Or perhaps her soul lived in Number 7 at Schooner Inne. Only her flesh was in this institution. Attendants dressed an empty body in this cotton sweater and khaki pants. Val was trapped forever in a room of crimson and blue that stared into the tides of the mind.
“Half hour’s up,” said the attendant cheerily. He looked pleased to see Val lying on the bed like a dead person. “She’s always like that,” he confided. “We prop her up to take food.”
Christina’s hair separated with horror: the silver and gold standing apart from the brown. The attendant said, “What interesting hair,” and without asking he touched it. She leaped away from him, into the hall.
Val’s doe eyes fixed on the white corner and the white floor.
“Let’s watch TV in the lounge,” said Robbie. The attendant keyed them into the lounge. What a slick, shiny room it was. All its furniture could be scrubbed. There was no personality in it, as if mops and detergents had been used to scour away any trace of humankind. The television was twice the size of most, and the people in the soap opera more life-size than the silent patients in their rooms.
Robbie hissed, “Lie down. Roll over. Hide.”
“What am I, a hound dog?” said Christina.
Robbie kicked her. “The Shevvingtons are here!” he hissed.
Christina lay down, rolled over, and tried to hide behind a couch. But this was not a place where hiding was allowed. No drapes hung to the floor, no skirts surrounded chairs, no doors jutted out. In the corners of the room, video cameras scanned for missing patients.
Robbie ran to the door of the lounge to keep the Shevvingtons from coming in. “Hi, Mrs. Shevvington,” he called out. “I just visited Val. She’s the same as ever. How are you?”
“My goodness, Robbie, you’re in a lively mood today,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “I suppose it’s the thought of finishing seventh grade up in only a few days, isn’t it?” She laughed merrily. No doubt for the benefit of other people listening: a psychiatrist or parents.
I am in a mental institution hiding behind a see-through couch, pretending to be Iris Murch, thought Christina. This really is lunatic. If they see me …
Even underneath the couch was clean. This place was remarkable. Somebody must mop upside down.
The social worker’s floppy voice said, “Well, Robbie, where’s your cousin? We need to be leaving.”
“Cousin?” repeated Mrs. Shevvington. Her voice folded around him like a blanket. “Why, Robbie, who is that? I don’t recall meeting any of your family except your parents.”
Christina drew into a tuck, like Val, whimpering, praying not to be caught.
“I guess she’s still with Val,” said Robbie brightly. “Let’s find her.”
Three pairs of feet passed the lounge door. Mr. Shevvington’s shoes were black and gleaming. Mrs. Shevvington’s were red with heels like stabbing knives. Robbie had on dirty and torn sneakers. Christina’s palm left a sweaty handprint on the linoleum.
In the front hall she heard Mr. O’Neill chatting with the receptionist. She got up and sauntered out, wondering who was watching the cameras and what they thought and what they would do. “Hi, Mr. O’Neill. I’ll wait for you in the car,” she said. He was too nerdy to sense anything strange.
Out in the sunshine, Christina nearly danced across the smooth golf-green grass. I’m free, I’m safe! But that might look crazed. So she walked sedately to the car.
Strewn over the backseat were matches. The tools of an arsonist. The joy of a child insane with the love of fire. “Poor little Christina,” the Shevvingtons would say. “See how she crept into the mental home. A plea, of course. Crying out for help. Saying, lock me up before I set fire to something or hurt somebody! Poor little dear. So demented she can’t even use her real name.”
Christina gathered the matches desperately. There were so many she could hardly hold them in her cupped hands. Stooping, slithering, she rushed among the parked cars to the Shevvingtons’ van.
It was locked.
She could not get rid of the matches.
They would find her — they knew they would — they were on their way. They would bring witnesses — it was just as Val had predicted — it didn’t matter that she knew the plan. They would still win — she would be caught clutching the matches to her heart!
Val had known, Val had said run!
The car next to the Shevvingtons was unlocked. Christina ripped open the back door, threw the matches in, and shoveled them beneath the driver’s seat.
Panting, she leaped back to the social worker’s car, where she lay curled on the backseat, hidden from the windows and eyes of the Institute.
How did the Shevvingtons plan so easily?
What ally did the Shevvingtons have, that Christina did not know about? Was it Michael? Was it Benj? Was it Jonah?
Chapter 7
THE AIR WAS HOT and heavy and full of omens.
Not a leaf stirred. Not a hair on Christina’s head lifted.
The air did not want to be breathed. When Christina filled her lungs, the air objected, lying thick inside her, making her cough.
“An electrical storm coming,” said Jonah uneasily.
They were standing on the top of the cliffs. Rocks above them, rocks below them. The Atlantic was between tides and merely lapped at its boundaries instead of fighting or fleeing them. Seaweed lay like sickness on the surface.
The sky turned strange colors, as if becoming ill.
Christina held her hands up to the heavens.
“Don’t do that,” said Jonah. “You look —”
He broke off. Christina turned to look at him, her eyes huge in her face, her separate colors of hair tangled above her head like —
“Snakes,” said Jonah, shivering. “You look like someone from a Greek myth, like some ancient woman spying on the gods on Olympus.”
Christina laughed. But her laugh, too, was ancient, as if her mind and body had been scooped up by another time, another power.
Jonah tried to talk to her about school, about himself. Christina did not listen to him. She floated at the cliff edge. I’m ready to leave the world, she thought. Where would I be going if I went?
“We’d better go inside,” said Jonah. His nervousness was as palpable as the coming storm. “If lightning strikes, it’ll strike here. We’re higher than anything.”
She would not go. She could imagine herself, outlined against the bruised sky: the long wild skirt, the slender ankles below, the upstretched hands, and the tangled mane of hair. Christina wanted summer people and painters and photographers to see her and immortalize her. She wanted to be strange and different and weird.
“Come in!” cried Jonah.
The sky split open. A sheet of silver sliced into the sea like javelins thrown by angry gods.
Jonah grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the big green doors of Schooner Inne.
“I want to watch the lightning,” whispered Christina. She could feel the electricity in her hair. The electricity came in her own three colors.
Jonah shoved her ahead of him.
“I want to be the lightning!” she cried.
He bundled her in the door. “We’ll watch from the window,” he said, and the sky went crazy. Lightning, rain, and wind burst forth.
Jonah slammed the door behind them.
Christina pressed her palms against the door as if to embrace the weather.
Jonah said shakily, “Chrissie, you’re too much for me. I think maybe when the storm’s over, I’ll just go on home.”
She came down to earth in a hurry. She was just a seventh-grade girl with a boy she liked. “Don’t go, Jonah. I’m sorry I went off with Robbie yesterday instead of you. And you’re wrong to think there’s something between Benj and me. Except Burning Fog. He’s my brother.”
Jonah kept furniture between them like a shield. “You made me think of Anya,” he said. His voice shook. “Remember how she went crazy last winter? That’s how you looked out there, trying to hold
hands with the lightning.”
“Oh, Jonah, I was not. Don’t exaggerate. I just like weather. That’s what it is to be an island girl. You’re one with the weather.”
“But you’re not on the island now,” he said.
“I am always on the island,” said Christina. What made me say that? she wondered. It will scare him more. Why do I want to scare him? She made her eyes glitter to match her lightning-rod hair, and Jonah shivered, and went home.
She was alone in the sea captain’s house, alone in the rooms furnished for the bride who flung herself to the rocks all those years ago. She felt the sea calling her name; felt the lightning clapping its hands — crying — Christina … Christina. …
The syllables of her name shivered through the house, like Jonah leaving. Like leaves falling. Chhhhrissssss … said the house.
“Shhh!” said Christina.
Chhhhrrissssss … said the house.
It was upstairs. She stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up into the dizzying circle of tipping white balconies. Gripping the banister she went up, step by step. “Who’s calling me?” she said loudly.
The carpet muffled her steps.
The emptiness in the house smothered her heartbeat.
Chhhhrrisssss … said the house.
Above her the floor creaked.
“Who’s there?” cried Christina Romney.
Beyond the cupola windows, lightning lit the sky. Thunder crashed. The tide began to change, and the ocean began to sing. From everywhere, from nowhere, the world whispered, Chhhhrrisssss. …
She stood on the second floor.
She ripped open the door to Anya’s room, that room of silver and gray, of fragile lace and airspun gauze.
It was gone.
The room was on fire.
Curls of flame and gleaming angry coals cried her name.
It became my room, thought Christina. I knew it would happen. Val knew it would happen. They have me. A room of fire and islands. I was falling into this room even while Jonah was standing there. I’ll never get out. This is the other world I knew was waiting for me.
Christina … said the voice beyond the walls, behind the fires … Christina … stay here. …
If I can get out of the room, thought Christina, if I can take a step backward, I can save myself.
She tried to breathe, but the air in the house was as thick and smothery as the air outside. She turned. She fell. She crawled toward the stairs, toward the opening — any opening — anything at all. The banisters were white prison bars, the stairway descended … but the voice stayed upstairs.
“Dialing the emergency number?” said Mrs. Shevvington, in a voice as thick as mud. Her heavy hands closed on Christina’s thin shoulders and moved her away from the telephone.
“Fire,” mumbled Christina. “There’s a fire upstairs.”
“Is there?” Mrs. Shevvington’s smile was a crack in the cold, congealed oatmeal of her face. “A fire that you set, Christina? We have your fingerprints, you know,” she said very softly. “On that tin can you put that candle in.” Her voice was air, without form and texture. “The one you like to light in your bedroom.” The voice crawled on Christina’s skin. “The one you took downstairs, and tried to hide behind the geraniums.”
The house had turned silent. No voices anywhere.
Mr. Shevvington stood behind his wife, stiff as a mannequin, his fine tailored suit just hanging there, as if he had stepped out for a while, leaving his flesh behind. His eyes glowed like coals of blue ice.
The hottest fires are blue, not yellow. He’s going to set fire to me, she thought.
“What a wharf rat you are, Christina,” remarked Mrs. Shevvington. “Good for nothing. Destructive behavior whenever you think nobody is looking.”
“There is no fire,” said Mr. Shevvington, and his voice laughed like a little brook in the spring, tumbling over smooth rocks. “Come, Christina. Let’s look.”
He dragged her up the stairs. He said, “You’ve been complaining about your little attic room, Christina. You’ve been telling the children at school that criminals have better housing than you do. If only you had confided in us — why, we would have moved you immediately. But we’re moving you now, Christina.”
He propelled her into room number 8. She tried to get free. He was as strong as Michael. She could not twist loose. She was the kitten, on her way to the vet’s, to be put down.
Where are the boys? thought Christina. Why aren’t they home yet? I need them. I need Benj.
“Michael and Benjamin are both staying at friends’ houses for the night,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “What a shame that you have no friends, Christina. Nobody ever asks you to spend the night.”
She was in Room 8. They were blocking the doorway. She was trapped. Mrs. Shevvington’s thick body and Mr. Shevvington’s striped suit filled the only exit.
Chhhhrisssstina … said the voice beyond the walls. Chhhhrisssstina … it cried from behind the fires … stay here …
“A cold fire?” she said, confused. She stretched out her hands to warm them in front of the flickering flames. But the fire stayed cold and metallic. Behind it was a wall of foggy sea, painted with seawater itself, and a suggestion of an island: a mere whiff of island. Seagulls and twisted pines beckoned. Chhhhrisssstina… said the voice beyond the walls. Chhhhrisssstina … stay here …
“Home,” whispered Mrs. Shevvington. “This is home.”
“Home,” repeated Christina. “This is home.”
Mrs. Shevvington sat on the pretty bed, sinking in the soft mattress. She took Christina in her lap, as so often she had held Dolly. “It’s nice to be home at last, isn’t it, Christina, darling?”
Christina nodded.
“You’ll sleep well here, won’t you Christina, dear?”
Christina nodded.
“Among the fire and islands,” said Mrs. Shevvington, like a lullaby. “The sea keeps count, you know. It wants one of you.”
“Me,” said Christina. “It can have me.” Mrs. Shevvington rocked her and rocked her. “It will,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “It will.”
Chapter 8
IN THE NIGHT, THE sea tried to crumble the foundation of the house.
Down in the cove, down among the rocks, the sea fingered every crevice, washed into every crack. The tide rose, and the sea shouldered its way into the cliff, calling, Chhhrrrrissssssteeeennnaaahh.
She heard it break into the house, she heard it filling the cellar, she heard it lapping up the stairs, calling her name.
A foghorn blew deep and throbbingly out at sea.
Half of her woke up and half of her slid between cracks, like the sea. She did not know where she was. In a boat? On Burning Fog Isle? In her attic bedroom?
She sat up. The room around her slowly came into dark, nightlike focus. It was guest room number 8. She was alone in the house with the voices and the sea and the Shevvingtons.
Wake up all the way, she ordered herself. Or else you’ll wake in the morning and be part of the room … like the girls before you. The room and the Shevvingtons will own you. Like Val in the mental hospital, you’ll be a body for strangers to dress, drug, and prop in front of a television … while you, Christina, drift on a painted sea to a fiery isle. …
She dragged herself out of the drug of fear.
Had it been easier for Val to let herself sift like flour into insanity? Had Val tired of fighting, she thought, just as you have tired of keeping your eyes open?
She had never slept on the second floor before. The house creaked differently; the ocean was louder. But oh, so distinct! So clear! A voice like a solo in a concert.
Chhhrrrrissssssteeennnaaahh … sang the ocean.
The creak, like the sea, came nearer.
The creak gathered rhythm, and volume, and creaked on into guest room number 8.
The door moved.
No, she told herself. It didn’t move. It was open like that before, wasn’t it?
She could a
ctually hear the water in the house. The ocean had come for her. Just as Anya had foretold. The sea, Chrissie, the sea wants one of us. And last night Christina had promised Mrs. Shevvington — it can have me, Mrs. Shevvington!
Something moved behind the door.
Something that breathed and waited and reached.
She could not look; not even she, Christina, granite of the Isle. She closed her eyes while her lungs jerked for air and her skin shivered with fear.
And into the soft fog of the room came the ocean, crying, Chhhrrrrissssssteeennnaaahh; crying, here I am, move over, I’ve come for you.
It came swaying. Crawling.
Christina whimpered, and the tears flowed down her cheeks, and she thought: Tears are saltwater; soon I will be all tears — all saltwater — vanished into the ocean.
It got into the bed with her.
Its fingers closed around her skin.
Christina’s scream of horror pierced the silent night. It cut through the plaster walls and through the cracks of doors and through the white forest of tilting rails on tilting balconies.
The hand of the ocean covered Christina’s mouth and the ocean murmured, “It’s just me. Val. I ran away from the Institute. I’ve been hiding in the room next door. I’ve been calling your name all night, Christina, so you’d come and find me. Instead you’ve gone and screamed, and now the Shevvingtons will come in to see what is the matter and they’ll know I’m here.”
Christina was as flat as one of the sheets on her bed. She thought she would probably never speak again, or think, or stand up. Val added proudly, “I’ve been so clever. I got out of the Institute, and nobody saw me. Even with all their cameras and bed checks and supervisors, nobody saw.”
Christina waited for her scream to bring the Shevvingtons.
But it did not.
She knew they had heard the scream. People in Utah had probably heard the scream. Her hair was damp from the sweat of terror and the pillow damp from the tears of fear. Why had the Shevvingtons not come running?
And then she remembered. These were the Shevvingtons. She was always expecting them to be like regular grown-ups, even after all this time. To protect and to worry. But they never protected. Never worried. No. The Shevvingtons planned and gloated instead.
The Fire Page 5