by Amy Cross
He sighs. "So what were these minor points?" he asks as we wander out through the front door.
"I almost missed a stop signal," I say, making the whole thing up, "and I stalled a couple of times at junctions."
"I thought you practiced all that stuff?" he says. It's funny; I can tell he's pissed off, and he's not making a very good job of hiding his true feelings. "I don't know if there's much point carrying on with lessons if you're just going to make basic mistakes. They cost money, Juliet. Maybe you should give it a rest for a while."
"You don't think I can do it?" I ask as we reach his car.
"Maybe you're just not meant to be a driver," he says, turning to me. "You're not very aware of the space around you. You tend to zone out sometimes. I thought maybe you could cut all that stuff out when you were driving, but I guess you're just not ready." He unlocks the car door. "If you want any more lessons, you'll have to pay for them yourself."
"Okay," I say, pausing as he gets into the car. It's hard to hide the smile on my face; after all, he never believed for one second that I'd pass my test. The good news is that it suits me just fine for him to think I failed. The last thing I want is for him to start noticing certain other things that I'm doing. He's not the smartest guy in the world, but there's still a danger that he could work out that I'm up to something, and I'm determined to make sure that my plan doesn't hit any hurdles. I needed to pass my test in order for everything to work out, and now everything's going according to plan; my father's views, on the other hand, don't matter at all. Anyway, by the time he learns the truth, it'll be far too late.
Chapter One
Today
"We have a problem," says Mr. Taylor, lowering his voice as he shuts his office door and walks quickly over to the desk. It's 10pm and I've arrived for my night shift, but I can tell something's wrong. Mr. Taylor's always kind of nervous and shifty, but tonight he seems to be off the scale. He's been pacing up and down ever since the nurses left a few minutes ago, and I can't help but notice that there's no-one else here. He's supposed to have brought in someone to take Lizzie's place after her 'disappearance'...
"What kind of problem?" I ask.
He sighs. "Actually, it's two problems. The first is that I haven't been able to find anyone to replace Lizzie at such short notice. I'm working on something for tomorrow night, but right now I've come up with nothing. I mean, I thought there was a fucking recession going on, but apparently everyone's already got enough money. I just want to pay someone a decent wage to work a fucking night shift, but suddenly they're all too fucking busy. I mean, seriously, what kind of world are we living in?"
I stare at him. "So what does that mean?"
He sighs. "It means that, contrary to state and federal healthcare laws, and in strict violation of several very important protocols, you're going to have to work the night shift alone. Just this once, Juliet, I swear to God. After tonight, I'll definitely find someone. There's this woman in Maine who I think will come. I almost got her today, but she's playing hardball about travel costs. Don't worry, though. I'm confident she'll cave in the morning."
I take a deep breath. "Okay," I say, figuring that although it's not ideal, I can probably get through the night without any help. "But what if I need -"
"I'll have my phone on right next to my bed," he says, interrupting me. "If there's any kind of medical problem, you call me, okay? I'll sort it out. You don't call anyone else, and you definitely don't call for an ambulance." He pauses for a moment. "Juliet, if anyone finds out about this, I'm screwed. Finished. We'll be fined, the insurance won't pay out, I'll lose my job, you'll lose your job..." He takes a deep breath; I swear, he's close to hyperventilating. "I need to know you can do this, and that you'll be discreet about it."
"Sure," I say. "Do I get any overtime pay or -"
"You get to know that you've done a good job," he replies. "You get the satisfaction of potentially saving this entire facility. Please, Juliet. Just this one night. I helped you out by hiring you when, frankly, there were other candidates with better references. Now I need you to return the favor by doing this one night alone. Can you do that? And can you keep it just between the two of us?" He stares at me. "Please?"
"Sure," I say.
"Thank fuck," he mutters, hurriedly grabbing some papers and shoving them into his briefcase. It's pretty obvious that he can't wait to get out of here.
"What's the other problem?" I ask.
"Huh?"
"You said there's another problem."
"Oh," he replies, glancing over at the door with a worried expression on his face. "Um... Well, it's nothing, really."
"What is it?" I ask, determined to make him tell me before he leaves.
"Piotr Cymbalista," he replies, clicking his briefcase shut.
"Who?" I say.
"You know Barbara Cymbalista in room 105, on the blue ward? Piotr's her son, and he's just this fucking asshole on legs, and he exists purely to cause trouble. Seriously, the guy is constantly angry, and this is the absolute worst night to have him here."
"He's not here right now, is he?" I ask, looking out through the service hatch and seeing that the reception area's empty. "I thought visiting hours finished before dinner?"
"He just came storming in about an hour ago," Mr. Taylor continues, "demanding to see his mother. Don't worry, I told him he had to be gone by the time the night shift started. I swear, that man is always angry about something."
"But he's gone now?" I ask, starting to get worried. There's a pause. "He's gone now, right?"
"He's leaving any minute," Mr. Taylor replies, hurrying to the door.
"You have to wait until he's gone," I say, following him out into reception and over to the front door. "You're not going to leave me here alone with some angry Polish guy, are you?"
"You can handle it," he says. "I've got a lot of faith in you, Juliet. You're a people person."
"I'm a what?" I say, shocked.
"You're a people person," he says again, turning to me.
"No," I say. "I'm really not."
"Just make sure he doesn't realize you're here alone," he continues. "Tell him your colleague is off on another ward and -" He looks over at the other side of the room, just as an angry middle-aged guy, dressed all in denim and looking as if he hasn't washed for a few days, comes storming through from the blue ward. "Great," Mr. Taylor mutters.
"This is a fucking disgrace!" the angry man says as he reaches us. "Do you know what this is? This is a fucking appalling way to treat human beings. What the fuck is going on in this place? Do you think you're running a zoo or something?"
"Mr. Cymbalista, I'd like you to meet Juliet," says Mr. Taylor. "Juliet's part of our night team. She's one of the people who check on the residents while they're sleeping, and I can assure you that your mother is in the best possible hands."
"Huh," Mr. Cymbalista says, glancing briefly at me. He's clearly not impressed. "So who's responsible for the fact that my mother's sleeping in a filthy bed?" He waits for an answer. "Huh?"
"She is?" Mr. Taylor asks. It's crazy, but I swear he's paler than normal. It's as if he's terrified of this Cymbalista guy.
"That bed hasn't been changed in nearly a week," Mr. Cymbalista continues. "I pay fucking good money for her to be here, and I expect her bed to be fucking changed on a regular basis. It's like the most basic fucking human decency. What kind of operation are you running here?"
"I can assure you," Mr. Taylor replies, "that we're running a very caring and thoughtful operation." He turns to me. "Juliet, you must go and change Barbara's bed immediately. Didn't I tell you repeatedly to do that? Top priority. Go!"
"Not now, you fucking ass-hat," Mr. Cymbalista replies. "She's going to sleep. You think I want her turfed out of bed just so you lot can do the job you should have done hours ago? Change it in the morning." He pushes past us and heads out into the hallway, before turning back to us. "Actually, you know what? Maybe you should change it tonight. At least that
way she'll be able to sleep without getting fucking bedsores. Don't make me report your asses!" With that, he storms out into the night.
"Change her bed," Mr. Taylor says.
"Sure," I reply.
"I mean it," he continues, turning to me. "That guy'll be back tomorrow to check. You have to change her bed. Do it right now. Go and wake her up. No excuses, Juliet. Piotr Cymbalista is a bomb waiting to go off. He spends most of his time driving trucks inter-state, but every few months he gets home and sure enough, there's always trouble."
"Okay," I say, "I'll do it."
"And lock this door once I've gone," he says. "Tonight has to run smoothly. If anything goes wrong, both our asses are on the line." He takes a deep breath. "Okay, Juliet. God speed. Just do your job to the best of your ability, and I'm quite certain you'll be fine. You're a very, very capable young woman. Now go and change Barbara Cymbalista's bed!" With that, he turns and hurries out toward his car, leaving me to close and lock the door.
Turning to look across the reception area, I realize with a sense of dread that, apart from the residents, I'm completely alone here. After just a few weeks on the job, I've been left to look after the place overnight with no help at all. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that it shouldn't be too much of a problem. Provided the residents just sleep through the night, all I have to do is stay calm and do the rounds every few hours, checking each of the bedrooms to make sure everything's okay. This must be my twentieth shift, and as long as it's uneventful, I don't see that I'm going to have any problems.
"That was kind of funny, don't you think?" says a voice nearby.
Turning, I see Jennifer Mathis standing over by the door.
"Funny?" I ask.
"The way he talked about you being alone tonight." She steps toward me. "You're not alone, Juliet. I'm here. I was planning to have a quiet night, but seeing as you need help, I suppose I could come out of retirement and lend a hand. It seems only fair."
"I don't need help," I tell her, feeling a little suspicious of her motives. I still haven't quite worked out what I think about Jennifer, but I'm certain I need to be wary around her.
"You think I'd cause trouble?" she asks. "I'm hurt, Juliet. All I want to do is keep you company and maybe help out with a few mundane chores. I thought that's what friends do for one another."
"Friends?" I stare at her. Does she really think we're friends? Sure, she helped me out with Lizzie's body, but I'm not sure that makes her my friend, exactly. Accomplice, maybe...
"We're friends, aren't we?" she says, looking a little hurt. "It gets so lonely out on the abandoned ward. I'd love to spend some time through here, just keeping you company while you go about your routine. Even if it wouldn't help you, will you at least let me come with you? For my sake?"
"I need to go and do the first checks," I say. "You can come if you want."
She smiles. "I was hoping you'd ask."
Turning, I walk through to the ward. I know she's a few steps behind me, shadowing my every move. I guess I'll never be alone, not while Jennifer is with me. Still, there's something about her constant interest that makes me a little wary. Why does she seem so fascinated by what I do? What is it about me that attracts her attention?
Chapter Two
Eleven years ago
"Why did you kill her cat?" asks Dr. Larson.
Sitting in a chair that's far too big, with my feet dangling several inches above the floor, I stare at him. We're in his study, and he's been asking me the exact same question for the past ten minutes. He never changes the phrasing, or the emphasis of the words; he just keeps saying the same thing over and over and over again. However I reply, it seems I can't give him the answer he wants. I guess he's trying to make me realize that I can't wriggle out of the interrogation, or something like that. There's probably some complex psychological theory that explains why this is a good approach to take. The problem, for him, is that it's not going to work.
"I don't know," I say, kicking my feet together as I look down at the floor.
"You do know," he replies. "Tell me."
Sighing, I can feel tears starting to well up behind my eyes, but I know they won't break through. Something about my eyes always stops the tears from getting out. I think maybe I don't have the right holes, or ducts, or something. "I don't know," I say eventually. "I just did."
There's more silence. "Why did you present it to her in a box, as a gift?"
I take a deep breath. On the way over here today, I was feeling confident. I thought I could wrap this guy around my little finger. Now that I'm in his office, however, I'm struggling to stay focused. Somehow, he's getting through my defenses.
"Juliet," he continues, "why did you -"
"I wanted to see her face when she opened it," I say, interrupting him. "I wanted to watch her go from a smiling face to a sad face."
"Why?"
"Because..." I pause for a moment. "She's always so fake. I wanted to see her real face."
"And do you think you saw her real face when she opened the box?"
"Kind of."
"And how did she look?"
"Upset."
"And how did that make you feel?"
I take a deep breath. "I don't know," I say. The truth, though, is that it made me smile. To be honest, I had to work hard not to laugh. I don't know why, but whenever I see someone get really upset, I have this involuntary urge to smile. I know it's wrong, and I know it can make other people think I'm a bad person, but it's just some weird reflex in my facial muscles. I try to fight it, but it's too powerful. It's almost like some invisible person is grabbing my cheeks and forcing the smile onto my face. So when Martina opened the box, I looked away, hoping she wouldn't see me smile, and I spent the whole time thinking about how weird my face gets.
"Martina died that day, didn't she?" Dr. Larson asks.
I nod.
"Just a few hours later, is that correct?"
I nod again.
"In a car crash."
I nod. I don't get why he's asking me this. He knows what happened, or at least he thinks he knows what happened. Like everyone else, he has no idea about the jack-in-the-box, although I'm slightly worried that it'll be found in the wreckage. My father has been so busy dealing with the aftermath of Martina's death, he hasn't had a spare moment to consider the truth about what really happened to her. It's possible that he thinks she was upset when she drove away, and that this contributed to the accident; I'm certain, though, that the jack-in-the-box hasn't entered his head.
"I hated her because she was trying to replace my mother," I say eventually, hoping to give him the answer he wants.
"You did?"
I nod.
"Bullshit."
I stare at him.
"Bullshit," he says again. "You're playing me. You're giving me easy answers. You didn't hate Martina Hopkins because you thought she was trying to replace your mother. Don't insult my intelligence, Juliet." He pauses for a moment. "Remind me how you killed the cat again."
I stare at him. My mind has gone blank.
"Juliet?"
"With scissors."
"And how do you think the cat felt as you stabbed him with a pair of scissors?"
I pause. "It was quick," I say eventually.
"But not so quick that he wouldn't have felt pain."
I feel my heart getting a little tight. Why is he asking stupid questions about the cat? "I don't know," I say. "I don't know how cats feel."
"Do you know how people feel?"
I stare at him.
"How do you think I'd feel if you stabbed me with a pair of scissors?"
"It'd hurt," I reply, staring at him darkly. I want him to stop asking these annoying questions.
"Tell me about your mother's death," he says suddenly.
I sigh. Why does he keep jumping from one topic to another? It's hard to keep up when he's talking about Martina one minute, and her cat the next, and then my mother.
"Do you think
about your mother a lot?" he continues.
I look over at the door again. "Aren't we done soon?" I say, although I immediately realize that by dodging the question, I'm providing some kind of answer.
"We're done when I've finished talking to you," he says. "Answer the question, Juliet. Do you think about your mother a lot?"
I take a deep breath. Every time anyone mentions my mother, the same thing happens: I get this weird, wobbly feeling in my body, and I feel tears behind my eyes, and then everything goes kind of blank for a while.
"Juliet," Dr. Larson says, speaking firmly and clearly. "Do you think about your mother a lot?"
"Not really," I say, staring straight at him. I swear to God, I wish I could just make him disappear; I wish I could stare at him so hard, his head would explode; I wish he'd just shrivel up and die, and never be able to ask me any more questions.
"Do you want to hurt me, Juliet?" he asks.
I feel a cold chill run through my body.
"Do you want to hurt me?" he asks again.
Glaring at him, I imagine ripping his head off and squeezing all the blood out of his neck; I imagine taking his head home and watching it rot for months and months.
"The way you're looking at me," he continues calmly, "is rather menacing. It makes me wonder whether you have strong, negative feelings about me." He pauses for a moment. "I want you to remember that anything you say to me is strictly confidential. I won't tell anyone. Not even your father. Do you sometimes want to hurt people, Juliet? Do you have urges to make people feel pain, or to make them go away?"
I stare at him a little longer. "No," I say eventually. My heart is racing; how did he know what I was thinking? Is there some way he's able to get into my head and read my thoughts?
We sit in silence for a moment.
"Okay," he says, smiling suddenly, "I think we're done for today. I just need to talk to your father for a few minutes, so why don't we go and find him?"
I get out of the chair and walk over to the door, feeling slightly shaky. That conversation ended up twisting in ways I'd never expected. As the door opens and I emerge into the corridor, I find myself feeling that I just lost this first encounter with Dr. Larson; he definitely got into parts of my head that I'd decided were off-limits. I sit on the bench while my father goes into the office, and eventually I get up and walk over to the door, hoping to hear what they're talking about.