Ultraviolet

by R. J. Anderson

  He leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “If I could have told you . . . if only there’d been more time . . .”

  The door banged open, and the two of us leaped apart. Dr. Minta walked in, with a security guard and one of the larger male aides close behind. “Excuse me, Alison,” he said, “but I’m afraid this conversation is over. Mr. Faraday has an appointment with me.”

  . . .

  Nobody would tell me what was happening. Was Dr. Minta upset that Faraday had gone behind his back to get me my keyboard? Or was it something else—something worse? I tried to wait outside Dr. Minta’s office, but Jennifer shooed me away. Then I sat down in the lounge, where I could keep an eye on the main doors and hopefully catch Faraday before he left again. Time slowed to a drip, seconds swelling into minutes. No one came.

  After about a quarter of an hour the sheer tedium of waiting became more than I could bear, and I picked up a dog-eared women’s magazine someone had left on one of the tables. It turned out to be one of the old back issues Mel had brought for me weeks ago. She’d said it would be new to me, but as I leafed through the pages, some of the pictures and articles struck me as familiar. Maybe I’d read this one in my dentist’s office or something? I turned another page, my eyes went to a box labeled “Poetry Corner”—

  And the phrase “falling leaves, splendid in death as martyrs” pierced straight into my brain.

  It was the poem I’d entered in the school contest two years ago, back in ninth grade. The words printed here weren’t exactly the same ones I’d written, but they were close enough. Too close for me to deny any longer that I’d been wrong, and Tori Beaugrand had been right. . . .

  I flung the magazine back onto the table and got up, unable to bear my own company any longer. I’d been so convinced my poem was original, so upset that anyone would even suggest it wasn’t. How many other times had I lied to myself and others, and never known it?

  The aides had changed shifts now, and Jennifer was gone. I hurried back to Dr. Minta’s office. The door was shut, the lights turned off. There was no sign of Faraday. I kept walking.

  “—told you there was something creepy about that guy.”

  I stopped short. The words were Kirk’s, tumbling out the door of the recreation room just ahead.

  “But how did you know?” someone asked him. “What made you look?”

  “I was just messing around, looking for old photos and stuff,” said Kirk. “I Googled him and got his page at the university, and at first it seemed legit, but when I got a couple clicks deep I realized it was totally spoofed. I mean, he’d done a good job and everything, most people wouldn’t even notice, but the address wasn’t the same as the real University of South Africa site. And he had all these PDFs of papers with his name on them, but when I did a text search I found the same stuff credited to a bunch of other people. So I showed Dr. Minta, and he called the university, and it turned out they’d never even heard of the guy.”

  Faraday. He was talking about Faraday.

  “You mean he was doing tests on Alison all this time and he wasn’t even a real scientist?” A girl’s voice, ginger with horrified fascination. “What are they gonna do to him?”

  “Probably send him to jail,” said Kirk. “They’re not letting him back in here again, that’s for sure. Screwing around with a teenage girl who’s messed in the head already—there’s gotta be a special hell for that.”

  The floor tilted away beneath me, and I staggered into the wall. Black monoliths loomed up before my eyes and burst into orange flame. Someone was prying my ribcage open, tearing out my heart.

  Faraday.

  THIRTEEN (IS BROKEN)

  “You going to eat that?” demanded Micheline when she came in, jabbing a finger at the untouched dinner tray by my bedside.

  I shook my head. I’d spent half an hour vomiting in the bathroom, and the last two hours in the fetal position under the blankets, shivering uncontrollably. Food was the last thing I wanted.

  Micheline pulled the tray over to her side of the desk and started tearing into a bagel like she hadn’t eaten in days. Her face looked bloated, her hair limp with grease, and she stank of sweat and nicotine, but for once her eyes were bright. “I hear that Faraday guy screwed you over pretty good,” she said between chews. “Bet you don’t feel so special now, eh?”

  “I think he had some kind of perverted thing for her,” Kirk had told the other patients, his voice dark with relish. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Shut up,” I rasped. I didn’t care if Micheline swore at me or spat in my face or strangled me and shoved my body in the closet. Nothing she did could hurt me more than I was hurting already.

  “Make me,” retorted Micheline, popping another piece of bagel into her mouth. “Come on, you’re such a tough girl, breaking Ray’s leg and all, you can take me easy.”

  “I knew it,” Sanjay had blurted. “I knew there was something wrong with him, he wouldn’t answer the questions or show me his arms, he was one of them all along—”

  “You know your problem,” Micheline continued, leaning back on her elbows, “you think you’re better than everybody. You’re not crazy like the rest of us, right? It’s all a big mistake and you’re so misunderstood, boo hoo.”

  My stomach heaved again, acid scorching the back of my throat. I pulled the pillow over my head, but I couldn’t shut Micheline out.

  “So this guy shows up, and he acts like you’re something special, and you buy into it ’cause it’s exactly what you want to hear. And he makes you feel so good you’ll do anything he wants, screw the rules, it’ll be your little secret—”

  “He was a con artist,” Jill had told me, when she brought my meal tray. “He knew how to manipulate people, how to win their trust. It wasn’t your fault. He fooled all of us.”

  “Bet he’s done this before. Bet he does it all the time.”

  “Shut up!” I shrieked into the pillow. “You don’t know what it’s like! You don’t know anything!”

  “You are so stupid,” said Micheline with contempt. “I know exactly what it’s like.” She slid off her bed with a thump, crouched beside me and went on in a harsh whisper, “Where do you think Kirk got those matches?”

  I raised my head slowly. “What?”

  “Heh.” She bared her yellowed teeth at me. “That got your attention, didn’t it? Bet you thought I hated him. Bet you thought he never looked twice at me. ’Cause I was just that freaky schizo who kept cutting herself, right? And he was always hanging around with you, doing that flirty thing. Nobody knew, we were that good.”

  What was she saying? That she . . . and Kirk . . . ?

  Micheline leaned on the desk, staring out the window at the fading sunlight. The malice in her eyes died away, and her expression became hard and remote. “He said . . . nobody could know. He said if the staff found out we were together, they’d break us up and send me to Regional. So if it seemed like he was coming on to you or Cherie, I shouldn’t be jealous. ’Cause he was only doing it to protect me. . . .”

  I sat up, watching her warily. Was this the truth? Or was it only what she wanted to believe?

  “He promised me,” Micheline went on softly, running her wrist back and forth along the edge of the desk, “that as soon as the two of us got out of here, we’d be together. But—” Her hand curled into a fist, and her voice cracked as she went on, “He lied.”

  “Micheline . . .”

  “He lied. He lied. He lied—”

  The words were punctuated by thuds as she drove her fist repeatedly into the painted concrete wall, blood spidering along her knuckles and dripping onto the floor. Then her breath hitched into sobs, and she collapsed.

  She loves me really, teased Kirk in my memory.

  I got up, aching inside and out, and went to find a nurse.

  . . .

  “I realize this will be difficult for you to hear,” said Dr. Minta as we sat together in his office the
next morning, “but Sebastian Faraday is not, and never was, a legitimate neuropsychologist. His credentials, his references, his connection to the University of South Africa—all were false. As was the study he concocted in order to get close to you.”

  He paused, but I had nothing to say. I slumped in my chair, staring at the eight-colored carpet.

  “Alison, I know we’ve talked about this before, but I have to ask you again because it’s very important. Did he ever say anything to you that made you uncomfortable? Did he ever touch you sexually?”

  His fingers resting on mine, so gentle I could barely feel them. His hand on my shoulder, too briefly. The way he’d put his arm around me after I’d played for him, and then that last desperate press of his forehead to mine as he said good-bye.

  “No,” I said dully.

  “Did he pressure you to disclose personal information about yourself, or your family? Your involvement with the police?”

  Everything I’d told him had been of my own free will. Because he was listening, because he believed in me, because he really seemed to care. I shook my head.

  “Then I’m surprised he was so persistent in coming to see you,” said Dr. Minta. “Because when I confronted him, he claimed he was a journalist working undercover to investigate your case for his magazine.”

  “His . . . magazine?”

  Dr. Minta picked a business card off his desk and handed it to me. It read, in sleek italic letters:

  PARANORMAL RESEARCH QUARTERLY

  Sebastian Faraday, Editor / Chief Reporter

  There was a phone number and an e-mail listed underneath, but the characters wobbled and swam so much that I could hardly read them.

  “I deeply regret that you’ve been exposed to this,” said Dr. Minta. “I should have been more thorough about investigating his credentials—but all the documents he submitted seemed in order, and I never suspected anyone would go to such lengths—”

  “What happened to him?” I asked hoarsely. “Faraday. Where did he go?”

  “He was escorted from the grounds by our security staff, and warned that if he attempts to return, we will notify the police.”

  My surprise must have shown on my face, because Dr. Minta gave a little cough and went on, “Without being able to accuse him of any actual crime, it was the best I could do on short notice. However, the hospital board is developing a protocol for preventing such incidents in future, and I plan to assure your parents—”

  “My parents.” I sat up straighter. “Do they know?”

  “Not yet. I thought it would be best if I asked them to come in, so we could all sit down together to discuss it.”

  “Please don’t tell them.”

  His brows rose, but behind the curiosity I glimpsed a betraying flash of relief. He gestured for me to continue.

  “I know my mother,” I said. “She’ll blame herself, because she knew I was working with Dr.—with Faraday and didn’t question it. But she’ll also blame you and the staff at Pine Hills for not protecting me, and she’ll want to take it to court. It’ll be all over the papers, and not only will it hurt this hospital’s reputation, it’ll draw even more attention to me and my family. I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Well,” said Dr. Minta. “I can see your point. If you’d rather not involve your parents in this matter or make it public knowledge, then I’m prepared to respect that decision. But . . . what about Sebastian Faraday? Aren’t you concerned he’ll try to contact you again?”

  I knew it. He didn’t really care about accountability; he just wanted to make sure he didn’t look incompetent. “It’s over,” I said. “He’s gone. I just want to put the whole thing behind me.”

  Dr. Minta nodded gravely. “I am truly sorry, Alison. I know you liked him, as did many of us. The staff are in shock as well. He seemed so . . . genuine.”

  Faraday offering me his hand to shake, his long mouth quirking in a smile. Draping himself over a chair with the carelessness of a boy half his age, and then speaking with the insight of a man three times older. Giving me his handkerchief while I cried, listening to me pour out my troubles, and then making me feel like I’d done him a favor instead of the other way around.

  “Yes,” I said huskily. “He did.”

  . . .

  When I left Dr. Minta’s office, I wanted nothing more than to go back to my room and hide. Every step I took away from the residential wing felt like a heroic effort. But I had to hold myself together just a little longer, because I had something important to do.

  After the nurses had taken Micheline to the hospital wing the other night, I’d spent a long time thinking about what she had said to me. Not about her relationship with Kirk, but what she’d told me about myself. And once I’d struggled past the denial and the anger and the self-pity, I’d realized she was right. I had been arrogant, and stupid as well. It was time to stop fighting the system that kept me prisoner, and find a way to work within it—even if that meant sacrificing my secrets and my pride.

  The education room was quiet, the long tables all empty. Mr. Lamoreux sat at his desk, marking worksheets. I didn’t envy him the task. One patient had turned half the math questions into psychedelic doodles, while another—I suspected Sanjay— had turned the sheet over and drawn up a meticulous chart of all the “Accidents, Injuries, and Other Surprises” he’d ever had.

  “How can I help you, Alison?” Mr. Lamoreux asked without looking up. Either he hadn’t heard about Faraday or else he didn’t care, which was fine by me. I didn’t want any more pity.

  “Can I use the computer?” I asked. “I need to do some research.”

  I walked out of the classroom forty minutes later with a sheaf of printouts and a headache so fierce I had to spend most of the afternoon in bed. But for once it was worth it, because I’d found all the information I needed. Scientific papers, newspaper articles, forums bubbling with conversation. All of them proving that at least some of what Faraday had told me was true.

  I spent the rest of the day going over the printouts, committing the most important details to memory. All night I rehearsed the words I planned to say, willing myself to ignore the frenzied pounding of my heart, the way my insides recoiled at the beginning of every sentence.

  And then in the morning I dragged myself out of bed, splashed my face with cold water, and went to tell my psychiatrist about my synesthesia.

  . . .

  “Alison, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  I’d never seen Dr. Minta so flustered. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then returned to blinking at the articles I’d handed him. “So this . . . sensitivity of yours . . . you claim that’s the reason for your violent episodes? That you simply became . . . overstimulated?”

  “My synesthesia gets a lot more intense when I’m under pressure,” I said. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was as close to it as I could expect him to understand. “The fight I had with Tori . . . it was pretty emotional, and we’d been building up to it for a long time. I felt guilty for hitting her, and I was scared I’d get in trouble, and by the time I got home I was so upset that every little thing set me off. Sudden noises, bright lights, people touching me or even just talking to me—it all hurt so much, I would have done anything to make it stop. And when I couldn’t get the peace and quiet I needed to calm down, my brain just sort of . . . short-circuited, I guess.”

  He seemed to be listening, so I went on to explain all the stresses and upsets that had led up to my latest attack, including what Kirk had done to me in the library right before he set the fire. The only detail I left out was that Micheline had given Kirk the matches. I owed her too much to betray her confidence like that.

  When I was finished Dr. Minta sat back in his chair, rubbing a knuckle across his mustache. “You’ve given me a lot to consider, Alison. Especially now that I know about Kirk’s behavior. . . that matter will certainly have to be addressed. You understand that I can’t keep something like that confidential? That I’m
required to report any incidents of sexual harassment or abuse between patients that come to my attention?”

  “I understand,” I said.

  Slowly Dr. Minta leafed through the printouts on his desk. “I’d like to keep these and go over them in more detail,” he said. “I had heard of synesthesia before, but never realized it could be so debilitating. You say you’ve had this condition all your life? Why didn’t you mention it to me before?”

  “For a long time I didn’t know what it was,” I said. “I was afraid it might mean there was something wrong with me. Especially after the way my mother reacted.”

  “Of course,” said Dr. Minta. “That would make anyone cautious. But why do you think she was so upset when she realized you were seeing sounds? What made her so quick to assume that you were mentally ill?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Perhaps you should ask her,” Dr. Minta said, in a neutral tone that made me suspect he’d already guessed the answer. “In any case, I think it would be beneficial to arrange some family counseling sessions with you and your parents, so we can share this information with them.”

  I would rather have swallowed a live puffer fish and chased it down with broken glass, but I could hardly say no. Not when I’d sworn to myself that I’d do whatever it took to get out of this place.

  “Okay,” I said. “But can I ask you something? Now that you know why I reacted the way I did, and that it won’t happen again unless I get really stressed out, do you think I might be allowed to . . .” I stopped just short of saying go home, swallowed and went on, “. . . to leave Pine Hills?”

  Dr. Minta looked pained. “Alison, I don’t want to mislead you. What you’ve just told me goes a long way toward helping me to understand your situation and your psychological needs, but I still have reason to be concerned about your mental well-being. I believe it would be premature—”