Coral

by Sara Ella

  Now, my mind swims, sparking a manic energy that makes me want to move. Moving equals distraction. And distractions keep me from filling in those blanks. From thoughts that spiral out of control.

  I force myself to stretch, to fully wake. My glazed eyes find a clock beside the full-size bed. The lit numbers blur, and I rub my eyes to focus.

  5:53 a.m.

  A knock sounds from the other side of the wall behind me. The creak of a bed frame. The opening of a door. Shuffling feet. Another door closing.

  I’m not the only one here. Of course not. Somehow this does nothing to calm my nerves.

  A yawn escapes, full and free as the sliver of sun widens, casting an earnest shadow across the room with walls that are probably blue but appear more gray through my lens. Everything is as gray as California fog these days. When was the last time I came across a color that stood out amid dull hues and their muted undertones? My life is a black-and-white film, one lost and forgotten, overlooked for more vibrant, exciting tales.

  Pipes squeal and water runs. A girl’s muffled voice finds its way through the walls. Her concert for one is a strange sound, a disconcerting one. She belts a show tune and I wonder what meds she’s on.

  Despite the pleasant feel of the room that pretends to be my friend, I can’t be fooled. This is a facility. I am here to be treated, psychoanalyzed, and sent on my way. At the year’s end I’ll be eighteen, with nowhere to go but a shelter, the streets, or—

  No. Never. Never in a thousand sunsets. That is a last resort. “I’d rather die,” I say to the walls. They don’t respond, instead offering a blank stare as empty as my soul.

  The water shuts off and the girl’s song ceases as more sounds awaken beyond the bedroom door. Creaking floorboards and padding footsteps. I pull my covers up to my neck, wrap them around my shoulders, and burrow down, kicking the top sheet to the foot of the bed. I didn’t get nearly enough sleep and my body moans in protest for it. But I couldn’t sleep now if I tried.

  “Thank you, Anxiety.”

  My anxiety responds in amped fashion. Typical.

  Ignoring the sandpaper grate of my nerves, I take an inventory of the small space I occupy. Occupy because I am just here. Existing until I’m gone and the next person rolls in. None of this is mine. Not the lamp with its gray base and off-white shade. Nor the desk that was clearly salvaged from a yard sale. The plastic cups filled with pens and pencils at the desk’s upper-right-hand corner stir a longing inside. I shut it down and move on.

  A vase of fake white flowers mocks me. They laugh at my reality while resting in their artificial existence. What is this, a funeral?

  Maybe. Not yet, but soon enough. Probably.

  P. L. Travers said it best—“Once we have accepted the story, we cannot escape the story’s fate.”

  I’ve accepted my story and my fate. Now it’s a matter of time before the two collide. To think I never believed in fate. Ha. Guess some things do change after all.

  My gaze lingers on the flowers too long, then shifts back to the first item that caught my eye—an item I promptly avoided but can no longer ignore.

  The journal, leather-bound with a ribbon tie, taunts me. The images of seaweed and seashells impressed into its cover bring back days long past. I rise, keeping the comforter around my shoulders like a cape. My fingers graze the lines and edges of the leather. The images are immersed in life, but blank pages wait within. Pages I refuse to fill. Leather cover or paper, it doesn’t matter. They can pretend this place is a haven all they want. But I know the truth.

  And the truth is nothing is safe. No matter how many words I write, they can never understand. Pouring one’s soul into ink and paper does nothing aside from bleed you dry until there’s nothing left to give.

  The smell of something foodish attacks my senses as I begin unpacking my suitcase. I open the dresser drawers and lay my scant wardrobe within. A couple pairs of jeans. A handful of solid tees. An unopened package of below-ankle socks. One hoodie. A week’s worth of underwear. I place my toiletries, a brush and comb, and makeup in the top drawer. A powder compact, mascara, clear lip gloss. I don’t know why I bothered to pack these. Who needs makeup when no one else is looking?

  At the bottom of my suitcase rests a single piece of jewelry. A pearl bracelet. A gift. A curse. I take it out and toss it in a drawer. I never want to see it again.

  The food smell grows stronger, though I can’t quite pinpoint the source. The scent is faded, dull, indistinct. I cross the room to bolt the door and find it has no lock. I look around. No closet either? Guess I’ll be dressing under the covers. So much for the show of privacy. Fake, fakety, fake.

  As I reach into a drawer for my favorite pair of distressed jeans and a white ruched tee, the alarm clock blares. My muscles tighten. Six in the morning. Great. Whoever set the thing wants me on a schedule. A routine. Better get this over with.

  I toss the clothes on the bed and move to shut off the alarm but can’t find the right button in the shadows. Panic starts to rise as the alarm ent, ent, ennnts.

  Stop. Be quiet. Shut up. My fingers fumble and shake. I switch on the lamp opposite the bed, but it’s too late.

  The sound becomes a siren. A siren racing closer, ready to swallow me whole.

  It batters me before I can fend off the blow. My body reacts outside all reason. Outside the logic that says this is an alarm clock. Just an alarm clock. Chill out already.

  This is not just an alarm clock.

  This is death’s anthem. An anthem that all too often calls when I’m around.

  I tear the cord from the wall. Collapse to the floor. Hug my knees to my chest. Oh my word, would you breathe already? Pathetic. Can’t even handle an alarm, how do you expect to handle the real world?

  This is the real world. Stop living in a fantasy.

  Trigger. Trigger. Bang. Bang.

  “Get over it. Just get over it! Why can’t you get over it?”

  The bulleted voice hits its mark. Straight through my chest, lodging deep down where the light can’t see.

  Slowly, the spiral dies. Time passes. I stare at the dead clock. I know I should get up. Get up, my mind says. But my legs won’t move. They tingle. And twitch. The restlessness inside my unmoving muscles brings with it exhaustion and an awareness of isolation. Defeat. I’m not here anymore. Not at all.

  * * *

  When the fog beyond the curtained window burns off, the unwelcome sunshine says time has passed well into the late morning. I finally find the will to move. Pain and ice bite my soles where I stand, gnawing at my arches like tiny shards of glass. I curl and wiggle my toes, willing the sleep to leave my body as circulation returns.

  Once feeling finds my feet, I cross to the dresser again. Razor pain shoots through me. My stubbed toe throbs. My cry echoes around the tiny square of space.

  “You okay?” a voice asks.

  I whip my head toward the door to find a girl several years younger than I am standing in its frame. She has one of those faces. The kind that makes you feel like you’ve met this person but can’t figure out where.

  Her expression relays genuine concern.

  I don’t trust her one teensy bit.

  She’s twelve? Thirteen, maybe? Wearing a pair of black leggings and a long-sleeved tunic sweatshirt. Her hair, the color of changing maple leaves, is swept into two messy buns that look like teddy bear ears. She’s disgustingly adorable and so not what I need right now.

  She is my torturous reminder.

  A reminder who is carrying a plate of food.

  I sit on the bed and examine my aching toe.

  “First day’s the hardest.” The girl shuffles toward me, sets the plate on the desk. “I’m on day ten.” My wide eyes must give away my uncertainty because she adds, “I don’t mind it here so far.” Her shoulders sink.

  I ignore my own sinking feeling. The one that tells me she’s not being entirely honest. Instead, I glance sideways at the half tuna salad sandwich, apple, bag of Fritos, and ca
n of lemonade. “I’m not hungry.”

  She reaches over and squeezes my hand as if we’re old friends.

  I flinch at the uninvited touch. “Don’t.”

  She steps back, lifts her palms in surrender. “Sorry.” She sighs. “Sometimes I forget—” She shakes her head. “I’m supposed to ask before I touch.” Her arms cross over her flat chest. “Rules and consent and stuff. Anyway, you don’t talk much, do you?”

  “I talk.” I scowl at my toe, which is now turning two shades darker than the surrounding skin. Nice. “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.” Ouch. Harsh. Whatever. It’s not as if she and I could ever have a relationship outside of this place. It wouldn’t last. And more than likely, one of us will commit suicide eventually. Statistics don’t lie. “You can go now.”

  But she doesn’t leave. “That’s okay. I didn’t talk at first either. But you’ll see. This place is different.” She moves to sit beside me. “You should see the grounds. They have horses and hiking trails and there’s even an indoor swimming pool.”

  I peer up at her, skepticism keeping my shoulders rigid and my eyes narrowed. “A swimming pool?” Right. Funny. If there’s a swimming pool it’s not ours. Unless they want us to clean it.

  The girl smiles. “Food here’s decent too,” she says. “They have a nutritionist on staff who creates an individual meal plan for you. Your lunch won’t always look so—”

  “Pitiful?”

  “Bland.”

  Sounds too good to be true. I’m not buying the nice place act, though. Not for one second. “I’m not going to be here long.” I decide.

  “But you’re here today.” Who is this girl? The positive pill is going to get old. Fast.

  “’Kay, bye, then.” My dismissal sounds as if spoken by someone else. I’m an observer outside my body, frowning down at this bitter, hollowed-out creature I’ve become.

  She shifts but doesn’t leave. She shoves her right sleeve up to scratch her arm, then quickly pulls it down. The movement was quick but I saw them. Her arm is covered in scars.

  Trigger.

  She is no stranger to darkness.

  Bang.

  I shake off the déjà vu feeling once more.

  “I know my way around, which makes me super useful.” She hitches a thumb over her shoulder. “Bathroom’s right outside your door and to the left. Kitchen and dining are downstairs. Gathering room is at the front. It’s the one with the big bay window.”

  “Gathering room?”

  “It has a nice ring, don’t you think? ’Cuz we don’t really live there and we’re not exactly a family, you know? But we do gather there for group therapy and stuff . . .”

  The girl goes on and on about schedules and sessions and anger management and mindfulness exercises and chores and homework. I’m more overwhelmed with every word and I haven’t even gotten dressed yet. I hold my head between my hands, thoughts swimming toward that familiar spiral again.

  “Hey.” The girl kneels beside me, placing a hand on the bed inches from my knee. She doesn’t touch me this time, and I am grateful for the respect of personal space. “I talk too much, I’m sorry. It’s . . . the only way I know how to distract myself, you know?”

  My shoulders relax and the spiral slows. I do know. I swallow. “I’m Brooke.” I stand, fighting the cold that seems to grow from the inside out.

  “See, you’re adjusting already. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She sits on the bed and pulls some of my blanket over her legs. “Call me Hope.” A striking grin grows across her porcelain features, lifting the freckles on her cheeks to her salted-sea eyes. “I prefer to go by my middle name, if you don’t mind. One of the few things I can control around here. Plus, every time someone says my name, I remember I don’t have an excuse to give up, you know?” She winks.

  Before I know what’s happening, my throat constricts and my eyes burn. The sudden swell of emotion comes uninvited. This girl is trying so hard to be nice. All I want to do is tell her to go. Leave. And don’t come back.

  “Look, Hope? I appreciate you wanting to help me, but seriously, you’re, what? Eleven?”

  “And a half.” She rises. Crosses her arms over her chest once more.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, same difference. Anyway, I’m seventeen, so we probably aren’t even in the same group. You’re a kid. You don’t have a clue what real problems are yet.” Why did I say that? Where did that come from? Am I really such a witch?

  Her expression shifts from amused to shell-shocked. She finds her way to the door. “You’re mean.”

  Now it’s my turn to be shell-shocked. At least she’s honest. “Yeah. I guess I am.” I’ve accepted my story. She should accept hers as well.

  Hope grazes the doorframe with her fingertips. Then she says the last thing I’d ever expect. “I’m sorry. For whatever happened to you. I’m sorry.”

  The apology I don’t deserve stirs me. This kid is something else. This place. I don’t dare hope it might be different too.

  When she’s out of sight, I bolt for the door and shut it. Slide down the length of it until I’m hugging my knees again.

  Wish granted. I wanted to be alone.

  So why, then, do I wait? Listening intently for Hope’s too-young-to-understand footsteps to return?

  Three

  Merrick

  This was total and complete capital B capital S if someone asked Merrick.

  Which no one ever did.

  He’d been arguing with his father for the past ten minutes. An argument that had taken a one-way train to nowhere.

  Why couldn’t the man get it through his head? Nikki Owens was great. Perfect, Merrick believed, was the word she often used to describe herself. She wasn’t wrong.

  Confidence was a rare trait. She was smart too. She was perfect.

  Just not perfect for him.

  Not that such a thing existed. Did he know what he wanted? What he sought in a relationship? To be honest, Merrick didn’t have any life goals in general. He’d graduated last year and hadn’t filled out a single college application.

  “You’re going. That’s final.” His father didn’t even bother to set down his copy of the Wall Street Journal as he said it.

  Typical Dad. CEO of the big-shot company everyone was talking about. San Francisco’s golden boy and everyone’s most likely to succeed.

  “I’m not.” Merrick was eighteen. His father couldn’t tell him what to do. Besides, it wasn’t as if he needed to please his dad to protect anyone these days. His sister, Amaya, was tackling fifth grade like a boss, already taking a few middle school classes, well past her juvenile peers in, well, everything. She was good. His mom smiled more now. They were 90 percent okay.

  “You are.” This time his father peered at him over the top of his paper. His obsidian eyes stared right through Merrick, disdain apparent across his stoic brow.

  Merrick crossed his arms. Leaned back against the frame of the arch separating the formal dining room from the modern kitchen, all sharp angles and black granite countertops. An oval mirror on the opposite wall reflected back what he didn’t care to see.

  He was the spitting image of the man he couldn’t stand. Narrow gaze as dark but not as cruel. Black hair. Attenuated jaw. Eyes that tapered on either end. But this was where their similarities died.

  “Oh,” Merrick replied. “But I’m not.”

  His father heaved a sigh. Folded his paper in that precise way of his. Intertwined his fingers on the antique oak table before him. “Oh, but you are.”

  It was a stare-down. And Merrick was determined to come out the champion. He refused to let his father control him for one more day. “Nikki and I have nothing in common.”

  “Except, you do. I am in the process of merging with her father’s company. Now, her father has been”—he steepled his fingers and tapped them against the cleft in his chin—“difficult. He’s not so sure about the merger. He’s resisting. He thinks he can continue to ‘make it’ on his own. I am trying
to correct that serious error in judgment. And the shareholders are watching.”

  Merrick rolled his eyes. Ah, the shareholders. How could he forget about them? As the founder of one of the most successful tech companies on the West Coast, his father should have felt accomplished. He was right up there with Apple and Google, for goodness’ sake. Merrick thought his father would retire when he reached the top. Go fishing or something. Join a fantasy football club.

  Yeah, right. Nothing was ever good enough for this man. More was his favorite word. Anything less was settling. And the man didn’t settle. The idea wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  “I don’t give a rip about your business deals.” Merrick scooted to the left, just enough so the mirror no longer reflected his scowl. “Get one of your interns to take her out. I’m done playing your corporate mind games.” He would pay for that one. His father might cut off his allowance for a week. So what? He had seventeen years of the man’s garbage. Merrick had no problem paying a fine if it meant putting the dictator in his place.

  His father’s jaw worked, the muscle in his right cheek twitching. But he remained calm, which made it worse. Nothing seemed to faze him during their arguments. No matter how hard Merrick tried to solicit a reaction, to get him to care, the man remained placid as ever. Maybe if he could provoke him to get physical, just once, he’d—

  “Need I remind you that you should be one of my interns? I offered an apprenticeship the day you graduated, but you refused and spent the entire summer partying. You don’t deserve to set foot in this house after you squandered your graduation gift.”

  “Give me what’s mine and I’ll leave.” The challenge was one Merrick had offered a thousand times over.

  “The money I’ve saved for you is meant to be invested. In school. In your future.” His father’s single arched brow was a challenge all its own. “After your recent behavior I cannot, in good conscience, give you a dime until you start acting more responsibly.”