I go back to doodling, but after a minute she groans and flips back over. “What did you want?”
In here you can’t afford to not talk to people. . . . “What do you know about Wolfgang? Why’s he here?”
Pig squints at me.
“I heard he’s a bit like you. Not a counter but all serious OCD, so many compulsions he didn’t even move at first. But he used to move. A killer. Got caught, because of OCD. He had to be clean, right? Had these elaborate rituals that took hours to complete. Eventually it was like he caught himself.”
. . . “You’re full of crap and that’s not like me,” I say.
Pig shrugs. “More than you might think.”
. . . “Then who did he kill?” I ask, folding my arms.
“Who?” Pig asks. “What’s the plural of who, because they’re still tracking down the full body count.”
I shudder even though I know her ridiculous stories shouldn’t bother me. Red’s shoulders are jerking up and down again.
“I’m meeting Wolfgang tomorrow,” I say. “Supposed to help me with my treatment.”
Pig laughs. “Sounds to me like someone wants to get rid of you.”
I try to lose myself in homework, but I keep glancing at the black square on the desk that had once held the wolf.
When it’s four, I rush to the phone and call Billy.
“Hello?” he asks.
I tap the handset three times.
“Oh, hey, Milly, how’re you doing? I heard that you’re not in the hospital. The psych ward? Because of your counting. I understand why you didn’t say anything. What’s it like there? Do people jabber on at you about aliens and stuff? Are you on drugs? Have you had shock therapy? If you’re on drugs, try to save a few so I can try it too.”
. . . “Who said?” I ask, and I’m so stunned I pause too long.
“Um . . . everyone just knows.”
Everyone knows. No one will ever be my friend again.
. . . “Whatever. Yes, I’m in the psychiatric unit, but it’s still the hospital. I have an anxiety disorder and I’m not taking anything for it yet. No shocks either, but you’d be amazed how well that works. People here may be a bit weird, but pretty cool too.”
“Really? I hear they’ve tried to kill themselves or run around naked and stuff. Didn’t some fairy kid try to fly? It was on the news.”
My fingers whiten as they grip the phone. I bet it’s Adriana feeding everyone gossip.
. . . “That fairy kid is intellectually disabled and is actually really nice, and sure people have been naked, and they do help people here who try to commit suicide or are thinking about that, but that’s better than having it happen, right? Listen, I’m one of these people.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line and my voice echoes in the hallway.
“Whoa, you’re not thinking about suicide, are you?”
I stare at the phone. . . . “No, I’m just saying. It’s not as rare as everyone thinks and it’s nothing to make fun of. It’s an illness like cancer. You wouldn’t tease someone for having cancer, would you?”
“Chill . . . Okay, well, sorry.”
I have to turn this conversation around.
. . . “I’m looking forward to the dance,” I say, lightening my tone. “I miss you. Everyone.”
There’s a pause. “About the dance. Are you sure you’re okay? . . . To come back. Everyone’s going to be there, you might want to ease back into school or something. The dance will be insane.”
Insane.
I inspect the handset again, my throat tightening, my eyes watering. . . . “Yes, I’m fine. Are you going to be fine? For me to come back. Everyone’s going to be there. You sure you want to be seen with me? I could be insane.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
. . . “I know. I’m sorry. I am worried what people will think, but I don’t think there’s a good way to go back. Maybe it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. Better for everyone to see me at once.”
“Yeah. Okay, then. But I’m not sure I want to go anyway.”
. . . “Oh.” My voice cracks.
“It’s just—”
I hang up.
The conversation leaves me cold. He’s embarrassed. Worse. He doesn’t want to be seen with me. I know it. And me having to call him means I can’t determine if he’s still into me based on if he calls me back. This sucks. I have to escape before it ruins my life.
I count to a hundred and hop through the door to dinner. Why would Billy be embarrassed? We’ll just hop and count everywhere, right? I’m such a loser. I’ll never stop counting, so why do I bother?
No. I can do this.
Pig’s found a new table, but Vanet and Red are still at mine. Red’s a wreck. She’s shaking. Sweat beads on her forehead. Her skin is waxen. If her father really is coming tomorrow, I hope it cheers her up.
Today’s hospital dinner lives up to every cliché. It’s leathery pressed beef of some sort, mushy broccoli, pasta with a runny red sauce and coconut pudding. I hate coconut. I don’t even know why coconut’s a flavor option. Why coconut and not strawberry? Or cherry? Or lemon? I bet the hospital bought it at a discount.
“No more Toadie!” Pig exclaims after I sit down. She pushes back from the chair and shrugs an apology at Rottengoth and Peter, whom she’s ditching. When she slides her platter next to mine, she says, “If you really want to show you’re sorry, you’ll give me your dessert.”
Total win-win. I purse my lips as if this is hurting me and place the pudding on her platter.
“Two days to go and I can finally get good eats,” Pig says. “You still need some better kinda punishment, though. Teach you a lesson, isn’t that right, Vanet?”
Vanet laughs. “Too bad we don’t have a guillotine. Banned them a decade ago from all psych wards.”
I’m not sure I want any punishment a guy like Vanet can cook up.
I don’t eat a lot, but I eat steadily, the mystery-meat waning to a half moon, the soggy broccoli disappearing entirely. At the end, Stenson drops a pill in my hand.
“Wait,” Vanet says. “Don’t show us the pill.” He points to Red, who sighs.
“Prozac,” she guesses.
“I dunno, aspirin,” Pig says. “No, Paxil.”
“Zoloft,” Vanet completes the circle.
“None of your business,” Stenson says.
I open my palm to show everyone.
“Prozac. Red wins,” Vanet says. “I’ll give you five bucks for it.”
“May cause dizziness, drowsiness, trouble sleeping, sweating, rashes, vomiting, anxiety, diarrhea . . . miss anything?” Pig asks.
“Death,” Vanet says.
I stare at the green and white pill.
I pop it in my mouth and dry swallow.
. . . “All better,” I say.
We clear our platters and I start my count to leave. I hear whispers behind me, but I remind myself that I’m on the psych ward. When I pause at the door, Vanet shouts, “Now!”
I’m being punished. Hands shove me over the threshold.
I’m only at sixty-two.
Chapter 20
I land on my knees. They burn against the cold linoleum. The rush of blood into my head muffles Pig and Vanet’s laughter, pounding my eardrums. My chest tightens. Heat rolls through me and boils into my knotted stomach. My heart rams against my ribs but not steadily, more like a sprint in which I keep running faster, tripping like the girl in bad horror movies, stumbling over roots and running farther and farther into the Dark Wood while the wolf gains on her no matter how fast and desperately she scrambles.
“What’s wrong with me?” I call out without counting. I clamber to my feet, stretch my neck out to the ceiling, but I can’t find enough air. The hallway walls pulse. I pace toward the exit, but it’s locked, and I hurry back toward the rec room.
“Take it easy,” Vanet says as I pass him. “It was just a joke.”
My vision shimmers. I start running but I’m n
ot counting and veer from the open doorway at the last second, my shoulder striking the wall. I turn to press my back against the plaster and then run back, each breath searing. Stenson grabs my arm at the nursing station.
“It’s okay,” she says, but it’s not. “Walk it off. Walk it off.”
I slow a bit, but more in utter confusion. Jackie has cleared the hall for me, but the other kids watch from doorways. I hold my hands to my eyes like a cart horse’s blinkers.
My heart will explode. It has to. I’m going to die.
The vomit heaves out of me so quickly I don’t have time to ask for a bucket, or to count into the washroom. I’m bent over and it splatters all over the floor. In the midst of the meat and pasta and broccoli lies my little magic pill. The one that causes death.
My head balloons and I imagine it’s as big as the hall with more blood rushing to it. It’ll split. Pop like a squashed melon to spatter walls and ceiling. A messy, embarrassing death.
I can’t breathe. I suck back in and choke on the barf. Darkness closes in on me. I can sense the Dark Wood looming at my back. Wolfgang. The leader of the pack. I scream.
I’m going to die; it’s just a question of how. Heart attack, choking, or slobbering jaws.
“Shh . . . It’s okay. You’re having a panic attack, honey,” Stenson says. “It’s okay. Everything will be fine in a few minutes.”
I don’t have a few minutes. How can she say that? There’s a hundred percent chance something terrible is happening. My spell’s broken. Maybe it’ll be my dad who suffers. Maybe I’ll cause the death of Adriana. I never wanted her dead. I have to call her. This has happened before. It has. I’ve shut it out for so long, but I’ve counted before and the spell worked—I made my wishes real. I remember.
The first time I counted: I hadn’t told Doctor Balder the truth about it. I remember it so clearly now. I rushed home from school. From playing basketball, even with all those court lines. I hadn’t stopped at doorways or checked my locker lock to ensure it was snapped shut. I’d biked home and rushed inside to hand my mom my report card.
Like usual she was all tense and pale. Dinner steamed on the table. She’d even turned the napkins into swans, but I swear I only wanted a sandwich and to go and see my friends. I told her so as I handed her my report card. It was a good one. As and Bs, one B- in geography, but only because I can’t draw well and the teacher seemed to love diagrams.
She shook her head at the report card and told me that it certainly left room for improvement, and that she didn’t feel well and to eat whatever I damn well pleased. She didn’t care anymore. She only wished I could appreciate her.
It came to a head. All her hovering over me, her constant drive for perfection, that I could never be good enough.
I counted after that. It was like casting a spell. I hadn’t counted so that she’d be okay, or that I’d be okay, or so we could fix whatever was wrong between us. I’d counted so that she’d leave. A week later she was diagnosed with cancer. My counting had killed her. No amount of counting reversed it.
I made her die.
. . . “Adriana,” I croak.
“Shh . . . We’ll call her right away,” Stenson says. But maybe it’s the wolf wanting me to call. It would want her to come here, to die on the way. My fault. Again.
I shake my head.
. . . “No car,” I say. “Don’t let her drive. Or walk. Stay in the house. Lock up.”
But I can do something. I have magic of my own. I start to count again. This time I count for her. To ensure she’s safe.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
“You’re not going to die, Milly,” Stenson says and since she can’t read my mind, I must be saying it and not counting. My stomach pumps in and out with the shallow and ridiculous breaths. I have to count.
Slowly, slowly, the sense of dread dissipates. And I realize that the terrible thing did happen. It happened to me. The terrible thing was the attack. Nurse Jackie hands Stenson a warm cloth and she wipes my forehead, cheeks, and then mouth.
Supported at each elbow, they walk me to my room, where I dig in my heels at the threshold.
. . . And then we’re through. I’m so tired. It’s like I’ve run a million miles, and maybe my heart did. Maybe I’ve used up ten years of my life. My brain is almost sixteen, but my heart is twenty-six. The dread surges again, but I lack the strength for it to take hold. My limbs sink into the bed and continue down. It’s like Tink’s relaxation exercise, but I can’t stop it this time. Belatedly I remember to count, the shot of adrenaline giving me a final chance before I succumb to fatigue.
But there’s no oblivion. Only the wolf.
It spends no time clawing beneath the bedroom door, simply slipping through the bottom like a slick of oil. It reforms and sprints across the floor. But as it launches into the air, my mother tackles it and pulls a length of chain from her back. Growling and snarling fills the air as she works to restrain the beast. Triumphant, my mother smiles over it squirming on the floor. It begins to yowl, a mournful sound that causes me to sit up and swing my legs off the bed.
My mother’s eyes are hard and proud. Seeing me, the wolf seems to give up and lies with its snout upon great paws.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
My mother turns to me, “Are you?”
Why, even knowing what I’ve done, does she make me so angry? Guilt presses like a boulder on my chest. She only ever wanted the best for me. Only ever protected me and urged me to be better. Like she protects me now, from the wolf.
“But . . . .” But there’s nothing to say because, at my mother’s words, the wolf gathers all of its strength and bursts from my mother’s chains, pounding its paws into her chest and then, the huge gray barrel-head swivels left and it launches on Pig, savaging her throat. Pig screams. I scream.
I wake to Adriana running her fingers through my hair. I turn into them, but the band of her gold watch scratches along my cheek. I rear back.
“Milly,” she says.
. . . “Wolf,” I say.
Her lips thin. Still, she asks, “Are you okay? The nurse tells me you had a panic attack after you were pushed through a doorway.”
I nod. My hand rests on the cover of my book.
“You hadn’t counted. I came as soon as I could.”
I nod again. I begin to wonder if that’s true or whether she was having a manicure and finished it before driving over, taking a scenic route. But my eyelids are already on their way back down.
Adriana licks her lips and opens her mouth as if she has something to say, but isn’t quite sure how to put it. “Know how I like everything just so. Perfect? Always on time and neat?” she asks, and it’s like her to start talking about herself when I’m the one in need of help.
. . . “Yeah,” I say.
“Well . . . I’ve had panic attacks before, too.” My eyes flutter. “Panic attacks feel as though the world is trying to crush you. So scary. I’m so sorry.”
. . . “We’re a real pair,” I whisper and shut my eyes for good.
“Hello, Doctor Balder,” Adriana says. I can sense his looming presence. He has an aura about him, a dark aura. I hear the word—setback.
“She’s awake?” he asks.
“Fading,” she replies.
. . . “Hi, Doctor,” I say. “I’m okay.” I keep my eyes closed, though, as if opening them would tap me of any remaining energy.
“It’s entirely normal for Milly to be exhausted after a panic attack,” he says.
There it is again. Panic attack. It makes it sound as though it’s all in my head. It wasn’t. I miscounted and I almost died.
“This has never happened before,” Adriana says. “Sure, she’s been anxious, but never to the point of collapse.”
“It’s part of the spectrum of an anxiety disorder, triggered by being shoved through a door. It’s not surprising. It is, however, treatable.”
“What will happen to the other patient
s?” she asks. “That was an assault.”
“Why don’t we wait for Milly to sleep on it and let her talk about whether any punishment is warranted?”
“I can press charges.” It’s the first time I’ve heard Adriana with her hackles up like this, and my eyes flick open.
“How do you feel, Milly?” Doctor Balder asks.
. . . “Just tired,” I say and he nods. “I don’t want to press charges.” I nearly killed Peter. I embarrassed Vanet and Pig, or at least Pig. I’d call it even.
“We can talk about that later,” he says.
“Doctor Balder tells me you’ve been asking to go to the dance tomorrow,” Adriana says. “I don’t think you should be going to the dance.”
“We can discuss that tomorrow, too,” Doctor Balder says, and in a way that implies visiting hours are over.
My eyes flutter back down. Although I hate Adriana for saying it, I don’t want to go to the dance anymore. Imagine if I have a panic attack there? No, I don’t even want to leave the hospital, let alone return to school.
I’m fading. Fade to black.
Chapter 21
Red paces the hall. It’s Friday. Halloween. Her father’s coming to see her. He wants to discuss her returning home. I watch through our room’s open door. Every ten seconds she streaks past. Like clockwork. Six Reds is one minute. Sixty Reds is ten minutes. He’s not due for another three hundred and sixty Reds. Both of us have been excused from group, but I wonder if she could use the distraction. They’re reviewing progress to goals. I would have nothing to say about any of that. I never again want to feel the way I felt last night. Like I was bursting into flame.
I bury my head in the book of tales. If the wolf came after the book, then maybe the answer to the wolf’s final destruction lies within the pages.
Breakfast was a non-starter. I’ve had a setback. Even now nausea builds and subsides in me like ocean waves, the crest rising with my bile and the trough leaving me sucked low and empty of energy. When Stenson handed me my pill this morning, her cheeks seemed hollow, eyes too bright—witchy. She wore a pointed black hat. I shuddered but kept quiet. Wolves, witches, Pig, Red, fairies, Sleeping Beauty, I need little more evidence of where I am. Where this is headed. I am in some sort of fairy tale world, a different plane of existence maybe. If I need to peel back the fairy tale to get better, then maybe the same fairy tale has the power to bury me for trying. We all know how those fairy tales really ended, don’t we? No huntsman saved Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf ate her and that was that.
Counting Wolves Page 13