Unlocked (5 page)

“Are you saying there was an animal in the road?” he asked.

“I don't know what it was, but we hit something.”

He took notes and said, “Hannah, there's no evidence the vehicle hit anything.”

“But it flipped.”

“And we're investigating that,” he said. “What were you doing out so late?”

“We were at the fair.”

“Did anything unusual happen?”

“No.”

The officer stopped writing.

“We ate, played games, rode the coasters, and went to the hypnotist show.”

“Were you hypnotized?” he asked.

“I took part in the show, but I wasn't actually hypnotized.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Am I interrupting?” Mrs. Santos—Manny's mom—didn't wait for an answer. She swooped in and wrapped her large, soft arms around me. “Oh, child, are you all right?”

I bawled into her shoulder.

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered.

Mrs. Santos leaned back slightly. Her red lipstick trailed into the tiny wrinkles around her full lips. She squeezed my shoulders and said, “It was an accident.”

“How can you so easily forgive me?”

She locked her gaze on me. “Anyone could have been driving.”

“Do you know if Lily is okay?” I asked Mrs. Santos, but Audrey stepped closer and answered.

“She's still in surgery.”

“And Jordan?” I asked.

Audrey twisted the stethoscope between her fingers. “I'm sorry, Hannah, but Jordan died.”

“What?” The word came out as a faint whisper. “But they pulled him from the car.”

“We're still gathering the facts,” Officer Stephens said. “However, it does appear Jordan died on impact.”

Mrs. Santos squeezed my hand, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She pulled a tattered tissue from the sleeve of her plum-colored blouse and dabbed her face.

“We'll give you some time alone,” Officer Stephens said and left with Audrey.

“Lily loves Jordan,” I said. They were a couple. He was senior class president, and she was vice president. We're all in student council together. We had plans. My chin quivered. Mrs. Santos drew me in closer, and I wept again.

She stroked my hair. “Oh, child, have faith. Everything's going to be okay.”

“Jordan's dead,” I whispered, “and I was driving. Everything's not okay.”

Mrs. Santos's chest heaved, and more tears flooded down her cheeks. She clutched my hands and offered a prayer. I stifled my sobs while she spoke the words, and then I added an “amen” along with hers. The Santos family prayed over everything. Manny had probably even offered a silent prayer before eating his mustard-smothered corn dog.

“Are you sure Manny will be okay?” I asked.

“Yes, I promise.”

“He has to be,” I said. “I can't imagine life without him.”

“Me either. You children are the most important thing in the world to me.” Mrs. Santos rocked me in her arms, as if I was her baby. She hummed a tune to ease my crying.

A tap at the door made Mrs. Santos release me to glance in that direction.

“Hello, Hannah.” A tall, slender man in a long white coat moved to the edge of my bed. He smoothed his solid black tie, which matched his shirt . . . and his hair. He extended his hand to me. “I'm Dr. James.”

I shook his hand.

Mrs. Santos introduced herself also. “Would you like me to stay?”

“Actually,” the doctor said, “this needs to be a private consult.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Since you were hypnotized last night I've been asked to perform an evaluation.”

I scooted up in the bed and sat taller.

Mrs. Santos said to him, “Shouldn't you wait for this child's mother to arrive before asking—”

“This is not a police interrogation.” Dr. James pinched the bridge of his nose, and when he pulled his fingers away, the crook was pinker than the rest of his pale skin. “I'm a psychiatrist, and a seventeen-year-old does not need her parents present for a medical examination. Hannah has a right to privacy.”

Mrs. Santos cupped my face. “If you need anything, I'll be right down the hall.”

“Thank you,” I said, and my vision blurred around the edges. Mrs. Santos seemed to walk down an endless narrow tunnel toward the door. I massaged my temples, hoping to clear my head.

“Can you tell me what you remember about last night, before the accident?” Dr. James asked.

I hesitated and stared at the white sheets covering my legs. Maybe this was all a bad dream. Surely, Jordan was still alive, but then Manny's words popped into my head:
Your funeral, Dude.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.

“Hannah?”

If I told this man what I saw, would he believe me?

Dr. James moved toward the bed and tucked a tissue under my fingers.

I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. Maybe he could help me. I told him everything, from the hypnotism show to the smoky demon eyes. He remained expressionless, and he listened without interrupting me. When I finished the story, I blew out a long breath.

“What do you think caused the accident?” he asked.

“Ants.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Ants crawled across my hands, and I let go of the steering wheel.”

He relaxed his stance, and his wristwatch clanked against the bedrail. “Can you tell me more?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “No. I can't. For some reason those ants really freaked me out. And now, I've killed someone. Manny and Lily are both injured. I would never intentionally hurt anyone. None of it makes any sense!” I chomped down on my cheek and hoped the pain would quash my impending hysteria.

Dr. James remained unruffled. “Did you have any mood-altering substances like alcohol or drugs of any sort before the accident?”

“No.”

“Tell me again how the hypnosis session ended,” Dr. James said. I told him what I remembered.

“The smoky images started appearing during the show?” he asked.

“A shadow moved across the stage, but that could have been anything.” I rubbed my sweating palms against the bed sheets. “Later, I saw weird pockets of darkness from the top of the Ferris wheel. They blocked out some of the lights.”

“It's possible,” Dr. James said, “that you're still under the influence of the hypnosis.” He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shined the beam into my eyes. I squinted.

“Keep your eyes here,” he said and wiggled the fingers on his left hand. Then, with his right, he snapped the light back and forth across my eyes. I blinked several times but tried to stay focused. Dr. James put away the penlight and checked my pulse.

“Well?” I asked.

“You're not hypnotized. Your eyes are reactive, and your pulse is normal.”

“Is there something else wrong with me then?” I asked.

“It's too early to say . . .”

“But?”

“But sometimes hypnosis can bring an underlying psychosis to the surface.”

“I do not have a psychosis.”

“You can be hypnotized, and even if the hypnosis was unsuccessful, the process can still unlock a door to a buried mental illness—”

“I don't have a mental illness.”

“Hannah, you saw things and smelled things that weren't actually there.”

“The ants were real,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Lily jumped up from the picnic table when she saw them.”

“Did she say she saw them? Or was she merely responding to what you said you saw?”

“Is that a riddle?” I asked.

“No.”

“So you're saying the hypnosis triggered something in my brain, and now I'm seeing weird things?” I disagreed, but making him angry wasn't going to help me either.

“Possibly.”

“If hypnosis caused this,” I said, “just reverse the process.”

“I wish it were that simple. And yes, we may use more hypnosis to help you. Or we may find other techniques are better. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. We need more tests for a diagnosis. Have you had any more hallucinations since you've been in the hospital?”

“No.” But I assumed everything last night was real.

“Don't worry, Hannah, I'm here to help you, and we'll figure this out,” Dr. James said.

“Before someone else dies?”

He shook his head. “No one else is going to die.”

But Lily was still in surgery, and Manny was still with the doctors. I needed my friends to pull through this. They were my world, and I'd be lost without them. I swiped away my tears and took a deep breath.

“Hannah, is there any history of depression or other mental—”

“Hannah!” My mom blew through the doorway and ran to my side. A large tote bag slipped off her shoulder and wedged between us when she hugged me. “Are you okay?” She checked my face, checked my hands, and checked my arms. She heaved a sigh of relief and dropped her purse and tote to the floor.

She tucked her thick brown hair behind her ears, fastened the top button of her blazer, and then stuck out her hand to the doctor.

“I'm Beth O'Leary.” Even in the middle of the night, she was ready to conduct business and take charge. Her hair, always tidy. Her makeup, always perfect.

“Dr. James.” He shook her hand.

“So, how is she?”

“Physically, she's fine.”

Mom's forehead creased.

“Mrs. O'Leary, is there any family history of mental illness?”

Mom stepped around the tote on the floor and asked, “Why?”

“A detailed medical history will help me make an accurate diagnosis.” He raised his eyebrows at Mom and waited for her response. But Mom merely twisted the rings on her fingers.

“Mrs. O'Leary,” he said, “I'm willing to release Hannah later this afternoon but with the condition you make a follow-up appointment for Friday at my office.”

Mom avoided his gaze.

Dr. James tapped the bedrail. “Hannah, if you have any more hallucinations—”

Mom gasped at his words.

He turned back to my mom. “Mrs. O'Leary?”

She covered her mouth, and the color drained from her face.

“We'll do some tests,” he said in a calming tone. “Then we can evaluate Hannah more thoroughly on Friday”—Dr. James cleared his throat—“but Mrs. O'Leary, can you tell me more about your family? Are there any accounts of depression or schizophrenia?”

“Let's discuss this outside.” She gripped his elbow and urged him toward the hallway. Just outside the doorway, with her back to me, Mom spoke to Dr. James. The door was still open, and Mom had no idea how easily voices carried in this rigid hospital.

“Hannah's father . . .” Mom shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Yes?” Dr. James said.

“He was . . .” Mom lowered her voice to a whisper, and I missed the words in the middle, but I caught the end: “. . . committed suicide.”

I must've heard her wrong.

Dr. James glanced toward me and then back to my mom. “When?”

“Six years ago,” Mom said.

Suicide.

I wanted to yell and let her know I heard what she'd said, but instead I rocked back and forth as the anxiety buzzed in my ears.

Suicide.

I pressed my temples and tried to silence the word repeating over and over in my mind. Dr. James returned to my bedside. His lips formed my name, but the buzzing increased. Mom sidestepped him and reached for me, but I yanked away and flattened my palms against my ears.

Suicide.

The pressure mounted in my head, and I pushed harder. Dr. James and my mom gawked at me. I must've looked ridiculous. I pulled my hands away, and my ears popped, as if suction cups had been plucked from my head. After a moment of pain, my hearing returned. The machines in the room beeped. The blood pressure monitor hummed; the cuff expanded, squeezing my arm.

“You told me”—I whispered each word carefully—“he had an aneurysm.” All of these years, she'd told me it was no one's fault. That there was nothing we could've done.

“Hannah—”

“Why would he kill himself?” I asked.

“Schizophrenia.” Mom stepped back and snatched a tissue from the bedside table to wipe her eyes.

I clutched my gut and tried to hold myself together as I digested the information. I hated the idea of Dad having a mental disorder, but it made sense. It explained his irrational behavior. But it also changed everything. A few minutes ago I wanted the truth behind my hallucinations, but now . . . maybe I'd rather not know. Because maybe schizophrenia was hereditary. Maybe suicide was hereditary. And maybe Mom would end up despising me the way she had Dad.

“Hannah,” Dr. James said, “take a breath.”

I met his gaze and realized I'd stopped breathing. I pulled in a lungful of air.

“Hannah,” Mom said, “your—”

“What else have you lied about?” I asked, exhaling.

“Please,” Mom said. “Your dad was—”

“My dad was schizophrenic. My dad was helpless. My dad was someone I didn't even know.”

“Hannah, this is a lot for you to absorb,” Dr. James said. He scrutinized my mom for a moment. Then he reached forward and pushed the call button on the side of my bed. “For now, a long shower and some fresh clothes will—”

“Seriously?” I asked. “A shower and change of clothes will fix the fact that my mother has lied to me about my father's death for years?”

“No, Hannah,” Dr. James said, “but it's a place for you to start. Counseling sessions will help you process all that's happened, and I will guide you through this.”

The nurse came into the room, and Dr. James asked her to remove my IV. She worked on it, and Dr. James motioned for my mom to step away from my bedside. Once they were on the other side of the room, he lowered his voice. But I still heard nearly every word.