I realized that tears were streaming down my cheeks, making the scratches smart. I wiped them away with my hand, stiffly following her into a tiny office. Ms. Temple shut the door behind us and plugged in an electric kettle.
“I’m sorry,” I croaked. “I didn’t mean to hit her. But she said all these terrible things about my mom and dad, and I just . . . I went a little crazy.”
Sobs wracked my body. Ms. Temple sat across from me and rubbed my forearms, consoling me. “Poor Janie,” she said sympathetically. “I know this has been a difficult transition for you.”
In my mind’s eye I saw Georgina’s face again, that sly smirk. I started crying harder.
“Here.” Ms. Temple handed me a mug of tea. My hands were shaking badly, though; the tea spilled out and burned my hand, making me wince. She quickly took it back. “In a minute, then. After you calm down.”
“What are they going to do to me?” I asked in a low voice, once I’d summoned a modicum of control.
Ms. Temple didn’t answer immediately; the concern in her eyes was clear. “Honestly, I don’t know. Nothing like this has ever happened here, at least not during my tenure.”
I sank farther into the chair.
“Can I offer some advice, Janie?” Ms. Temple asked. She was leaning forward with an earnest expression. “Granted, I don’t know you well. But based on your writing, it’s clear that you’re a sensitive person who’s been through a lot. Losing your parents, moving in with strangers, and then surviving a fire; those are all extremely traumatic events.”
I drew in a deep, shuddering breath. She didn’t know the half of it. “I shouldn’t have hurt her, though.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed. “But given the circumstances, I believe it’s understandable.”
“Thank you,” I said in a small voice.
“I also believe that you’re stronger than this. And in the end, you’re going to be just fine.” She took my hand and squeezed it.
I wanted to share her optimism, but at the moment, I felt a long way from fine.
The door popped open.
Mr. Brocklehurst, the headmaster, blocked the opening with his wide girth. I could see Miss Scatcherd peering hungrily over his shoulder.
“Janie Mason,” he said sharply. “Come with me, right now.”
“Could she just wait until she’s had her tea?” Ms. Temple asked. “It might help—”
“Now.”
Shakily, I got to my feet. He waited at the door, as if worried that I’d bolt.
“Thank you. For everything,” I said.
Ms. Temple nodded, her face creased with worry. “Of course, Janie. I’m here if you need me.”
As Mr. Brocklehurst frog-marched me down the hall, he said, “We’ve called your guardians. They’re coming to collect you.”
“Am I expelled?” I asked in a meek voice.
“That will be decided later,” he said. “But I think it’s best that you spend the next few days at home.”
Miss Scatcherd was still scurrying in our wake; I heard her cluck reprovingly. My feet dragged as we approached his office. Jail might actually be preferable, I thought. At least there, I’d have a chance to get some sleep.
Chapter XIII
Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.
Marion sat as far from me in the car as possible without actually being outside of it. She hadn’t said a word since “collecting” me from Mr. Brocklehurst. They’d spent ten minutes together behind closed doors. Then she’d swept out, her high heels clacking loudly against the parquet floors. She motioned for me to follow as she led the way to the Town Car.
I was feeling resentful that Georgina hadn’t been punished, too. Sure, I’d started the fight, but she was the one who’d gone for blood. Bob kept shooting me sympathetic glances in the rearview mirror. I sank down in the seat, arms crossed over my chest. Waiting for Marion to say something was wearing at my nerves.
Finally, unable to bear the tense silence a moment longer, I said, “I’m really sorry.”
The thin line of Marion’s lips stretched tauter, but she didn’t respond. She continued gazing out the window, clearly set on ignoring me. As always, she was immaculately dressed in navy and white, her nails painted to match her beige purse.
I sighed and tilted my head back. Well, at least the cops hadn’t shown up. Yet.
When we passed our street, I sat up straight. “We’re not going home?”
Marion made a noise in the back of her throat, but maintained the silent treatment. Bob kept driving. After a few minutes, we passed the limits of Pacific Heights, leaving behind the regal homes that lorded over the rest of the city. Bob turned left, heading downtown, and I frowned. “Where are we going?”
“I should’ve done this years ago,” Marion said quietly, as if to herself. “Years.”
“Years?” I asked, confused. “But I haven’t even known you—”
Her head snapped toward me. “You were always a problem. I didn’t want you, but Richard insisted. His house, his child, his rules. What I wanted was irrelevant. Did he care about my feelings? How it made me look? The things that people said. They thought I couldn’t hear them, but I could. I’ve always known what they were saying about me.”
I stared back at her, spooked. Marion had a deranged look in her eyes. I remembered how she’d stared at me in the hallway a couple of weeks ago, that weird mantra she’d been repeating. Since then, she’d seemed normal, mostly. But maybe she was just good at feigning sanity.
“Almost there, ma’am,” Bob said from the front seat. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Bob, where are we going?” I asked, edging toward the front seat.
His eyes flicked to me; he looked worried. But he didn’t respond.
“Marion, what’s happening?” I said, my voice rising.
“Ask Richard,” she said, as her fingers tapped out an agitated rhythm on her purse strap. “Richard always has all the answers. My opinion doesn’t matter. It never has.”
“What answers?” I demanded.
“Too many questions,” Marion muttered. “You ask too many questions. We need to take care of that.”
A seed of fear sprouted in my gut. I flashed back on Richard’s reaction when I’d grilled him about the trust. Was this some sort of retaliation for that?
The car swept up a wide driveway, coming to a stop in front of a squat, red brick building. I squinted at the sign posted by the entrance. “SF General? Why are we at the hospital?”
Marion had turned away, staring off into the distance. When Bob opened the door, she climbed out and beckoned for me to follow.
She must be dragging me to some charity event. Although it was weird that she wouldn’t make me wait in the car with Bob. My steps slowed as we approached the entrance. A young man in white scrubs held the door open. I hesitated on the threshold, suddenly filled with foreboding.
“Come!” Marion ordered impatiently, as if I were a misbehaving lapdog.
The dread increased as I followed her inside. It was a standard waiting room, with uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, a drooping ficus, and a reception desk behind a glass window. Two other men in white scrubs stood in the center of the room, flanking a goateed man in a tweed suit. Clasping a clipboard to his chest, he smiled and said deferentially, “Mrs. Rochester. I wanted to be here to greet you personally.”
“This is her,” Marion said, waving a hand back without looking in my direction. “What do you need me to sign?”
He handed her the clipboard. She skimmed the contents, then held out her hand for a pen.
“Um, what’s happening here?” I asked warily.
Unless I was mista
ken, the men in white had inched closer, forming a human wall.
No one answered; they acted as if I wasn’t even there.
“Is that all?” Marion asked imperiously.
The goateed man bowed his head, then said, “Of course, if you have a few minutes, we were hoping to discuss our annual fund with you—”
“Send me the prospectus,” she interjected, cutting him off.
Then she turned and headed toward the door without a backward glance.
“Wait!” I said, moving to follow. “Marion, what’s—hey!”
One of the men had grabbed my arm to stop me from leaving. I tried to shake him off, but he clenched it tightly, glaring down at me.
“Stay calm, miss,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t want to have a problem.”
“Get off me!” I protested. “Marion, what’s happening?”
But she was gone, the door already shutting behind her.
“Miss Rochester?”
I turned. The goateed man was bent forward slightly at the waist, regarding me with a wan smile. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Lloyd. Do you know where you are?”
“SF General,” I said, still trying to shake off the creep’s hand. “And so far I’m not loving it.”
“You’re here to get better,” he said, using the sort of tone you’d employ to calm a small child.
“Oh my God,” I said, realization dawning. “Is this a nuthouse?”
Dr. Lloyd frowned at that. He cleared his throat and said, “Don’t worry, Eliza. We’re going to take very good care of you.”
In my worst nightmares, I’d never imagined a place like this. When I thought of asylums, I pictured battered green doors, the air constantly rent by shrieks and babbling.
In reality, the silence was so much worse.
After Marion left, I did go a little crazy. It took all three orderlies to drag me kicking and screaming into the ward. Dr. Lloyd followed at a safe distance, brandishing his clipboard as if it were a shield. I was forcibly escorted into a tiny room where they held me down and injected me with something.
Instantly, numbness seeped through my veins. The tingling sensation spread, wrapping my body in a tight cocoon. My head suddenly weighed a hundred pounds; it was almost impossible to hold it upright.
“There, now. Isn’t that better?” Dr. Lloyd said soothingly, leaning over me. “We’re here to help you, Eliza.”
“I’m not Eliza.” The words came out thick and slurred.
He patted my knee and said, “Why don’t you get some rest. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”
The rest of the day took place underwater. I was dimly aware of being wheeled down a seemingly endless corridor. We stopped in front of a slate gray door with a thin, narrow window above the handle. One of the orderlies opened it, and another wheeled me inside.
A plain room: literally just a mattress on a molded plastic platform. No windows, no other doors. They helped me onto the bed. I lay there stiffly, unable to protest; it felt as if my tongue had swollen to several times the normal size. I pictured it protruding from my mouth, continuing to grow until it lay on top of my chest, flapping there. The thought struck me as funny, but I couldn’t laugh, either. It was like they’d bottled up everything inside me and screwed the stopper shut.
The events of the past few months swirled past. It was like being on a carousel that was spinning too fast: I saw the fortuneteller and Nicholas, the beach and Georgina twirling in front of a mirror. Daniel and the little rubber ball. Every time I tried to latch onto an image, it vanished, and another swept into view.
I must have slept, because when I awoke the lights had dimmed. So either it was nighttime, or they did this to keep people calm.
Mental patients, I told myself. And they think I’m one of them.
At least my mind had cleared somewhat. I cautiously sat up. It took a minute for the room to stop spinning. My head throbbed, and my throat was dry and parched. I was no longer wearing my Hamill uniform; I was in a plain smock and thick cotton socks. Someone had stripped off my clothing. I visualized the orderlies putting their hands all over me and shuddered.
I was dying for some water. I shuffled slowly toward the door, one hand against the wall to steady myself. Once there, I cupped both hands around my eyes and peered through the tiny window; the corridor outside was dim, too, and there was no one in sight. It was so quiet, my breathing sounded abnormally loud. It felt like I was the last person on earth, like I’d been forgotten here, abandoned.
Suddenly consumed by a wave of terror, I rapped on the window with my fist. After a minute of pounding, a young nurse hurried down the corridor wearing scrubs; at the sight of her, my knees nearly gave out with relief.
“Step back from the door, please,” she said in a muffled voice. The room must be soundproofed; that’s why it was so quiet.
An orderly appeared past her shoulder, looming threateningly. Obediently I stepped back, determined to prove my sanity.
The nurse opened the door and stepped inside. She was pretty, with dark hair and light eyes. She handed me two small cups: one held two pills, the other was filled with water.
“Meds,” she said in a business-like tone.
“There’s been a mistake.” My voice came out raspy and harsh. “I’m not crazy.”
She nodded as if expecting that response, and motioned toward the pills. “These will help you sleep.”
“I don’t need to sleep!” As my voice rose, the orderly edged closer. I forced some control into the words as I said, “Please, you have to understand. There’s been a mistake. Marion, the woman who dropped me off? She’s crazy. My name isn’t even Eliza.”
The nurse sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Listen, honey. If you don’t take the pills, we give you a shot instead. Your choice.”
I stared at her, but she just watched me impassively. After a minute, I tilted the dixie cup, dumping the contents into my mouth: the pills tasted chalky. I grimaced, tucking them under my tongue as I sipped the water.
“Open,” she ordered.
I hesitated, then opened my mouth.
“Lift your tongue.” The nurse sounded bored, like this was a task she was forced to repeat far too frequently. Begrudgingly, I lifted my tongue, revealing the pills. She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. “So the shot, then?”
I shook my head and sipped more water. Opened my mouth wide and lolled my tongue defiantly back and forth to show that I’d swallowed them.
“Good,” she said approvingly. “Now get some rest.”
“Could I get some more water?” I pleaded. “I’m so thirsty. And I have to pee.”
The nurse grumbled under her breath, but led me down a corridor. Humiliated, I went to the bathroom while she stood over me, eyes averted. I washed my hands in the sink and splashed water on my face: no mirror, which was probably a good thing; I really didn’t want to see how I looked right now.
I drank three glasses of water, refilling my cup from the faucet. “This is the last bathroom break of the night,” the nurse warned. “I hope you don’t have a small bladder.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, although my legs had gone wobbly again.
The nurse called for the orderly, and the two of them helped me back to bed.
As I drifted off to sleep, I could’ve sworn that someone was huddled beside me, rocking back and forth as she hummed.
“Alma,” I whispered. “Is that you?”
But nobody answered.
“Your mother told me that you’ve been trying to hurt your twin brother. Is that true, Eliza?” Dr. Lloyd asked.
I rolled my eyes. This would almost be funny if it wasn’t so horribly real and terrifying. We were sitting in my room. While it wasn’t padded, it was definitely a cell. When I woke up, they’d forced me to take two more of th
e pills that inflated my tongue and wrapped my brain in wool; then Dr. Lloyd had appeared, with his clipboard and ridiculous questions. “I don’t have a brother.”
He nodded as his pen scratched across a legal pad. “What about sisters?”
“No. Listen, Dr. Lloyd. Marion is the one who’s crazy. Her daughter Eliza is dead. She died last year, when she was five years old.”
Scratch scratch. I wondered what he was writing. I was caught in a weird catch-22; in order to convince him I wasn’t crazy, I’d have to make him believe that everything Marion had told him was a lie. And based on the reception she’d gotten yesterday, he was probably more interested in her checkbook than anything I had to say.
Her checkbook that was filled with my money.
At the thought, a surge of rage punched through the fog, and I clenched my fists. Apparently noticing, Dr. Lloyd’s eyes flicked to the orderly standing guard at the door. I drew a deep breath and forced myself to relax. I had to get out of here. Then I’d deal with Marion. Mr. Briggs was going to get an earful when he got back from vacation.
“You’ve been hearing things?” he asked, scrutinizing me.
“Well, yes,” I acknowledged. “But I found out what that was—”
“Was it voices?”
I shook my head forcefully; telling him about the attic noises, and the balls of light, would only serve to make me a permanent resident here. I had to come up with a way to convince him this was all a mistake. “Listen. Do I look like I could possibly be Marion’s daughter? She and Richard are both white.”
He sat back and put his pen down. The flicker of doubt in his eyes spurred me on. “My name is Janie Mason. I only met the Rochesters a few months ago, when my parents were killed in a helicopter crash in Hawaii. Marion Rochester is not my mother, and she had no right to bring me here.”
Dr. Lloyd tapped the pen against his pad, eyeing me reflectively. He didn’t say a word.
“You can look it up!” I said, desperation in my voice. “Eliza’s death, and the chopper accident. All you have to do is search the Internet. Or call Richard . . .”
Unearthly Things Page 18