Hungry (17 page)

“On this floor we have patient rooms and treatment rooms.” Dr. Demeter motions to closed doors on either side of the curved hall. “And upstairs we have our labs.”

“Do you give everyone a personal tour?” I ask him sarcastically.

“No,” he says with a small laugh. “As I told you in my office, I’ve taken a personal interest in your case.”

“I don’t expect special treatment because of who my mother is,” I snap at him.

“And I’ll expect the same things out of you as I do of all my patients,” he says. Then he stops and studies me for a moment. “I do hope you’ll learn to trust me, Thalia. The better our relationship, the more quickly you’ll recover.”

“The only thing wrong with me is that I’m here,” I tell him.

“Aha!” he says with a grin. “I’ll be sure to note that on your chart. But for now we’ll just drop your bag in your room, then I’ll take you to join some other guests.”

“
Guests
?” I say. “That’s quite a euphemism.”

Dr. Demeter actually laughs at my smart-ass comment. “What would you have me call them?” he asks. “Inmates?”

“Well … I … uh,” I stutter, surprised by his sense of humor.

“Here we are.” He opens a door on the right then flicks on the light to a sparsely furnished room with a single bed, a squat dresser with four drawers, and a small square sink beside a door marked
URINAL
.

“Are there cameras here?” I ask, peering into the corners.

He shakes his head. “No, we don’t wish to invade your personal privacy. If someone is deemed a threat to herself or others, she might go into an observation room, but otherwise, we’d like you to feel at home.”

“Home?” I say as I drop my bag on the bed. “I have no intention of being here that long.”

Again Dr. Demeter surprises me by smiling and says, “I hope you’re right.” Then he turns. “Come, I believe there’s an art-therapy group meeting now that you might enjoy.”

I follow him with my head cocked to the side, trying to imagine what he means.

He sees my confusion. “We’ve found that expressing emotions through art or conversation can help break the cycle of compulsive feelings. So we encourage our guests to do something creative every day.”

“Sounds like an Analog meeting,” I say half to myself as we walk the circle.

He glances at me sideways. “I hear Ms. Gignon had a bite to eat.”

This catches me off guard, and I nearly laugh. “Maybe she needs to be your
guest
.”

“You know,” he says almost absentmindedly, “she may be on to something. Humans are meant to eat after all.”

“Too bad there’s no food,” I say.

He turns his head sharply. “And what if there were? Would you eat it?”

“Wouldn’t that make me crazy?” I counter. “What did you call it? OCD?”

He thinks on this for a second, then he says, “Historically mental illness has been the name for anything science couldn’t explain about human behavior. The more we learn about the brain, the less we categorize as crazy.”

“Just as long as you can optimize that brain chemistry, huh?” I quip, mocking my mother.

“Yes,” he says with a smile. “Very well put!”

I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Shall we?” he says, pointing to a closed door.

*   *   *

Inside the brightly lit room, people sit around circular tables covered with colorful scraps of what might be paper. There are girls younger than me. Guys who are probably in their twenties. A few men and women most likely pushing thirty, but the only person my parents’ age is an orderly helping someone on the other side of the room.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

“Making collages, I believe,” Dr. Demeter tells me.

I watch the people in the room, but nobody seems to be creating anything. Most of them stare blankly at the wall or rock back and forth, humming or muttering to themselves. One guy punches himself in the forehead over and over.

“Why are they all so out of it?” I ask as my stomach tightens with fear.

“First we have to suppress that urge to eat using psychotropic drugs,” Dr. Demeter explains. “This breaks the cycle, then we can start rebuilding the personality through alternative therapies such as this.” He glances at me and sees that I am utterly horrified. “Oh, but don’t worry,” he says clapping me on the shoulder. “This will not be your experience. Most of these people are late in the stages of their illness. They’ve been through so much. Their families have turned them out. Many of them have been in jail. These are some of the hardest cases, but we caught yours early and will only have to tweak your Synthamil cocktail to … how did you put it—optimize your brain chemistry.

“Would you like to meet one of my most successful guests?” Dr. Demeter asks.

I don’t answer because the idea that anyone in this room is a success story makes my stomach churn.

“Haza,” Dr. Demeter calls. A short, round girl a little older than I am looks up and beams when she hears Dr. Demeter’s voice. “Oh, Dr. D!” she says and rushes to greet him. He opens his arms so she can wrap him in a hug and lay her cheek against his chest. Her frizzy gold hair looks like a ratty rug against his neatly ironed shirt. I can’t believe he’s allowing her to touch him like that. She’s not a child. “Is it time?”

“Soon, soon.” He pats her on the back. “I have to prepare the lab. While you’re waiting, I’d like you to meet our newest guest, Thalia.”

Haza looks me up and down like a frightened child clinging to her father.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Demeter assures her. “She’s here to get better, just like you. Why don’t you take her to your table and introduce her to your friends?” He pries her arms away from his body and gives her a little push in my direction. She stumbles toward me on stiff legs.

*   *   *

I pull up a chair between Haza and a girl called Zara who has spiky dark hair, the ends of which are fading magenta. At first I think she’s younger than I am, but when I look at her eyes, I see the worry lines of someone much older. Across from us a skinny, shifty-eyed boy huddles in his chair, avoiding eye contact. The orderly, who introduces herself as Shira, hands me a large blank sheet of slick paperlike material and a little tube of something sticky, then she goes to tend another “guest” who’s gotten the sticky stuff in her hair.

“Did you hear what he said?” Haza asks, reaching into the jumble of scraps in the center of the table. “I’m going up to the lab tonight.”

“Who gives a crap?” Zara says, ripping purple scraps into ragged strips. I’m relieved to hear someone else talk, even if she is incredibly hostile. She smears the sticky stuff on the back of the scraps then smacks them down on her piece of paper, which is nearly covered corner to corner with jagged shapes.

“You do, Zara,” Haza says. “You wish
you
got to go.”

Across the table, the nervous boy carefully tears a long thin strip of paper then rolls it into a tiny precise ball, which he lines up next to other tiny precise white balls he’s made.

“Only the most special people get invited,” Haza continues. “The ones he trusts the most.”

“He’s probably going to try to screw you,” Zara says, slamming her fist onto her collage.

My mouth drops open. I look at the boy to see if he’s surprised by this, but he’s too busy popping the small wads of paper in his mouth to notice what’s happening across the table. He looks side to side as he chews.

“You’re crass. And foul. And disgusting,” Haza snarls at Zara. “What happens up there is a secret. A wonderful, beautiful secret.”

“Sounds like screwing to me,” Zara says and pounds a slab of black on top of her palimpsest.

“Shut up!” Haza hisses. “You’re just jealous because I’m getting out of here soon. Dr. D. says so.”

As their argument escalates, the boy rolls bigger and bigger wads of paper that he shoves into his mouth and chews nervously. I look around to see if Shira notices what’s going on, but she’s busy trying to stop the head puncher from knocking himself into a coma.

“Where are you going to go?” Zara asks Haza with a snort. “Your parents won’t take you back. They kicked you out after you tried to eat their curtains.”

“That’s not true!” Haza says. “And Dr. Demeter says he has a place for me. A place where only the most special guests get to go. Soon, I’ll be a part of the harvest.”

This catches my attention. “Harvest?”

Zara looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Don’t listen to her. She’s deluded.”

“I am not!” Haza almost yells. “My eggs are ripe. He told me so.”

Zara bursts out laughing. “Your
eggs
are
ripe
? You really are insane.”

This sends Haza over the edge. “Shut up!” she screams. “Shut up, you horrible girl!” She stands up so quickly, she tips her chair and shoves the table into the boy’s gut. He doubles over and gags.

“What’s going on? What’s the matter now?” Shira rushes across the room.

I slip out of my chair as Zara and Haza scream and point at one another while the boy vomits soggy wads of paper onto the floor.

Shira pushes a button on the wall and shouts, “Ravi, Sar! I need your help.”

Within seconds Sar runs in and grabs Zara in a bear hug from behind. She thrashes and kicks and continues to scream taunts at Haza who sobs, “You’re wrong! You’re wrong!”

“Where’s Ravi? Lev, no!” Shira yells as she tries to stop the boy from shoving more paper in his mouth.

“Don’t know,” Sar says.

I press myself against a wall to stay out of the way, but none of the other patients seem to notice or care about what’s happening. They just continue staring and rocking and punching themselves as Sar drags Zara out the door howling, “I’m getting the hell out of here! You can’t keep me! You can’t make me stay!”

“What a mess,” Shira mutters. She digs the last bit of paper mush from Lev’s mouth then stands up and claps her hands. “Okay, everybody, art is over for today.” One by one, she gets the other patients to their feet. They shuffle toward the door. “Time to go back to your rooms,” Shira tells them. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

As I leave, Haza looks at me. “I’m getting out,” she insists.

“You and me both,” I mutter as I walk by.

*   *   *

As soon as I’m in my room, I reach for my Gizmo. I’ve been surprised that no one confiscated it yet, but when I uncloak it, I see why. There’s no signal. I drop down to the bed to think. No signal means I can’t call my dad, which means I’m stuck here until Grandma talks sense into him, which will be tough as long as my mom insists she’s right, which will be until the end of time.

But there is no way in hell I’m staying here. This place is a nuthouse. Face punchers, paper eaters, egg harvesting, sex! These freaks could never be in the Procreation Pool. Nobody is going to let their hormones surge. I have to find a way to get a message to Dad. It’s the only chance I have of leaving before I become as crazy as the others.

I open the settings on my Gizmo and move around the room to see if I can pick up even the faintest hint of the network or a private hot spot. Nothing. But somewhere in this building a signal has to be accessible, even if it’s encrypted. All I have to do is find it so I can start hacking my way out of this prison.

I peek out my door to make sure the hallway is empty and quiet, then I slip out. My heart pounds as I trail my fingers against the soft, smooth surface of the curved wall. I figure my best bet is to get upstairs near the windows so I can pick up the general Inner Loop network signal that’s probably been blocked down here. I make my way back toward the waiting area, praying that Dr. Demeter wasn’t lying and there are no security cameras. When I get there, I press my back against the wall and make sure no one is nearby. The waiting room is empty, so I scurry to the double doors where Ravi and Sar disappeared earlier. I run up every other step to the second floor. I press my ear against the door, then slowly open it.

Instead of the sound-absorbing carpet, dark walls, and low ceilings of the first floor, everything up here is gleaming white and silver. I take out my Gizmo and point it toward the dome of windows overhead. The first few stars bright enough to compete with the Inner Loop lights dot the night sky, but my screen remains black because there’s still no signal. I tiptoe down the hall, searching for a hot spot. Then I hear voices and clunking heels echo from the left. I panic, my heart in my throat, as I dart away. I round the curve in the opposite direction, but a door swings open and someone in pale green steps out. I skitter backward, desperate for a place to hide and grapple with a door handle behind me. I fall inside a room and someone gasps.

I turn to see Haza on an exam table in a hospital gown with her knees pulled up to her chest. I press my fingers to my lips and plead with my eyes for her to be quiet. She’s so surprised that at first she can’t speak. Outside, the footsteps and voices fade.

Then Haza snaps out of her shock and whispers, “Is it your turn, too?”

“Yes,” I answer, thinking fast. “But don’t tell anyone. They’ll be jealous.”

“I know,” she whispers eagerly. “We’re special.”

I steal a glance through the door and see that the door catty-corner from me is still slightly ajar. “I have to go,” I whisper to Haza and bolt across the hall.

The other room is empty and dark, but my screen faintly glows, which turns my fear into elation. As soon as I pick up this signal, I can send a message to my dad and hurry back to my room before anyone misses me. Then all I have to do is wait for him to come. I open my settings and skirt the edges of the room, trying to find a signal strong enough to send my message, but I hit a wall. Literally. My screen has gotten brighter, so I know I’m heading in the right direction, but I’m going to have to go out in the hall to get into the next room, where the signal must be stronger. As I grope my way forward, I bump against a table. What sounds like hundreds of tiny glass dishes tinkle and rattle. I grip the table, willing the noise to stop and use the light of my Gizmo screen to see what I’ve set in motion.

Rows and rows of small shallow glass dishes bump together, sloshing a thin pinkish film growing in a clear solution. I back away, not sure what I’ve seen, but it turns my stomach. I tiptoe to the door. The hall is quiet so I step out slowly, then just as I’m darting toward the next room, someone comes around the curve. I fumble for the handle but not before an orderly grabs my elbow.