Six Months Later (18 page)

“So it c-comes and goes?” Maggie asks, frowning.

Mrs. Miller’s face is crunching with sadness, so I try to explain, drawing from the little I’ve read. “Schizophrenia can force people to sort of detach from reality. She might be fine one minute—”

“And then she might start talking about
The
Wizard
of
Oz
as if it’s happened just next door,” Mrs. Miller says. Her expression is pleasant again, but her eyes hold so much pain, my own chest aches.

“Are you sure you’re prepared for this?” she asks.

No. No, I’m definitely not. But I nod anyway.

Mrs. Miller leaves us to wait in a small living room with crushed velvet couches and antique tables. It’s all very Jane Austen. All that’s missing is a guy in a starched shirt. And maybe tea service.

We sit on the edge of the couch with our hands in our laps, too freaked out to say a thing. I hear voices at the top of the stairs and then footsteps descending. I don’t even know how it’s possible, but I tense up more.

Julien enters, dressed in khaki shorts and a couple of blue tank tops layered over one another. Her hair is still long and pale, curling at the edges just like a shampoo commercial. And her smile is the carbon copy of her mother’s. White and wide. And one hundred percent normal.

“Omigosh, Chloe!” Julien squeals as she crosses the room, tugging me into a hug. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

I catch Maggie’s gob-smacked expression over Julien’s shoulder, knowing mine has to match.

Julien pulls back from me, eager and happy. “Can you believe this house? What do you think of San Diego? Was your flight good?”

“Great!” I say, not sure which question I’m answering, but figuring it’s the best word to suit them all.

Behind Julien, Maggie is still staring. I can’t blame her. I mean, where’s the freaking crazy girl? I was expecting some hollow-eyed horror-movie extra, the kind of girl who rocks in the corner and avoids daylight. But this is just Julien.

“Oh,” Julien says, frowning and turning to Mags. “I’m so sorry, Maggie, I didn’t even say hello. It’s great to see you too.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Julien slides a slim arm around my shoulders, and I tense like she’s about to snap me in half. “I’m so glad you two made up,” she says. “You’d been friends for so long, and I hated seeing you fight.”

Maggie and I both offer parrotlike head bobs in response. The weird factor in this room is at an all-time high. I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole schizophrenia conversation in the kitchen, and then, right in front of my nose, Julien kind of fades out.

I think of a television losing signal or maybe ink dissolving in water. Her face goes dull and flat, as if everything’s kind of floating around her. And then she nods, as if someone asked her a question.

“You’ll have to fill me in,” she says, and it’s normal enough, but she’s not. Something’s just…off. Her voice is higher. Almost childlike.

“Of course,” I say anyway, moving to sit down on the couch.

Julien plays with the hem of her tank top, twisting it over and over, her fingers flicking in tiny, rapid movements that seem at complete odds with her vacant expression.

“Where should I start?” I ask, noticing Mrs. Miller for the first time. She’s still hovering by the door. Watching.

Julien looks up with that brilliant grin. “Start with the Wicked Witch because I haven’t heard a thing since I’ve been here. I need to hear every single thing. I keep track, of course. In my diary.”

I look to Maggie for help, but her expression makes it pretty clear she’s checking the hell out of this adventure.

“Uh, well, I don’t know much about that,” I say, “but everyone’s applying for colleges back home. And the winter dance is coming up after Christmas, so—”

Julien sits down beside me, slipping her arm through mine. “Oh, don’t be like that. I don’t want boring stuff about boys. Tell me what you’ve learned about the Wicked Witch.”

“Julien,” her mother says. It’s soft, but it’s a warning.

Julien doesn’t even look at her. But her eyes go round and big, and she squeezes my arm until I want to pull it loose. Now her voice is pip-squeak high, like she’s morphed into an overgrown toddler. “Oh no. Did she have a flying monkey go after you?”

“A what?”

“I knew she’d use them. I knew it. She did, and oh, that’s terrible. I don’t know what to do now. I just don’t know.”

Mrs. Miller moves closer, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “Julien, sweetheart, let’s not talk about that right now. Would you like to talk about the beach? You know how much you like the beach.”

Julien flips her hair and sucks her teeth in a way that brings me back to middle school in the worst possible way. “I can’t talk about the beach right now. Anyone could be listening,
Mother
. Anyone!”

I pull my arm free then because I have to. I just have to.

She really is crazy. Certifiable. I flew across the entire freaking country because I was positive this girl was kidnapped or hypnotized or some dire thing, but she’s not. She’s deeply mentally disturbed, and I’m here, obviously upsetting her, so I can dig into my own issues.

“Please tell me what you know about the witch,” Julien says, looking at both Maggie and me, and resisting her mother’s touch on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Julien,” Maggie says, and her expression and voice are both tender. “I d-don’t think we know much about her.”

“I know you don’t,” Julien says to her, and in that moment, she looks perfectly clear. Sharp and focused. The Julien I remember. She takes my hand and looks at me steadily. “But you remember, don’t you, Chloe? You know.”

I open my mouth, and she squeezes my hand and then I see it, clear as day.

Dr. Kirkpatrick at the front of a classroom, that ultracalm smile on her face as she drones on about…I can’t quite make it out. Relaxing.

She
wants
me
to
relax. Close my eyes and breathe deep. Let my mind open like a box.

I
don’t close my eyes. I narrow them and watch her through the slits. She’s playing with her charm bracelet. It’s pretty. I see a picnic basket and a little dog…and ruby red slippers.

I feel a hand touch my arm, and I open my eyes. I don’t even remember closing them.

Maggie’s standing by the couch now, watching me with worry in her face. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” I turn to Julien, who’s humming quietly beside me. She’s still holding my hand, but she’s not looking at me. She’s not looking at anything. “Hey, Julien?”

It takes her a long while to turn to me, like the words took a winding road to get into her brain. When she does, her neatly shaped brows are knitted together above her pert nose. “Oh, Chloe! I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Perhaps she needs to rest,” her mother says. “Come on, Julien. Let’s go back to your room.”

“No, not yet,” she says, looking at me though her words are for her mom. “Will you get me something to drink Mom?”

“Sure, sweetie,” Mrs. Miller says, but I don’t miss her hesitation to leave us alone. Maggie and I both try to give her a reassuring smile.

Once she’s gone, I look at Julien. “You were talking about the Wicked Witch. You mean the one at our school, don’t you?”

Her mouth thins into an angry line. “She tells me how to sit and how to breathe. In and out and one, two, three.”

“Right,” I say. I pause to give Maggie a meaningful look, but she doesn’t seem convinced of anything other than Julien’s heaping pile of absolutely crazy.

“I don’t like her,” Julien says. She’s petulant, bottom lip jutting out. “Sometimes I think she’s real, but maybe she’s just in the movie.”

“
The
Wizard
of
Oz
?” Maggie asks.

“No. This movie. The same one I’m in,” Julien says. Now she doesn’t look crazy at all. She looks like a girl trapped in a glass jar. She sees exactly where she is and what’s happening, and there’s not a damn thing she can do to change it.

Then Julien presses her hands to her face and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter because I can’t remember. I can’t remember at all.”

My whole body goes tense. I lean away from Julien, heart pounding. Is this what’s coming for me next? Is this what I’m going to turn into?

Julien uncovers her face, and it’s like nothing happened. She’s smiling and perky and groomed within an inch of her life. She’s the Julien without any dark secrets or mind-altering medications. “So how about you and Blake? You still a thing?”

“Uh…sure,” I say, because I can’t
even
get into a breakup. Not here. Not with her.

“I dated him once, you know. Back in freshman year. But I’ve got to say, he was never as attentive with me. You must have the magic touch.”

“Must have.”

“I think I’m going to wear red to prom.” Julien looks at us, biting her lip. “Do you think only sluts wear red?”

Mrs. Miller appears with a mug of tea, and I don’t know about Maggie, but I’m about to fling myself into her arms I’m so grateful to see her. “How are we doing, girls? Julien, here’s your tea. Just like you like it.”

She offers it to her in front of me, and I catch a whiff. Lemon and herbs and something familiar in the worst kind of way. I lurch back and hold my breath, not wanting to smell it again and having no idea why I’m being so weird.

“I hate t-to cut this short, b-but we really have to get going,” Maggie says, and her eyes are on me. She’s worried.

I press my hands to my cheeks and try to calm down. “Right. I totally forgot. Your mom is meeting us at the station.”

Julien is back to that blank stare. Her mom notices and comes closer, stroking her hair gently. “Julien? Your friends are leaving, honey.”

Her face contorts, and for one second, I see the terrified confusion she’s living in. Her eyes are wild, searching the room. “Wait, I didn’t—there’s something—”

She trails off and all but jumps off the couch. She starts pacing then, pulling away from her mother’s efforts to soothe her. “Don’t! I have to say this—I have to remember—”

“She’s just a little upset. I’m sure she’s glad you came by,” Mrs. Miller says, that plastic smile melting around her obvious discomfort.

“No! I have to tell them!”

Mrs. Miller glances at us a little desperately. “Please know it’s nothing you said. It’s just the sickness.”

“I’m not sick!” For one second, Mrs. Miller goes pale and tight. “I’m not sick, and you
know
it! I…I…” Julien trails off, pressing her temples with both fingers and looking dazed. Then she meets my eyes. “Help me, Chloe. Please.”

My heart skips three beats. Maybe four. Whatever icy thing is moving through me now, it’s bigger than fear. Way bigger.

“Girls, thank you so much for coming. Do you think you can find your way to the door?”

I try to nod or speak, but I can’t do anything. I can’t tear my eyes away from Julien. She’s watching me with a look that will haunt me forever if I don’t do something. But I have no idea what. Or how.

“Thank you for having us,” Maggie says softly.

I can’t say anything at all. I can’t even wave. Instead, I let Maggie pull me through this strange mismatched house. I hold on tight to her arm, grateful that she knows the way.

Outside, the sky is still blue. Maggie and I do not belong in this sunny day. We are white as sheets as we make our way down the stairs that lead away from the front door. We pause at the street, looking a little lost.

“What now?” I ask. Our cab is long gone.

“Now, we g-get the hell out of here. We’ll walk back t-to the main road and call a cab.”

Overhead, a seagull cries happily. I feel my eyes welling up, my throat getting tight. “Is that going to happen to me?”

“No.” She turns back to me, finger up, looking angry. “D-don’t you go there. Not even for a second. D-do you hear me? Julien is sick, Chloe. Like really sick.”

“I know. I know that. But when she grabbed my hands, I remembered what she was talking about. Dr. Kirkpatrick was in that study group telling us how to breathe.”

“So what if she was? I mean, I know it’s creepy, and yes, you all t-turned into freaking robots—”

“So what if somehow that creepy stuff turned Julien into this? If I remember what they did, maybe I can help her. I
have
to remember, Mags.”

She settles a cool hand on my shoulder. “No, you don’t. Chloe, it’s schizophrenia, okay? That’s not your fault. It’s not
anyone’s
fault.”

I can’t believe this. I throw up my hands in disgust. “So that’s it. Julien is sick and somehow that means Dr. Kirkpatrick is innocent?”

“I d-didn’t say that. I’m just saying she didn’t have anything to d-do with this. And we shouldn’t either.”

I know she’s right. There isn’t a single logical explanation for anyone causing schizophrenia. But still, I can’t stop thinking about her flashes of sanity. Sometimes, the lunatic shutters cracked open, and I could see the completely normal girl trapped behind them.

“Let’s just get back,” Maggie says, interrupting my thoughts.

I nod, scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hands. We’re just walking down the sidewalk when I hear a faint tapping from the house behind us. Maggie’s glancing around, so I know she’s heard it too. We search the scrubby yard and the palm tree, and then finally the house itself.

Julien.

She’s standing at one of the windows upstairs, making a motion with her arms.

“Is she drawing something?” I ask. “Why doesn’t she just open the window?”

“Maybe they won’t open,” Maggie says. “Maybe they think it’d be t-too risky.”

I ignore Maggie and shake my head. I try to look as confused as I can, hoping Julien will somehow manage to read my body language.

“Let’s j-just go.”

“No! She asked me to help, Mags.”

In the window, Julien tosses her hair. She’s frustrated, I think. And then she’s just gone. Maybe she sat down or walked away, but it doesn’t matter. The window is empty, and there is no saving happening here. Not today.

I turn back to the road, where Maggie’s already walking, but the tapping comes again. Julien, of course. She’s just watching us, palms pressed to the glass and a desperate look in her eyes. Like she’s waiting for me to do something.

“What d-does she want?” Maggie asks.

I sigh and push my hair behind my ears. “I don’t know. You were right. We should go.”

***

“I just don’t know what she meant with all that Wicked Witch stuff,” I say, doodling a cartoon of a stick figure on a broomstick on the paper place mat beneath my burger and fries.

Maggie picks at her own plate and frowns. “Maybe none of it really means anything. I don’t understand why you’re trying t-to make sense of it, Chlo.”

“Because she doesn’t make sense. Schizophrenia doesn’t come on like that. It comes on slowly, like over months or even years. It doesn’t just crop up at the end of one summer.” I push away my plate, my appetite lost. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s another reason they left.”

“Or maybe this is a d-dead end, like I said. Julien has problems, Chlo. And I don’t know that we need to be d-digging around in her messed-up family d-dynamics anymore.”

The rest of our train ride passes in silence. Maggie listens to her music, and I watch the skyline, one interesting building after the next slipping past my window. I try not to think of Adam. And fail miserably.

I want to call him. I mean, I
really
want to. But all I can think about is our last phone call. And his extracurricular visit to the local pharmacy.

What a mess.

I want to hear his side of the story. Because I know he’s not a bad guy. His room, those college applications, that freaking wall of architecture? That has to mean something.

But there’s another part of me that knows an explanation isn’t going to fix this. My parents
already
think I’m crazy. And now I’m going to date the criminal my mom sewed up in the emergency room? They’ll ship me off to a boarding school for troubled children.

God, I just wish it didn’t feel so right—so
easy
with him. If it could just be hard, I’d walk away. But it’s not hard. It’s as simple as my own damn instinct, and that means more than whatever stupid thing he did two years ago.

I’ll have to worry about the fallout with my parents later. I have to call him.

As if on cue, my cell phone rings. I spring out of my seat and into the narrow aisle, waving at Maggie to let her know I’m stepping away. I answer it without even looking, positive it’s him.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Chloe. It’s Blake.”

“Oh.” I sound every bit as disappointed as I am. I try again, clearing my throat. “Oh, hey.”

It’s not much better, but I don’t care. I’m not ready for this call today. Or ever, really. I reach for the wall beside me, bracing myself as the train rocks over the tracks. I’m pretty sure he’ll hear the background noise, so I can’t just hang up.

“So how’ve you been?” he asks.

His tone seems casual enough, but I feel like tiny invisible bugs are crawling up and down my arms.

“Fine,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Is something wrong?”

He laughs a little. “No, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about you and thought I’d give you a call. Day before Thanksgiving and all.”

“Right,” I say, shaking my head a little. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Same to you. Though yours will probably be more interesting than mine since you’re spending it in San Diego of all places.”

My heart stops beating. I’m sure of it. My mouth drops open, but I can’t form a single word right now because I’m completely paralyzed.

“I’m sorry?” I finally manage, because I had to have misheard him. I’m paranoid or tired or something.

He laughs as if it’s all very funny. “Your mom told me when I called this morning. I asked if I could bring by a pie, and she told me you were in San Diego.”

No, she didn’t say that. She couldn’t have said that because she has no idea I’m in San Diego. According to my mother, I’m in the Ritz-Carlton in Los Angeles and we told Maggie’s mother that we were heading out to some botanical garden for the day. Not once, did the words
San
or
Diego
exit either of our mouths.

“So how’s the weather?” he asks.

“Warm,” I say, croaking it out despite my now-roiling stomach.

I will not throw up. I will not throw up or pass out, and I will not start screaming. My hand feels slick with sweat on my phone. Someone’s coming toward me in the narrow little corridor, so I have to get out of the way.

“Sounds great. I’ve never been lucky enough to spend Thanksgiving in California.”

I force a laugh, but it’s worse than the canned stuff they play on sitcoms. His is as flat and as stale as mine and all I can think is
how
? How does he know where I am?

“So what are you doing all the way down there?”

My self-preservation kicks in, and the lies come pouring out of me. “Oh, this and that. Checking out the bay. I’ll probably come back with a killer tan.”

He murmurs something agreeable, and it’s horrible and awkward and I can’t believe either of us are acting like this isn’t completely transparent.

“Well, I really should go,” I say. “We’re about to grab lunch.”

“Sure,” he says, and I know full well he doesn’t believe me. “Oh, and happy Thanksgiving, Chloe. You’ve got a lot to be grateful for this year, don’t you?”

“This year?”

“Well, everything is different for you now, isn’t it?”

There’s something to his tone I don’t like. Hell, there isn’t a thing about this phone call I do like, but this little preachy undertone grates me like a brick of cheese.

I guess he thinks last year was just too tragic. What with my second-rate social and academic rankings, I probably should have just stabbed myself with the wishbone and done the world a favor.

“Oh, I’m grateful all right,” I say. My voice is so sickly sweet, I could pass for a flight attendant. I keep it up, like poisoned honey, as we exchange our good-byes.

I stare at the screen on my phone for a long time after he disconnects. One of the attendants asks me to take my seat. I point at the restroom like a mute and stumble toward it on legs that feel like cooked noodles.

The bathroom is cramped and loud, and I know I can’t hide here the rest of the way back. But I can’t tell Maggie. Our lunch made it pretty clear what she thinks of my conspiracy theories.

I palm my phone, knowing who I want to call. I can’t push the idea out of my head.

It takes me two minutes to gather the courage. I half expect myself to dial the number and immediately hang up, but that’s never been my style. Once I dial, I press the phone to my ear and square my shoulders.

Adam’s phone rings to voice mail after four rings. I wait a minute and call back again. This time, it goes straight to voice mail. And I’m not too stupid to know what that means. Call rejected. Chloe rejected.

I think this must be what it feels like to be slapped.

I return to my seat feeling like there’s a gaping hole where my important parts should be. Mags looks up briefly, returning to her notes without noticing my expression or even asking where I’ve been.

It wouldn’t matter if she asks. She’d only think I was crazy if I tried to explain it.

And maybe I am. Maybe I’m every bit as lost as Julien now.