Asleep

by Krystal Wade

  “I dropped my file.”

  “We’ll get it later.”

  “No.” Rose shrugged out of his hold and ran back up the steps to find the folder she’d dropped. But when she reached the top, Rose spotted Underwood lying face down on the carpet, head turned to the side. His eyes were wide and panicked, and blood leaked from the corner of his mouth as it opened and closed like a fish gulping air.

  Next to him, Jeremiah and Gordon lay sprawled out, eyes set, fixed. Dead.

  She didn’t have the heart to move her feet and locate her folder. She didn’t have the heart to do anything. If she’d left the man in his room, he and Gordon might have lived. Or Jeremiah might have died from blood loss. Either way, their deaths would forever be linked to Rose.

  She had to get out of here. Rose whirled around and ran into Frank.

  “I tried to warn you,” he stated, blinking hard at the sight behind her. “Never pretty, watching people die. The folder will be part of the crime scene. I’m sure whatever you were looking for in there, lawyers all over the country will find interesting. For now, let’s get you out of here.”

  The files Rose hadn’t lost she kept snug against her chest as Frank led her out with her head down so she wouldn’t see any more of the death and misery around her. She followed him outside where thirty police cars and ambulances and fire trucks and a crowd of people behind yellow caution tape waited. Her vision blinked in and out, and sometimes she saw everything with astounding clarity and others she saw nothing more than blurs.

  “Hey, Trent. Got another patient here. Might be in a bit of shock. She just witnessed two shootings.” Frank urged Rose to sit on the back of an ambulance, and when she did, she felt the envelope Nurse Judy had given her weeks or months or lifetimes ago crinkle in her waistband. Rose hadn’t opened the envelope yet. She’d figured whatever it held wouldn’t help her while downstairs in her torture chambers. Whatever it held wouldn’t have remained private if she’d opened it down there.

  “Trent here is going to take good care of you, Miss Rose.”

  But Rose didn’t pay any attention to Frank or Trent, or to the hissing snakes or laughing fairies, or to the crowd of people whispering behind the yellow caution tape, or to the news vans, or to her fellow patients who’d made it outside the institute. Curious, Rose decided now the time was right to open the envelope. A lined piece of paper fell out. She unfolded it with shaking hands.

  Nurse Judy had given her a letter from her mother.

  Dearest Rose,

  I’m sorry I haven’t been the mother you’ve always needed. When you were younger, knowing how to talk to you came easily. Any time you’d need something, you’d look at me a particular way. You had a different look for your different needs. You were actually quite an easy child. Most of the time, a piece of paper and a crayon would suffice if you were upset. Most of the time, that’s all you wanted. And so I gave it to you. I sat with you because you smiled when you drew and you laughed when I imitated you. You were so happy. But as you grew older, your looks began changing. You didn’t have quite the same system for letting me know what you needed. Or maybe I’d just become too old or was too afraid to read your looks. For that, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I pushed you. I’m sorry I made you afraid to just be. I’m sorry I didn’t let you explore. I’m sorry I was afraid.

  Your doctor told us no contact would be beneficial for you, but it appears your nurse has a different thought process on this. I’ll come visit you real soon, just as quickly as I can get your doctor to agree. I love you, Rose.

  I want you home.

  We’ll make it work.

  Love,

  Mom

  “Rose!” A woman shouted, frantic, high-pitched. “Rose. Let me pass. That’s my daughter!”

  Rose slipped the letter back into her pocket and scanned the crowd in search of her mother, but tears came too fast. They flooded Rose’s vision. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t be sure anything she did see was real, but she felt. She felt her mother’s arms clasp around her. She felt the woman she’d needed sob on her shoulder.

  Rose dropped everything and hugged her back.

  “I want to be home too.”

  26

  Dr. Shorter was a tall, lean woman with a no nonsense look about her. She always wore pencil skirts and matching blazers that could have come out of Mrs. Briar’s closet. Her preferred hairstyle was a sleek ponytail, clasped at the base of her neck with a brown oval clip. Honestly, not only would Rose expect to find those clothes in her mother’s closet, she’d expect to find this woman shopping with Mrs. Briar, going out for coffee, gossiping about their co-workers together. And that was exactly what made Rose trust her new therapist.

  Early afternoon daylight poured into the room through the wide picture windows. Everything bright and cheery and comforting. The opposite of Dr. Underwood’s office. Rose closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as she always did when her mind wandered back to him. Once she was sure the panic had passed, she opened her eyes to find her mother and Dr. Shorter staring.

  “You’re doing well, Rose.” The doctor took a seat on the light gray couch under the window, patted the spot next to her, then took a moment to spritz her orchids with water.

  Mrs. Briar moved too, occupying the armchair next to them. “Will she have to see that man during the hearings?”

  Rose took a moment to look at her mother, really look at her. The last month and a half had aged her. Or maybe the last year and then some had. Her mother didn’t wear as much makeup, a fact that made a great sadness rise up in Rose, didn’t spent hours perfecting her hair. She’d swapped her formal attire for jeans and baggy sweatshirts. Most days, she looked exactly like her daughter and seemed to know exactly what her daughter was feeling and thinking.

  When all this ended, Rose planned on taking her mother to the spa. They’d get pedicures, facials, and massages. Then they’d go for lunch and shopping. They needed time to catch up, to mend the relationship that got lost somewhere during Rose’s teenage years, when her depression spiraled out of control and she obsessed over toxic friendships.

  Having finished watering the plants, Dr. Shorter placed the bottle on the corner of the side table and rested her palms on her thighs. “I do believe so, yes. He’s recovered well enough to stand trial. Seeing him won’t be easy. But I’ll be there, next to Rose the entire time. She has her techniques to handle the panic when it tries to overrun her. And if at any time I feel she can’t handle the questioning or seeing Dr. Underwood, I’ll pull her from the stand. Judge Carter is already aware of the special circumstances surrounding this case. Is that all right with you, Rose?”

  Rose loved having the final say in everything. She hadn’t ever answered in a way that strayed from what Dr. Shorter wanted, but if ever that time came, Rose knew this doctor would listen, unlike the psycho who’d manipulated her over the last year. “Yes.”

  “And don’t be afraid to nudge me if you sense something is wrong as well, Leah. It’s important you not feel displaced in that courtroom.”

  Rose’s mother nodded.

  “Now, I wanted to talk to you both about our meetings. We’ve made spectacular progress over the past two months. The fact we can all finally sit together and speak about all the problems, concerns, and so forth in this family shows that your communication is strong. I had wanted to deliver this news to all three of you, but I understand Mr. Briar is meeting with the investigator again today.”

  “N-News?” Mrs. Briar asked, leaning forward and taking Rose’s shaking hand. There were times where her mother still seemed to expect some horrible verdict regarding her daughter, some diagnosis that would take Rose away. However, her mother had learned how to deal with her fear of losing someone so close to her, and Rose had come to understand this didn’t mean she was unloved or that her mother hated her. Quite the opposite.

  And Rose appreciated her mother’s control, especially at the mention of the investigator, something that allowed panic to bubble to
the surface. Rose tried hard not to shake, not to immediately jump to a fearful conclusion before the doctor even told them whatever news she had. Mrs. Briar’s hand helped. She squeezed and whispered to Rose, “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

  “Good news, Rose, Leah. Remember, you can get through anything, but don’t assume the worst before you know what the situation is.” Dr. Shorter beamed, and Rose cleared her mind the best she could. “I do believe we can cut our daily meetings to once a week. I’d still like to meet with you all as a family. I think it’s important to keep you connected. And if we see continued success, we’ll move to a monthly consultation. We’ve already weaned Rose off the narcotics and increased her dosage of the anti-depressants your family practitioner had her on before. In time, I hope we’ll be able to wean her from those as well, and I trust Rose won’t stop taking them unless I tell her to do so. If you feel she’s forming unhealthy relationships with anyone in her life, Leah, you now know how to talk to her. And that’s all she’s ever needed, someone to show her how to communicate the feelings she kept bottled up inside. Well, that, and a sound family unit. And we’ve achieved both those things.”

  No thanks to Dr. Underwood.

  Mrs. Briar burst into tears, and Rose pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table and handed it over. “Here.”

  “Thanks, honey. I’m just so happy. Are you happy?”

  Rose was happy, but a big part of her still ached, a really, really big part. Through every therapy session, Dr. Shorter asked Rose to open up. And she did. About everything. But each story contained memories of Phillip.

  Not once had the doctor tried to tell Rose he didn’t exist. Dr. Shorter believed everything Rose experienced was real, whether from a fabrication of her mind while on hallucinogenic, or even the occasional anti-psychotic, drugs, or from the staff-created nightmares. All of those things would have affected Rose. They would have made her lose time, memories, but none of them were strong enough to create a person to touch, to kiss, to have a conversation with. Dr. Shorter believed Rose’s depression made her angry, scared, confused about the warnings her mother shared, definitely a little irrational with the decision to quit talking and going to school, but not certifiable.

  Though every time her father returned home after teaming up with prosecutors and investigators to search for Phillip, only to come up empty handed, Rose felt certifiable. They’d even failed to locate most of the employees from the institute. Thomas, Martin, and Nurse Vicki must have fled after Dr. Underwood flipped his lid. Poof. Gone. Like they never existed. Just like Phillip.

  “It’s Phillip, isn’t it?” Mrs. Briar handed Rose a tissue now.

  She hadn’t realized she was crying. “Yes. You think I’m better, but I’m still not sure. What if he wasn’t real and I made him up like all those fairies and snakes and bugs? What if he is real? Where is he?”

  “It’s okay, right, Dr. Shorter?” Mrs. Briar lifted her gaze to the doctor, and when she nodded, Rose’s mother continued, “We may never know. But the connection was real. We’re searching. The important thing to remember is that neither of you are trapped with that man. His methods of discovery were terrifying and archaic at best, but he can’t hurt anyone anymore. Not you. Not Phillip.”

  “You’re right.” Rose sniffled. “I know, but I miss him.”

  “Good. Good. Both of you.” Dr. Shorter stood and motioned for them to do the same. “Go on, go home. I’ll see you tonight at your debut. I have a feeling you’re going to wow us all.”

  Tension rooted Rose in place. The debut at the Arrowmont School of Arts and Crafts had been all she talked about with her friends in summer school, and the older Briars put out advertisements in their real estate office in hopes of getting some of the thick summer crowds to come out and join in the fun. But, while mailing out invites to relatives all around the country, Rose had a momentary lapse in judgment and sent an invite to Megan.

  Rose overheard a couple girls at school talking about how she’d miscarried and stopped speaking to Josh when he moved to Chicago after graduation.

  Megan might come. She might not. But Rose didn’t know, and she still struggled with questions she didn’t know how to answer.

  “You still wondering if she’ll come?” Mrs. Briar asked as they stepped into the house to begin their mad dash to get dressed and ready. Aunts and uncles and Grandma and Grandpa Briar were coming to the after-party, and Rose and her mother only had time to decorate half the house.

  All her art, every piece, her mother had put in trash bags and threatened to throw out she’d really hidden in the basement. While Rose received her unfortunate treatments at The Shepperd Institute, Mrs. Briar re-framed the drawings and paintings that grew in talent as Rose grew taller and hung some of them. They were in the process of finishing.

  Some days Rose felt ashamed, seeing everything she’d ever painted up on the walls again. They reminded her how much her parents cared, how much they supported her. Even in their angriest times, they still valued what Rose valued, even though she’d failed to see that. Rose knew no amount of therapy would erase the dark times, so she vowed to always be honest and open, the way Nurse Judy would want Rose to be.

  “We’ll get dressed first, finish hanging the art after. The caterers should be here in thirty. Once we get them started, we’ll meet your dad there. Sound good?”

  “Yes,” Rose said, climbing the stairs to her room. Twenty minutes later, she’d donned a simple black dress that rested just above her knees, the hemline wavy and girly, and topped it with a light pink cardigan. Rose paired the dress with black ballet flats, and she curled her long blond hair and let it hang over her shoulders. She smiled at her reflection, not quite feeling the expression looking back at her, but hoping with time she would.

  When Rose met her mother at the bottom of the stairwell, she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. Rose almost gasped as well.

  “You look beautiful,” they said at the same time, then they laughed and both said, “Thanks.”

  Rose hugged her mother, so glad to have her back, to feel this close. Things weren’t perfect, but they were different, less hostile. Mrs. Briar encouraged Rose to draw again, even sat with her and attempted stick figures, just like old times. Her father joined on occasion, opting to sing along to an old record player rather than trying his hand at art. Before long, he’d serenade his wife and they’d all laugh, and instead of painting what Rose had started, she’d paint her parents dancing on Parisian streets, their eyes glinting in the city lights, their feet light as air on the bricked roads.

  She realized the change came about because of her. The depression had affected them, made them angry, made them sad. Not at her, at the illness.

  After the record would stop playing, they’d leave Rose to go off and be romantic in private, and that’s when she’d pull out her sketchbook, still wrapped in the same cover her mother had given as a present in second grade, and copy the portrait of her parents. Except in this book, this personal pad, Rose replaced her parents with Phillip and herself. She’d draw a gray space between them, frantic looks in their eyes, like the night Phillip kissed her, when he felt as if he were losing her. Their hands touched, grasping, fingers leaving indentions in each other’s skin, but they couldn’t get past that gray matter no matter how hard they tried.

  “Come on. Let’s get you to your ball.”

  Lost in thought, Rose followed her mother to the car while the caterers rushed around and prepped for the after-party. She supposed life in Chicago would have been different if she’d taken the internship there. Rather than her parents and family coming out for her art debut, she’d have strangers, if anyone came at all. The papers might not care that a local girl drew what the faculty at the Arrowmont called “groundbreaking, emotional, dark, and very, very good.”

  Offers from schools all over the country poured in, but Rose had refused them all except for one: Arrowmont.

  She needed to be home until she felt like she stood on solid ground a
gain.

  Inside the building, what looked like a wooden cabin on the exterior, with its green shutters and aged wooden siding tinged with mildew, a small crowd gathered around Rose’s charcoal portrait. She veered right, away from the people, and admired many of the other pieces hanging in the gallery, hoping to calm her nerves before the show officially began. She’d made it to the stone hearth that reached all the way up to the second story windows when Megan walked up.

  “Hey,” she said, hands clasped in front of her, head angled down.

  “Hey,” Rose replied, heart suddenly beating wildly. She hadn’t seen or talked to Megan since she’d miscarried, and even then their relationship felt strained and awkward, like Rose was consoling a stranger. “You doing okay?”

  “I guess.” Megan glanced over her shoulder, back at the crowd all murmuring their oohs and aahs, then faced Rose again. “Congratulations. It’s amazing, you know, the piece. You’ve come a long way since that girl you kept trying to draw.”

  A long, long way. The first time she picked up a charcoal after leaving The Shepperd Institute, Rose set to work on the falling girl again. And just like each time before, she hated what came out. Mrs. Briar walked up to Rose one day, placed a hand on her shoulder, and said, “She’s you, Rose. Caught in the middle of something she doesn’t quite understand. Falling. Running. Leaping. She doesn’t know. That’s why the picture doesn’t make sense. Because you haven’t made sense to yourself, and the world around you hasn’t made sense. Honestly, the piece is perfect. You hate it because it reminds you of you.”

  And so Rose tore the drawing from her easel, signed her name, and turned it into Arrowmont. That was when they offered her an internship, right on the spot. Rose titled the piece: Pictures of Me.

  “Thank you.”

  “I saw it,” Megan said, scanning the long row of framed art on the wall. “The picture of you. But your new piece is unbelievable.”

  Rose couldn’t stop staring at Megan’s belly, at the way she cradled her arm just below the navel, as if she were still pregnant. “How are you? I mean, really, I’ve missed you.”