TEN
(IS VULNERABLE)
I lay on a bed in the hospital wing, surrounded by morning sunlight and the smell of my own stale sweat. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to have a pulse. I wanted to die.
“. . . another psychotic episode,” Dr. Minta was saying quietly just outside the curtain. “It took four nurses to restrain her, and one staff member was seriously injured as a result.”
“How could this happen?” The voice was my mother’s, a wavering mauve pulse of distress. “You said her medication was working—”
“Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case,” said my psychiatrist. “We found this envelope in the library, when we were investigating the fire. The pills inside match Alison’s prescription. It appears she’d been hoarding them for a couple of weeks at least.”
I’d saved up those pills so carefully, ready to drop them onto Dr. Minta’s desk at just the right moment. That envelope had been my insurance, in case he decided not to let me go— the ultimate proof to him, my mother, and everyone else that I didn’t need drugs to keep me sane.
Except that now I’d ended up convincing them of exactly the opposite.
“I’ve done my best to impress upon Alison the importance of taking her medication,” Dr. Minta continued, “but there’s only so much I can do. Perhaps if you were to talk to her, Mr. Jeffries—”
“Oh,” my mother sobbed. “Oh, Alan. Please.”
At first I heard only pained silence. Then came a shuffle of footsteps, and my father stepped into view. He looked so old to me in that moment, so lost and frail, that I knew his faith in me had finally broken.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said heavily.
I gave up then. I didn’t even pretend to be asleep, and when my father sat down by my bedside and took my limp hand in his, I didn’t protest or try to explain. I just listened quietly to everything he said.
And then I behaved like a good little mental patient, and took my pills.
. . .
“I knew you were concerned about the side effects of your medication,” said Dr. Minta, when my parents had gone. “But I wish you had come to me to discuss your options, instead of taking matters into your own hands.”
“You’re not going to let me go now,” I said. “Are you.”
He looked grave. “Do you think I should?”
I slumped back against the pillows. “I didn’t mean to hurt Ray. I didn’t even know it was him. I was just scared.”
“Fire is a frightening thing,” said Dr. Minta. “You weren’t the only patient who was upset by the alarm. However, you were the only one who panicked violently enough to break the leg of a 220-pound man. I’m afraid I can’t feel comfortable about releasing you.”
I had nothing to say to that. My instep still throbbed orange from where I’d kicked Ray, and though Dr. Ward said it was only a bad bruise and not a fracture, it would be days before I could put my full weight on it.
I wanted to tell Ray I was sorry. I wanted to beg for his forgiveness. But he was gone.
“Now,” my psychiatrist continued, “why don’t we talk about the reason you decided to go off your medication?”
Because it was all about the pills, of course. It had nothing to do with being threatened by a police officer, hearing my own mother tell me she didn’t want me back in the house, or being sexually assaulted by a boy I’d thought was a friend. Never mind all my senses going into overdrive at the sound of a fire alarm.
I knew it wasn’t fair to blame Dr. Minta for not knowing about my synesthesia. But I also knew that telling him wouldn’t make any difference. He’d still want to give me drugs, to make sure I didn’t lose control of myself again. And he’d still consider me a danger to myself and others.
Because I was.
. . .
“It’s good to see you again,” said Faraday as the two of us sat down in the visitors’ lounge. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me—I thought you might not want to, after the way our last session ended.”
I hadn’t seen Faraday since the day he’d told me I was innocent, and now that conversation seemed like it had happened a hundred years ago. I’d spent most of the past week in Red Ward, and after four days and nights in that dismal space, coming back to Yellow Ward had felt like stepping through a portal to another world.
And yet Faraday hadn’t changed. He’d trimmed his hair and traded one drab and rumpled outfit for another, but his voice had lost none of its richness, and those violet eyes were compelling as ever. “I heard what happened,” he said. “I’m sorry, Alison.”
I didn’t bother to ask how he’d found out. That flattering attentiveness of his made people want to confide in him, and by now he probably knew the names and life stories of everyone in the place. A ripe morsel of gossip like me going ballistic in the corridor and breaking Ray’s leg would hardly have passed him by.
Still, he seemed to be waiting for a response, so I shrugged. My head felt thick, all my senses overlaid by a greasy film, and my mouth was a dry cavern. Speaking would have been too much effort.
“Alison.” He nudged his chair closer to mine. “Tell me. What went wrong?”
He sounded concerned. But Faraday wasn’t a therapist, only a researcher. Of course he’d been curious when I’d told him I’d disintegrated Tori—who wouldn’t be? But there was no reason he should want to hear about the rest of my problems. I shrugged again.
“I don’t mean to pry,” said Faraday. “I just wondered if it had anything to do with your synesthesia.”
Of course. I should have realized. He needed the information for his study. “The fire alarm,” I said tiredly. “It went off right beside me.”
Faraday let out his breath. “I thought as much,” he said. “Even ordinary synesthetes can sometimes find loud noises painful, but for you it must have been unbearable.”
His understanding was more than I could take. I looked away, past the blurry window to the mist-covered courtyard beyond.
“And when Ray and the other aides tried to restrain you,” Faraday went on in the same musing tone, “you panicked and fought. But you were wild with pain, not anger. You weren’t trying to hurt anyone.”
I gave a croaking laugh. “Did anyone tell you all the things I did before I got here? How I assaulted a police officer? Smashed my mother’s cell phone? Nearly strangled the psychiatrist at St. Luke’s? Dr. Minta says it’s psychosis, you say it’s synesthesia—but either way I act crazy and people get hurt, so what difference does it make?”
Faraday was silent. Then he said, “Your synesthesia is exceptionally strong, and you were under tremendous stress. I don’t think anything you’ve done was unreasonable under the circumstances, even if the results were . . . unfortunate.” He touched my hand. “I’m not afraid of you, Alison. Let me help you.”
His fingers rested on mine so lightly that I could hardly feel it, and yet that touch sent a shiver through my whole body. “How?” I asked. “You don’t work here. You’re not even a real—” I stopped myself before I could say something we’d both regret, and went on, “I don’t understand why you’d want to help me. I’m just another patient in your study.”
“Oh, no.” He breathed the words. “You are much more important than that, Alison.”
Warmth rose in my face. Even through the fog of antipsychotics and antidepressants, I could taste the truth in his voice. But did he really mean that the way it sounded?
Faraday drew his hand away. “I want to help,” he said. “It may be premature to try and do anything just yet, but if you give me some time, and permission to look at your records, I believe I might be able to convince Dr. Minta to let you go.”
“How?”
“By correlating your incidents of violent behavior to the sensory stimuli that triggered them. If I can demonstrate that there’s a cause-and-effect pattern instead of just random psychotic episodes . . .”
“You mean,” I said, “you want to tell him about my synesthesia.”
“When the time comes, yes. If I can make him understand that you were in pain when you had those violent reactions, that you were only trying to protect yourself, and that it could all have been prevented if you’d been allowed to retreat to a quiet place, then perhaps he’ll realize that he’s been mistaken. That you aren’t dangerous—or at least you wouldn’t be—if he treated you as a synesthete instead of someone who’s mentally ill.”
“But it’s not just him,” I said. “It’s the police, too. Constable Deckard said they had witnesses and a videotape of me fighting with Tori, and that the DNA tests showed it was her blood on my hands. And then my mother said she didn’t want me back in the house—”
“I understand,” said Faraday. “But I may be able to help you with some of those problems as well. Let me look into it, and I’ll see what I can do.”
It seemed too good to be true. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” I said.
Faraday leaned back in his chair and studied me for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he said, “Well, let me put it this way. I know how hard it is to be alone in a strange place, and longing for home.”
Oh. “You must miss South Africa,” I asked. “Sudbury is . . . pretty different.”
His mouth twitched up at one corner. “You could say that,” he said. “But right now, I’m content to be here. And to help you. If you’ll let me.”
I’d lost faith in myself, and everyone else I’d ever trusted had let me down. But here was Faraday, picking up my shattered confidence and handing it back to me. His offer seemed improbably generous—and yet, what did I have to lose?
“Okay,” I said, a little shyly. “And . . . thank you.”
. . .
As I headed back toward my room I felt strangely light, as though I were on a spaceship and someone had turned down the artificial gravity. The discovery that Faraday had stopped being a remote observer and turned into a friend was still floating in front of me like a shimmering rainbow soap bubble, and I was afraid to look at it too closely in case it burst.
But my mood sobered quickly when I saw what was left of the library. The entrance was draped in plastic sheeting, with barriers and caution tape around it for extra security. Not that anyone would want to go in there now. The floor was a dirty snowdrift of ash and loose paper, the only furniture a giant bin full of scorched and water-stained books. What Kirk had started, the sprinklers had finished. My favorite place, my refuge, destroyed.
But where had Kirk gotten the matches? And what had he been thinking when he set my book on fire and dropped it into the wastebasket to watch it burn?
The only way to know for sure was to ask him. But I hadn’t seen Kirk since I got back to Yellow Ward, and I wanted to keep it that way. The memory of his hot breath on my skin, his hands pawing my body, still made me feel sick inside. Not to mention the careless way he’d mentioned Tori, as though it were common knowledge that I’d killed her . . . and as though it didn’t bother him at all.
All my life I’d believed that my unusual senses gave me insights into other people, that I could tell something meaningful about them by the taste of their names or the shape their voices made in my mind. But after everything that had happened in the past few weeks, I didn’t know who or what to trust in anymore.
I could only hope that Faraday would keep his word about helping me. Because if one more person let me down, I really
would
go crazy.
. . .
That night at supper, I’d filled up my tray with lasagna and salad and was heading for an empty table when a familiar voice spoke at my elbow. “Hey.”
A slow burn kindled in my stomach. I gripped my tray tighter and kept walking.
“Ali, wait!” He tried to grab my arm, but one of the male aides stepped between us. “Leave her alone, Kirk,” he warned.
“I just want to talk to her, I’m not gonna make any trouble. I only need a minute, Dr. Rivard said I could—”
I hesitated.
“Look, Ali, I know I screwed up,” Kirk said quickly, trying to dodge around the aide and get to me. “But what I did, with the library—it wasn’t to get back at you. It was like . . . I get all wound up inside and I feel like I’m gonna explode unless I burn something. I needed to light something real bad, and the book was right there, and it just kinda . . . happened. So can we still be friends? And forget about . . . that other stuff?”
I’d never seen Kirk so anxious—no longer a cocky teenager, just a scared little boy. He must have realized I hadn’t told the nurses or Dr. Minta what he’d done to me, and now he was trying to smooth things over before I changed my mind and turned him in.
This was my cue to feel ashamed of myself for being angry with him and tell him everything was okay. Because that was what I’d done when he ate all my chocolates. It was what I’d always done with Mel whenever she’d hurt me. And it was what I ended up doing with my mother every time the two of us had a fight. After all, my feelings weren’t normal, couldn’t be trusted, didn’t really matter compared to other people’s. Even now I could hear a traitorous little voice in my head nagging,
It’s not like he did anything that bad to you, you know. You’re just being oversensitive
.
But I was tired of pretending I didn’t care, that I couldn’t be hurt. I might not be ready to pour out my feelings to the world, but I’d had enough of trying to ignore them.
I folded my arms.
Kirk’s eyes reddened, and for a horrible moment I thought he was going to burst into tears. “You’ve gotta understand,” he said, on a hysterical rising note. “I didn’t know you’d freak out like that! It wasn’t my fault!”
“Enough.” The aide held up a warning hand. “You’ve said your piece. Back to your seat.”
“But—”
I didn’t stay to hear the rest.
. . .
“I called my lawyer this morning,” I said to Faraday as we sat down in the conference room with the long table between us. “I told him what Constable Deckard said, but he still doesn’t think the police have enough evidence to charge me with murder yet.”
Faraday nodded. “I thought as much. Especially since there was such a brief interval between the time you and Tori left detention and the time you arrived home. It’s difficult to imagine how you could possibly have gotten rid of her body in that space of time.”
