The Beckoning of Broken Things (The Beckoning Series)

by Calinda B

  She hands me a knot of green and gold. A brilliant emerald is set in the middle of an exquisite, delicate gold cup. When I touch this piece love pours its cream through my soul. Daniel. All the swirls and tendrils that connect us reach out to source him, to find him. They reach through time and space, looking, searching, probing. Longing pulls my eyes closed and draws my mouth apart. I want my lover. Now.

  “Are you alright?”

  Her voice intrudes on my search. “Not really.” I’m sitting in a mental hospital. “Are you?”

  The prim Marine line falls into place across her face. She fusses inside the box for another jewel. “Here,” she says. “I think this will be the last one we’ll let you hold.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Clearly, they’re stirring your emotions.”

  I shake my head, wondering what’s wrong with having your emotions stirred, but nothing falls from my mouth. I take the Herkimer diamond earrings. Clasp my fingers around them. Daniel? Can you hear me?

  Marissa.

  It sounds like the faintest whisper, reaching into my mind. Where are you? I can barely hear you?

  The Numina. They’re…

  What? They’re what? I think I’ve sat up straight in my chair.

  The therapist eyes me carefully.

  Daniel? Where are you?

  Justice. They wanted justice for my…

  For your what? Daniel? Daniel? Usually I can hear him loud and clear. These diamonds serve to link our minds. They’re supposedly my training wheels until I learn to communicate mind to mind without them. Now, either the drugs are dulling the ability to hear him or something is very, very wrong.

  I’m in a…

  In a what? Where are you?

  “Ms. Engles, that’s enough.”

  Madame Therapist stands and totters over to where I am sitting, no standing, no, I’m pacing around the room. I didn’t even notice getting to my feet.

  “Give me the earrings, please.”

  I whirl to face her, snarling, “They’re mine. They’re…” They’re the only way I can connect with my dangerous lover. Madame Therapist’s face is like a cloud, airy, white, and lifeless. I must be frightening her. I soften. “I’d like to keep them.”

  She softens. “No, dear, the studs have points. You can hurt yourself with them. I’m sorry.” She reaches for the diamonds and drops them in the baggy. Slides the seal shut. “We’ll keep them safe for you for when you’re well.”

  “What makes you think I’m not well?”

  “The delusions. The rants. The anger. You’ll thank me when you’re well again.” The brittle smile appears one last time and this time, I leave it alone. The drugs have kicked in big time. I can barely keep these iron curtain eyelids from slamming shut. I give up. For now. The therapist is mistaken about who should be thanking whom. She’s probably thanking me right in this moment for giving up the fight. In truth, I’ve only just begun to fight.

  Chapter 2

  I wake up surrounded by white – white walls, white window blinds, white hospital grade blanket, white pillow case, white sheets. Little white plastic wristband with my name typed on it. Engles, Marissa. White clipboard hanging on the wall with a white plastic pen attached to it, hanging from a white plastic coil. Why is it I always come back to white?

  When my parents died and I left my world of color and vibrancy to move in with Aunt Topaz, she literally white-washed any remaining color still leaking from my soul. Picked up a bucket of strange goo and painted it all over the walls leading from my bedroom, trapping the light and color inside the drywall. She gave me some kind of voodoo, witch magic concoction to remove my Light Rebel abilities and any memory of them until I was just a shell of myself, living in her pale world. Being immersed in white meant losing myself.

  When I met with my sorcery trainer, Tom, in the ether world, we always dropped into a world of white. Being immersed in that white reality meant finding myself. What will this white world hold for me?

  As if in answer, the door swings open, wide. A tall, tall, tall, lanky man dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt pops into the room, a huge smile on his face. “Ms. Engles?” He holds a blue, plastic rectangular tray with a small paper cup and a larger paper cup.

  Drugs. More drugs. I sigh. I just woke up and already they want to sedate me. I grab the white covers and pull them up to my neck. “Yes, that’s me.”

  The man is the color of dark chocolate. His face is marked with dimples. He looks happy. He looks like something I felt once. He looks alive and passionate and content within himself. I was just starting to find that place inside of me when I was brought here.

  “It’s time for your morning cocktail, your morning ablutions, and then, it’s group therapy time.”

  He says that like I should be really, really excited, like I’m a child getting ready to go to the zoo. I don’t like the sound of any of it. Even the phrase “morning ablutions” sounds like a cold, clinical process instead of a warm, wet welcome into the day. “What if I say no to all three?”

  He throws back his head and laughs, like I have said the most amazingly hilarious statement he’s ever heard. He almost makes me smile. Instead, I cock my head and regard him. I don’t think he’s making fun of me. I think he’s just happy.

  “Don’t look so glum. I don’t bite. I am here to serve.”

  “I’m here against my will. I didn’t ask to be here.”

  He nods and winks, as if we’re in on a conspiracy. “You know that and I know that. But I still have a job to do.” He holds out the tiny paper cup. It looks like a thimble in his big, beefy hand.

  “Am I just supposed to take this without knowing what it is?” I ask.

  “No one has explained these medications to you?”

  I shake my head in negation.

  “Your therapist, Dr. Beasley, was supposed to fill you in during your orientation.” He frowns.

  “Is that what last night was?”

  He nods.

  “Didn’t happen.”

  The huge smile returns. “One quick second then.” He whirls and exits like a strong wind.

  I sigh, push back the covers, get up, and wander into my sterile bathroom. I hate this place. It reminds me of living with Aunt Topaz. I pull down my cotton pajama bottoms and plunk onto the toilet to relieve myself. My tongue feels like it is wearing a woolen overcoat, courtesy of the drugs. I stick it out and examine it in the mirror. It’s coated with a strange greenish substance, like mold. Why did they position the mirror so I can watch myself on the toilet? This is a strange, strange place. I don’t belong here. I don’t know where I belong. Where do Light Rebels normally hang out?

  All Smiles returns, big grin in place. I see him through the partly open bathroom door. He is followed by Madame Therapist, now known as Dr. Beasley. Dr. Beasley seems as prim as All Smiles is happy. “Ms. Engles?” he asks. “Is everything okay?”

  “Uh huh. If you can call being in a mental hospital okay.” I wipe, flush, and stand, fluffing my long brunette hair with my fingers. Brushes are probably forbidden here. I could poke my eyes out with the bristles. Right. Like that would help me escape. I exit the bathroom and stand before them.

  We all look at one another. All Smiles beams. Dr. Beasley frowns. I stare.

  Dr. Beasley clears her throat and begins. “Matthew mentioned that you’re concerned about your course of drugs.”

  Matthew. So that’s his name. I’m going to stick with All Smiles. “So, I’m on a course of drugs? Not just one, but a whole course?”

  She clears her throat again. “We’re the experts here. It seemed wise. It seemed like the best way to proceed based on your symptoms.”

  I shake my head.

  Dr. Beasley smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile on her face. “Our job, Ms. Engles, is to determine the best course of treatment for someone such as yourself.”

  “What does that mean? For someone psychotic?” I stomp over to the bed and sit down.

/>   Dr. Beasley follows. “No, dear, for someone who presents…” She looks to Matthew for guidance.

  All Smiles beams at me. “We get a lot of people in here, Ms. Engles. Some of them are quite ill when they arrive. We have a good track record at making sure they are back in the wellness boat when they leave. You’ll be one of those, I’m certain.”

  My face crumples in consternation. Where do they come up with these terms? “What the hell is the wellness boat? Do I get to go on a cruise when I get out of here?”

  All Smiles laughs heartily. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I just meant that…” He looks to Dr. Beasley and tosses the conversation back to her like a well-trained quarterback.

  “He just meant that our methods work. You’ll be pleased when we’re done.” She nods.

  “I’ll be pleased when I get out of here, that’s for certain. Now tell me about this ‘course.’ I might skip it and get right to dessert.” I smile at my touch of humor.

  All Smiles suppresses a chuckle.

  “Well,” Dr. Beasley begins. Her eyes dart left. They dart right. They focus on my face. “We’ve started you on Haloperidol.”

  My jaw drops to the floor. I have to wrench it up to speak. “Are you kidding me? That’s for people with schizophrenia. I did an ad campaign for the Seattle Psychiatry group.” When I had a job, at least. I worked for PS Publishing before I was kidnapped. I designed ads and websites. Since I’ve returned from Brazil and landed here, I imagine that job is history.

  “Not always,” Dr. Beasley responds. She smiles and smoothes her skirt. Today, it is a brown tweed skirt. The woman must have a lot of tweed in her closet.

  “Yeah,” I scoff. “It’s also used for psychosis, Alzheimer’s, and Tourette’s. I assure you none of those are affecting me.”

  “You were hearing voices when you came in.”

  I was listening to Daniel before my earrings were taken.

  “And suffering from delusions.”

  I’ve been processing the reality of being a supernatural woman who can make things from nothing and who can stab undead dead things back to where they came from.

  “This is…” She looks to All Smiles again for support. “This is for the best. You’ll need to let us know if you experience weight gain, a decrease in sexual ability or interest, problems with menstrual periods, sunburn, or skin rashes. Also, watch out for nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, dry mouth, nervousness, spontaneous eye movements, mood changes, breast enlargement, difficulty urinating, and occasional movement disorders.” She smiles, nods, and waits for me to respond.

  She sounds like a commercial. I roll my eyes.

  “We’ve already started you on a low dose of Carbamazepine to stabilize your mood.”

  “What, the mood I’m in over being put in here?” I have got to get out of here. I’ve got to get Sober Dober, find Daniel, and deal with Aunt Topaz and Armando Navid.

  “Okay, then. We’re set. Matthew?” Dr. Beasley seems to think we’ve accomplished something here.

  He hands me the little cup again. There are two pills lying innocuously on the bottom.

  I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Here goes. Just until you can figure out a plan, Engles. I swallow, smile my new psychotic smile, and wait for them to leave.

  “I’ll be just outside. Get showered and dressed, and I’ll take you to breakfast. Then, off to group therapy we go. You’re going to like it.” All Smiles beams again.

  Dr. Beasley has already made her exit. I look over at him and purse my lips. “I really don’t think I’m going to like group therapy any more than I like being in here at all.” The drugs are already having an effect. “But I’ll go. What choice do I have?”

  “None at all, Ms. Engles. None at all,” he says, closing the door behind him.

  Oh, there’s always a choice. I just don’t know what it is right now.

  Chapter 3

  When All Smiles retrieves me for group therapy, the drugs have kicked in, big time. I feel like I am the Titanic, about to go down. I shuffle along behind him, my limbs heavy and lethargic. We enter a cheery room with a circle full of chairs holding a circle full of other sedated individuals. All Smiles introduces me.

  “Group, this is Marissa. Marissa Engles. Can you give her a warm welcome?”

  The group stares. One of them waves. Another claps.

  I want to scream. I have officially arrived on Zombie Island. I lift my hand in a half-hearted gesture and settle into the only remaining chair. The room is painted in bright colors - blues and yellows and greens. It’s a sharp contrast to the clinical white I woke up in. A window is open allowing the breeze of a splendid Pacific Northwest day to stir the air. Bars cover the window, lest we get any ideas of escape rattling around in our heads.

  My eyes track a big blowfly that has made an appearance. It cruises through the room and lands on my hand. It’s the biggest fly I have ever seen. I flinch and flick it away. It swirls around again and lands on my shoulder. I grimace and brush it off. It makes a loop and beelines for my hair.

  Don’t brush me off this time.

  My eyes widen, and I jerk in my chair. Who’s there?

  It’s me, Tom.

  Tom? What are you doing here?

  Checking on you, that’s what. What did you get yourself into this time?

  The group stares at me like I’ve grown a third arm. The fly tickles as it crawls through my hair. I hate flies. I gingerly nudge it from my scalp. It whizzes up to the ceiling and lands on the white light fixture.

  All eyes track the fly.

  “Is that your fly?” a mousy blond woman asks me.

  “Er, no, I don’t own a fly.”

  “It seems to like you,” a red-headed guy in his late twenties or early thirties says. “I would fly into your hair, too, if I could.” He flashes me a shy smile with just a touch of sexy.

  That’s an odd come-on. “It’s just a fly. What are we all doing here?”

  “We’re waiting,” says mousy blond.

  “For our fearless leader,” adds red-headed guy. “He’s kind of a prick. Making us wait is part of his M.O.”

  He winks at me, and I see mischief behind his blue eyes. I might just like this guy.

  Where’s Daniel? I beseech Tom the fly for answers. Just saying my soul bound lover’s name stirs both longing and consternation. Bound against my will. But the sexual connection… Heat and pleasure swirl in my core.

  Oh, he’s in a bit of a pickle, too.

  What kind of a pickle? Where is he?

  The door bursts open and a rotund man enters the room like a wave of dirty water. Each person recoils slightly in his or her chair. The man looks to be about 5’7”. He’s got a hook nose, a scar running along his forehead, and an angry sneer. This man is definitely not arriving from Camp Happy. His hair is the color of a muddy river bank. He wears a blue tie, a white dress shirt, and gray slacks. A ring of dried, yellowish perspiration lines his armpit.

  Watch out for that one, Tom says in my head.

  Who is he?

  Dr. Farty Pants. He’s the big cheese windbag around here. He acts like a ringmaster at the circus.

  I splutter and choke back a laugh. Dr. Farty Pant’s head whirls around to face me. I pretend to cough and choke. “Sorry, I have a tickle in my throat.”

  “Get her a glass of water,” he says to the red-head.

  “Yes, Dr. Bellows,” the guy says, and he gets to his feet and makes his way over to the water dispenser. He hands me the water and winks.

  We all sit, expectant. Or maybe we’re just too heavily sedated to care what happens next. How will I ever get out of here? I ask Tom.

  We’re working on it. He lets go of the light fixture and zips around the room.

  “Get a fly swatter,” Dr. Bellows calls.

  Tom the fly zips out of the room, safe, before Dr. Bellows has a chance to swat him to death. I’ll probably never get that image out of my head. A sorcerer and falconer as a fly…

  Dr. Bellows scrutinizes ea
ch of us. “How are we all feeling today?” he asks. It comes out sounding like a challenge. He looks over to the red-head. “Rafe? Any more episodes?”

  Rafe? I like the guy all the better.

  Rafe’s face turns scarlet and a pool of shame puddles around his ankles. I think he’s going to drown in it, he looks so miserable. I wonder if I’m going to have to haul him up by his hair and perform mouth to mouth on him to save him when he says, “I had an episode, yes.” He tells this to Dr. Bellows while looking out the window. “But my drugs were adjusted, and I’ve been fine ever since.”

  Dr. Bellows nods. “Good. That’s fine.” He turns his attention to me. “Ms. Engles. Care to share how you’re feeling today?”

  This place is sure obsessed with how I’m feeling. “Not really, no.”

  “Just one feeling.” He gives me a cold, clinical smile. He smirks. “It could be anything. Scared. Mad. Confused. Sad.” He nods. “Give it a try.”

  My eyebrows knit together. “Anything?”

  The corners of his mouth turn up in a placating expression. “Anything at all.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Fine is not a feeling.”

  “I’m on drugs. How should I know what I’m feeling?”

  A couple people in the group titter. A few heads bob up and down in agreement. Rafe smirks.

  Dr. Bellows face starts to twist up. His lips purse, and he works them from side to side. “A little cooperation is in order here, Ms. Engles.”

  The guy is starting to piss me off. “I didn’t come here willingly, and I’m not feeling cooperative right now. How’s that for a feeling?” I flash him a cold smile. Dr. Bellows stands directly in front of me so I have to move my body to the right or left to see anyone across from me. “You’re a little too close,” I say.

  “All you have to do is tell me one genuine feeling, and I’ll leave you alone. Anything. Anything at all.” He leers down at me.

  I want to punch him. I want to kick him in the knees and make him crumple. Lava spurts into my veins. I feel the light start to emerge, pushing through this fog of Haloperidol. Not here. Not now.

  Dr. Bellows is studying me. He cocks his head. His face is full of concern.