The In-Between

by Stewart, Barbara

  There are things I should be doing—homework, calling Autumn, calling Rad—but I can’t peel myself off the couch. Not today. Talking is an effort. I’m tired from my shower, and my cuts sting from the soap. I’m suddenly aware of gravity, the air itself weighing me down. I feel like a rock at the bottom of a river. Correction: not a river. A river is clean and alive and follows a course. I’m stuck at the bottom of something thick and stagnant, a bog or a swamp, something choked with rot. I am the evil ogre on the couch, hiding beneath blankets, waiting to reach out and snap your bones. The only comfort is the newfound quiet in my head, silence for the first time in four months.

  sixty-seven

  Erika’s office at True North is a little nicer than that ugly room at the hospital, but not by much. It’s clean and bright and new, but you can tell in five years the veneer will start to peel. The walls will get grimy and the fake leather chairs will crack and come apart at the seams.

  “So,” Erika began, “how’s it going? Did you finish that book? Did you like it?”

  This is how all our sessions start. We talk about normal things for a while—TV, my new nail polish, music—and then we get down to business, the real reason why I am there. Erika sits up a little straighter and crosses her legs so she’ll have something to write on, and I have to remind myself I am not her friend and this is a mental health center and she doesn’t really care about all that other stuff.

  Today she asked about Madeline.

  “Do you think there’s a reason why your sister waited fourteen years before making her presence known?” Erika asked. “What I mean is, why did she wait so long?”

  “She’s been with me my whole life,” I said. “She just couldn’t ever make a connection. It was the accident that let her do it. I died, you know. I was pronounced dead. I guess my dying opened a door or something.”

  Erika nodded and wrote something on her pad. She was silent for a moment, and then she wanted to know how I felt around Madeline. How I felt about myself when I was with her.

  On the wall behind Erika’s chair is a framed picture of a girl in a field with this huge golden bird rising up before her. It looks like an eagle, or a hawk, but much, much bigger, and there are flames trailing from its wings. Erika told me it’s a phoenix, a mythical bird that symbolizes immortality. Every thousand years, at the end of its life cycle, the bird builds a nest, and then the bird and the nest burst into flames, and then a new bird—but really the same bird—rises from the ashes.

  Staring at the bird, I shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Whole, I guess. Complete. We’re total opposites—she’s everything I’m not—but she loves me for me. I feel … we’re so close. I’ve never felt that close to anyone. It feels good not being alone.”

  Erika nodded. “Do you think all sisters are that close?”

  I shrugged. “Twins, yeah.” I shrugged again.

  Erika read from her pad: “You said the accident opened a door—that’s what let you and your sister connect.” She tugged at her earlobe absently. “Do you think Madeline turned the accident into a positive experience for you?”

  “Yeah … I guess?”

  “Do you think Madeline has helped you deal with losing your father?”

  There’s not much to look at in her office, so I end up looking at Erika, at her leather flats and khaki pants and plain white dress shirt. She’s not beautiful, but she’s got the potential to be cute. With a new hairstyle and a tube of tooth whitener … I know I’m not perfect, either, I’m just saying.

  “Do you spend a lot of time thinking about your father?”

  I picked at the hole in my jeans and told her truthfully that I don’t. I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about my father. I think about him sometimes, but not all the time. Not as much as I should.

  “Do you think about him when you’re alone?”

  “I’m hardly ever alone. I have Madeline.”

  “So you’re never really alone with your own thoughts?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about your life before the accident.”

  I dug my fingernails into the fake leather, leaving sickle-shaped gouges. I waited for Erika to ask me to stop, but she didn’t, so I said, “It obviously sucked. I tried to kill myself.”

  “Did you ever think about suicide when you were with Madeline?”

  I shook my head. “No. Never. I wanted to live forever.”

  “What’s it like now, without her?”

  I didn’t answer because Madeline’s not gone. They’ve given me drugs to build a wall, but I can still feel her fuming on the other side. Unless what I’m feeling isn’t really her. I’ve thought about that a lot lately. Part of me is afraid what I’m feeling are ghost pains, like what Scilla’s dad used to feel after he got his arm chewed off in the machine at work. Part of me is afraid if I look too closely, I’ll see that all I’m left with is a raw, ugly stump. My sister existed. No one can deny that. I’ve got the ultrasound to prove it. But then my thoughts sway. If Madeline wasn’t real, if I created her, then what does that make me? If I can’t believe in her, what’s left?

  “Ellie? Tell me about Madeline’s weaknesses. What are her faults?”

  Erika’s voice seemed far away. There was a rushing in my ears as the edges of the room turned gray and blurry. Gripping my knees, I closed my eyes and said, “She doesn’t have any.”

  “Is there anyone in your life, besides Madeline, who’s perfect? No? What does that mean?”

  She wanted me to say that Madeline can’t be real because everyone is flawed. I wouldn’t do it. I refused. I explained to her (how many times do I have to explain?) that Madeline was never born, that imperfections are the result of living. Living corrupts us. The world makes us impure.

  She tried a different approach: “If Madeline is perfect, then why did you say she was trying to destroy you? When we first met, you said that you cut yourself to release her. Something made you think that you needed to put some distance between you and your sister. What happened?”

  I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to drive a wedge between us. Just like Natalie Paquin did with me and Scilla. Every session, she’ll just keep hammering away until we split. Madeline wasn’t trying to destroy me. I made a mistake. I see that now. She wanted us to be together forever, just the two of us. And I can’t fault her for being possessive. I’m the same way. I’m the clingiest person I know.

  “She had a plan for us, but I ruined everything,” I said.

  “Did the plan involve suicide, Ellie?”

  The watch on her wrist ticked away the minutes.

  “Okay, instead can we talk about your friend Priscilla and how she made you feel?”

  I won’t let her wear me down. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. I know where this leads. I know that someday—maybe not today, but someday—I’m supposed to have this big epiphany. I’m supposed to realize that my sister is actually my subconscious. I created her to fill the hole in my heart. I created her so I could feel special and loved. I created her so I wouldn’t have to think about my father or Scilla, so I wouldn’t have to go through this miserable life alone.

  Sometimes I’m so exhausted I just want to give Erika what she wants. Other times I want to tell her how stupid and narrow-minded she’s being. But I don’t. I can’t. I know that someday I will find proof, and Erika will have her eyes blasted open so wide she’ll never be able to shut them again. She will see the truth and she will know.

  “Ellie? You said Madeline had a plan. What was the plan?”

  I didn’t tell her that I don’t know—Madeline never told me.

  I pointed to her watch instead. We were out of time.

  sixty-eight

  My wounds are healing. My heart is healing. My body radiates a warm and peaceful glow. I am surrounded by friends offering sympathy and support. Rad drapes his arm protectively around my shoulder and squeezes tight. There are tears and hugs, lots and lots of hugs, with everyone going I’m here for you and You’re not
alone and You could’ve come to me.

  After Erika taught me about positive thinking, that’s what I pictured. That’s not what played out. Thanks, Erika. You’re a big help. Nobody wants to talk to me. They act like I’m carrying the plague. At the lockers this morning, Kylie croaked, “Hi,” then hugged her books and backed slowly down the hall, distancing herself like I’m some scary, stray dog. Jess, she acts like I’m invisible. Every time I see her, she’s on her phone pretending to text. Even Ms. Merrill is different. She gave me a stack of books about hope and love and people overcoming their problems.

  I guess it’s easier if they don’t notice, if they carry on like I don’t exist. Rad’s not even here. He’s home sick. Pinkeye, I heard. Everybody else is being nice, really, really nice. But a timid kind of nice. Wide-eyed and cautious, people I don’t even know try to get a glimpse. They flinch when they see the scars—puckered skin, rust-colored scabs—like they feel the razor slicing their own precious flesh.

  It’s Wednesday, so I only have to make it through two more days. My mother wanted to keep me home the rest of the week, but Erika said the longer I wait the harder it will be to go back. She warned me today would be difficult. In every way I’m back to where I started. It’s Jackson Middle all over again. I’m like one of those idiots who wins the lottery and ends up broke a year later.

  No one wants me here. I can tell. My teachers look at me as if to say, We’re not trained to deal with students like you. We can’t teach with you in the room. I know, because Mr. Dunkley, who never ever gives bathroom passes, was more than happy to see me leave.

  I brought this with me—my True North journal. I’m supposed to write down everything I feel today so Erika and I can talk about it later. But when I got to the bathroom I didn’t have a pen. Instead I stared at my deformed face in the mirror and wanted to cry, but nothing happened. I couldn’t remember how, which sounds stupid. It’s like forgetting how to walk up the stairs or how to use a spoon. It’s strange. My brain tells me what I should be feeling. You should be angry, my brain says. You should be sad. But my body seizes up like a machine without oil.

  When the bell rang, I was wondering if I should go to the nurse and ask to go home. But classes were changing now, and the door hushed open, letting in all the noise from the hall. “Are you okay?” a soft voice asked. It was Autumn. She was clutching my book bag. The new one, not the old one. My mother couldn’t get Autumn’s blood out of the old one.

  “No, I’m not. And you shouldn’t be talking to me.”

  She came over to the sink and watched me wash my hands and offered me a paper towel. A pack of tenth graders came in to use the mirrors. Autumn caught them gawking and glared.

  “You still want to be friends?” I said. “Even if I’m crazy? Even after I beat the snot out of you?”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy. I believe you,” she said. “The stuff about—”

  She looked around. She didn’t want to say it, not in front of the girls whispering nervously behind their hands. The girls checking their eyeliner and hair, giving me plenty of space. Normal girls. Girls who are afraid of the monster in oversized sunglasses and dark tights. Girls who think, If she could do that to herself, what would she do to me?

  I’m supposed to be in French right now, but instead I’m lurking in the shadows where I belong, in a dark stairwell that goes down to a door with a yellow EMERGENCY SHELTER sign. The bell just rang again. Slam! Slam! Slam! That’s the sound of doors closing. I can almost hear Madam Bisson breathe a sigh of relief as she notices my empty desk. I’ll bet she doesn’t even report me. I’ll bet no one would say anything if I never came back.

  sixty-nine

  Today Erika tried to convince me that I’m deserving of happiness. The way she said it made me sound like I’m an anorexic denying myself food. It sounds really stupid, but I kind of get what she means. One time in English we talked about how the mind can make a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven. There are people who have it all, get everything handed to them, and still they bitch about how everything sucks. I guess that’s how Erika sees me. For an hour every day she’s forced to listen to a girl who was really doing well, really turning her life around, and then threw it all away. For what? An imaginary sister. A ghost. She wants to help me get it all back, rebuild my life. But what if that life wasn’t really mine to live?

  “What would be a home run for Ellie? What makes you happy?” Erika trotted out her biggest smile so I’d know what a face is supposed to look like when it’s happy. She wanted me to copy her example. I tried, but it didn’t feel right. Too many teeth were showing. I closed my mouth. Madeline makes me happy, but I can’t tell that to Erika. She thinks we’re making progress. I told her I want friends and a boyfriend and good looks and good grades.

  “Remember what we talked about yesterday? You have all those things.”

  Correction: had. Not anymore. Jess and Kylie keep their distance. I haven’t talked to Rad in almost a week. My jeans are too tight, and my hair looks dirty because I accidentally washed it with conditioner. Cross-country is over, and I missed the banquet. I missed the stupid talent show, too. Erika thinks I’m just being paranoid. It always comes back to fear—fear of succeeding, fear of failing, fear of living, fear of dying. My assignment is to reach out to one person. She thinks I’ll be surprised by the results. She thinks my real friends are just giving me space, waiting for me to make the first move, waiting for me to invite them back into my life.

  Tell that to Rad. I called him when I got home, but he wasn’t there, so I called him again from Autumn’s. That’s where I go now while my mother is at school. I can’t be left alone. I can’t be trusted. I don’t know how, but my mother convinced Mrs. Pulaski that I’m not evil anymore. What happened to Autumn will never happen again because I’m on medication and seeing a therapist. I’m getting better. I can’t blame Mrs. Pulaski for getting angry that day. She had every right. Autumn was messed up pretty bad. I guess Mrs. Pulaski feels sorry for my mother—everything I’ve put her through, everything she’s been through with losing my dad and all—because she lets me stay at her house at night until my mother gets home. Not that Mrs. Pulaski has to babysit. She’s at work. It’s Autumn’s grandma who watches me. She’s okay, except we’re not allowed up in Autumn’s room. We have to stay downstairs with her, so she can keep an eye on us. We do our homework on the couch while Autumn’s grandma watches game shows or celebrity news. It’s not so bad, really. My mother is there by nine to pick me up.

  Tonight she made us spaghetti sandwiches and took us to the dollar store. Autumn was happy about dinner. I guess it’s her favorite. It sounds gross, but they were actually pretty good. The dollar store was a bonus, a home run for Autumn. Her grandma needed wrapping paper and bows, and Autumn got to spend the ten bucks she got for shoveling the driveway. We had fun on the way over. Her grandma drives one of those big luxury cars old people drive, with heated seats and power everything. Autumn made up a game where we punched each other every time her grandma hit the brakes for no reason, which was a lot.

  The dollar store is the shiniest store in town. It is bright and clean and all the workers wear green smocks. Autumn grabbed a basket on the way in and went down every single aisle, touching and smelling and holding things up for my approval. One of the workers—a fat woman with a knee brace—followed us around with a push broom like she thought we were going to steal something until Autumn pulled out her prescription bottle and offered her a fruit chew.

  We were there for over an hour, and then Autumn’s grandma found us over in Personal Care sniffing deodorant, and told us to hurry up because it was starting to snow. By the time we got outside, the car was already covered. The headlights shone on big fat flakes sifting down like confetti. Her grandma put on an oldies station so she could concentrate, and Autumn went through her bag of stuff. Hair clips and body wash and another one of those angel figurines for her room. I’d bought some stuff, too, but I kept everything in the bag, afraid that w
hat I bought would break because everything they sell there is cheap made-in-China crap that doesn’t last. The whole way home, Autumn kept bumping me with her shoulder, going, “Isn’t this great? Isn’t this fun?” And that’s when I realized Autumn is one of those “heaven of hell” types. She’s perfectly content with her crappy little life. Spaghetti sandwiches and dollar store shopping sprees and riding in her grandma’s car with her best friend—all those things make her unbelievably happy. A stupid kind of happy. A happiness I’ve only ever felt with Madeline, when it was just the two of us, alone in the In-Between. Sometimes I wish I could trade places with Autumn, just to see what it’s like, if her happiness is real or not. I want to learn to make a heaven of hell because this world is hell without my sister.

  When I got home, I tried Rad again, but his mother said he was in bed. I pictured her at a kitchen counter, in her bathrobe and slippers, making faces at Rad’s dad, mouthing It’s her, again. The crazy girl who cuts herself. I asked Mrs. Lane if she thought Rad would be back at school tomorrow. She sighed before saying “maybe,” then told me not to call their house so late.

  seventy

  Jess is having a Christmas party next weekend. I’m not invited. I’m sure she thinks I care, but I don’t. We have zero in common. I’m nothing but a cheap knockoff of girls like her. I still haven’t talked to Rad. He was out again today, and he doesn’t return my phone calls. Erika’s an idiot. All her advice is useless. In some ways it’s not so bad. This is what I’m used to. It’s like finding a ratty old T-shirt you thought your mom had tossed. It’s soft and familiar and smells like you.

  seventy-one

  Rad’s back. I wouldn’t have even known except he came into the nurse’s office to get his eyedrops while I was there getting my pill. He acted surprised to see me and said, “Hi.” I said “Hi” back and then waited for him in the hall, where he acted all surprised again, like he hadn’t just seen me two seconds ago. He raised his pass—he needed to get back to chemistry—but I put up my hand. “Wait,” I begged. “Please. I need to talk to you. Just for a minute.”