We'll Never Be Apart (12 page)

The door opens, and two security guards followed by Dr. Goodman emerge. Dr. Goodman shakes each of their hands. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he says. “Please keep me apprised of the investigation.”

“We will,” says a guard whose body is the opposite of slim. “Let us know, as well, if there are any other incidents or anything else goes missing.”

Dr. Goodman nods his head and murmurs, “Will do.” He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, contemplating. He looks down and his gaze registers me in the chair. “Alice, you're here. Why didn't you come in?”

I shrug, stand, and jam my hands into my hoodie pockets. “I wasn't sure I could.” I follow him into the office.

“Of course you can, Alice. My door is always open.” He sits and picks up his yellow legal pad. “Please.” He gestures to the seat across from him. I sit. He clasps his hands together, laces his fingers. We stare at each other. “How are you doing, Alice?”

“Is Amelia all right?” I blurt.

Doc frowns in disapproval. “Alice, you know I can't discuss other patients with you.” He crosses his legs. “Are you worried about Amelia?”

Inside my hoodie pocket I crack my knuckles. “I guess.”

“Did you know about the rat?”

It's on the tip of my tongue to say,
Dr. Goodman, you
know
I can't discuss other patients with you.
Instead I look him directly in the eye. “Of course not,” I say.

“You know, Alice, it wouldn't be a bad thing if you did know about the rat. I would understand.”

“Understand what?” I ask, confused.

“Sometimes, when we think it's in the best interest of someone, we may choose to withhold things.”

I bite my cheek and lower my chin so my hair falls in a curtain over my face. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I think it means you're trying to get me to admit to something I don't know anything about.” The air between us changes.

“All right, Alice.” His tone is placating. “Let's change the subject. I have some good news for you.” I blink at him. “I've spoken with the judge just this evening.” I straighten up a little in my chair. He scratches the back of his head. “Well, Sara and I both spoke with the judge, and he's agreed to grant you a four-hour release to attend Jason's funeral tomorrow.”

Happiness gurgles in my throat and a smile touches my lips.

“I have to admit, Sara did most of the persuading. I'm not sure how, but she managed to. I thought it might be better if you stayed. But I can see her reasoning. We convinced the judge that it would be beneficial to your therapy. You'll be in Sara's care the entire time. She will have to sign you out and back in. And unfortunately, you'll be searched again when you come back.”

He goes on telling me about hospital policy and protocols, but I don't hear what he's saying anymore. All I can think of is Jason.
Jason,
who kept the sun in the sky and the stars apart and the water in the oceans.

Donny walks with me back to my room and I'm locked in for the night. Amelia's still in the Quiet Room, or she may have been moved by now. After the Quiet Room, patients usually go to seclusion, so I probably won't see her for another twenty-four hours. The room seems vast, empty, and lonely without her. I run a finger over the paper animals. Taking out a piece of gray paper, I fold it into a mouse. I lay it on her pillow and turn out the light. I don't bother to get undressed or brush my teeth. I just huddle under my covers and pull them up over my head. Closing my eyes, I wait for sleep and hope I won't dream.

F
ROM THE
J
OURNAL OF
A
LICE
M
ONROE

 

The first time Cellie and I were institutionalized, we were sent to Pleasant Oaks, a privately run mental health hospital that received state subsidies for treating foster kids. We spent three days there, but it felt like an eternity. The facility, a converted Victorian mansion, made me think of gingerbread and dollhouses. If only the kids inside had been as welcoming as the building's façade.

Rebecca brought our things from Pam and Gayle's; they had decided that we might not be “the right fit” for their family. I blamed Cellie, and it showed. We didn't talk much, and Cellie kept following me around, apologizing. We stayed in separate rooms and met individually with psychiatrists who prescribed all sorts of medications. I perfected the art of compliance. How to nod my head when I really wanted to shake it violently back and forth. How to open my mouth for pills when I really wanted to clamp it shut.

We were older than most of the patients at Pleasant Oaks, yet nearly everyone we met, even the younger children, seemed more deeply disturbed than we were. A seven-year-old boy with a patch of hair missing and a dead tooth said he would nibble on our toes and make soup out of our hair. Cellie pushed him down and said, “Not if I get to you first.”

After that encounter, I stuck close to Cellie. I accepted her apology, since all I ever wanted was to forgive her.

I loved her.

When we were released, Cellie promised Rebecca (and me) that she would be better. But that promise was impossible for her to keep.

Rebecca took us to a new living situation. A group home. A woman named Candy ran it and lived onsite with us. As Candy's name suggested, she enjoyed sweet things. Well, any food item, really. She was more wide than tall and had to ride around on a scooter when we shopped at the grocery store. Candy smoked menthol cigarettes and watched soap operas all day. Cellie used to say she looked like Jabba the Hutt's less attractive sister and kind of spoke like him, too. Candy insisted we call her Mama.

On our first day there, Mama sent Cellie and me down the street to get her some food at Carl's Jr. “Don't forget the hot sauce,” she said, handing us a twenty.

We skipped out of the house. Out of the twenty-dollar bill she'd given us there was enough for us to get milk shakes. We drank them on the way back, our fingers bumping along the chainlink fence. Summer was coming, and we liked the idea of what the warmth would bring.

When we got back to the house, the Carl's Jr. bag clutched in my hand, Candy was where we had left her, sitting on the threadbare black and yellow bumblebee couch.

“Here we go, my boy, this is Mama's favorite,” she said. An hourglass appeared on the screen. She turned up the volume on the TV and leaned back before seeing Cellie and me in the doorway. “There you are. Did you get my food?” A box fan spun in the window, mixing Candy's cigarette smoke with spring air and the smell of the barbecue shack down the street. Tendrils of hair blew into my neck and stuck there.

A low chuckle emanated from the recliner. I crossed the room to hand the bag to Candy, the chuckled ceased, and I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. “Alice?” the voice from the recliner asked.

I turned and dropped the bag of food.
Jason.
He unfolded himself from the recliner and stood, stretching to his full height. Our five-year separation had been kind to him, well, physically at least. He was bigger, much bigger than the last time we'd seen him. Broad and thick, he could have easily taken Roman now. But his hair was still a familiar mess of curls, and in them was a glimpse of the boy I once knew. Above his right eyebrow was a small scar, courtesy of Roman. “Jason!” I exclaimed, and then I was running toward him, leaping onto him.

His arms snaked around me and he laughed, tucking his chin into my neck. “I thought I'd never see you again,” he whispered. For a moment we just stared at each other, and then Cellie cleared her throat behind us. She hovered in the entryway, her eyes wide and curious.

“Cellie?” Jason asked. He smiled at her, opened an arm, and motioned for her to join us. She came to him, softer than I had. He enfolded her in one arm and me in the other. We stood like that for a while, with him covering our bodies just as he had before, sheltering us from the echo of angry footsteps and a fist called God's Will. For the first time in years, I felt like I'd come home.

CHAPTER

I
IGNORE THE OPENING OF THE DOOR.
It's late, the last bed check having come and gone hours ago. For once, the rain has stopped and it's quieter than a ghost ship. I'm already awake, hyperalert and vigilant. Earlier in the night, I'd fallen asleep, huddled under the covers. Though it felt like I'd been asleep for a long time, the moon was still in the same position when my eyes popped open. The burns on my shoulders and hand ache, and my thoughts race like dogs at the greyhound track—thoughts of Jason. His funeral. His unicorn tattoo. The door to my room closes with a soft click. A person loiters in the entryway. I go completely still, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and leave. No luck. The person comes closer and stands at the foot of my bed. Maybe it's Amelia, back from the Quiet Room. That thought has me moving. I shuck the covers away. “Amelia?” I peer into the dark.

The silhouette at the end of my bed is most definitely
not
Amelia's. Broad shoulders, a black hat, and a baggy sweatshirt eclipse my view of the wall.

“What'd you just call me?” Chase asks.

“I thought you were my roommate.”

“Your roommate?”

I sit up and wipe nonexistent sleep from my eyes. “Yeah, she went to the Quiet Room yesterday, and I thought you might be her.”

“What'd she go to the Quiet Room for?” He walks over to Amelia's empty bed and picks up the origami mouse, inspecting it.

“Don't touch that,” I snap. “It's for Amelia.”

Chase holds up his hands like I'm pointing a gun at him. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I was bored.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I'm not here to entertain you, Chase.”

He grins, and I ignore the surge of pleasure that runs through me as he sits down on my bed, positioning his back so that it touches my thigh. “Want to get out of here?”

What is he asking?
My mind fills with winding stairs. An expanse of green lawn. A lightning storm. My body winds tight with anticipation. “You want to go back to the D ward?”

“Nah, nothing like that. But I thought we could go exploring.” He dangles the plastic keycard in front of my face. “You know, see where this might lead us?”

I grab the keycard. “I can't believe you still have that.”

He scoffs. “Like I'd get rid of it . . . You know how hard it was for me to lift? I mean, not that hard, because I'm super awesome. But no way would I get rid of it. Whaddaya say, Alice? Want to get out of here?”

It's tempting. I chew on my thumbnail and my stomach grumbles. I barely ate a bite of dinner, too consumed with thoughts of Jason's funeral. Now my appetite is rearing its ugly, embarrassing head, right in front of Chase.

He laughs. “You're hungry. C'mon. I'll take you to the kitchen.”

I stare at Amelia's bed, at the little paper mouse. Since I can't fall back to sleep and I'm apparently starving, Chase's offer seems like the next best option. “Okay,” I say. And I won't have to think about Jason and his unicorn tattoo and what that means.

We're almost to the kitchen when I realize the gravity of my mistake. Jason's funeral is in the morning, and if I'm caught, I won't be allowed to go. I may even wind up with an all-access pass to the Quiet Room. I let my stupid hunger and childish desire for company get the best of me. The knowledge that I've put every truly important thing in jeopardy is paralyzing.

Chase pauses outside a big black door with a sign that reads
KITCHEN—STAFF ACCESS ONLY
.

“Still hungry?” he asks.

Suddenly I'm not. My belly is too full of panic and regret.

“Alice?”

But it's too late to turn back now—even though that's
exactly
what I want to do. Turning back would cause Chase to ask questions, and I can't bear the thought of telling him the truth. That Jason's funeral is only a few hours away. That I don't know if I'll survive it.

“What are you waiting for?” I ask.

He snorts and swipes the key over a black box. The door unlocks. We're inside and it's black. Pitch-black. I break from Chase's side and trace the wall with my hands, searching for a switch. I find one and flick it up. Suddenly the room is bathed in harsh light. It's an industrial kitchen. Stainless steel counters run along the walls, interrupted by two huge refrigerators and an equally huge dishwasher and oven.

“Shit, warn me next time you're going to turn on the light.” Chase squints and rubs his eyes.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He opens the door to the fridge and peers inside. “What are you in the mood for?” For some reason, bacon dances behind my eyelids. I can almost taste the salty flavor. Chase rummages through the contents of the refrigerator, removing giant packs of generic cheese (the kind you buy with food stamps and tastes like cardboard), some funky-smelling deli meat, and iceberg lettuce (which looks surprisingly fresh, all things considered) and places them on the stainless steel island. A piece of what I think is fruit rolls off and drops to the floor with a thunk
.

“What's this?” I pick up the unfamiliar food. It's oval-shaped, like some kind of weird prehistoric egg. The green, red, and yellow color of the smooth, soft skin reminds me of the changing of autumn leaves.

Chase turns from the fridge and gives me a get-the-fuck-out-of-here sort of look. “You've never had a mango before?”

I shake my head.

Chase finds a butcher knife in a nearby drawer and sinks its gleaming, serrated edge into the flesh of the fruit. Amelia's warning rings in my ears.
He killed someone.
I stare at the knife in his hand, at his fist closed around the wooden handle. He doesn't seem like the violent type. In fact, I really don't think he could hurt anyone. Then again, maybe he did hurt someone, someone who hurt him. That I can understand.