I take the paper he hands me, bemused. He makes it sound so easy. So normal.
“Now,” he continues, “the hospital will be in touch to set things up. Do you want to take care of this yourself? You can if you want. Or you might like to have someone with you. You know, someone on your side. You might want to think about letting your dad know.”
“Do I have to? I’d rather go with my aunt.” Panic clamps down on me at the prospect of trying to explain. “Can’t you tell her?”
He smiles kindly at me. “Why don’t we invite her up for a minute,” he suggests. “And we’ll do it together.”
• • •
Neurological. That should be scary, shouldn’t it? Like maybe-you-have-cancer levels of scary. But if it’s neurological, at least it’s real. Reasonable. Just a thing that happens, a thing that could happen to anyone. Not something looking specifically for me. Waiting for the chance to pull me under dark water, hold me down.
Dad, all up to date thanks to Aunt Jen, texts me to say he’s scheduled an appointment for the scan, offers to take me to it. But I text back that I’ve made other arrangements.
After fumbling through another exam—thank God computer science turned out to be such a bird course—I spend the next afternoon at the hospital, lying on a table with my head in a space-age looking machine, holding perfectly, obediently still for the cheerful voice piping through the microphone. And Dr. Fortin calls the morning after to report there’s no evidence of lesions, tumors, or clots.
“So it’s totally clean,” I say numbly. Aunt Jen, hovering at my side, squeezes my shoulder, misty-eyed with relief I can’t share. What if there’s no simple explanation?
“Go ahead and fill the prescription,” Dr. Fortin tells me over a crackle of static. “But remember that this kind of medication can take a while to kick in. It won’t hit its full strength until four to six weeks in.”
“Four to six weeks?” I echo.
“I know it seems like forever. Hang on to your hope, okay? And you might notice some side effects. Some people find they’re a little dizzy or nauseated at first, but that should pass. See how it goes and we’ll check in next week.”
• • •
The label on the bottle says escitalopram. The name sounds like it belongs in a magic spell. Obediently, I swallow down one little pill in the morning, one at night.
And amazingly, I feel…better. Lighter. Am I imagining it? Dr. Fortin said it would take weeks. But as I coast through the weekend toward my math exam, all the little puzzles that have been nagging me seem to lose their power. Though I still have to ride out a pang of unease when the memory rises into my thoughts, it’s a single wave instead of a storm. It doesn’t stick, doesn’t drag me into a spiral of panic.
Hang on to your hope, Dr. Fortin said. It’s easier to be hopeful than I expected. Maybe I’m off the hamster wheel of anxiety. Maybe now I can make it through the rest of my exams.
And sure enough, in the chilly humidity of the gym, where even the paper is limp and damp, my breath stays easy, unhurried. I’m light, distant, remote as a cloud. Like part of me is floating up in the emptiness under the high ceiling, with the coughs and shuffles, the click of Miss Kendrick’s shoes all echoing up to me. It’s a little weird, but I can handle it.
This time the cool linearity of the numbers embraces me, a welcome relief, and I slice neatly through the problems on the first couple of photocopied pages. The floaty disorientation lingers, turns my stomach, and I pause for a moment to rest the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. But even now, fear doesn’t wrap itself around me. Nothing flutters in my chest. This is okay. This is what Dr. Fortin was talking about. It’ll pass.
Seashell silence steals over me, drowning out the sounds of the gym. It’s soothing at first, hypnotic, before I remember why it’s familiar. I sit upright with a jerk of alarm. In the split second before I open my eyes a certainty flashes through me that I’ll find the gym dark and silent.
But the windows, set high above us, are still little rectangles of cool, gray light right below the ceiling. Distantly, if I listen for it, I can hear the murmur of the rain.
I turn my attention back to my desk to find my calculator has stopped working. It’s stuck on a handful of lines and dashes scattered across the screen like some sort of hieroglyphics.
And my paper—the whole page—is covered in three words I didn’t write:
THIS IS MINE
I recoil a little bit, but I can’t look away. The gym lurches dizzily around me, turned unreal and sluggish like one of those nightmares where you’re trying to run from something. For a moment I wonder if I’m really awake. But the lines on the page are real: heavy, a little wobbly, peppered with tiny grains of graphite that smudge my fingers when I touch them. In one spot it’s actually ripped right through the paper. Like someone bore down on the pencil with their whole weight. My lead, carefully sharpened a second ago, is worn and blunted. When I snatch the paper up from the desk, I can see the words etched into the next page.
My sudden movements, the shuffling and rattling they’re causing, earn me covert stares. Miss Kendrick frowns at me, looking like she’s about to head over. I look down at the sheet in my hand for another second, then crush it into a ball, as small as I can make it, and lurch to my feet. I manage not to run until I’m out of the gym, but then I bolt for the nearest set of double doors, down the hall, and out into the rain.
I’ve come out next to the field, empty even of seagulls. The bleachers are skeletal, soggy, uninviting. I sink down on the first one and drop my forehead to my knees, panting. The rain sends little cold fingers running through my hair.
“Hey,” says a voice from above and behind me. I jump and crane around to see who’s there: Rhiannon—Ron—with a big black umbrella leaning on her shoulder and a cigarette dangling from her other hand. I can’t think what she’s doing there at first, but then it occurs to me she’s probably finished. She was always the first one to finish every test in that class.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I give half a laugh and mop my sleeves over my face, trying to think of a sane answer. “I just totally failed that exam.”
She makes a sympathetic grimace and, after a moment, extends the cigarette toward me, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.
“Oh. No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
She shrugs and puts it to her own lips instead, sitting back to blow a plume of smoke at the sky. She’s like a lion sitting on a rock, casually slouched and yet somehow utterly self-possessed.
“I saw when you tackled Farrell in the hall,” I find myself saying. “That was amazing.”
She looks at me, leaning back on her elbows, and a smile creeps across her face, as if she’s trying to keep it down. She shrugs again and flicks ash down the bleachers.
“I played rugby in junior high. I guess I kind of miss it.”
“Seriously?”
She snorts. “Yeah, seriously. What? Knocking down jocks is fun.” Her smile fades. “Besides, he grabbed me. That shit is not acceptable. Maybe he’ll think twice next time. Or once, even.”
“Don’t count on it.”
She rolls her eyes in disgusted agreement, then grinds her cigarette into the wet bleacher. To my surprise, she stands up and carefully steps over a few rows to come and sit next to me, dropping her bag between our feet. “Here,” she says, and her arm brushes mine as she holds the umbrella over us both.
“Oh. Thanks.” She’s bigger than me—taller too, as regal and imposing as a stone statue. The layers of black clothes and elaborate curlicues painted in eyeliner on her cheeks only add to that effect. I’m as insubstantial as a shadow sitting next to her. The water dripping from the points of her umbrella soaks into my sleeve, but I’m not quite brave enough to shift closer to her to escape it.
“I don’t get it,” she sighs.
“I switched schools to get away from losers like that, and here they are. Again. They’re like a virus or something. The human version of the common cold, with a million different mutations.”
“More like an STI,” I mutter, surprising myself. Ron’s smile flickers again, more open this time.
“Or cockroaches,” she suggests. “An infestation of them. If there’s ever a nuclear holocaust or a zombie apocalypse they’ll probably be what survives.”
“Yeah. Not like zombies would bother with them anyway.”
“Exactly. Ha! No brains to be had there.” She looks at me curiously. “You used to hang out with Ingrid Snow sometimes, didn’t you? Where did she end up?”
“She moved to San Francisco.”
“Oh. I wondered if maybe she’d done something to piss off the viruses. Like that poor guy from the GSA.”
“Jeremy. No, it wasn’t anything like that. Her dad just got a job out there. Anyway, I don’t think anyone would have bothered her. She has this way of blending in.”
“Hm.” She opens her mouth to say more, but hesitates, looking out across the sodden field, hiding her free hand in her pocket and shivering. “Look. I’ve been thinking. About what you said the other day. You…haven’t seen anybody about that yet, have you?”
My momentary glow of satisfaction at managing a sort-of conversation with her curdles abruptly into mortification, and I study the dripping bleacher in front of us. So that’s why she’s talking to me.
“I’m sorry,” she says hurriedly. “That was a really personal question. I didn’t—”
“I did, though,” I say. “See someone, I mean. Actually.”
“Oh. Okay. Great. Is everything, you know… Are you okay?”
“They thought it might be something neurological at first.”
“That’s kind of scary.”
“I guess. But they did this scan and it didn’t come up with anything.” The words tumble out, drawn up by her steady gaze. “So I’m taking some medicine. But I can’t tell if it’s working. I mean, I feel better. I thought I was feeling better. But…something kind of freaky happened just now. During the exam. It’s supposed to take a while to start working for real, I just… I don’t know how I’m going to wait that long. You know?”
She studies me. “I’ve been thinking,” she says. “I wonder if I might have given you the wrong advice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not the wrong advice. I mean, it only makes sense to check for that, right?” She leans forward a little, frowning. “I just thought…what if, you know? What if that wasn’t really you? With the chalk?”
I don’t answer. I can hardly breathe; sudden hope is crushing me. Wordlessly, Rhiannon hands me a crumpled tissue. It takes me a long minute to get my expression back under control.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, scrubbing at my eyes. “I didn’t think you believed me. I don’t know if I believe me.”
“I suspend my disbelief. Will that do?”
I huff a laugh and blow my nose. “I’ll take it.”
“So I guess there’s more to the story than Miss Kendrick’s class the other day,” she ventures after a moment.
“Well, yeah. Just…more of the same. The weirdest things keep happening to me.” Haltingly, I tell her about what happened on the beach, the streetlights, the writing on my exam paper. The wind picks up, sheeting rain into our faces. Ron winces and tilts the umbrella.
“What did it say? The writing, I mean?”
“‘This is mine.’” Speaking the words aloud doesn’t make them make any more sense. But I’m colder having said them, all the same.
“Does that mean anything?”
“I don’t know. But that’s not the worst part, even.” I stop, hug my arms around myself. “You must think I’m some kind of freak.”
“Nah. I’ve heard worse, promise.”
I make a face at that, unconvinced, but I’m heartened in spite of myself. “Well. There’s this whole evening I can’t remember. I’ve been trying to figure out what I could have been doing, but there’s just nothing there. Except for this…dream I had.”
“What was the dream?”
“It’s hard to explain.” I don’t really want to talk about it, but she’s watching me expectantly. “I was by the water. In the dark. It looked kind of like the river, but it can’t have been, there was…ice. Way out on the water. And I was walking toward it, into the water, and I couldn’t stop. Something was dragging me down. It wanted me to drown.” I shake my head, trying to shake off the memory. It feels as if it’s gathering weight, darkening the gray day, ready to sink through into reality. “It’s like if I think about it for too long, it might come true. It almost did, the other night.”
“And you can’t, you know, ask somebody who was around to see what they remember? Like your parents, maybe.”
“That’s just it. My parents just split up.”
She winces. “That sucks. Sorry.”
“I’m staying at my aunt’s right now. Because my mom checked herself into the hospital.” I can’t look at her. I don’t want to see her reaction. “Nobody would tell me what happened at first, but she says…she says I was floating. I’m afraid I’m—I don’t know. I think maybe I’m possessed or something.”
Possessed. I meant it as a joke. I think. But the word comes out flat and awkward and not at all funny.
“Do you have any idea what it might be? I mean, if you’re possessed.” God, it sounds so stupid when someone else says it. Even stupider than when I said it. But Ron peers at me, intent, frowning a little. “Possessed by what?” she prompts.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s not the right word. It’s mostly just a feeling. It’s not like there are any voices or anything.”
“Except for the writing. You know, ‘this is mine.’ Whose?”
I shake my head wordlessly, without an answer, afraid to answer. The rain whispers down around us.
“What do I do?”
Rhiannon returns my pleading look with a helpless one.
“God, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think they do exorcisms anymore.”
I smile weakly.
“I was thinking,” she continues, not looking at me as she peels splinters from the bench with her black-painted nails, “that maybe you’re right about talking to my mom. It couldn’t hurt, right? Just in case. I mean, I could find out.”
“You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked.” But her obvious reluctance sharpens into amusement.
“What, just because jackasses keep asking me if I see dead people? I wouldn’t have offered unless I meant it. It’s just that I wouldn’t trust her to know her supernatural ass from her elbow, personally. Open your mind too far and your brain falls out.” She makes a flip-top gesture at her temple and rolls her eyes. “Still, you never know.”
“She wouldn’t think I was faking it? Or on drugs or something?”
“Seriously, you should hear how she gets. Especially if she’s had a couple of drinks. I got stuck for like an hour last night listening to her blather about how she was reviving this plant with Reiki. Personally, I think it was watering it for once that did the trick.”
“It’s just…the hospital only kept my mom overnight. But she knew she was seeing things, you know? If I start saying I’m possessed, they’ll think—”
“You’re taking your meds,” Ron points out. “You’re talking to the doctors. You’re doing all the right things. Right? You’re just keeping an open mind.” She makes the flip-top gesture again and gives me a lopsided grin, and somehow I feel better than I have in days. I’m sitting here talking to probably the coolest person at this stupid school. She knows the whole ludicrous story. And she’s on my side.
“Have you tried going down to the river?” she asks. I fold my arms against a shiver, shake my head. “That�
��s what my mom does, when she’s doing the whole paranormal investigator thing. Visit the scene of the crime, or whatever. And it kind of sounds like something wants you there.”
“Does she do that a lot? The paranormal investigator thing?”
“You’d be amazed. Not that the police have her on speed dial or anything. But word gets around, apparently.”
“So she’s good at it, then.” Is it ridiculous that the weight hanging over me seems to lift a little further? Ron makes a teetering gesture with one hand.
“I guess so. As long as she sticks to, you know, psychotherapy for hopeless flakes. She can sure read people, I’ll give her that.” She frowns. “Most people.”
“I’m just scared.” I pull my braid over my shoulder, twisting it. “I know it’s stupid, but…what if I go down there, and it’s like it was in my dream?” Like it was on the beach, the other night. “What if it comes true?”
“With it pulling you down, you mean.” She pauses, like she’s actually considering the possibility. “You said it was dark, though, in your dream. Right? And it was dark when you went for that walk. You’d think it might be safer in the daytime. There might even be people around.” She pulls her coat tighter. “Well, maybe not in this weather. Still.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It was the middle of the afternoon, though, that first time I dreamed about it. Or I thought it was.”
“I could come with you,” she offers, in an offhand way that says it’s no big deal. Like we’re talking about going to the mall. “If you want.”
“Thank you,” I stammer out. “Really. But you don’t have to do that.”
“It’s okay,” she says, and smiles a little, leaning her shoulder into mine in a comradely way. “Really. This is obviously some scary shit. Whatever it is. I wouldn’t want to do it alone either.”
“When did you have in mind?” It’s absurdly formal, but it’s comforting, helps me clear the tightness from my throat. Ron’s smile widens; she’s laughing at me, probably.
“Well, I’m not doing anything. How’s now?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Now she’s definitely laughing at me as she slings her backpack over her shoulder. There’s a TARDIS button on the back pocket that says Bigger on the Inside.
The Dark Beneath the Ice Page 6