by D. J. Palmer
I woke up at six thirty. I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours. My mind did somersaults all night. Would it work? Could it work? My stomach cramped with worry. I thought about how many ways my mom’s plan could go wrong, and what would happen if we got caught. What would they do with me? They’d bring me back here, that’s what. Nothing would change, except my mom would never be allowed to see me again. Nothing would change, except the judge would rule that I couldn’t be my mom’s daughter anymore. Nothing would change, except that I’d lose my family because there was no way I was ever going to live with my father.
Not after what he’d done.
So what were we risking? Everything.
I dreamt about Dr. Levine in the little bit of sleep I got. He stood outside Charlotte’s Web, staring at me, blame in his eyes. I’m ashamed to admit that I’d wished him dead plenty of times. Maybe wishes really did come true. But the last thing I needed was more guilt to lug around. I felt guilty for being sick, for making my mom suffer, for freaking out about needles. I felt guilty for being alive. But I felt only partially guilty for breaking up my parents’ marriage. Someone else owned a big chunk of that blame.
Someone named Angi.
The day had started like all the others. Breakfast at eight. Group at nine. Individual therapy at ten. It was getting close to lunchtime. Almost noon. If Mom’s plan worked, it would be the last lunch I’d have here.
Thank God for that.
Maybe this place was good for some people, but not for me. I wasn’t crazy when they locked me up here, but I sure as shit was going to go nuts if I stayed much longer. That’s why I agreed to the plan. Mom and I went over it yesterday when she came to visit, but that wasn’t the only thing we talked about.
I couldn’t believe it when she told me she was leaving Dad. I cried. I’m not sure why. He doesn’t deserve her. But I know what he does deserve. Soon as I’m out of here, I’m going to tell Mom all about him. At least I can get one secret off my chest.
I heard all about the meeting with Kelly London and Judge Trainer, so I guess the battle lines have been drawn. It was Mom, Dr. Fisher, and me on one side, and my dad, Dr. Nash, and DCF on the other. They don’t believe that I’m dying. They think I faked it every time I got sick in here—faked the stomach cramps, the blurred vision, the intense pain. But it’s not just the sudden attacks that are killing me. Something is picking away at me bit by bit, going at me slowly, methodically. My little vampire, whatever it is, is living off me, and nobody can see it happening. That’s why I have to go along with Mom’s crazy idea. It’s the only real option we have.
I figured we’d have to get new identities like they do in the movies. Then we’d need to find a doctor who believes us, a doctor who can make me better. But a question tumbled about in my head, whispering to me in the dark, roosting in my gray matter. What if I was leaving with the very person who was making me sick? What if the doctors were right and my mom was all screwed in the head? What if she was the sick one, not me? What if she had me so convinced I was sick that my body was acting the part, taking her cues and turning them into something physical? But those doubts were no match for my desire to get the eff out of here.
At first, I told Mom no, I couldn’t do it. Maybe it was all those unanswered questions that gave me cold feet but, honestly, I think I was just scared half to death. But Mom was smart. She knew I’d be too nervous. That’s why she came at lunchtime yesterday, so we could plan and prepare. She didn’t bother bringing me soup from home, and instead told me to get the hot lunch, so it wouldn’t look out of the ordinary when I did it again today, and also so I could see for myself how her plan would work. I paid real close attention to every detail she pointed out to me. I thought the timing was a bit tricky, but I saw what she was talking about.
There’s no easy way out of here. I couldn’t just slip out during a shift change. The doors to the unit were locked and always guarded. My room check happened every fifteen minutes. I had thought about pulling a fire alarm, trying to make my break in the chaos, but hospitals don’t evacuate. I found out during a fire drill that they use fire doors to keep patients safe without moving them. I honestly couldn’t see a way out of here until Mom came up with one.
And in forty-five minutes, we’d find out if it was a good plan or not.
I was on my bed, distractedly flipping through a magazine, when Mom showed up. She looked gorgeous in her jeans and black knit sweater over a white top. She also looked really tired. I had a feeling she hadn’t slept much either. Mom gave me a big hug. I sank into her embrace. When we broke apart, I checked the time on her phone. Ten minutes before lunch. Today they were serving mac and cheese (again) and salmon (gross), but I wouldn’t be eating. I would be leaving.
I wanted to use Mom’s phone to check Instagram, but I couldn’t do that. In fact, I’d never do that again, because soon I was going to be gone, not just from here, but from everywhere. Meghan Gerard was going to die. She’d be born again as somebody else. She’d have a new name. A new address. A new life.
“You can do this,” Mom whispered in my ear, stroking the back of my head. “I know you can do this, sweetheart. We have no choice, okay?” Mom pulled away so I could look her in the eyes. “We don’t have a choice.”
I nodded, showing her that stiff upper lip I had perfected as a youth soccer player.
“You know where we’re meeting?”
I gave Mom the address that I’d committed to memory.
“You take the first cab you find.” She handed me four twenties. I shoved them into the pocket of my sweatpants. “Pay cash. Don’t talk to the driver after you give him the address,” she said.
I nodded again.
Mom unzipped her tote bag. She took out a fuzzy blanket from home that covered a long navy trench coat I recognized from her closet. She removed both items, tossed them on the bed, and then showed me the empty bag. Using her fingers, Mom pried something loose from the bottom of the tote. She held up the edge of a false bottom for me to see.
“Holy crap,” I said. “You’re like James Bond.”
“Jane Bond,” Mom said with a wink and a smile. “Yesterday, I went to a sewing store and bought some Peltex; cut it to the same dimensions as the bag.”
I held the false bottom in my hand. It was sturdy, nonpliable. I brushed my hand over the dark fabric Mom had fused to the Peltex with a hot iron. “I had to risk seeing your father to get my sewing machine, but I needed the fabric tight. I didn’t want Nash to find it.”
“Did she search your bag?”
“She did. Even checked the pockets of the coat. Since there was nothing else in the bag, I knew she’d have no problem letting me bring you a comfy blanket from home. What harm could a small blanket do?”
Mom smiled wickedly. Nash was always there when Mom came to visit. I didn’t understand all the dynamics, but I knew I was important enough to Dr. Nash for her to keep a close watch over things.
Hidden underneath the false bottom was a small backpack. Mom unzipped it to remove two wigs, one blond and one brown, as well as a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. The blond wig was long like my hair, which would come into use later. The brown wig was short. In less than an hour, the police would be looking for a girl with long blond hair who didn’t wear glasses. They wouldn’t find her. Mom stuffed the coat, the brown wig, and the glasses back into the backpack, which I then slid underneath my bedsheets. Yes, I had bedsheets now. Someone, maybe Nash, had decided I wasn’t a suicide risk.
I jumped when a nurse, not much older than me, poked her head into my bedroom. I shifted position quickly so that I was sitting on the backpack, worried the nurse might see a lump and decide to investigate.
“Hello, Meghan, Mrs. Gerard,” the nurse said, friendly as can be. “Just making a room check. Is everything okay?”
“We’re fine, thank you.” Mom’s harsh tone sent the nurse scurrying away with a frown. After the nurse left, Mom checked her watch for the umpteenth time. “It’s twelve fifteen,”
she said. “Go get your lunch and bring it back here. Hurry, hurry!”
The urgency in her voice sent me darting out into the hall with the other inmates—or what the doctors here called patients. I got in line behind a suicidal girl, another with an eating disorder, and this schizophrenic chick who I think tried to drown her sister in the bathtub. Those three always whispered to each other whenever I passed them in the halls. They didn’t like that I was the floor celebrity. They were jealous the local news was still hot on the Meghan Gerard story—the only kidnap victim who wasn’t actually missing. Soon I wouldn’t have to think about them. I wouldn’t have to think about anybody here.
I listened to Loretta, who must have said a dozen times that the right side of the cart was the mac and cheese, and the left was for the salmon. The mac and cheese side went the fastest, but I got the tray with the fish to keep to the plan. I paid close attention to the cabinet space underneath the cart, which kept growing larger as more trays were taken away. Once all the trays were gone, Loretta would wheel the cart away, only to return an hour later to collect trays from each room. It was an efficient process, but more important, a predictable one.
I brought the food back to my room. The salmon smelled disgusting. Mom put the tray on the side table and removed all the covers. Then, she mashed the salmon with a fork to make it look like I’d eaten some of it. She took a few bites of the mashed potato and peas to enhance the illusion.
“Don’t forget the shower,” Mom said.
“Right,” I said, glad she’d reminded me. My nerves made it hard to keep all the details straight.
Mom checked the time on her phone. Ten minutes past twelve. Five minutes to go.
“How long is the lunch line?” she asked, tension hardening her face.
“Probably almost done by now,” I said. My legs shook like Jell-O.
“Go check,” Mom said.
I poked my head out of my room. There was only a handful of kids waiting for meals. When the last tray was gone, Loretta would be, too. I told Mom she had to hurry. Mom gave me another hug.
“You can do this,” she said, kissing my forehead softly. “You can do it.”
Mom stepped out into the hall. I went to the bed to get the backpack out from under my sheets.
There was no turning back now.
CHAPTER 40
BECKY
There was fire in Becky’s eyes as she stormed down the hall, channeling all the anger and resentment she’d built up since the start of Meghan’s forced confinement. Behind her fierce exterior lurked fear, uncertainty, and doubt in spades. There were holes in her plan—gaping ones, at that—and she’d yet to figure out how to close them. But the other option was even more distressing. If Zach Fisher had done anything, it was to convince Becky that Meghan needed to resume her treatment ASAP.
Yes, it would take time to sort everything out—plug the holes, so to speak—but at least it would happen on her timetable, not the court’s. No plan was perfect, Becky had decided. Even if the publicity would make it impossible to find another doctor to treat Meghan, she could, at a minimum, mix a mito cocktail herself. The ingredients were listed online, and these days there were plenty of sources for buying most any vitamin or supplement. She was confident, though not entirely certain there’d be a way to get a compounding pharmacist to fill in the gaps in her knowledge.
Again, no plan was perfect. But doing nothing was not an option for her or, more important, for Meghan. Every day she’d be locked in here, getting sicker, for months, until she hit the same point of no return that Zach’s son, Will, had reached. Even if the court eventually released Meghan back into her custody, there’d be Carl to contend with. She highly doubted he’d support her taking any kind of supplements, let alone one as complex and pricey as the mito cocktail. The only way to save her daughter, Becky believed with every fiber of her being, was to go at it alone.
Even if alone meant far from perfect.
She came to an abrupt stop in front of Loretta’s food cart, her canvas sneakers squeaking slightly on the linoleum floor.
“May I speak with you a moment?” Becky said in a clipped tone. She folded her arms across her chest, deepening her sour expression.
Loretta, who had a sweet and innocent face, looked utterly confused. She glanced around, perhaps seeking approval before taking direction from the parent of a patient, but the nurses were down the hall.
Nash was nowhere to be seen. She’d already done her duty by searching Becky’s tote bag for contraband. Jill Mendoza, who had to personally approve each of Becky’s visitation requests, had been present while Nash conducted her bag check.
Mendoza had arranged for Becky and Meghan to have lunch together in A Wrinkle in Time, but Becky had put her foot down.
“Could I please, please just have some time alone with my daughter in her room?” Becky had asked Mendoza. “We need privacy to talk about what’s going on between Meghan’s father and me. We’re getting divorced, and it’s very hard on her. She blames herself.”
Mendoza and Nash held a sidebar conversation. Would they let her be alone with Meghan in her bedroom? The entire plan hinged on that happening. While awaiting a decision, Becky focused on the sounds of the hospital floor: the whimpers, grunts, and strange noises Meghan often complained about.
At one level, Becky understood this was a place of healing—sick people really did get better here. But her daughter would not be one of them. Meghan’s illness was something else entirely, something only Zach Fisher understood. Now they’d have to find a new doctor, one like Zach but in California, where they were headed. Nash and Mendoza had pushed Becky toward the ledge, but Kelly London was the real tipping point. That bitch—and Carl. Screw them both, Becky thought.
How had he paid her off? How much had it taken?
Becky had checked their bank accounts but did not see any large cash withdrawals. That did not mean Carl could not have gotten Kelly money some other way. She had her debts, her bills, her obligations, and Carl had corporate accounts he could have pilfered with no way for Becky to check. In retaliation, Becky had pilfered an account on her own—a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal from a joint savings account she hoped Carl would not notice until later. The question was how to get to California, where she and Meghan could hide out with Sabrina for a while, though her sister was unaware she’d soon be harboring a fugitive. Becky knew that law enforcement would look for them there, but presently that concern was nothing more than another hole in a plan that, if given shape, would have the recognizable look of Swiss cheese.
As it was, Sabrina had her hands full with Cora’s final days, or maybe final month. Her mother was being as unpredictable with death as she had been with life. Becky was confident Sabrina would not turn them away—or worse, turn them in—but she was less certain how Meghan would react to leaving her father. She could lie for a time, say it was only temporary but, eventually, the truth would come out. Carl was going to fight for full custody, and his refusal to believe Becky would be a death sentence for their daughter. In time, Becky knew Meghan would come to see that all this was for her own good.
First, they had to get away, and that meant finding a place to hide out until they could get new IDs. There were ways to buy them or fake them, but it would take time to get that done. One thing was for sure: they could not purchase cross-country bus tickets without showing identification—and that would be a big problem once the police issued an Amber Alert.
The hideout was actually the easy part of the equation to solve. Becky had used one of Carl’s corporate credit cards to create an Airbnb account under a false name. Carl’s company often rented places for work crews when they had lengthy jobs to do. The comptroller would pay the Airbnb bill with no idea that it was Becky and Meghan who occupied the residence. To keep the account a secret, she had used a new email address created on the public Wi-Fi at a Starbucks. Good luck to the police with tracing that.
Loretta looked nervous about facing off with the well-kn
own, seemingly volatile mother of the floor’s most notorious patient.
“Yes, Mrs. Gerard?” she stammered, her accent coming on strong.
“I need to see you in Meghan’s room right away. I need to show you what you’re serving my daughter.”
“But … but, Mrs. Gerard, I no make the lunch. I just serve.”
Loretta’s English was far from flawless. Becky guessed she was Brazilian, but where she came from was irrelevant. What mattered was that she came to Meghan’s room. Now.
“You listen to me,” Becky snapped. “I want you to see what you people are trying to feed her.”
Leaning in close, Becky felt no compassion, no shame, no regret for intimidating—really terrifying—this lovely woman who had absolutely nothing to do with Meghan’s saga. But Loretta was a means to an end, and Becky meant to end this nightmare right here, right now.
Spinning on her heels, Becky took a single step before whipping her head back around. “Well, are you coming, or should I call your supervisor?”
Loretta slunk out from behind her cart, shoulders sagging forward as she followed Becky down the hall, leaving her station untended. Meghan’s room was empty, but the bathroom door was closed with the shower running.
Becky took hold of Loretta’s arm, essentially dragging her to the portable table positioned over the bed, where the salmon lunch was laid out. She stabbed at the salmon with the fork.
“Do you call this cooked?” Becky asked.
Loretta leaned forward, peering at the mashed salmon warily, as if the fish might magically reanimate itself to jump at her. “The fish is fine, Mrs. Gerard,” Loretta said calmly. “Lots of people eat it, no problem.”
“No, the fish is not all right,” Becky said sternly.
“You want a different lunch?” Loretta asked. “I get for you in the kitchen.”
“You think I’d trust you to feed her after this?!” Becky’s powerful voice carried. “This food isn’t fit for a dog!” Outside, she heard footsteps approaching.