Unlocked (23 page)

Was crazy contagious?

I needed to remember to wash my hands after we left.

The doctors probably made patients wait out here forever to weaken their resolves, lower their defenses. Sunlight glinted off the windows, and higher up in the panes near the ceiling, scratches in familiar patterns marred the glass. I stepped closer for a better angle and tilted my head to the side to study them. Six sets of five. Like claw marks in the dirt. Or fingernails on a chalkboard. Or like talons from a demon trying to scratch its way out of the room. I stepped up onto a nearby chair and reached up toward the marks. I stretched on my tiptoes to reach them. The streaks were unmarred by my touch. They were etched into the glass.

“Hannah?” Dr. James called my name from the side door.

Mom set her magazine down and noticed me. “Hannah! What are you doing? Get down!”

Dr. James waited at the door. His shoulders lifted as he inhaled through his giant crooked schnoz.

I hopped down and followed Mom across the reception area.

“How are you, Hannah?” He patted my shoulder, and I jerked away. “I apologize. I shouldn't have touched you without asking.”

His hand was bulky but not hairy. He stepped away from me and fingered his black-and-white-striped tie. I took a deep breath and reminded myself I was okay. I was with my mom. Everything would be fine.

He motioned for me to move down the hall. “Second door on the left,” he said. We entered. Two oversized leather chairs, a two-person couch, and a desk filled the room.

“Have a seat, Hannah,” he said.

I sank into an oversized leather chair. Across from me on the wall hung the typical framed diplomas and certificates, but in the middle of them was a mesmerizing piece of art. Framed and matted, the picture was sketched on paper torn from a large tablet. The paper—yellowed with time—had been torn down the middle and pieced back together with discolored Scotch tape. The right half of the paper featured a fine-line drawing of a beautiful girl with flowing hair, a vibrant smile, and a piercing eye. The left half used a heavier hand, with charcoal instead of a pencil. Her hair hung like spider legs tangled together, her lips drooped like a thirsty flower, and her eye was suspended like a specter in the night. Even though the sketch appeared to be two separate pieces taped together, a large brushstroke of red paint carried from the lower left of the paper, over the top of the tape in the middle, across to the right corner, and up the right side of the yellowed paper.

“Have a seat, Hannah,” Dr. James said again.

He paused in the doorway, and I stood inches away from the artwork. I couldn't remember moving across the small office from the chair that I'd already sat in.

Focus.

This time, I settled into the leather chair that faced the door.

He took the other chair, and Mom perched on the couch.

“Normally, my appointments are only with the patient, but I figured you both would be more comfortable if we started out together with the three of us.”

Mom clutched her purse in her lap.

“I'll begin with some general questions. Then we'll get to specifics. Sound all right, Hannah?”

I nodded.

“First, Mrs. O'Leary, how do think your daughter is doing?”

“Things have changed.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“She's become apathetic toward things that used to matter to her.” Mom set her purse on the carpet.

“How do you know this?”

“Simple observation. She's less interested in her appearance and less interested in school. She's forgotten things.”

The doctor's forehead wrinkled. “Can you tell me more?”

“Appearance”—Mom waved up and down at me. “A week ago, she would have never gone out in public in that outfit. She's wearing exercise clothes. Plus, it's hot outside, and she's bundled up, as if it's cold. Schoolwork”—Mom crossed her legs. “She dropped several of her classes, and today she was nearly suspended. Forgetting things”—Mom wrung her hands together. “Perhaps she's sleepwalking, but she has forgotten where she's been and forgotten things she's done.”

The doctor took notes before lifting his head. His eyes went from her to me. “Hannah, what do you think of all this?”

Mom looked at me the way she used to look at Dad, fearing an outburst at any moment. I needed her to be proud of me, but could she still love me if I ended up being like Dad?

“Hannah?” Dr. James said.

“What?” I asked.

“Do you disagree with anything your mother said?”

“No.”

He wrote more on his legal pad. Then he relaxed back into his chair and crossed his right ankle over his left knee.

“Hannah, since we spoke in the hospital have you seen things other people haven't? Heard things? Smelled things? Basically, have you sensed things that no one else has?”

I studied the floor and worried about how to answer. If I admitted to the evil spirits, Dr. James would for sure diagnose me as crazy and sentence me to weekly sessions. I'd refuse to come back for regular sessions alone with him. I never wanted to be alone with any man. An ant crawled along the floorboard toward Mom's purse. She'd freak if she found it in there later. Scream and drop her purse in the middle of a restaurant or store. But then she'd understand how I've felt this past week. I wouldn't be alone. So I remained quiet, and the ant crawled up the side of her purse, along the clasp, and vanished inside.

“Hannah?” The doctor's voice brought me back to the moment.

“What?” I asked.

“She sees things all the time,” Mom answered for me. “Today, when I picked her up from school, she believed the clouds were going to burst open and dump rain on her—”

“They were,” I said.

“The sky has been clear and cloudless all day.” She twisted the watch around her wrist. “She thinks evil spirits have attached themselves to her. She sees black smoke where there is none. She thinks someone is stalking her, taunting her with a pink elephant—”

“You saw the elephant. You know that's real,” I said.

“The elephant was real,” Mom said, “but it's not moving on its own, and no one else is moving it. You are the one moving it from place to place.”

That was a lie.

“Okay.” The doctor lifted his hand toward Mom and then turned toward me. “Hannah, let's talk about your emotions for a minute. Have you experienced less emotion than normal the past few days, or have you expressed inappropriate emotions in some situations, or is it harder to experience pleasure?”

“Jordan died,” I said. “Yes, it's harder to experience any kind of pleasure.” And Manny broke up with me. That was not pleasurable.

“What about inappropriate emotions?” Dr. James asked.

Images of me lunging across the desk at Chelsea popped into my head alongside images of me pawing all over Manny in his family room. And Manny said he could never get the image of me kissing Plug out of his mind.

“No,” I said.

Mom groaned. “She was kicked out of class today because she was kissing one boy, and her boyfriend punched him. Afterward Hannah ripped the blouse off of a girl in the class.”

“Hannah, have you had any more hallucinations?” Dr. James asked.

I glanced at Mom.

“Tell him,” she said. I shook my head. She described the incidents she knew about: The pizza burning. The elephant moving. Sleeping in her room. She had no clue about the warehouse, the ants, the letters, or the man in the bathroom.

“Based on the things we've discussed so far and your family history, it's very likely you're suffering from schizophrenia.”

Mom's head snapped toward the doctor. “No, she is not.”

“What do you think the problem is, then, Mrs. O'Leary?” he asked.

“Post-traumatic stress disorder. That's all. It's fixable.”

“Sure. It could be,” he said, “but let's be prudent and start Hannah on some antipsychotic medication and begin daily therapy.”

“Daily?” I asked.

He tapped his pen against his legal pad. “With the drastic behavior changes in the few days since I saw you in the hospital, daily therapy is necessary if you want to improve.”

My mom nodded her consent, but his gaze was glued to me. He leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees.

“In order for you to get better,” he said, “I need you to promise to do a few things.”

I waited for him to continue. I watched him and reminded myself to focus. Don't think about the ants trailing along the floor and into Mom's purse. Focus on what he's saying.

“I need you to promise you'll take the prescribed medication. I need you to promise to keep a journal of everything you experience, especially the things you think are unusual. And I need you to promise to keep your appointments with me. Can you do these three things?”

He held the authority here, and so I conceded.

• • •

I lingered in the downstairs' guest bathroom and read the tiny words on the gargantuan pamphlet that came with the prescription.

Except for a few things on the list (like diabetes, milk leakage, and erectile dysfunction) I already had these symptoms.

I removed the child safety cap from bottle and poured several of the pills into my hand. My fingers twitched. My heart palpitated. Would these pills help me or make me worse? I funneled the pills back into the bottle and threw away the warning sheet.

I ran up the stairs to my room. My laptop was just as I had left it, but the tiger-eye stone and pearl-handled hairbrush sat a few inches away from the computer. I reached out and touched each of them. Whether or not Plug had fixed the stone didn't matter anymore. Clearly the freaking rock offered no protection against psychotic delusions. I lifted the brush and then whacked it against the rock, as if I'd hit a fly with a plastic swatter. No result. I was tired of the stone showing up in unexpected places. I smashed the head of the brush against it again. And again, until the handle of the brush cracked and broke free from the head. The tiger-eye remained undamaged. I swept it and the brush to the floor and pulled the laptop closer.

I opened a new window and Googled symptoms of demonic possession: fever, confusion, sweating, twitching, palpitations, dizziness, feeling of inner restlessness, uneasiness around animals.

At least with evil spirits, I could exercise without worrying about my breasts leaking milk. I peered at the Disney World picture hanging on the wall. Plug had said,
Caricatures are a ridiculously inappropriate exaggeration of reality.
My life had become exactly that—an inappropriate exaggeration.

I Googled guided imagery and read for a while. Then I lifted the bottle of pills. The side effects scared me more than the idea of seeing more black smoke, but not more than seeing a man grope me. If a pill would keep the terrors away, I should take them. I began to sweat. I removed my hoodie and laughed at myself when I saw the bra on top of my shirt. I appeared insane. Things were never going to improve at this rate.

I clicked on Nick's recording program. I should have watched the previous recordings, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to see proof that I was schizophrenic. But I clicked the record icon and stepped away from the desk. I climbed onto my bed. I kicked off my flip-flops and scrunched up my pillow under my head. I closed my eyes, and I dreamed of Manny and his family, protected in their blessed home. I sneaked around the perimeter of his house, unable to get inside. Circled it and circled it. Smoke swirled everywhere and made it hard to breathe and hard to see. The smell reminded me of when my car exploded after the accident. Reminded me of that moment when I feared Manny was burning to death.

I jolted upright in bed.

Plug shook my shoulder. “Hannah!”

“What are you doing here?” I squinted at the clock: 7:15
A.M
.

“We're late.”

“Did you sneak into my room?” I asked. “Or did my mom let you in?”

“Haven't seen her.”

I glared at him.

“You didn't answer your phone,” he said. “I was worried about you.”

Had I really slept since yesterday afternoon? I flung myself back onto my pillow.

“Hannah, get up.” Plug pulled at my quilt, but I tugged it closer. He let go, and then he climbed over me and lay at my side.

“If you're staying, I'm staying,” he said.

I tilted my head toward him, our noses inches apart. His left eyelid had become purple and puffy since yesterday, and black stitches held his lower lip together.

“Does it hurt?” I pointed but then touched my own lower lip.

“It's okay,” he said.

“Doesn't look okay.”

“Neither do you.”

I rolled over and threw off the quilt. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, surprised that I was fully dressed and wearing shoes. A horrible stench made my stomach knot.

“What is that smell?”

“You.” Plug climbed off the bed. He wore a new dark teal T-shirt, which made his gray eyes seem brighter. “Did you sleep like that?” He motioned toward my outfit.

I fingered the grimy, tattered sweatshirt that I'd never seen before. I ran my hand over the unfamiliar baggy jeans. Flakes fell to the floor as I tapped the mud-encrusted shoes together. Gasoline fumes from the sweatshirt made my head spin. I pinched my nose, and I tried to stand. But the room blurred, and my knees gave out. Plug caught my elbow and helped me to the edge of the bed.