by Krystal Wade
Nurse Vicki marched in with a syringe in hand, straight up to Dr. Underwood’s desk, without paying any attention to Phillip who was now disassembling a side table with a few good kicks. She did step over a book in her path. “Would you like me to administer the medicine, or would you prefer to do it?”
He let her know that he’d take care of it and would call her if there were any issues.
Rose felt like she was in a dream, that this couldn’t all be going on without anyone doing anything. How could either of them concentrate with Phillip tearing the room apart like a wild animal let out of its cage? How could they speak without raising their voices to be heard over the crashing and breaking noises coming from books and tables and photos on the walls?
Phillip stopped his tirade, heaving for breath, and looked hard at Rose, like he knew she was giving up. Like he could hear her thoughts and hated the path they led to: her not believing in him.
“I’m going to do it,” he said, the direction of his gaze slowly making its way to the doctor. “I’m going to beat him the way I did that kid. He wants to pretend I’m not here, fine, but let him pretend not to feel pain.”
Dr. Underwood rose from his seat and stepped around the desk to stand in front of Rose, not a hint of hurry anywhere to be seen.
Phillip stepped forward.
The doctor raised the syringe.
Rose pushed her feet to the floor and scooted her seat back.
The doctor took a step, so did Phillip.
“Now, Rose, don’t fight me.”
“Leave that to me,” Phillip said.
Doctor Underwood grabbed an arm of the chair with one hand and knelt before Rose. “What’s upset you so much?”
“You know,” she replied, noting the step Phillip took out of the corner of her eyes.
Grinning, Underwood said, “But I don’t know. What you told those investigators today, if it were true, I’d know about it. Nothing goes on here without my knowledge.”
“You’re a liar.”
Phillip took another step.
Dr. Underwood removed the cap from the needle. “I’m not, or at least I try not to be. You’ve been under my care while I use methods that have greatly improved your ailments, but you’ll never be healed if you stop taking your medications.”
Blah, blah, blah was all Rose heard. She glanced up at the picture surrounding Dr. Underwood’s head like a teal halo. “Who’s Heather Shepperd to you?”
Phillip froze, one foot in front of the other, like he didn’t want to come forward until he heard the answer to this question.
But Dr. Underwood didn’t respond. He grabbed Rose’s forearm, pressing his thumb into the tender underside and jammed the needle into a vein. “Someone like you. Someone this place should have saved. Someone who should have been around a lot longer. Someone I will not allow you to become like.”
The world around Rose spun out of control. Colors swirled and blended together. The blues and greens in the painting behind her tormentor bled into his skin and dripped down his body as if someone had dumped a bucket of paint onto his head.
“And who am I to you?” she heard Phillip whisper.
Rose strained to hear a response, but the beating of her heart drowned out all other sounds. All she could wonder was Who’s Heather Shepperd? Who’s Heather Shepperd? Over and over until she awoke strapped down to the bed in her room and found Nurse Judy standing over her, eyes worried.
“Water.”
The nurse shook her head and took a step back.
“I’ll have water brought to you after we have a discussion,” Dr. Underwood said. “Is Phillip here this morning?”
No. He was probably locked away somewhere for all the destruction he caused in the man’s office yesterday.
“Didn’t think so. Which is good. I hope you never see him again, and you won’t if you keep up with my treatments. I wanted to discuss your mail with you, ask if you received anything promising. That was the intent of my meeting yesterday evening, though I became quite distracted. After your outburst with the investigators, I couldn’t collect myself.” He sighed, sending his hair flying up like a fan had been turned on beneath it. Today, whatever day it was, he was back to himself. White lab coat, pen settled in his pocket, hair lying just the way it was supposed to, eyes bright and wide and rested. “And for that I apologize.”
Rose narrowed her eyes. She knew his apology meant nothing. What she needed from him was a key so she could get out of this bed and get out of this facility and never look back.
“There was a letter from the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts, was there not?”
Refusing to acknowledge his presence, Rose allowed her gaze to drift around the room. She looked for weapons, for a weakness, for something that would help her. Maybe she could break her rolling table apart and find something in there that would help her pick locks. Though she’d never been very good at that, unless she used a credit card. They worked best when she locked herself out of Megan’s house.
“You don’t have to answer. I’m aware you received this mail, because I watched you open it yesterday. I watched you respond. Though I couldn’t make out what you were talking about with your imaginary friend, I could tell that it upset you, and I’m wondering why.”
“They want to see more of my artwork,” she spat at him.
“And you fear you aren’t good enough?”
“I don’t fear anything. Except maybe you.” She sucked in a deep breath, regretting that she’d opened her mouth, opened her mind to him. Rose knew she was good enough. That’s the one thing she never feared. Years and years of being told your art was incredible and seeing the reaction on people’s faces when they first laid eyes on whatever it was you’d created . . . that helped boost her confidence. Losing art competitions only made her work harder, opened her eyes to new techniques. They didn’t make her feel like she wasn’t good enough. Not drawing anything for over a year should have scared her, but even that didn’t. The only thing that frightened her was that she hadn’t applied, wasn’t sure she’d ever make it out to go, and that there would be nothing for her there now that her boyfriend had knocked up her best friend.
“And you fear me because . . . ?”
Rose stared at the water stain on the ceiling.
“Because you think your nightmares are real?”
Somehow that stupid spot still looked like Dr. Underwood’s face, like it had been painted up there to taunt whoever was unlucky enough to be placed in this room.
“Have you heard this, Nurse Judy?” he called over his shoulder. “Rose here believes we’re dragging her to Hall HS and strapping her to a chair until she draws whatever some group of trees wants.”
“Ketalar,” Rose said, hoping Judy would hear, would know what it was. “He’s giving me Ketalar. What is it?”
“Sometimes I wonder if I should have told you Phillip wasn’t real sooner. I thought he’d help you, that he’d be the logical part of your brain that would force you to see reason. Unfortunately, he seems to be the most violent, untrusting side of you.”
“No.”
“No?” Underwood’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
A bead of sweat rolled down Rose’s temple, yet she was cold, muscles trembling. A few more doses, and she’d lose herself, become more like the rocking, vacant patients. “He’s the only reason I haven’t given up.”
Dr. Underwood jotted down notes in her chart now. “I see. And you’re telling me that our time together, us talking about your issues, me supporting your art career, none of that mattered?”
“How have you supported my art career?”
Sighing, Dr. Underwood went over to the window and looked out into the lawn. “I’m not positive how you’ll take this, Rose, but I sent in the application for you.”
Why would he do that to her, dangle a carrot in front of her face only to strap her down to a bed and tape her mouth shut? Did he want to cure her fear while also making her angry?
He glanced
over his shoulder and met eyes with Rose, then he stared at the wall, the picture of the girl suspended mid-fall. She still felt it needed too much work to be considered any good, even now, when she should just be worried about five minutes from now. “After I saw what you did with a charcoal and an empty space . . . I don’t want you to become the next art prodigy failed by the system. I took a photo of your drawing and mailed it along with the paperwork.”
“Do my parents know?”
Dr. Underwood turned around and leaned back against the glass, legs crossed at the ankles, hands pressed on the ledge. His eyes were bright red, like he was troubled, or emotional. “No. And I’m sure I could get into quite a bit of trouble if they found out. But this is what you want, correct? And if you say anything, you’ll only be standing in your own way.”
Trapped. He had her trapped. Or was he really trying to help? Did Underwood really intend to let Rose go? Was Phillip really fake? Were the dreams all in her head? If so, what was Ketalar? She couldn’t be sure.
“Have you thought about what you’d like to draw?”
She shook her head. Inspiration wasn’t exactly something a person could find in a place like this. Too much suffering existed within these walls, too much depression. Why was she even following along in this conversation? “Who’s Heather Shepperd to you?”
Frowning, Dr. Underwood lost some of his cool appeal. He uncrossed his ankles and sat up a little straighter. “You asked me that same thing yesterday.”
“And you didn’t answer.”
“You have a tendency to avoid things as well.”
“But I’m in an asylum.”
“Mental Institution.”
“Difference?”
“Yes.” Dr. Underwood left his perch and removed the straps from Rose’s arms and legs. “I’d like you to take a moment to freshen up, then grab your art supplies and meet me in the corridor. I have a suggestion for your next piece.”
Rose took more than a moment. She took as long as she pleased, showering until the skin on her fingers and toes pruned like raisins, combing her hair over and over until it was perfectly straight and hung limply past her shoulders, brushing her teeth three times. Dr. Underwood was not someone who’d earned her respect. If anything, he deserved to wait.
After changing scrubs a couple times, as if one set of white looked better than the other, she marched into the hall and stopped.
Phillip sat at the table with his head in his hands, his whole body shaking.
Instincts told Rose to grab his hand and run. Whatever Dr. Underwood’s idea for her to find inspiration probably involved nightmares and orderlies dressed like living trees. And seeing Phillip break down?
“What happened?” she asked instead of running.
He lifted his head and the expression on his face made Rose gasp for what little breath she could catch. His desperate eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red, the lashes drenched in tears. His cheeks were puffy, and his hair a matted mess. “I can’t leave you. I can’t leave you. Not here. With him.”
“Slow down. What are you talking about?”
“What I did to his office. He called my parents. He’s moving me. Somewhere on lockdown.”
Panic flooded Rose. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t let him be trapped somewhere alone. But they couldn’t escape; they’d never make it over the gate.
Shouting drifted through the walls to Underwood’s office.
“That’s my parents.”
“Let him try to say you’re not real now.” Rose marched toward the door, but Phillip jumped up and blocked her path.
“It’s not worth it. What I did, it only shows I still belong here. He’ll do the same to you.”
“Miss Briar,” Dr. Underwood said, standing in his doorway. “I believe I told you to collect your drawing materials.” He looked pointedly at her empty hands. “Mind doing what you’re told for once?”
Go, Phillip mouthed, then he hugged her like he meant to say goodbye. Like he knew he’d never see her again. Like he knew their lives were over.
Trembling, Rose took a step backward, then another, and another, until she was practically running across the floor to her room. She slammed the door and yanked out the drawers and grabbed the damn supplies that she would not use today no matter what. And then she yanked on the handle and found it locked.
Rose banged on the glass. She pounded her fists against it, but no one came, not even Phillip. He had his head turned toward Rose, and their eyes were locked, but he wasn’t moving. Rose’s heart dropped to her stomach, and she froze with terror. This could be the last time they saw each other. The last time they saw anyone they could talk to.
She beat against the glass, screaming his name, begging him to come to her. Phillip stood up and leaned toward Rose, like he wanted to run to her, but he didn’t; he walked away, down the hall, putting far too much distance between them.
Maybe he didn’t want to upset his parents anymore. Maybe . . . .
He was gone.
Out of Hall A and walking down to God knows where, somewhere Rose couldn’t see.
Being impaled by the wrought-iron fence would have been better than this, better than what she knew was about to come. Without Phillip, without someone to draw her back to reality, Rose was lost.
Truly lost.
22
Rose hated this place. She hated Dr. Underwood. And she wanted him to know it.
She flung her art supplies onto the bed and then began tearing up the room. She pulled out every item of clothing from the dresser and tossed them onto the floor. Then Rose yanked out the drawers and slammed them down on the hardwood. Splinters flew onto her bedspread, slipped under the bed, landed in the bathroom. Not enough. She needed more.
Rose overturned the metal frame of her bed, then decided to pick it up and aim for the window. But the frame was too heavy and the best she could do was lean it on the ledge.
Screaming, she grabbed her pillow and shredded the seams until feathers were flying all around her head.
“Restrain her,” Dr. Underwood shouted.
Rose spun around and shrunk back like a rabid dog backed into a corner. She sneered at the man. “You tried to tell me he wasn’t real, but his parents were here, in your office, shouting at you!”
Dr. Underwood stepped forward with a syringe in his hand, Thomas and Martin and even Nurse Judy flanking him, hands held down and in front of them as if meant to calm her.
Rose looked around for something she could defend herself with. No way would they get one more injection of anything into her blood. No way would they lie to her about what was real. Or force her to draw.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s go in my office and discuss this.”
“No.” She spotted a large splinter of wood from one of the drawers she demolished next to her foot and picked it up. “That’s why you sent me back here, so you could lock me in and force me to watch him leave. So I couldn’t interrupt. Was that your so-called inspiration for me? To ruin me? To ruin him? You’re a monster!”
Nurse Judy pressed a hand to her mouth and couldn’t meet Rose’s eyes anymore.
“And you! I thought I could trust you. How could you let him take Phillip from me?”
Dr. Underwood glanced over his shoulder at the woman, then smiled, a knowing, you’re a fool kind of smile. “She’s an excellent employee, Rose. Nurse Judy would never do anything to harm one of my patients or this institute. I trust her, as my parents before me trusted her.”
A few tears leaked down the woman’s face, like this entire situation was more than she could handle. Rose had to believe that the moments they shared together meant more to Judy than what Dr. Underwood implied, more than just a duty to this facility. Hopefully the woman truly had a duty to the patients and would listen to Rose, take her seriously.
No one else seemed to.
“Who’s Heather Shepperd to you?” Rose pressed, knowing she
wouldn’t get a response. If she could just make some connections in Nurse Judy’s head, maybe she’d figure it out. Maybe she’d help.
“None of your concern, Rose.” Nurse Judy placed a hand on the doctor’s shoulder and leaned a little closer to him, businesslike and yet comfortable. “Why don’t you let me have a moment with her? I believe I can calm her down.”
But Heather Shepperd was Rose’s concern since it seemed their stories were linked together in Dr. Underwood’s head. And Phillip was definitely a concern to Rose. If she didn’t care about herself, she at least had to care for him. Wherever they put him.
Friends look out for each other. Friends fight for each other, the way Megs and Josh had promised to, even though they never did block the entrance to the institute the day Rose was committed. They never picked her up on a road a mile away and drove her off and hid her properly until her eighteenth birthday. Because they weren’t really friends.
Rose couldn’t fail Phillip like that.
Rose just couldn’t, and if she took the shot Underwood carried, she’d have no choice. “I’d like that, Nurse Judy. Please.”
Dr. Underwood shook his head. “I don’t believe that’s a good idea. She’s in a dangerous state of mind.”
“Please. I’ve worked in this facility longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve seen it all.” Nurse Judy kept her hand on his shoulder but met eyes with Rose. Begging her to calm down? Asking for some sort of agreement?
She nodded. Despite wanting to stab Dr. Underwood with the makeshift stake, she could never harm Nurse Judy. She had kids, daughters who participated in school plays and relied on their mother, their mother who spoke highly of them, who wished the world for them, who drove them to every event and encouraged them when they were down.
No. Rose would not hurt her because Nurse Judy was exactly like Mrs. Briar had been.
A mother.
And a good one.
One who might lose her connection one day to her daughters, but she’d never stop fighting to get it back.
Rose had to believe that her mother was fighting. That the reason she hadn’t made a connection was because of Dr. Underwood.