grant you a four-hour release to attend Jason’s funeral tomorrow.”