by Naomi Canale
“Hi, Savanna, how are you doing?” she says with a gentle touch.
I can’t speak and only answer with a gag.
“Sorry, the doctor told me I could go ahead and remove your feeding tube when you woke up. Would you like that?”
I nod lightly trying not to look at the two men. My mental state is already in enough agony as it is.
As I look around, this hospital is unfamiliar. Purple lettering written on a pen sitting on the counter near the sink reads Renown. They must have taken me to Reno.
As my nurse stands over me, I focus on her name tag that reads Devon. “Okay, hun,” she hesitates, “I’m going to need you to swallow a minute.”
I do as she asks and nearly throw up as I watch as a long slimy tube is extracted from my nose. “Good job,” she says as she tosses the used tube into the garbage can.
Her warm skin touches mine as she unties the soft restraints that keep me fastened to the bed. “You were a little out of it from the meds they gave you yesterday. We had to put these on you. But now that awful tube is out, you’re good, honey.”
The idea that she’s not scared of me and still stands over me like a mother hen makes me feel human again. “Thank you,” I say with a half-smile and scratchy voice.
“You’re welcome—”
One of the officers with a bushy head of hair interrupts. “Should I grab her some water?”
As Devon responds, her heavy southern accent changes pitch. “Sure, but ice chips would be best. She needs to keep it easy for now.”
The idea of placing ice chips into a dry mouth makes me click my pallet and tongue against each other—definitely dry. Ice chips sound like heaven.
As the officer rushes out for the ice, his partner clicks on a recorder and places it on the ledge of the window.
“Hi, Savanna, my name is Detective Johnson, and my partner who just ran out to grab you some ice chips is Detective Meyers. I’m so glad you are feeling better.” He pauses and points out the cast on my ankle. I hadn’t noticed the inflexible white thing till now. I budge a toe, but it only makes me want to groan from pain. “We understand you are on pain killers right now, how do you feel?”
The way Detective Johnson’s speaking feels robotic, staged. I wish Devon could ask me these questions instead. “I’m okay,” I shrug.
“Do you know where you are right now?”
“I think so? Am I in Reno?”
“Yes, you’re in Reno at Renown hospital.”
Devon finishes laying a warm blanket over me and pats my thigh. “All right, you holler if you need anything, okay?”
“Thank you, I really appreciate it.”
She nods and scoots past the other returning officer in the doorway. “Oops, excuse me, honey.”
Ice chips almost fall from his clumsy grip. Maybe he’s a newer officer. “Sorry,” he says, shyly. He places the chips on a tray and pushes it close to the side of the bed. “Can I get you anything else to help you feel more comfortable?”
I shake my head and scoop a few ice chips out with my fingers. My famished body has made me forget about manners. The warmth of my mouth causes the chips to quickly melt down my throat. I close my eyes a moment and take in such a simple comfort.
As I look up, I catch them giving me strange looks, but they hurriedly turn on awkward smiles. I know why they’re here, there’s no use lying to these men. Dad wouldn’t want me to lie. Dad! Is he okay? Before I say anything else, I nearly shout at the two only sitting a foot away. “Have I had any visitors? Has my dad come?”
“There haven’t been any visitors,” says Detective Johnson as he gives Detective Meyers bent eyebrows.
Even the idea that Dad could be dead sends an earthquake rippling through the solid surfaces inside my soul.
I’m quiet and I’m not sure how long, until I start to process this new life.
“Could you please get me a Bible?” I say dashing my eyes all over the room hoping there’s one to quickly grasp and hold close to my chest.
“Yes, of course,” says Detective Johnson as he opens the nightstand closest to me and places one in the palm of my hands.
I make an x across my chest with the Bible tucked in close, holding it here feels like a hug from Dad.
“How many people died?” I ask.
Johnson interweaves his fingers and then firmly unfolds them as if the question I just asked is a difficult one and he’s trying to respond appropriately. “Several have died, how many do you know about?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Could you possibly tell us why you don’t know?”
“Do you believe in God, Detective Johnson?”
“Yes, actually, I do.”
The verse Dad read to me when he talked about opening doors that shouldn’t be opened sits like an exposed file inside my brain. The papers it carries are strewn all about and I’m afraid to pick them up because I believe them to be true now. “Can I read you something, then?” I ask hushed.
“Please do.”
Even though I had to memorize the order of the books of the Bible as a child in Sunday school, I still find it difficult to locate Acts 19 as the Bible sits wobbly across my thighs.
I begin reading verses thirteen through sixteen under my breath. “Some Jews who went around driving out evil spirits tried to invoke the name of the Lord Jesus over those who were demon-possessed. They would say, ‘In the name of the Jesus whom Paul preaches, I command you to come out.’ Seven sons of Sceva, a Jewish chief priest, were doing this. One day the evil spirit answered them, ‘Jesus I know, and Paul I know about, but who are you?’ Then the man who had the evil spirit jumped on them and overpowered them all. He gave them such a beating that they ran out of the house naked and bleeding.”
Detective Johnson’s face grows serious. “What do you believe you are trying to tell me by that verse?”
His somber face makes the next words I’m about to say feel not so crazy, but they’re still difficult to say. “Well,” I pause, and fiddle a moment. The edges of Bible pages bend up and down at the tip of my finger. This is being recorded, I tell myself, don’t be stupid. Ask for a lawyer, or whatever it is they do in the movies. But I keep lies from flowing out of my mouth and realize the dark side will win if I decide to indulge in it. I quickly spit out the truth. “I was possessed. A demon possessed me and used my body to kill people, hurt people.”
There’s silence, the uneasy kind. The type that makes me feel like an idiot, or worse an insane serial killer. Both of their eyes grow wide with curiosity—although I’m pretty sure it is.
My brain throws a quick fit like I have attention deficit disorder as I pretend to think of something else. I reach up and touch my hair and notice how my skin smells of baby oil. Pieces of dirt still cling to strands of hair. Devon must have given me a sponge bath while I was passed out on drugs. I stare ahead at a skinny grey door that must be the bathroom and I want to drown within the confines of the shower as of yesterday. Detective Johnson’s voice makes me glance back at him sharply. “So how do you believe this happened?”
His question doesn’t ease my nerves. I want to know what these two are thinking because their thoughts are most likely going to emulate the rest of my life of “what people will think I am”. But I’m not a murderer; I’m an astronomer, a physicist with a bold heart and ideas. Should I talk about that instead? I want people to know who I am, not what my body did as Daniel used me as a puppet.
“How much time do I have?” I say, somewhat joking to lighten the heavy mood in the room. I continue to laugh while no one else does, but I don’t care, it’s helping me shake off the pain that sits in the crease of my eyelids and is about to pour out into a pool of regret.
Meyer’s unfolds his hands and rubs them together again. “We have as much time as you need.”
They are asking me to relive my darkest moments—ones I don’t want to follow into an alleyway and convey what I saw, smelled, and touched. In my subconscious Dad is telling me
that being a Christian isn’t easy, it’s one of the most difficult roads to walk because it’s filled with dirt. It’s a road filled with the type of dirt people will want to pick up and throw into my eyes to see the truths they believe, rarely wanting to hear mine. I’ll be rejected with this path. But he also said if I continue; endure the pain long enough that joy will come to me, eventually. And it’s a type of joy I won’t understand until I keep walking.
I clear my throat and step onto the path. Rocks are sharp, and I bear them as I meet the eyes of the two men waiting to hear my story.
Chapter 25
Liars
My jail cell has a tiny window outlined with black casing. I’ve been staring at it long enough that black has blurred into grey. There’s no clock. I don’t even know the time, but they must have removed my cuffs hours ago because I’ve been standing in the same spot since lunch and the sun’s already starting to set. Is this what’s it’s like to be in shock?
The paper booties enclosing my feet scuffle over rough tiles as I finally move and tell myself the truth about this little room being my new home for a while. A shiny white ceiling flows almost perfectly in sync to the walls and my bed sits close to the ground, just under the window. I take a seat on top of a thin mattress, or maybe it’s just a mat? It squeaks as I sit and lift up feet to give shaky legs a rest.
My hurt ankle throbs as if it’s telling me I’m an idiot for standing on it for so long, but I don’t care. Body parts will have all the time they need to rest, heal. Or will they? I lean against the wall. What if I’m sent to prison soon? It’ll be like being thrown to the wolves and my limp will only prove I’m weak prey.
What happened? As I collect pieces of time, I start to understand how everything has taken shape and how I got here. I play with fingers over my lap as I recount steps. Am I having blackouts again? Maybe it’s a symptom that lingers after being possessed.
No one had called or visited and I wondered why Mom didn’t come, she had to have known what happened by then. I forced memories in and tried to remember who Daniel hurt, but I could only recall the moments when he moved out of my body and I was still having a difficult time wrapping my head around how that happened. Was everyone I loved killed off? The thought wouldn’t turn off. It was making me slip back into insanity. Maybe Mom had come home early, like the time she surprised Dad two years ago, and she’s gone too?
I was lying in bed when Detective Johnson walked in with a paper outfit in hand. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“But I don’t have any clothes or shoes, only this hospital gown,” I responded while touching cloth coarse from bleach that was being held together by one knotted string.
He only glanced at me, the kind that made me think he felt sorry for me. “I’m just going to put this here at the end of the bed,” he said, softly. He removed the plastic bag lining the package and placed the paper thing at the foot of my bed, “And when you’re ready, we’ll be waiting for you right outside the door.”
As I hobbled out of bed and shook out my new outfit to get a better glimpse, I felt thankful I was able to take a shower at least. The paper jumpsuit made me feel less human. But my heart sank knowing they didn’t even trust me with plastic. It was what ninety-nine percent of my toys were made out of as a kid, and suddenly I was being demoted from even kid status.
When I stepped outside, Detective Johnson asked me to place my wrists facing forward. He was gentle and kind when he slipped metal cuffs over my thin wrists. And as I peered around and listened to the small locks fastening around me, the people walking the halls of the floor made it known with their second glances that I didn’t blend in like a patient anymore.
Detective Johnson and his partner guided me into his car before our ride over to the Washoe County Jail. He even offered me a coffee and we ended up going into the drive-thru at Starbucks to grab a Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino. He was a nice guy, but I figured it was his way of asking me more questions as he tried to figure out “why” people died without the possibility of me being demon possessed. But as I savored each sip of that drink as if it was my last, I stuck with my story because it was the truth.
In between each slurp, it felt like I was experiencing that whole good-cop, bad-cop mentality.
After I was booked, I don’t remember much beyond the filth that lined the floor between the entrance and the outside of my cell.
I guess I should consider myself lucky that I don’t have to bunk with the other criminals in this place—I’m special. That’s why they gave me a white paper outfit. I’m a homicide criminal who’s on suicide watch and waiting for a trial. Maybe I’m not so lucky after all. The other criminals outside of these confined rooms probably won’t have as heavy a sentence as I will.
The last glimmer of sun shines off a faded bolt on the thick door that keeps me locked in. A tray fastened across the door opens—a man knocks. “Meal’s up,” he says.
I don’t bother to look at it. The emotional turmoil plaguing me hurts more than my growling stomach—Daniel’s tricks have left me to slowly drown in my own tears. Dad would have something comforting to tell me right now or he would just offer me a warm hug. I shut my eyes and wish I had held onto him longer after that night we got home from seeing Lucky. “Daddy,” I murmur, “I’m sorry, I love you, Daddy.”
Could he really be gone? When I asked if I could have his Bible, they told me no. It’s being used to collect evidence for the trial they said. My lungs pound up and down as I start to sob. I lie down and pull a scratchy blanket over myself as I attempt to shut out life with eyes fastened shut.
It doesn’t work.
Whispers flow through the stale air in the room. I quickly look over my shoulder, no one’s there. I can hear the other cell mates that share the rooms connected to mine. But as I try to zoom in and get use to unfamiliar sounds and voices, I hear Daniel.
I want to scream, but resist. I don’t want them to write anything down in their logs they are required to keep. My behavior is being watched, closely—that’s what Detective Johnson said.
“Don’t you want to know why I chose you? Why you are special to me?” The soft voice, it is clearer this time.
I know I should ignore the whispers, but I want answers. Why did he choose me and kill the ones I loved—move into their dying bodies?
Warm air brushes against my ear and sends a shiver colliding across my skin. It’s deceitful and fills me with bitterness. I reach down, move a palm over my upper thigh, and listen as paper crinkles as I grip on. As I rub harder and teeter on the edge of agony, the paper rips. I can’t believe I allowed him to deceive me, to take everything from me—to touch me—take my innocence.
In a moment of weakness I think about him asking me to be his queen, but resentment quickly burns out the flame that used to burn bright within me for him. “Leave me alone,” I say.
There’s no answer.
A fever enters my brain, right down to my heart, and into my legs. My body quakes as I tuck my hands just under my chin. He’s still on stage performing his tricks and I’m foolish enough to recall memories of picking up the dice and playing this game with him. “Leave me alone,” I weep, “haven’t you done enough?”
Silence.
I try to fill my head with recollections—the good kind.
A time when I was little and scared of the dark, Dad told me everything was going to be okay, he knelt down in front of me and said, “Just sing, let God comfort you. He loves to hear you sing.”
I hold onto his words—the lies and the voices slowly switch off as I start to sing myself to sleep.
Chapter 26
Sentenced
~Ten Months Later~
My head rests in the shadow of my cupped hands and moves from elbows leaning on bouncing nervous knees. I’m waiting for keys to clink and echo down the hallway and for the light scuffle of rubber soles upon tile floors.
This is the day they will pick me up in the white van for the last time. And this time I wo
n’t be headed to a fancy building where I get to change out of my jumpsuit and sit in a trial with nice clothes—I’m on my way to live amongst the murderers.
For the rest of my life, I’ll be compared to other criminals and sit in a stack of papers tucked into a file cabinet somewhere in the system. And maybe in a few years, I’ll be printed onto legal paper and go out into the world as a statistic. If I’m lucky, someone may see a black spot that will be me blended into the ink that makes up a graph on an article in the newspaper with the heading Prison Population.
They gave me an early gift—an orange jumpsuit with large black printed numbers on the front, zero sixty-two. The numbers are larger than the ones I’ve worn here. It’s as if they’re trying to remind me of the upgrade that’s about to take place, but in the worst kind of way. I’ll be known as Zero Sixty-Two for the rest of my life. I’ll blend in with the rest and only be differentiated by a numeral, a digit.
In a way I wish I could blackout the trial like when I was possessed. But unfortunately, I’m left to remember, to sit here forever and think, and the worst part is remembering those defining moments.
The slamming of the gavel and the lead juror rambling on about how they found me guilty of four murders in the first degree were nothing compared to finally having Mom raise her eyes and catch a glimpse into mine.
For months Mom kept her head hung low. The humiliation of raising a killer more than covered her face with shame—it kept her hidden from the world. I wasn’t sure why she wouldn’t look at me, but I assumed it was because she was afraid and wanted to finally wake up from the nightmare that had swallowed up our lives. It could have been the media too, she had always been a quiet woman, never did like having her picture taken. But when the district attorney went to the judge and asked him something secretly, and then walked over to Mom to ask the same question, tears welled up in her red eyes. She shook her head no, and that’s when she finally looked at me. Time zoomed in and the air around me was suddenly so heavy that it seemed to compress onto my skin changing my white skin to a blush of red.