The Evolution of Mara Dyer

by Michelle Hodkin

  “Well, well, what have we here?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. Noah and I turned at exactly the same time.

  To see Jamie standing in the hallway, just a few feet away.

  “If it isn’t Noah Shaw,” he said in a low voice, mimicking Noah’s accent. “Seducer of virgins, fresh from making beautiful music with his beautiful conquest in the music studio. METAPHOR,” he stage-whispered.

  “Jamie—” I hissed. He was going to get us caught.

  “Which is fine,” he said, holding up his hands defensively. “Free country. But unless you’re about to engage in some executive-secretary role-play—”

  “Jamie.”

  “Or, oh my God, psychologist-patient role-play? Please tell me that is not what you were about to do, or I will throw up in both your faces. Simultaneously.”

  “You’re disturbed,” I said sharply.

  “That’s what they tell me,” Jamie said with a wink. “So, no role-play?”

  “None,” Noah said.

  “Then I want in.”

  “Fine,” Noah said. “But for God’s sake, shut up.” He pushed open the door, and the three of us found ourselves in Dr. Kells’s lair.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked Jamie as Noah pushed the door closed behind us.

  “My file,” Jamie said, as if it was obvious. Then he cocked his head at me. “You?”

  “Seems as though we have a similar agenda,” Noah lied.

  Jamie moved gingerly in the dark room. He sat on the edge of Dr. Kells’s desk. “Who’d you pay off?”

  “Wayne,” Noah said.

  Jamie nodded sagely. “He seemed like the type.”

  “There’s very little money can’t buy,” Noah said, as his eyes roamed over a tall file cabinet in the corner.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Jamie said. “Have you broken into the room without a keypad yet?”

  I looked over at him. “What room?”

  Jamie shook his head. “What kind of juvenile delinquent are you, Mara?” he asked. “I tried picking it,” he said to Noah, “but no luck. If we could get our hands on the master key and a bar of soap and a lighter, Noah, we could make a copy of it.”

  Noah didn’t respond—he was already gently opening drawers. Jamie and I took the hint and followed his lead.

  My eyes scanned the hanging file folders for names, but all I saw were numbers. Years, maybe? I withdrew one of the manila folders and opened it.

  Financial records of some kind. Huh. I put the folder back.

  We worked in the dark room in silence for a while, with nothing but the sound of drawers and folders opening and closing in the background. It would have been so much easier with some light, but under the circumstances, that probably wouldn’t have been wise.

  “Bingo,” Jamie said, startling me. “They’re organized chronologically.” He held up three files in his hands. “Dyer,” he said, and handed me mine. “Shaw,” he said, placing Noah’s into his hand. “And Roth.” He hugged the last file close to his chest.

  I looked down at mine. If only that was what I really wanted. Noah took Dr. Kells’s chair and flashed a lazy smile at me, pretending to go along with this. I moved to sit on his lap.

  “Get a meadow,” Jamie muttered.

  I grinned and Noah smiled and neither of us moved. He opened his file, but I just stared at mine. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know what it said, but considering I might not get another chance—

  Screw it. I flipped it open. On the first page were my stats. What I was interested in was on the second page:

  The patient admits to having past and present thoughts of harming herself or others, as well as to experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations. The patient did not hesitate to describe the circumstances that led to her episode at the Metro Dade Police Department. Her thoughts were organized and coherent. The patient admits to having specific phobias, namely of blood, needles, and heights. She denied having specific obsessions or compulsions. She admitted to having problems concentrating.

  Hallucinations and nightmares appear to be stress and fear induced. Patient also experiences extreme insomnia and panic attacks. She has had recurring thoughts and incidents of self-harm (see records attached) and according to the patient and her family, suffers from extreme guilt, possibly stemming from her dual trauma; a sexual assault on the night of the PTSD event (building collapse) and the PTSD event itself. Patient was the sole survivor of a collapse in which her best friend, boyfriend, and boyfriend’s sister died. Patient claims that the boyfriend assaulted her, and she is preoccupied with the delusion that he is still alive. The patient has a psychiatric history of hearing voices that others can’t and exhibits paranoid ideation. Patient exhibits social avoidance: has a demonstrable lack of close friends or relationships other than with first-degree relatives, though she appears to be friendly with male patient J. Roth. Heightened animosity observed between the patient and female patient P. Reynard. Absence of flat affect. Possible indications of heightened superstition, magical thinking, and preoccupations with paranormal phenomena lead to probability of:

  PTSD with possible co-occurring Mood Disorder (Bipolar: Severe with Psychotic Features)

  Schizophreniform Disorder (1-6 months in duration)

  Schizophrenia (if symptoms persist until eighteen years of age) as distinguished from Delusional Disorder.

  Will continue to observe before final diagnosis.

  “Mara.”

  I heard Noah’s voice close to my ear. I half-turned in his lap. Noah brushed my cheek with his thumb. I was shocked to feel that it was wet.

  I’d been crying.

  “I’m okay,” I said in a strangled voice. I cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”

  He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Whatever it says in there, it isn’t you.”

  Yes, it was. “You haven’t read it,” I said, looking away from him. Jamie was preoccupied with his own file. He was quiet.

  Noah traced a pattern with his finger on my side, under my ribs and over my T-shirt as he held me on his lap. “Do you want me to?”

  I wasn’t sure. “I’m not sure,” I said. Noah watched me go through so much, and he was still here. But seeing it on paper like this, seeing what everyone else thought . . .

  “Do you want to read mine?” Noah asked. His voice was low but warm.

  I couldn’t lie; I did. And the fact that he was willing to show me meant something. I felt strangely nervous as Noah handed me the folder. I opened it to the first page.

  62

  PATIENT NAME: Noah Elliot Simon Shaw

  AGE: Seventeen

  The patient presented as a healthy teenage male of above average height and lean, muscular body build. He appeared somewhat older than his stated age. Rapport was not easily established. Patient was not matter-of-fact or helpful.

  Patient has an ongoing pattern of uncooperative, defiant, hostile, and aggressive behavior toward authority figures and peers, according to family and educators. Atypically, it has not affected the patient’s performance in school, where the patient has maintained a perfect GPA. Patient demonstrates neither hyperactivity nor anxiety but has engaged in multiple violent confrontations with others. Parents have reported several callous-unemotional traits and patient has rated highly on all three sub-scales. However, parents state that the patient has never exhibited any cruelty to animals and is in fact an exceptional caregiver to them, demonstrating a particular facility with feral and dangerous animals at his stepmother’s veterinary practice, negating Antisocial Personality Disorder and other sociopathic types as potential diagnoses. Both the patient’s father and the school have reported the patient’s intentional destruction and vandalism of property in the past, however, as well as deceitful behavior (lying) and flouting of social norms. School restrictions are repeatedly ignored and punishments are demonstrably ineffective. Stepmother reported past incidences of alcohol and drug abuse, but nothing in recent history.

  Whe
n confronted with reports from his parents and educators, questions were met with arrogant, cynical, and manipulative responses, and educators report history of sensation-seeking (renowned sexual reputation) and impulsivity. Patient demonstrates arrogant self-appraisal and superficial charm; inability to tolerate boredom; is self-assured, voluble, and verbally facile.

  Continue to monitor for probable Oppositional Defiant Disorder; possible eventual diagnosis of Conduct Disorder or Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

  I CLOSED THE FOLDER WITHOUT CEREMONY AND handed it back to Noah.

  “Why do you have two middle names?” I asked.

  “That’s your question? After reading that?” Noah drew back, searching for something in my eyes. Disgust, maybe. Or fear.

  “It’s not you,” I said to him, and softly.

  The corner of Noah’s mouth lifted in a slow smile. A sad one. “Yes. It is.”

  We were both right, I decided then. Our files were part of us—the parts that people wanted to fix. But they weren’t all of us. They weren’t who we were. Only we could decide that.

  I swung my leg over Noah’s waist and straddled him. “Maybe the uncooperative part’s true. You’re very”—I brushed my lips against his—“frustrating.”

  Jamie cleared his throat. I nearly forgot that he was there.

  “You okay?” I asked him.

  “If okay means ‘pessimistic, unstable, and manipulative,’ then sure,” Jamie said cheerfully. “‘Patient demonstrates extreme sarcasm and enduring bitterness; sees things in terms of extremes, such as either all good or all bad. His views of others change quickly, leading to intense and unstable relationships,’” he recited from memory. “‘Patient demonstrates conflict about sexual orientation and is preoccupied with the sexual histories of others. Demonstrates a classic pattern of identity disturbance—an unclear, unstable self-image—as well as impulsivity and emotional instability,’” he said, suddenly sounding tired. He closed his file, chucked it like a Frisbee at the opposite wall, and leaned back with his arms above his head. “Ladies and gentlemen, Jamal Feldstein-Roth.”

  I blinked. “Wait, Jamal?”

  “Suck it,” he said with a grin. “My parents are liberal Jews from Long Island, okay? They wanted me to have a connection to my heritage.” Jamie made air quotes with his fingers.

  “I’m not judging—my middle name is Amitra. I’m just surprised.”

  “Amitra,” Noah mused. “Mystery solved.”

  “What is that?” Jamie asked me.

  “Sanskrit? Hindi?” I shrugged.

  “Randomly?”

  I shook my head. “Mom’s Indian.”

  “What does it mean?” Jamie asked me.

  “What does Jamal mean?” I asked him.

  “Point taken.”

  “I probably have about as much connection to my Indian heritage as you do to your African heritage,” I said. “My mother’s favorite food is sushi.”

  “Latkes.” Jamie smiled for a second, but then it faltered. “This is bullshit,” he said suddenly. “We’re teenagers. We’re supposed to be sarcastic.”

  “And preoccupied with sex,” I chimed in.

  “And impulsive,” Noah added.

  “Exactly,” Jamie said. “But we’re in here and they’re out there?” He shook his head slowly. “Everyone’s a little crazy. The only difference between us and them is that they hide it better.” He paused. “It . . . kind of makes me want to burn this place down?” He raised his eyebrows. “Just me?”

  I grinned. “Not just you.”

  Jamie stood and chucked me on the shoulder. Then yawned. “Rain check? I’m beat. You guys staying?”

  I looked over at Noah. We hadn’t gotten what we came for yet. When our eyes met, it was obvious that he was thinking the same thing.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Jamie picked up his file and dropped it back in the appropriate drawer. He reached for the door. “Thanks for the fun. Let’s do it again soon.”

  I waved. Jamie closed the door behind him.

  And then Noah and I were alone.

  63

  NOAH LEANED BACK IN DR. KELLS’S CHAIR and watched me. I was still in his lap.

  And suddenly self-conscious. “What?” I asked as I blushed.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded.

  “You sure?”

  I thought about it, about what was in my file and what it meant. “Not entirely,” I said. Not being believed about Jude would always hurt. Noah’s arms tightened around me, solid and warm.

  “You can read it,” I decided.

  He shook his head, his hair tickling my skin. “I showed you mine with no expectations. You don’t have to show me yours.”

  I looked up at him. “I want to.”

  Noah’s hand wandered over the folder on the desk behind my back, and then he leaned back in the chair to read with me still in his lap.

  We were silent. His fingers wandered beneath my T-shirt, drawing invisible pictures on my skin. Distracting me, I realized with a smile. I was grateful.

  Then he said my name, bringing me back. “Mara, did you see this?”

  I leaned over to look. Noah flipped the file around so I could read it. Under my stats, the ones I’d skimmed, there was a handwritten notation beneath a section called CONTRAINDICATIONS that read:

  Sarin, orig. carrier; contraindication suspected, unknown; midazolam administered

  My heartbeat thrummed in my ears. “Sarin. My mother’s maiden name.”

  My grandmother’s last name.

  I wasn’t sure if Noah heard me. He handed me the file and shifted me up, off of his lap. He was up in an instant.

  The rush of blood was loud in my ears. “What does it—what’s a contraindication?”

  “It’s like,” Noah started to say as he began opening drawers. “It’s like if you have a penicillin allergy, the contraindication is penicillin,” he said. “You shouldn’t take it unless the benefit outweighs the risk.”

  “Like a weakness?” I asked. “What’s midazolam?”

  “They use it at the clinic,” Noah said, thumbing through file folders. “They never told you they were giving it to you?”

  “Wait, what clinic? The animal clinic?” I asked, my eyes widening.

  “Most veterinary drugs started as human drugs, not the other way around. If it’s what I think it is, they use it for sedation, presurgery.”

  “Why would I need to be sedated?” The idea made me shiver.

  Noah shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Unless there’s a human indication I’m unaware of, which is possible.” He glanced at the clock. “They’re going to start waking up soon,” he said. He was silhouetted in the dark. “You look for Phoebe’s file, I’ll look for Stella’s.”

  I looked without words because I couldn’t find any, not then. I kept searching, careful as I could be not to disturb anything as I tunneled through file cabinets and scoured the desk drawers. In the bottom-right one, on top of a pile of papers, I found something. But not what I had been looking for.

  I withdrew the fine black cord with the silver pendants—mirror images, mine and his—that should have been hanging around Noah’s neck.

  “Noah,” I said. “Your necklace.”

  He turned to me, placing a manila file folder on the desk. Benicia, the label read—Stella’s last name.

  I handed Noah the necklace and he fastened it around his neck. Then helped me search for Phoebe’s file.

  I opened every drawer, looked under every pile of paper. There were a bunch of notebooks all stacked on a shelf—I looked between those, too, taking each one out and flipping through it—maybe her records had been stuffed inside?

  He slid into Dr. Kells’s chair then. “Keep looking,” he told me, as he turned on the computer monitor on her desk. I willed myself to hold it together despite the panic that scratched below the surface, and resumed the physical search as Noah began an electronic one.

  And then,
just as my eyes found a notebook with Phoebe’s scrawl on the front, I heard Noah say my name in the most haunted voice I had ever heard.

  His skin was pale, illuminated by the monitor’s light, which flickered over his face as he watched something on the screen, utterly riveted. I gripped Phoebe’s notebook and moved next to him to see what it was.

  What I saw, framed in the glossy white monitor, was us.

  An extremely high quality video on Dr. Kells’s computer screen of me on my bed. In my bedroom. At home. Of Noah straddled in my desk chair, looking at me. Talking to me.

  I saw his artful smirk. My answering smile.

  And a date in the corner, where a counter ticked.

  It was filmed last week.

  Noah did something, clicked on something, and I watched in horror as our on-screen selves appeared and disappeared in fast motion as seconds, minutes, hours of footage passed.

  Noah clicked again and a window opened up, containing more files with more dates. He opened them in rapid succession and we saw my kitchen. Daniel’s bedroom. The guest bedroom.

  Every room in my whole house.

  Another click. The sound of Noah’s voice reached out from the speakers and out from the past.

  “I won’t let Jude hurt you.”

  Noah inhaled sharply. He fast-forwarded again and we watched his lean frame disappear. We watched me speed in and out of my bedroom, and then finally change and get ready for bed. And then we watched Jude walk into my bedroom that night. Watched him watch me as I slept.

  Jude had hurt me, again and again and again. Noah blamed himself because he wasn’t there, but it wasn’t his fault. He was just as lost as I was, just as blind in this as me.

  Dr. Kells wasn’t blind, though. She saw it all. She saw everything.

  “She knew he was alive,” I said, my voice sounding dead. “She knew he was alive the whole time.”

  64