by Amy Cross
"She quite clearly has some emotional problems," Dr. Larson is saying, keeping his voice low in an attempt to make sure I can't hear. "I think they're relatively benign for now, but they could grow if they're untreated. She's a classic example of a child who's showing signs of aggression and emotional repression."
"Is this because of her mother's death?" my father asks.
"No, I don't think so," Dr. Larson replies. "I think she has some deep-seated psychological issues that likely go back much further. This couldn't have developed so quickly. Whether you choose to believe that this is due to some environmental factor, or alternatively something more deeply rooted in her personality, is up to you. There are arguments in both directions, and frankly I don't think it's worth trying to untangle all the conflicting theories. The important thing, though, is that she gets the help she needs. She can absolutely overcome this, but only if she's treated effectively."
"Her mother was always very soft on her," my father says. "After we divorced, she had primary custody. I knew it was a mistake from the start. She let Juliet live in this kind of fantasy world. The kid's got no real social skills to speak of. I tried to talk to Amanda about it over and over, but she just said I was being too hard on her. She said she'd grow out of it."
"It can be hard to take a step back and look at your child objectively," Dr. Larson says. "What we need to do right now is to set up some sessions. I can help Juliet, but it's going to take a little time and it won't be easy. Nevertheless, the sooner we tackle these deficiencies, the sooner we can help her to overcome her very considerable problems."
"I'll do whatever it takes," my father says.
"Does she have any friends?" Dr. Larson asks.
"No. That's one of the things that's always worried me. She seems to drift through school without making any kind of social connections."
"That's very unusual," Dr. Larson says. "She should have at least one friend by now. The fact that she doesn't, suggests there's some kind of trauma holding her back."
"She needs help," my father replies.
"I think weekly sessions are required," Dr. Larson continues. "An hour at a time should do it. I'll work to break through the barriers she's erected in her mind. I'm confident that this time next year, she'll be a very normal and happy young girl."
"I should never have let her mother take custody," my father says, sighing. "I knew it'd damage her, but I never thought things would get this bad."
"Don't worry, Mr. Collier. You've done the right thing in bringing her to me. I've treated girls with very similar problems in the past. I don't want you to underestimate the scale of Juliet's problems, because they're severe and potentially very damaging for her life. But you can rest assured that I can get her into shape. By the time I'm done with her, she'll be the perfect daughter."
"Are you okay?" a voice asks.
Turning, I see that Dr. Larson's secretary is standing nearby. She has a kind face, but she looks a little troubled by the fact that I'm standing so close to the door. "Maybe you should sit down," she says.
I go and sit back on the bench. I'd hoped this session with Dr. Larson would be a one-off, but now it's clear that I'm going to be coming back here regularly. I need to come up with a strategy, because he clearly knows what he's doing. The last thing I need is for some guy to start poking about in my head. He got much, much closer to my real thoughts today than I'd ever thought possible; looking down at my hands, I see that they're trembling slightly. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I still have a week or so before the next session, which means I have time to come up with some new way to protect myself. By the time the door opens, and my father and Dr. Larson emerge smiling from the office, I've calmed down a little. This is going to be okay. In fact, messing with Dr. Larson might even turn out to be fun.
Chapter Three
Today
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Jennifer asks as we stand in the rec room of the abandoned ward. It's just gone midnight, we've double-checked all the residents, and now we've come through to this part of the building. Despite all my reservations, this was actually my idea. I wanted to come here.
"What's the problem?" I ask, crouching in front of the cupboard. It's less than twenty-four hours since I stuffed Lizzie's body in here, so I'm certain there won't be any sign of decay. Still, I'm fascinated by the way the body degrades after the point of death, and I want to check on Lizzie every night so I can watch as she slowly changes. "It's just a body," I say, psyching myself up to open the cupboard door. "It's just a chunk of flesh and bones."
"But you killed her," Jennifer says. "Doesn't that make you feel... anything?"
I take a deep breath. I know I should feel bad, but I don't. Lizzie was abusing the patients, and she attacked me when I caught her with Kenneth Jenkins. I didn't mean to kill her when I hit her with the fire extinguisher, and I only hid the body because I knew no-one would believe my story. I have to keep reminding myself that I didn't do anything wrong.
"Go on, then," Jennifer says. "Get it over with."
Before I can change my mind, I grab the handle and pull the door open. My heart skips a beat as soon as I see Lizzie wedged into the small space. Her head is pressed down against her chest, and her eyes are open, staring straight at me. I swear her eyes were closed when I put her in here, but maybe I'm getting everything mixed up. For a split second, I'm filled with the thought that she might somehow be awake, but then I realize her expression is glassy and empty. She was dead from the moment I smashed the side of her head.
"She looks the same as yesterday," Jennifer says, sounding a little bored. "I was expecting maggots and discolored flesh. Maybe in a month, she'll be more interesting."
"It's cold in here," I say. "She'll rot more slowly."
"You sound like you know what you're talking about," she replies.
"It's just science," I say. "Every body is more or less the same, with the exception of the level of fatty tissue. Everyone basically breaks down the same way."
"You should have been a doctor," Jennifer says.
I pause for a moment. "There was this cat when I was younger," I say eventually. "I watched his body rot for a while. It was kind of interesting, but what I really wanted was -" I fall silent for a moment. I've never, ever told anyone about the stuff that went on back then, but there's something about Jennifer that makes me think she might actually understand my problems. "I really wanted my mother's body," I say, feeling my chest tighten as the words come out of my mouth. I've kept all of this stuff in for so long; I never thought I'd actually tell someone the truth. "I was going to dig her up. I was just a kid. It was stupid. I mean, how the hell was I supposed to dig up a coffin? But my father cremated her, so I didn't have the chance."
"Huh," Jennifer says. "So you were a weird kid, were you?"
"No," I say, before realizing that she's dead right. "Yeah," I say after a moment. "I mean, I didn't think I was weird at the time. Well, maybe I did. I just wanted things that maybe didn't seem normal."
"So they scattered your mother's ashes?" she asks.
"No," I say, staring into Lizzie's dead eyes. "They stuck her in an urn and buried her."
"Why did they do that?"
"Don't ask me. It was my father's decision."
"Then you can still dig her up," Jennifer says.
"Why bother?" I ask. "It's just ashes. I might as well just open the vacuum cleaner bag."
"Not if they neglected to grind her up," Jennifer replies.
I turn to her. "What do you mean?"
"When the cremation is over, there are still small pieces of bone," she says. "If the ashes are going to be scattered, the funeral directors use a grinder to pulverize those pieces. But if the ashes are just going to be buried, they don't usually bother."
I think about this for a moment, imagining little pieces of bone in the urn. "It's not the same," I say. "It'd just be..." My voice trails off. Although I've never been very interested in bones, the thought of getti
ng a part of my mother's body back, after all these years, is undeniably enticing.
"I'm not saying it's a good idea," Jennifer continues. "I'm just saying it's an option. I mean, if it's something that's really bothering you..."
I reach out and touch the skin on Lizzie's hand; she's so cold to the touch, and she feels kind of leathery. "I killed my father's girlfriend," I say suddenly. After all these years, it feels so liberating to say the words. I've kept everything bottled up, never thinking there was anyone I could talk to about what happened; there's something about Jennifer, though, that makes me think she understands me. I turn to her. "I did it on purpose."
"Go on," she says, with a faint smile on her lips.
"It was years ago," I continue. "She was really annoying, and it was just a few weeks after my mother died. I guess I was a bit messed up. Anyway, she'd given me this jack-in-the-box, and I'd killed her cat and put it in a box for her. Things were a bit weird, but eventually I went out to her car and hid the jack-in-the-box in her glove compartment. I thought she'd open it at some point while she was driving, and then she'd be so startled, she'd crash the car." I pause for a moment. "That's exactly what happened. She was killed instantly."
"So you did it on purpose?" Jennifer asks.
I nod. "I chose to kill her, and I did it."
"But no-one knows?"
"No," I say. "You're the only one I've ever told. I mean, it's not exactly the kind of thing you broadcast to everyone you meet, is it?"
"Are you ashamed?"
I shake my head. "I'm just cautious. You can't trust anyone."
She stares at me. "Thank you," she says after a moment. "I mean, I already knew all about it. I've been in your mind, remember? But it still means a lot to me that you actually chose to let me into your confidence. Does it feel good to finally get the whole thing off your chest?"
"Not really," I say. "It's just something that happened." I close the cupboard door, and for a moment I'm almost overwhelmed by a sense of complete blankness; it's as if all my thoughts have temporarily come to a halt. After a few seconds, everything seems to go back to normal.
"Do you ever regret it?" Jennifer asks.
"Killing Martina?" I take a deep breath. "No. It was the most convenient thing. I didn't like her much anyway. Sometimes I imagine what it would have been like if she was still around, and..." I pause for a moment. "There was just something about her."
"So that's two people you've killed in your life," she says. "Not bad going."
"Three," I say quietly.
"Who was the third?" she asks.
"It was a long time ago," I tell her.
"Spill," she says. "I want to know everything."
I stare at her. I've always been so careful to keep these things away from other people, but there's something about Jennifer that makes me think she truly understands me.
"It was -" I start to say, but then I realize I'm not certain. Can I really count the cat as a victim?
"Wait!" She pauses for a moment. "You can tell me later. Something's wrong."
"What?" I ask, standing up and looking around. "What is it?"
"That angry man from earlier," she says. "He's back. Piotr Cymbalista."
"I don't hear anything," I say.
"Trust me," she replies, "he's back."
"Fuck," I mutter, hurrying along the corridor, heading back toward the main part of the building. Visitors aren't supposed to come to the home this late, and I locked the front door, so there's no way that asshole should be inside; nevertheless, as I get to the door and step back into the warmer, occupied side of the facility, I can immediately hear movement off in one of the distant corridors. Closing the door to the abandoned ward, I hurry through to Barbara Cymbalista's room; sure enough, the door is wide open, the light is on, and Mr. Cymbalista is in there, pulling his mother out of bed.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my heart racing.
"I'm doing what you lot should have done," he says. "I'm changing my mother's bedsheets. They're filthy."
"They're not filthy," I say, looking down at the bed. "You can't do this. You can't even be here right now. I'll change the bed, but you have to -"
"Yeah," he says, not even bothering to look at me as he settles a startled-looking Barbara into a chair, "I'm sure you'll get around to it just as soon as you've finished having a fucking cigarette break. Where is everyone, anyway? It's like this place is fucking abandoned. Do you just leave everyone to rot during the night?"
"I was helping another resident," I say, realizing I have to be careful not to let him see that I'm the only person on duty. "We're always very busy overnight."
"Whatever," he spits back at me. "I'm sure you lot have got an excuse for everything. How many of you are working tonight, anyway? Two? Three? However many, it's not enough." He pulls the bedsheets off and dumps them in a pile on the floor. "Well? Are you going to go and get fresh sheets, or do I have to tear this place apart with my bare hands until I find them?"
Panicking, I hurry out of the room and along to the laundry closet. I grab a pile of sheets and carry them back through, at which point Mr. Cymbalista immediately pulls them out of my arms. It's as if he's on some kind of manic crusade to change his mother's bed as quickly as possible.
"How did you get in?" I ask.
"That's for me to know," he says, checking the fresh sheets.
"You can't be here," I continue, feeling as if I'm sounding a little whiny.
"Do you know how much I pay for her to live here?" he asks as he angrily starts re-making the bed. "Do you have any fucking idea how much money I hand over every month so that my mother is looked after properly?"
"No," I say, hurrying over to Barbara. "Are you okay?" I ask, kneeling next to her. "I'm sorry about this."
She turns to me with tears in her eyes.
"It won't be much longer," I say, taking her hand in mine. "You can go back to bed soon. You just have to wait a few more minutes."
"You're not a nurse," Mr. Cymbalista says as he struggles to fit a new cover over the duvet. "What are you, just some hired help? I want to speak to a proper nurse. Someone with actual medical training."
"I think she's busy," I say, "but I'm sure -"
"I don't give a shit," he replies. "I'm not leaving until I've spoken to a nurse. This place is run like a fucking lunatic asylum. I swear to God, you're cutting corners so bad, you're gonna end up killing someone. Hell, she could die in the middle of the night, and you lot wouldn't find her for hours!"
"You're scaring your mother," I say, looking at Barbara and seeing a tear roll down her cheek. One of the oldest residents, Barbara suffers from a form of dementia that makes it difficult for her to remember her surroundings. She's clearly upset by the fact that her son has stormed into her bedroom in the middle of the night; in fact, I'm not even sure that she understands who he is, since she's staring at him with a look of absolute terror.
"Are you deaf?" he asks, turning to me. "I want to see your supervisor, or your boss, or whoever the hell's in charge."
I take a deep breath; frankly, I want to throw this guy out right now. I'm pretty sure that, technically, he's trespassing, and I'm still not certain how he managed to get into the building. "Let's get your mother back to bed," I say, seeing that he's finished changing the sheets. "Then we can talk."
"Get off her," he says, storming over and taking his mother's arm, pulling her from the chair. "Come on, bedtime."
Looking lost and confused, Barbara gets to her feet and staggers back over to the bed. Her son pushes her down roughly onto the mattress and then lifts her legs over the side. "Don't worry," he says, putting the duvet back over her, "I'm gonna talk to these morons and make sure they treat you better." After casting an angry look at me, he heads out of the room and stands in the corridor. He's clearly waiting for me, so I go over to Barbara and check she's okay, before turning the light out and leaving the room.
"Okay," I say, pulling the door shut, "I don't think -"
&
nbsp; "Shut up," he snaps at me. "I'm sick and tired of my mother being treated like a piece of furniture in this place. You think just because she's a bit soft in the head, you can get away with shoving her about and leaving her to rot in her own filth?"
"I'm sure it's not like that," I reply. "Maybe if -"
"Don't answer back to me," he says firmly. "You're not a nurse. Do you have any medical training at all?"
"I've been here for quite a while now -" I start to say.
"Just like I thought," he says, laughing, "you're just some kid who's been hired to do the heavy lifting." He clears his throat. "So where's your supervisor?"
I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment I hear movement nearby. Turning, I spot Jennifer Mathis walking along the corridor.
"Hello," she says, smiling broadly, "is there a problem here?"
"You in charge?" Mr. Cymbalista asks.
"I'm the senior staff member on duty tonight," Jennifer tells him, conspicuously avoiding making eye contact with me. "Can I ask what's causing all the commotion?"
"Me," he says angrily. "I'm causing the fucking commotion. My mother, she was left in dirty bedsheets. You think these people aren't worth shit, just 'cause they're old. Well, that might be fine for the rest of them, but my mother's not being treated like this. I know our rights. You don't show these people any fucking dignity at all."
"Why don't we go and discuss this in the office?" Jennifer says, smiling as puts a hand on Mr. Cymbalista's arm and steers him along the corridor. "We don't want to wake the residents up, do we? Besides, I'm sure we can find a way to resolve this situation amicably." She glances briefly at me, before continuing to lead him along the corridor. "I guarantee," she continues, "that everything's going to be okay."
I stand and watch as they walk away. Up until this moment, I had no idea that other people could even see Jennifer; now she seems to be taking the lead in dealing with this asshole. While I'd like to think that she's going to resolve the problem without any drama, something tells me that Jennifer's intentions might not be entirely honorable. As she leads Mr. Cymbalista away, I find myself realizing that in many ways I'm in a perfect situation. After all, if this asshole keeps stirring things up, I can get rid of him without any risk. Maybe that's what Jennifer has been trying to tell me all along; with her help, I can be almost like a superhero, getting rid of people who cause problems. Finally, for the first time in my life, I start to feel as if I have a purpose.
