“It was nice…knowing you,” she said, forcing a brave smile.
“Don’t worry,” he told her, reaching for her arm and giving it a depressingly platonic squeeze. “I’ll come see you tonight, during visiting hours.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, proud of how easily the lie fell from her lips. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a day.”
Smiling sadly at her—was it her imagination, or was there a trace of guilt?—Sam nodded.
“You’re right. It’s only a day. But I’ll still come visit you, if that’s okay.”
“It’s a free country,” Viola said, with a shrug. But then she decided that wasn’t enough of a parting shot, so she added, “Except when you’re…an intern, I guess.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Behave yourself in there.”
“You know,” she said, pretending to think it over, “I don’t think I will.”
Apparently buying her tough, brave act—since he suddenly seemed less guilty—Sam headed back down the narrow hallway toward the restricted-access elevator they’d come up in.
After watching him go, Viola turned and followed the nurse through the heavy-looking double doors, and into a world where freedom and privacy were privileges—not rights—and no one cared what her last name was.
***
I’m falling.
All around me, pieces of my life float through the air like debris from an explosion. Shards of the white four-poster bed that I slept in as a child. Feathers from expensive silk pillows. Shreds of designer dresses. Broken strands of pearls. My father’s favorite cuff links. The rusted red bicycle I used to sneak away to ride at my grandfather’s farm. Broken wine bottles.
Below me, the ground looks like a Monet painting, blurred and picturesque. I can see green squares and blue ovals, with veins and capillaries of white and black running through it all, connecting everything. Sam would be proud of me for remembering the proper terms.
As the ground comes up to greet me, I don’t struggle. I’ve fallen before, and the more I try to fight it, the faster I fall. I’m a slave to the whims of gravity.
I’m a dead bird, falling from the sky.
I hit the ground, but I don’t wake up. I shatter into a million pieces, scattering myself across the fields and lakes and vineyards. That’s a myth, I’ve discovered. You don’t always wake when you die in a dream.
Instead, I roll over and find myself standing in a church. Not just any church, but the crumbling stone chapel at St. Catherine’s Preparatory School for Girls. I’m wearing a white satin dress, my grandmother’s wedding dress. Sam is standing across from me.
“I do,” I say, without waiting to be asked.
He smiles, and leans in to kiss me. I’m angry at him for something, I think. I’m supposed to be angry. But when he smiles like that, when he looks at me like I’m all he wants in the world, I can’t remember what he did to deserve my anger. I lean in to meet his lips, but he stops a breath away, taking a step back.
There’s a crunching sound in my mouth. I bring my hand to my face, horrified. When I open my mouth to apologize, dozens of teeth fall out. Blood drips from my mouth, onto my pristine white dress. I bend over and spit it out, because it’s choking me. The carpet in front of the altar becomes littered with teeth. Sam backs away, disgusted.
“I’m sorry,” I say, slurring heavily. “I’ll get better, I promise. Please, don’t leave me.”
***
Thirty-six hours after being admitted, Viola’s bravado was really starting to wear thin.
Despite Sam’s promise, the psychiatrist—an elderly misogynist named Dr. Horace, who had yellow teeth and perpetual coffee breath—had immediately extended her stay as an inpatient, right after she’d told him that she’d retained memories from when she was in her coma.
Even after she’d told him to follow up with Sam, that he’d confirm everything she was saying, Dr. Horace just gave her the same condescending smile he’d given her the first time he’d walked into the room.
“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he’d said. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about everything you want to talk about. For now, though, I’d like to start you on some anti-anxiety medication.”
Right, because that was Viola’s problem. It wasn’t like she’d been in a terrible accident, or recently lost her parents under extremely suspicious circumstances. She was just a little bit too ‘high-strung.’
Since that first meeting, every time she spoke with the doctor, Viola could practically hear the implied, ‘Now, now, little lady, settle down’ buried underneath his words.
On the upside, dreaming up—and practicing—a bunch of creative new ways to tell her new doctor to go to hell? That was really doing wonders for Viola’s communication skills. She’d almost gotten back to her former repartee speed. In another week or so, she’d probably be up to talking her way out of parking tickets again.
The door to her room opened—because no one knocked in Psych—and Viola’s roommate shuffled in, carrying a bowl of rice pudding in her pudgy fingers.
Smiling cautiously, Viola edged back a little further into the corner of her bed.
“Hi Phyllis,” she said, keeping her tone as sweet and unassuming as possible. “How’s that pudding treating you?”
“Mmm…yummy,” the former convenience store cashier—who’d recently been laid off and now suffered from severe depression—mumbled around a squishy mouthful. “I never get to eat stuff like this at home because my stupid husband thinks it makes me fat. But that dick-hole can suck it, for all I care. He’s stuck at home with the kids all week, while I’m living it up in here.”
“That’s…nice.”
Her roommate, who was basically the human embodiment of yet another one of Sam’s broken promises—of course you’ll have your own room, Viola—had yet to display any dangerous qualities—other than a complete lack of inhibition when it came to eating and talking—but Viola wasn’t taking any chances.
God, every time she thought of Sam, she got so angry.
The first night, Viola had cried herself to sleep. All night long, she’d dreamt of her teeth falling out, of falling from great heights, of being naked in front of crowds, and then looking down to realize that she was completely covered in scars. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to tell her what these dreams meant, that she was feeling vulnerable and betrayed. Lost. Out of control.
For the first time in her life, she was forced to rely on other people for every single thing she needed. Food, clothing, entertainment—Viola even had to ask permission to use the bathroom. She hadn’t had to do that even when she was at school.
Setting down the notebook she’d been writing in—her secret dream journal, which she’d taken to hiding in her pillowcase whenever Dr. Horace came by—Viola debated for the second time that day whether or not to go to the Psych cafeteria before meal time was over. That was yet another downside to being a psychiatric inpatient. If she wanted to eat, she had to do it as part of the community. It was one of the many ‘hive mind’ protocols that apparently fostered psychological wellness; along with supervised activity time and private, psych ward-only screenings of conflict-free, animated movies.
If these protocols were meant to sooth those suffering from disturbances of the mind, Viola had begun to suspect that they did the exact opposite for people like her, who were completely sane. Too many days in here, and she’d crack up for sure. Permanently.
“Hey, Phyllis?” Viola asked, when she couldn’t stand the sound of wet noshing for another second. “Did you see Kevin, when you were out there getting your pudding?”
Phyllis shrugged. “I don’t know, which one’s Kevin?”
“The really big tech?” Viola smiled, trying not to show how frustrated she was. “Bald? Mocha complexion? Big, brown eyes?”
Her roommate only stared back at her blankly, chewing slowly like a cow on her cud.
Viola tried to think of a description that her working-class compani
on would recognize. “He sort of looks like a Hawaiian Mr. Clean?”
“Oh, that guy.” Phyllis waved her spoon, flinging rice pudding across the bed. “Yeah, I think he was in the rec room with Naked Ronald.”
Great. That was just what Viola needed, another brush with Naked Ronald.
“Thanks, Phyllis,” she said, folding up her dream journal and tucking it into the back of her yoga pants, underneath her jacket. Somehow, she didn’t quite trust the foul-mouthed pudding gobbler not to snoop through her stuff in her absence. “Do you want me to get you anything while I’m out there?”
“Nah.” Phyllis was already settling in for a post-treat nap. “I’m good.”
Viola left the room and made her way to the recreation area, struggling as always to keep from making eye-contact with the other patients she passed. In her world, eye-contact was a sign of confidence and good breeding. But in this world, it was either seen as a challenge or an open invitation for sexual advances or really uncomfortable conversations. The worst part was, you never quite knew which until you’d done it by accident.
When she finally rounded the corner into the rec. room—without incident, thank God—Viola’s eyes flitted around the room, taking stock of any potential threats. Most of the patients in the room slumped in vinyl-upholstered armchairs and watched the large television that was mounted on the wall, but a few of them sat around card tables, playing board games.
Other than Kevin the tech and Naked Ronald, though, no one seemed to acknowledge her presence.
Running a hand self-consciously through her hair—which was desperately in need of being styled—Viola approached the two men, who were sitting side by side in armchairs against the wall.
“Hi Kevin,” she said, trying not to make eye-contact with Ronald, who was easily as large as Kevin, but not nearly as solid-looking.
Ronald had been assigned Kevin as his full time guard, after three different counts of tearing his clothes off and running for the nearest exit. The last person who’d tried to stop him—Dr. Perry, Sam’s short, but very nice intern friend from medical school—had gotten punched in the face for his efforts.
“Hey, Viola.” In spite of his impressive size and wealth of dangerous-looking tattoos, Kevin was an extremely soft-spoken and sweet kid. Viola thought of him as a kid, even though he was less than a year younger than she was. It helped her to set emotional boundaries, so that her friendly demeanor toward him wouldn’t be taken the wrong way. “What’s up, mama?”
Viola smiled, liking how badass the somewhat-ghetto term of endearment made her feel. It was almost like she was in prison, and she’d gotten in with the biggest bruiser in the place. Wait, who was she kidding? She took another glance around at her surroundings—at the glassy-eyed and hopeless-looking patients, being watched over by a handful of wary-eyed officials in white uniforms. This wasn’t almost like prison. It was exactly like prison.
“Um, actually, I was wondering if you could get something for me.”
Kevin cast a sideways glance at his charge, whose attention had strayed back to the TV. Most of the time, Naked Ronald seemed totally harmless, even simple. But whatever his special trigger was, it seemed to flip a switch inside his brain, turning him from a sedentary middle-aged desk worker to someone who urgently needed to be nude and away.
“What do you need? Nothing contraband, I hope.”
“No,” Viola laughed quietly. “Nothing like that. Just a couple of books.”
“What kind of books?”
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching—because even a hint of ‘forbidden’ skin could set off some of the more perverted patients—Viola reached under her jacket and pulled out her notebook. She’d written a short list on the back page, which she ripped out and handed to Kevin.
His pretty, almond-shaped eyes scanned the page, looking up at her with an unspoken question after he’d reached the end.
“What you want these books for?”
Viola batted her eyelashes innocently. “They’re just subjects I find interesting, that’s all.”
“Okay.” He shrugged, pocketing the list. “I’ll see what I can do. It might take me until tomorrow, though. You sure you’re still gonna be here then?”
With a pained smile, Viola shrugged again. It was getting harder and harder to pretend like she wasn’t climbing the walls. With every hour that passed, Naked Ronald’s unique response to living in captivity seemed a little bit more forgivable.
“If I’m out before you can get them, I suppose I won’t need them.”
“Good point.” Kevin nodded, not bothering to ask her whether she would do something for him in return. Unlike most of the staff members in Psych, Kevin knew how things were supposed to work in the outside world. People with pride always paid their debts. It was as simple as that. Whether you grew up in the hood, or a picturesque mansion by the lake.
“Thanks, Kevin.”
As Viola turned to flee back to her room, too excited now to eat, something on the television caught her eye. It was a commercial for some kind of beer, she thought. But the image of a guy sitting on a beach, playing his guitar in front of a bonfire hit her like a slap in the face. She stood frozen, as Naked Ronald got up from his seat and walked past her, shuffling toward the cafeteria.
“Yo Ronald,” Kevin said, very calmly. “Wait for me, man.”
Wait for me. The words rolled together with the image, forming a brainwave that sizzled as it hit the shore of her conscious mind. Viola had been thinking a lot about symbolism lately, about memories locked away in a person’s brain. It was one of the reasons she’d asked Kevin for a dream dictionary, along with the other books she’d requested. The more she could understand about what was going on in her shattered mind, the better off she’d be.
Shaking her head, Viola walked back to her room, ignoring everyone she passed.
When she came into the room, Phyllis stirred. “Did you have sex with Kevin?”
“What?” Viola laughed at the woman’s blatantly inappropriate—not to mention random—question. Then again, she was starting to realize it was just Phyllis’s style. “No. He’s not really my type.”
Actually, a few months ago, the tattooed thug with pretty eyes would’ve been exactly Viola’s type. But now, she couldn’t stop dreaming about a tall, nerdy doctor with laughing green eyes, a shy smile, and shaggy brown hair. Even when she hated him.
“Oh, that’s right,” Phyllis said, turning over. “I forgot, you have a boyfriend. I’ll bet he’s not as much of a dick as my stupid husband.”
“Actually,” Viola told her, pulling out her dream journal and sitting on the bed. “If you want to trade stories…I’ll tell you about the time where my ex…wrote this really terrible song. It was called “Wait for Me.” It was so bad…his band cut it from…their album. Two years later….he changed the lyrics, and told everyone…it was about his…comatose girlfriend. Now,” she laughed. “Now…he’s famous…for that song. I guess he…thought I’d forget…that he played it for me…the first time we ever met. Huh?”
“Wow.” Phyllis was staring at her, wide-eyed. “Your ex-boyfriend sucks ass.”
“I know, right?” Viola pulled out her tiny golf pencil—the only type of writing implement she was allowed—and began to document the memory in her journal. Maybe Phyllis wasn’t that bad, after all. She really did have an impressive knack for description.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“There are no mistakes.” –Sigmund Freud
Whenever Sam stepped through the security doors and into the psych ward, he immediately felt like he’d stepped into a world where the rules of society no longer held any sway.
Things like common courtesy, personal hygiene, self-control—none of these things seemed to exist in the world of the mentally imbalanced, except in small doses, and never with any reliable frequency.
At the same time, there was an almost palpable charge of energy in the air, he thought, passing a room full of adults who were cheering
loudly at the antics of a cartoon dog in the movie being projected against the wall, home theater-style. In some ways, he envied their lessened inhibitions. They did what they wanted, and said what they wanted, without apologies or excuses.
It must be nice, Sam thought bitterly, not having to constantly question your own motives.
As he passed the windowed-in area that housed the clinical staff, Sam waved to Dustin Perry, a short, towheaded guy who’d gone to school with him and Brady. Dustin waved back, but it was obvious that he was busy, so Sam continued walking until he reached the tiny library at the back of the ward. It was more of a sitting room than a library, actually, with a few bookshelves full of donated paperbacks and a bunch of uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs.
The library’s sole occupant, Viola sat at a small table in the corner, poring over a large stack of books.
For a few moments, Sam stood in the doorway, just watching her as she furrowed her brow over something she was reading, then transferred whatever piece of knowledge she’d just puzzled out onto the pages of a small, spiral-bound notebook. That feeling of stillness—which used to envelop him whenever he walked into room 714, while Viola was sleeping—had never left. It just seemed to move with her, wherever she went. No matter how hard he tried, his mind failed to explain it. There was just something about her, something that made him want to be…different. Better than he was.
“Hey, bookworm.” At the sound of his voice, Viola looked up at him and smiled. Which only made Sam feel about ten-thousand times worse, because she should’ve been furious with him for failing her. Yet again.
“Oh—hi, Sam. Just a second.” She looked back down again, biting her lip as she moved a tiny pencil across the page with careful, determined movements. Sam was amazed at how far she’d come in just a few short days. Her speech was even and controlled, and she seemed to have a full range of motion in her hands.
“What are you writing?”
“Oh, nothing.” Viola finished her notation, then slid the notebook underneath one of the larger books at the table. Sam glimpsed the words ‘Estate Law’ on the heavy hardbound’s face, before she covered it up with another book, Abnormal Psychology.
Wake for Me (Life or Death Series) Page 15
