I’m totally confused. Which one is Pat Healy? Which one is me? And who is Barbie playing?
It’s only when Barbie takes Riley’s hand and leads him to the door that I f igure out which scene they’re playing.
Javier nudges me with his knee. “Open your eyes,” he whispers.
I don’t even realize I’ve closed them.
When Barbie and Riley get to the door, Wayne rises from his seat to stop them, but Sandra grabs his hand and pulls him back down.
“Stay with me,” she says.
Barbie glares at Wayne, then leaves the room with Riley. Eventually, Sandra tugs Wayne around so they can both stare at the cardboard box. It’s supposed to be a television. The real television never worked, but my stupid mother kept dragging it from apartment to apartment, promising to f ix it someday when she had the money.
It’s that one-bedroom in Ashland. They’re making me relive the worst day of my life. Are they punishing me for lying about my crime story? I thought I made up for that. I thought we were cool now. I ripped that page out of my notebook and tore it up.
For a whole minute nothing happens, just Wayne and Sandra sitting on those chairs. I watch the time pass on the clock. Then something thumps in the hallway. Wayne and Sandra whip around and face the door. Barbie cries out and Wayne rises to kneel on the chair, but Sandra pulls him back down.
Now something pounds against the door. Not a f ist, something bigger, like someone’s whole back. Barbie cries out again. Wayne stands up this time, but Sandra clings to his arm.
“Stay with me,” she says.
Another thump, like Barbie’s whole body getting slammed into the door. Wayne jerks toward it, but Sandra clings to him. He drops to his knees and rests his chin on the back of the chair. Sandra does the same thing and the two of them stare at the door without moving for a long time.
Out in the hallway, Barbie groans in pain. The second hand sweeps the clock six times. Barbie’s cries get louder until something smothers them—a hand, a pillow, one of the foam bats? I can’t tell. The door shakes. Something clatters to the f loor.
The second hand keeps circling. It’ll do that eight more times. Fourteen minutes. That’s what I wrote in my notebook. That day in Ashland, I timed it with the clock on the broken DVD player. My mother never set it right, so it was always around f ive hours off. I never knew what time it was except when I was at school.
All I have to do now is wait it out while Barbie and Riley grunt and slap their thighs in the hallway. It’s just a role-play. It isn’t real. I’m not back in the living room of that one-bedroom shelter in Ashland. There’s no smell of piss and garbage seeping through the front door. I’m not sweating because we have no AC. I’m not listening to my mother and some scumbag in another room, hoping someone will call the cops about the noise. I’m not shoulder to shoulder with Janelle on that couch, praying to a God I don’t believe in to wake me up from a nightmare I know is no nightmare. Eight more minutes and this will all be over.
“Open your eyes,” Javier whispers.
But they are open. I’m sure of it. Only I’m not in the orange-rug room anymore. My body has left. It’s drifting up through the white ceiling tiles. I’m in another room now, on another f loor. Barbie’s cries get small, like a voice on a radio in a passing car. Wayne and Sandra shrink into dots.
“Ike, what are you doing?”
Who is that? I don’t recognize his voice.
“Isaac, you need to sit down.”
I don’t recognize that voice, either. I don’t know any of these people. Maybe I used to. They’re so far away. I can barely hear them because there’s a louder voice inside my head saying, “Stoppleasestoppleasestoppleasestop.”
“Dr. Horton, should we . . .”
My two legs walk toward a guy and a girl kneeling backward on some chairs. The girl’s name is Sandra. The guy’s name is Wayne. They’re pretending to be other people. They’re actors in a play. My hand reaches for Sandra’s hand. She looks scared, confused, but she takes it. My hand makes Sandra stand up. My body leads her to the door. I have to tug her along because she doesn’t want to come. My hand opens the door and pushes Sandra through.
Outside in the hallway is a beautiful girl whose name is Barbie Santiago. She has orange-blond hair and black roots. Standing next to her is a chubby white kid named Riley. I know these people, but in this moment I can’t remember how. They look worried and confused. But my body knows what to do. My hand takes Barbie’s and pulls her into the orange-rug room, leaving Sandra to take her place in the hallway next to Riley. Sandra shakes her head, but my hand closes the door on her and that is that. I lead Barbie toward the couch, which is really just three chairs pressed together. I make her sit down next to Wayne.
Behind me, Javier whispers, “Oh God.”
Someone must have punched Wayne or kicked him when I wasn’t looking, because he looks like he’s in pain now. He says, “You mean it was your sister?”
It’s a question but I don’t answer it, because I’m not really there. I’m in another room, on another f loor. I’m not even watching from above anymore. I’m f lying away.
“What should we do?” Wayne asks.
“Go with it,” Dr. Horton says.
“This shit’s too heavy,” Wayne says.
Barbie takes Wayne’s hand. “Shh,” she says. “Mama’s got you.”
Wayne’s eyes bulge, but he gives in to her. He faces front and stares at that TV, which in some reality is just an empty box on the f loor.
Something thumps against the door. Wayne tears his hand from Barbie’s and stands up. But Barbie, who is in no mood to take any crap from him, pulls him right back down. Another thump and Wayne’s head whips around to the door. Barbie grabs his chin with her free hand and forces him to face front.
“Stay with me,” she says again.
Wayne shakes his head free. He wants to stand up and leave. His feet are pointing toward the door like he’s ready to sprint for it. But something has him hypnotized.
Out in the hall Sandra cries.
Keep crying, I think. Keep crying so I can f ind you and we can disappear together.
Now Wayne is crying too. He tries to stuff it down. His cheeks puff out. He keeps trying to tug his hand out of Barbie’s, but Barbie won’t let go. And even though she’s smaller than he is, for some reason she seems bigger. Wayne can’t move. His shoulders shake and his brown skin shines with tears and snot.
Get up, Wayne, I think. You could punch Barbie Santiago and go through that door. You could make all the crying stop, which is what you’re supposed to be doing. Why don’t you do that, Wayne? Why don’t you punch Barbie Santiago’s lights out right now? Why are you obeying her? Why aren’t you saving Janelle?
Chapter 30
I have no memory of leaving the orange-rug room. I don’t remember dragging that old leather chair from some off ice and standing on it to shake the bars free from a window. I don’t remember anything. So Ms. Jomolca has to tell me all of this from the edge of my mattress on the padded f loor of a windowless cell.
I’m in solitary. That much, I f igure out on my own.
“You don’t remember kicking Dr. Horton?” Ms. Jomolca asks.
There’s no echo in the room. Her voice sounds close, f lat.
“Or jumping off that chair and body-slamming Wayne Dugal?”
“Dugal?”
“He’s a member of your team. You do remember your teammates, right?”
Their names come swimming up to me, but blended together like WaySanRivierSantiago.
“Am I asleep?” I hear my voice say. It sounds like someone else. “Is this a dream?”
Ms. Jomolca sighs. “They told me the drugs should have worn off by now. Why don’t you get some rest, Isaac. I’ll come back.”
A dream then. I’m still asleep. I lie back on the mattress an
d close my eyes.
Chapter 31
It’s a guard with my breakfast tray who gets me to understand how I wound up in solitary. A meaty white guy with no hair at all. He tells me I’ve been “totally out of it” for two days, after having something called a “psycho break.” There’s a plate of scrambled eggs on the tray that look real, not from powder. There’s toast too, with butter spread all the way to the crust rather than just smeared in a thin stripe. There are two little packets of grape jelly.
“Perk of solitary,” the guard tells me. “You get staff food. But don’t get used to it.” He puts the tray down on the padded f loor right next to the mattress.
When I sit up, the room spins for a few seconds. “What’s a psycho break?” My voice is hoarse.
“I don’t know the technical def inition,” the guard says. “But basically you went ape shit. My associates had to tranq you up. You been here for two days, sleeping mostly, talking to yourself. You’re gonna behave nice now, right?”
I blink at him. “Talking to myself?”
“The drugs’ll make you do that.”
“What did I say?”
“Same shit they all say. Urgh oohmph blegh.”
“Did I hurt anyone?”
“You kicked Dr. Horton in the chin.”
I try to dig up the memory but it’s not there. “How could I do that?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No, I mean Dr. Horton is six foot four. How could I kick that high?”
“You were standing on a chair. You were trying to escape.”
Now it comes to me, not all the details, but the need to escape: the feeling of f lying away, straight through the prison walls, like they were made of air.
“You tried to bust through a barred window,” the guard says. “Which, incidentally, would have dropped you straight into the yard. Which is fenced in and under constant surveillance.”
“I wasn’t trying to bust out.”
The guard heads to the door. “Of course not. Eat something. It’s been two days.” He unlocks the door and disappears.
A click of the lock, then it’s quiet again, a quiet that’s thick and soft. But not comforting, not thick and soft like a blanket or a big couch. It’s more like quicksand, something that wants you dead or at least buried alive.
I try to jump-start my brain but it won’t tick over. I look at the tray with its plastic-wrapped spoon and little packets of salt and pepper. The eggs are still warm. I scoop them up and they’re more delicious than my brain can handle. I don’t think I’ve ever had food this good. I start stuff ing them down, f illing up a big hole of hunger that opened up out of nowhere. I drain the orange juice in one gulp. It’s real, not powdered, with actual bits of pulp in it. This is the single best meal I have ever eaten. I start to tear up a little bit. That’s how good it is.
Then something clicks. The memories come back.
I kicked Dr. Horton. I body-slammed Wayne. I tried to force myself through a barred window.
I let a stranger rape Janelle.
With the smell of grape jelly still hanging in the air, I puke the whole meal onto the padded beige f loor.
Chapter 32
“You were thirteen,” Ms. Jomolca says.
We’re in her off ice now. I’ve been released from solitary, and the drugs are wearing off.
“She was ten,” I tell her. My voice is rusty again because I haven’t spoken since talking to the guard.
The door to her off ice is closed, which makes it feel even smaller than usual.
“What happened in that room sounds to me like a breakthrough,” she says.
“Aren’t I supposed to be in court today?”
“I was going to ask for an extension.”
“No.” My body tenses. I’m awake now.
“Just for a few weeks. I think you could really use the time to—”
“No. Please don’t.”
“Isaac, this is a major development. We can’t just leave it unexamined.”
“Yes, we can.”
“It was your team who helped you get here. They want to help you through it.”
“No.”
“Isaac.”
“I said no. I want to go to court. It’s been thirty days. That was the deal.”
“All I’m talking about is two weeks, Isaac, maybe three. I think you could really use the time to talk about this.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But it could help you.”
“It’s not about me!”
Ms. Jomolca’s face hardens. She’s not the kind of lady who lets kids raise their voices at her. But she must know how much I’m hurting, because she lets it go.
“I’ve been good,” I plead. “I did what I was supposed to. I told the truth about Sal Christaldi. I told the truth about everything. I did my role-play. I let my team keep hammering me. I let them way up into my shit. I did everything you asked me to. Why do you want to punish me?”
“I don’t want to punish you, Isaac. I want to help you.”
“Then send me home. Please, Ms. Jomolca. Please just send me home.”
Chapter 33
My dismissal hearing is held at Stafford County Juvenile Court, in the ugly room where I got that “defendant capped plea.” The judge, the Honorable Dorset Hayes, is in the same shitty mood I left him in thirty days ago.
Mine isn’t any better. The memories have been coming hard and fast ever since I left Ms. Jomolca’s off ice. The way Janelle called out for our mother, then for me. The way our mother rushed in to her afterward. How she closed the door so I couldn’t see. Their quiet voices while Janelle cried and our mother tried to comfort her. The look on that man’s face when he left the apartment, like he knew it was wrong but he wasn’t about to stick around and apologize for it. These memories are sharp now, bold and bright, like they’ve been biding their time, waiting for their moment to come out of hiding. They’re out and they’re going to shine, damn it. Take up some space, see how much damage they can do.
Ms. Jomolca spends about half an hour up at the bench, walking the judge through some papers. I have no idea what she’s written, whether she got to use all those words she likes so much, whether she’s about to make Judge Hayes feel wise enough to send me home.
My lawyer sits next to me, thumbing his phone under the table. He hasn’t said a word. He’s probably still pissed at me for refusing to give up Pat Healy. He probably thinks I’m a waste of his time. The feeling is mutual. I’m looking forward to never having to see that pale head and that stupid dog-shaped ketchup stain again.
When Ms. Jomolca comes back to our table, I sit up a little straighter. I want to make Judge Hayes think I’m “transformed.” But Judge Hayes isn’t even looking at me. He’s scowling at some papers Ms. Jomolca left behind.
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me here, Ms. Jomolca. I’m reading this incident report, and I’m not seeing a violence-free term at Haverland.”
“That’s true, Your Honor,” she says. “But the incident in question occurred during a group therapy session.” Ms. Jomolca seems different here, timid, eager to please—not her usual f ierce self. “Dr. Horton and I don’t believe Isaac was actually trying to hurt anyone.”
Judge Hayes lifts a piece of paper off his desk and reads from it. “The subject kicked Dr. Neil Horton in the chin, then leapt off the chair onto another minor and knocked him to the f loor.” He looks up from the paper with a scowl. “And this was after trying to escape ?”
“Your Honor, Dr. Horton and I believe the defendant was in the grip of a dissociative episode.”
The judge purses his lips like he’s just bitten into some rotten candy. Then he rereads the report.
I haven’t said a word so far. I’m hoping to make it through the whole hearing without opening my mouth
. I can’t defend my behavior that day, so why try? I can hardly remember it. The tranquilizers have fogged it up, made it seem like a dream rather than something that actually happened. It’s only the guilty feeling in my stomach that tells me I really did those things.
“Miss Jomolca, whether he was trying to escape or having some kind of . . . dissociative episode, are you going to tell me that this young offender is not violent?”
Ms. Jomolca’s chest rises and falls underneath her navy blue blazer. “Your Honor, as stated, Dr. Horton and I both believe that the dissociative episode was the result of—”
“Are you talking about a repressed memory?”
“No. No, I’m not. I don’t believe the science on repressed memories is very good, Your Honor.”
“Good. Because I’m not interested in going down that road.”
“If I could just explain, Your Honor . . . What some people refer to as repressed memories are actually, I believe, the result of a blending of true and false narratives around a traumatic event. In this case, Isaac’s witnessing the rape of his sister.”
The judge leans back, takes a deep breath, then narrows his eyes at me. “Go on,” he says.
“He felt guilty,” Ms. Jomolca says. “Responsible in some way, so he altered the memory into something more palatable, something he could live with, namely the rape of his mother instead. His mother was a prostitute and had frequent . . . visitors in the apartment. At any rate, because of the efforts of Dr. Horton and the other members of Isaac’s therapy group to break down Isaac’s defenses, that false or blended memory became unstable. As the true memory surfaced, he panicked and dissociated. Believe it or not, this is a good sign. It demonstrates Isaac’s openness to the therapeutic process. He let those kids in, Your Honor. He revealed something to them that he’d hidden from everyone, even from himself.”
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