by Angel Lawson
All eyes focus on me.
“I’m worried about leaving him alone with Emma.”
Ouch. That one hurt. Emma is my little sister. She means the world to me.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never did.” Lie. I wanted to hurt them. Not my family, but the ghosts following me around all day and night. I wanted to extinguish their voices and demands. God, they were so freaking demanding.
I realize my hands are clenched, and relax.
I have no idea why I thought the fire would eradicate the ghosts. Since when can a fire take out a ghost? The lack of logic is an unfortunate example of how out of control I’d been at the time. My time at Brookhaven has given me the opportunity to reflect on my ability. Reason some of it out. “I just didn’t know how to cope. Now I do.”
Dr. Cross nods. “I do think Connor has made huge strides here. He’s had zero hallucinations while under our care, which leads us to believe they were caused by the recreational drug use, which is more common than you’d think. The anti-anxiety medication and anti-depressants seem to keep his emotions level. If everything goes according to plan, I think he can come home at the end of the 90 days.”
“Just like that, he’ll get to come home?” my mother asks hopefully.
“We’ll have outpatient resources, obviously. Counseling, medication monitoring, and other follow-ups will be necessary, but as far as your safety, I think Connor has himself under control.”
“So you haven’t been hearing the voices anymore?” Mom asks like she needs to hear it from me directly.
“No. None.” I shake my head. This isn’t a lie, but I know there’s more to it than that. It’s not that the ghosts are gone, but that they, like so many other feelings, can’t get through the medicinal cocktail I take twice a day. I can barely feel my fingers right now. “And no fights or trouble in here, either.”
“He’s right,” Dr. Cross agrees. “Connor has become a leader among the kids here. He participates in the therapy sessions, does his work detail without complaint and Paul, the staff member in charge of Connor’s hall, says he has seen him make efforts to reach out to many of the newer patients and help them fit in.”
I smile back at my mother and think about Charlotte and her dare to get weed for the two of us. No way was I letting that girl interfere with my release. Even though I’d give my right nut for a hit. Something to numb the numb.
“So he could come home in about eight weeks?” my dad asks. I can hear the hope behind his guarded tone.
“I think it’s a definite possibility,” Dr. Cross agrees patting me on my back.
Eight weeks. No fights. No hallucinations. No trouble.
I look around the room at the cautiously optimistic faces.
I can do that.
*
Sometimes the Wrong Choice Brings Us to the Right Place
The knowing grin on Marcy’s face implies that she thinks this quote is clever. Our counselor sits in her back-breaking, plastic chair, wearing her light blue cardigan and thick-rimmed glasses. She always sits as if it was the most comfortable chair in the world. They’re not. They’re hard and curved awkwardly across the mid-shoulder blades and my whole body aches for an hour after we leave.
Her opinion may be influenced by the fact she probably goes home each night to a real bed, one without squeaky springs. She has a kitchen full of food and can use the bathroom solo. That and all the other privileges we live without. I try to keep my annoyance at Marcy in a manageable place, but now that my meds had leveled out it’s become harder. Once everyone is seated she looks at each of us eagerly, in hopes someone will volunteer.
To my surprise, Charlotte raises her hand.
Marcy beams, hands clutched in her lap. “Oh Charlotte, thank you for volunteering. Would you like to tell us how you’re transitioning here at Brookhaven?”
I watch this girl out of the corner of my eye as she pushes her lion’s mane of hair over her shoulder, crossing her legs back and forth, preparing to speak. I expect the same smart-mouthed girl carrying trash to the dumpster, but am surprised when Charlotte twists her hands in her lap and says, in the smallest of voices, “Being here is hard. Harder than anything I’ve done before, but,” she glances dramatically around the room. “For the first time in years, I feel safe.”
Marcy nods as though she’d been waiting for Charlotte to say this exact statement. “Feeling safe is one of the most important things we can have. Many people do not realize what a luxury it is to feel completely secure. Would you like to share more?”
“Well,” she starts, still wringing her hands. Her eyes never venture higher than her own lap. “Here there are locks on the doors. At home, anyone can come in. At any time.”
Bethany coughs nervously and Max shoots me a look and raises an eyebrow. What was this girl trying to say? That she felt threatened at home? That she’d been abused? That was the kind of stuff you save for the private sessions. Not group.
Marcy, who is too excited about having a new talker and doesn’t notice the discomfort of the group, gestures for Charlotte to continue. “It’s been hard, always being so much more,” she glances specifically at Vera, “attractive than other girls my age. People tend to take advantage of it. Of me.” In a quiet, tiny voice she adds, “People I’m supposed to trust.”
I waited for Vera to react, but she doesn’t. Let’s get something straight, Vera isn’t unattractive. In fact, she’s got an exotic thing going on that makes her pretty damn appealing. But she’s tough. Scary tough, and it’s clear that Charlotte is as intimidated as the rest of us. I learned from the meanest of the mean girls back home, if you feel threatened, go for the kill first. Charlotte just took a swipe.
She chokes back a sob and Bethany tentatively reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder. I wait, frozen, for the bomb to drop. For her to explode or burst out laughing at the weaker girl next to her. Something, but neither happened. She sits in her hard plastic chair sniffing and rubbing her nose with the end of her sleeve. Marcy hands her a tissue from the ever present box by her chair. Charlotte dabs her cheeks and then her nose but then she lifts her eyes just enough to make contact with my own. She winks.
Holy mother—
This crazy chick continues her gameplay, mustering up sympathy and luring in the whole group to think that under her tough exterior she’s a sad, vulnerable girl. Sure, her story may be true, but that doesn’t take away her evilness.
Vera was at least half right. This girl is definitely evil.
“Thank you for sharing, Charlotte. I know that must have been difficult for you.”
“No.” Charlotte wipes her eyes. “Thank you for giving me somewhere safe to be myself. For the first time in a really long time.”
While I try to keep my lunch down from Charlotte’s nauseating display, Marcy moves on and others take turns rehashing the same crap they bring up every group session. I keep my mouth shut for once, unsure of how to proceed. Charlotte took my shtick and upped it to an extreme level. Only one of us could use it at a time before Marcy picked up on it. If they figured out I’ve been lying, they may extend my time. That is not going to happen.
On the way out the door I grab Charlotte by the hand and whisper, “We need to talk.”
“Whatever,” she laughs, walking out the door with the other girls. Bethany shoots me a threatening look, as though Charlotte needed protecting. I raise my hands and let them pass.
“What was that all about,” Max asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him. “She just gets on my nerves.”
“Or under your skin,” he challenges.
“Not in the good way.”
Max scoffs. “There is no good way with a girl like that.”
I follow Max down the hall, plotting a way to get Charlotte alone.
*
Turns out I don’t need to find a way to get Charlotte alone. She figured it out first.
“Connor.” Paul waves me over, during our free period. “You’re on residence duty
this week right?”
“Yeah.”
“Ms. Baker called. There’s some kind of mess in the bathroom.”
“Are you kidding? Now?”
“Yes, now. Oh,” he says. “You’d better take a mop.”
I curse Paul all the way up to our floor. How does cleaning up crap and other people’s waste make me a better person? Especially me? Manual labor definitely won’t make the ghosts go away. I stop at the janitor’s closet for the mop and bucket but come face to face with Charlotte, standing among the brooms and light bulbs. “What the hell are you doing in there?”
She grabs me by the arm and yanks me inside. “Waiting for you, dumbass. You said you wanted to talk to me.”
Obviously my whispered words weren’t the threat I’d hoped they would be. Is this girl scared of anything? “Yeah, well, I didn’t appreciate you pulling out the waterworks today during group. I’m the one that’s making progress in there, everyone else is supposed to make me look good.”
She laughs. “You’re joking, right? You’re not the boss around here, at least not of me.”
I’m about to tell her to shut it, but she reaches into the top of her shirt and feels around. I can’t help but stare. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any kind of access to a pair of boobs.
After a second she pulls out a sloppily made joint, followed by a lighter, and catches my eye. Busted.
“Like what you see?”
I refuse to respond. Verbally, that is. My traitorous eyes will not stop looking at her chest.
“Yeah, you act all high and mighty but you’re a perv just like the rest.”
“Where’d you get that?” I croak.
Charlotte shrugs. “I have my ways.”
Mesmerized, I watched her lick her lips and place the joint between them. She offers me, the fire-starter, the lighter in her outstretched palm. I adjust the safety lever and the flame sparks between us. Charlotte closes her eyes and inhales before handing it to me.
“I can’t,” I tell her, despite desperately wanting to get high. “I’m out of here in less than two months and if they find out, I’m screwed.”
She doesn’t care, leaning against the supply room door. She returns the joint to her mouth and takes another hit. Her shoulders instantly relax. Surrounded by the haze of smoke, Charlotte’s features soften, and without the perma-scowl she’s prettier than before. I hate the fact I find her attractive, because that line of thinking can only lead to more trouble.
“What did you do to get this?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.
“One of the orderlies in the medical center. We hit it off when that bitch-Vera assaulted me a couple weeks ago.”
“Hit it off?”
She licks her lips and inhales once more. Her eyes pulse, dilating, and she reaches for the back of my neck, her fingers trailing over fuzzy shaved hair. Pulling me close, she pushes her lips against mine, exhaling a warm breath of smoke into my mouth.
“Dammit,” I say, pushing her off. “I said no.”
She laughs. “Yeah, we all know ‘no’ is subjective right? I mean, I could tell you really wanted it.”
She pointedly looks down at my crotch.
Dammit.
I’m in the middle of squashing my hormones when she offers me the joint. This time I take it and stub it out on the wall.
“Hey! You have no idea what that cost me.”
I look her up and down. “I don’t want to know.”
“I didn’t peg you for a chicken.”
I grab her by the arm. “I’m serious. I’m not letting you drag me into whatever craziness you have going on.”
She snatches the remainder of the joint and stashes it on the shelf behind her. “I wasn’t lying before. In group.” I must have looked skeptical because she adds, “I know you think I was making it up for attention or ass-kissing points, but I wasn’t.”
“I don’t care if you were making it up or not, but that blubbering cheese fest today will only go so far. Marcy may be lame but she’s not an idiot. You dumped too much too fast. It’s taken me months to work up to cooperative and emotional and I’m not willing to let you mess it up by going full Oprah your second day,” I seethe, pissed I can still feel the memory of the pressure of her lips on mine and the taste of weed on my tongue.
“Why do you think I’d do that?”
I pick up the joint up off the shelf holding cleaners and supplies. Lifting it to her face I say, “This is why. If you want to get high and break the rules—fine, but don’t drag me into it. Oh and keep your hands and your mouth to yourself. Not interested.” I drop the joint and lighter back down the front of her shirt and grab a mop, leaving her in the closet alone.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when I find the bathroom clean and orderly. She’d managed to manipulate Paul into sending me up here, which meant he knew I was meeting her, and if she gets caught I’m going down, too. I can’t help but wonder what she did to get him and the orderly downstairs to bend the rules.
Running my hand over my face, I throw the mop against the wall. It bounces off and falls to the floor with a clatter. If I’m going to survive the next eight weeks at Brookhaven and get home, I’m going to have to survive Charlotte first.
*
“So what’s up your ass this afternoon?”
I shoot Vera a glare. “What are you talking about?”
“You look constipated. There’s a line between your eyes. It makes you look deranged.” She points at my eyes with a wobbly finger. We’re jogging around the fence line. One of three approved activities for our required activity period. Basketball, running, or aerobics. Vera and I both picked running the first week we got here and at some point became workout partners—kind of.
“If I tell you, you can’t say anything to anyone, got it?”
“Sure. Who am I going to tell?”
True. Vera doesn’t have a lot of friends in here. I take a deep breath and say, “It’s that girl, Charlotte. She’s sort of messing with my head.”
“What?” She swings her dark eyes at me. “I told you to stay away from her. Specifically told you.”
“I know and I’m trying to. She…well she’s a manipulator. Totally tricked me into meeting her alone earlier today.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean alone?”
“Like, in the supply closet alone.”
She stops and shoves her finger down her throat, mimicking gagging.
I rest my hands on my hips and catch my breath. “Are you done?”
“Are you?”
We resume jogging, passing one of two security check points. I wave to the guard and keep running. “Look nothing happened. Not really, but she makes me nervous. I am very close to getting out of here and for some reason she’s developed a fascination with harassing me.”
“Say something to Paul or one of the staff.”
I shake my head. “No good. She’s working on them too.”
Vera mutters something under her breath.
“What did you say?”
“Look, I told you she’s no good. Trouble.”
Two crows fly overhead and land in the middle of the field. Vera spots them and shudders.
“What? Scared of birds?”
“Not birds exactly but crows. They carry a lot of mojo you know.”
“Good or bad?” I laugh. This girl is so weird.
“Does it matter?” She makes a face at my laughter. “Crows are harbingers of death. I’ve been seeing that one for a couple of days.”
“That one? How do you know the difference?” But her statement makes me think about the one perched on the sill of Dr. Cross’ window.
She doesn’t answer my question but says, “Mark my words. That crow is here for somebody, about something. Either wants to warn someone or carry someone over. I can’t quite figure it out.” She rubs her temples. “The drugs make it all a little fuzzy.”
A pinch in my stomach makes me slow and ask, “Uh, make what fuzzy?”
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“Nothing.”
“Okay,” I we slow as we’ve reached the end of our mile run and head to the water cooler. “Can you tell me what you mean by ‘carry someone over’?”
She fills her paper cup with water and gives me a wary look.
“I’m serious. I’d really like to know,” I say, sort of understanding her hesitancy.
“Walk with me.” I follow her at a slower pace around the field. “First you have to understand that my family is deeply religious and everything I’m going to tell you goes against what I was raised to believe.”
“Okay.”
“So as crazy as it sounds, my family traditionally practiced Brujeria.”
“What’s that?”
“A form of religion—paganism, I guess. This to me wasn’t that weird until my mother married a Pentecostal minister and went off the deep end with Jesus and turned into a submissive, skirt wearing, praying all the time, Stepford wife. Basically I’ve got crazy running in all sides of the family tree.”
I smile at her bluntness. In a place like this, where everyone is manipulating all the time and hiding things, it’s refreshing. “Sounds like an intense way to grow up.”
“Oppressive is the only way to describe it; you can take the witch out of the coven, but you can’t take the witch out of a witch.”
“So you’re a witch,” I say, not sure how to feel about this. Again, we’re walking the grounds of a mental hospital. Anything Vera tells me falls under this warning, but who am I to question her sanity?
“Runs in my blood, I guess. No amount of evangelical church could beat it out of me,” she gives me look, “literally.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, they’re probably neck deep in a snake pit right now, yet I’m the crazy one.” She smacks a bug off her neck. “I was actually pretty into the whole Jesus thing myself but when I turned eleven things started changing for me. What I thought was the Holy Spirit was really the Goddess waking up. My parents sent me to my aunt’s house while they went to a week-long revival and it all clicked.”
“What happened?”
“It was mostly just a feeling—like I said, the power of the Goddess rising in me. My senses heightened. Normal things like,” she pointed to the crow patiently standing on the grass, “birds and people read differently than before. A bird isn’t always just a bird and a bratty rich girl’s motivations are sometimes pretty easy to read.”