Frost (20 page)

Chapter 33

D
ESPITE THE COLD PANIC
in my chest and the flashes of heat on my skin, somehow I made it through the assembly. The walk home blurred by as I stared at my feet and told myself that everything was under control, that Celeste wouldn’t tell David. I wasn’t doing anything wrong by having medications, of course, but I didn’t trust that he’d understand my explanation—especially not if he asked where I got them all from.

Back at the dorm, I snagged Cubby off the windowsill and a plastic bag out of the trash can—appropriately one from Barcroft Drugs. I opened Cubby and let the small baggies of pills tumble into the bigger bag, tied the handles in a knot with shaking hands, then stashed it in the closet, snug between the foam mattress and the wall. If Celeste did tell, I could at least make sure she didn’t have any evidence. Sweat trickled down my spine; chills ran through me. A sharp pain stabbed at my temples and sent my brain spinning.

I shut the closet door and locked it from the inside, curled up in the corner, and wrapped my arms around myself, not sure if I was trembling from nerves or from cold.
Should I take a pill?
I wondered. No. This wasn’t that big a deal. Everything was fine. Being inside here, quiet and safe, was enough. My headache and chills didn’t lessen, but, slowly, I did feel calmer. As if warm milk had been infused into my veins.

If I could stay in here all the time, I wouldn’t need any pills.

Being out of panic mode, though, didn’t mean my worry was erased. Certainly not about Celeste’s bruises. I found it hard to believe that she wouldn’t tell David if she thought she had a blood disorder. As much as she fought against it, I still knew she loved to have as much of his attention as possible. Why wouldn’t she want him to know she might be sick?

And even if she did have some condition that made her bruise easily, would the bruises be so prominent that they freaked out Nicole? Was any of this related to Celeste’s broken leg? Or her burn? Maybe she was hurting herself on purpose, like she used to cut, and that’s why she didn’t want David to know. I felt around the mattress until I found Cubby, then held her in both hands and wished for her wisdom. If Celeste was hurting herself, I’d have to do something.

Or is someone else doing it to her?

A possibility, of course. One almost more disturbing than the alternatives. But Whip wasn’t there when she broke her leg, and who else—

Don’t you know?

An idea was scrabbling to get in my brain. I didn’t want it.

Someone who needs her to feel vulnerable. So he can take care of her.

Nausea gripped my body. I threw Cubby away from me and pressed into the corner, away from my thoughts and her voice. How could I have even let myself think that? Where had that come from? Still, as I pressed back and tried to shut out more words, they came again.

You won’t let yourself think it; it feels too true.

My gut surged upward. I was actually going to be sick. One hand covered my mouth, the other fumbled for the slide lock.

I made it to the toilet just in time. The tile floor pressed rocklike and cold under my knees. A convulsive wave ripped through me. I grasped at the edges of the seat and heaved. Acid burned a path through my throat. This happened over and over, until the chilly floor held my empty, outer shell as I shook and cried.

Chapter 34

I
ALTERNATED BETWEEN HUNCHING
over the toilet, sleeping on the inhospitable but convenient tiles, and curling up in the closet, shivering, sweating, drifting off into half sleeps, feeling so weak I couldn’t even reach up to lock the door. My limbs were glued to the ground until a subtle movement in my gut gave me the adrenaline to somehow make it to the bathroom for the next round. My head pounded and I imagined a construction worker slamming his hammer into it, over and over.

I think David called. I think I told him not to come by. Celeste offered to help when she heard me puking, but I told her to leave me alone. What could they have done, anyway?

After a spell in the bathroom sometime on Saturday, I dragged myself on hands and sore knees into the hall and back into my room. I couldn’t even walk.

“Leen? Are you okay?”

My neck ached as I moved my heavy head to look at the shadowy figure sitting on my bed. Viv.

“Mm.” A bleat was all I could manage. My throat screamed. My mouth was dry as salt. Even my lips hurt.

She materialized next to me, kneeling, touching my hair. “I heard you when I was coming in. How long have you been sick?”

“Mm.”

The cool, soft skin of the back of her hand rested on my forehead.

“You’re burning. We’ve got to go to the infirmary. Can you make it?”

“Mm.”

“Can you stand up?”

An arm wrapped around me. I pressed into the floor.

Light slipped away.

In the dark, my mother came. Ice slid down my neck. I shivered. “Here,” my mother said. The blanket was too heavy, too hot. Where was Cubby? A rumble beneath me jostled my bones. Like driving on a cobblestone street. White light split open my head. My mother stood in the beam, holding Cubby.

“Don’t take her,” I said.

“I’m here,” my mother said. “You don’t need it.” She moved Cubby behind her back.

“You’re always taking things from me.”

She brought her hands in front again. Cubby was gone. Disappeared. “Don’t you see?” she said.

I tried to reach. To find, to touch her. The light flickered off.

I spent days in the infirmary, recovering from the virus and severe dehydration. It took a while before I was able to eat even a cracker without bringing it back up. My head ached all the time. I’d imagined my mother’s presence, of course. But even though the dream hadn’t been a good one, I wanted her so badly that I called her several times. I couldn’t ever talk long, and later I couldn’t even remember the conversations, but in my weakened state even hearing her say my name helped. I knew I was acting like a baby. That’s what I felt like.

Complicated, confusing thoughts unraveled as I grew stronger, became more coherent. It comforted me to know that I had been sick physically, when I’d come up with the suspicion that David was hurting Celeste. When my mind felt clearer—
cleaner
—I knew that wasn’t true.
Couldn’t
be true. Usually, the thoughts I had in Frost House, in the closet, felt like moments of insight. But this time . . . it must have been my sickness talking.

As for Celeste’s bruises, though, I didn’t feel any clearer about whether or not to believe it was a medical condition. And I worried all the time that she had decided to make good on her threat to tell David about me. But whenever David visited or wrote or called, everything seemed fine. In fact, he made a point of visiting twice a day, and bringing me little things he thought would cheer me up—the apartments-for-rent section of the
New York Times
, Life Savers, the miniature metal wrench from an abandoned Clue game. “It made me think of you,” he said. “Miss Fix-it.”

And, best of all, one of his spoons. He said it was a special, chicken-soup spoon. I slept with it under my pillow.

The day they finally deemed me strong enough to go home, I walked back to Frost House slowly and carefully, still getting my sea legs. It was the middle of a class period; campus was eerily still. And even though I’d only been in the infirmary for a few days, the season seemed to have jumped forward. So many more trees were bare than I remembered. Silver trunks stretched up to skinny, naked branches.

Then I saw Frost House. Waiting for me. The evergreen bushes surrounding her made sure she wasn’t too exposed. She looked just as cozy as she had the day I’d moved in. Just as welcoming as the first day I’d seen her, when I knew I had to live there. And, like that day, I could almost hear her calling out to me.

The door to my room was unlocked, not surprisingly. I’d hardly been in a state to lock it when I left. I opened it and for a moment felt as if I was coming upon the room as a stranger. Look at how beautiful it was! Full of light and color and warmth. Not very neat, but still . . . God, I’d missed it.

My plants didn’t seem to be thirsty. Pressing a finger into the soil confirmed they’d been watered recently. And—wait. They’d gotten sun, too. The window shades were all rolled up. My pulse quickened. I’d kept the shades down when I was sick, to block the painful light. Someone had been in here. Someone had been in my room.

What else? What else had been touched?

Cubby. She wasn’t on the windowsill. Where was she? I went into the closet. Shelf—no. Floor—no. Wait. Yes. In the corner. I grabbed her and brought her to me, noticing her lightness, and how nothing inside her shifted with the movement.

Then I remembered.

My hand searched in the crack between mattress and wall. Only when I felt the plastic bag did I release my breath. I brought the pills out into the light of the bedroom to make sure they were all there. As far as I could tell they were. But the paper . . . my sheet of paper was gone.

I knelt down again, feeling all the way around the mattress. Nothing.

I’d look insane if anyone saw that page of notes. Celeste knew about it—she’d seen it that time she’d discovered I kept my meds there. Maybe she took it to show David? He’d seemed fine when he visited. Maybe she was holding on to it. For now. Biding her time.

I sat on the bed and tried to remember the afternoon when I’d gotten sick, but it was all scrambled. My mind had been so messed up. I glanced around the room for clues. A pile of clothes sat on my dresser. Red sweater. Right—the clothes I’d thrown up on that first day. But they were all folded and clean, now.

I was still staring at them when my phone rang. David, wanting to know if I was up to dinner in Commons. His voice sounded normal, happy I was home.

“Not really,” I said. “Could you bring something by when you’re done?”

“I wish I could,” he said. “But I have to rush to a movie screening for English. Do you want me to come visit later? Like nine or so?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll be too tired, though.”

“Do you think you’ll be well enough to come on Sunday?”

“Sunday?”

“My mom’s party. Did you forget?”

“Oh, right,” I said, and then after a pause, “Will Celeste be there?”

“Of course. She and I are going home on Saturday. My mom really wants to meet you.”

“I want to meet her, too,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to go.”

A knock on the door startled me awake. How long had I been asleep? I put on my glasses and saw it was a couple of hours later. My stomach grumbled. The knock came again.

“Come in.”

The open door revealed Viv, standing with a red-and-white-checked cardboard take-out box from Commons in her hands.

“I ran into David at dinner,” she said. “He thought you might appreciate this.” She extended her arms.

“Oh, thanks, Viv.” I sat up straighter in bed.

She crossed the room and handed it to me, along with a fork and napkins. “I wasn’t sure what would agree with your stomach.”

I rested the heavy box on my lap; warmth spread through my thighs. Inside was probably everything Commons had offered tonight: spaghetti, chicken, potatoes, sautéed veggies, bread, cake.

“This is great,” I said. “I’m starving. I just wasn’t up to trekking over there.”

Viv sat down next to me. “I don’t blame you. I can’t believe how sick you were. I was really scared when I found you.”

“Thanks again for helping me.” I tasted a bite of buttery mashed potatoes. So much better than the infirmary food. Actual flavor.

“Viv?” I said. “Not to sound all second grade, or anything, but does this mean we’re okay? Because you know, I’m really, really sorry about Cameron. About the whole thing. More sorry than I could ever say. I feel as awful about it as I have about anything, ever.”

Viv stared at her lap. “I love you, Leen,” she finally said. “And it’s so not Buddhist of me to stay angry. But . . . the thing is, I can’t help getting mad, still, whenever I miss Cam. Not to mention getting mad about what this has done to him. But at the same time, I also miss
you
.”

“I miss you, too,” I said. “So much. And Abby.”

“Abby’s a different story,” she said. “That’s another reason it’ll be hard for us to really be friends, like before. At least for now.”

“Oh.” I took another bite; the chicken tasted like dust.

“But we can try, a bit,” she said. “You know, start slow?”

I nodded.

“So . . .” Viv smoothed out the wrinkles on the quilt next to her. “I watered your plants. And opened the blinds, to give them sun. And washed the puke out of your clothes.”

“It was you? Thanks, Viv. That was so sweet.”

She kept her eyes on the bed, pressed her lips together, and smoothed the quilt over and over as if she’d developed OCD while I’d been gone. “I, uh, I saw something while I was in here,” she said. “I . . . wanted to ask you about it.”

Oh, God. “It’s not as weird as it seems, Viv.” How wasn’t a piece of paper with info about ten or so psychotropic meds not as weird as it seems? Maybe I was studying for a test, in psych? About medications?

“Really?” she said. “What do you do in there?”

“In there?”

“The closet. I saw that whole mattress thing you have set up, the pillows. Do you, like, sleep in there or something?”

The closet. She knew about the closet. My chest tightened. But, then again, she didn’t know about my conversations.

“No, I don’t sleep in there.” I drew crisscrosses in my potatoes and searched my brain for a plausible explanation.

“So, you . . . ?”

“I . . . I meditate.”

Viv raised her eyebrows. “You? Meditate? How come I didn’t know this?”

“Well, it’s not like we’ve been close enough recently for you to notice.” As I spoke, I realized that the dreamlike state I went into in the closet
was
kind of what I imagined meditation to be like. An alternate consciousness. “It’s helped me be less stressed.”

“You do this in a closet?”

“It blocks out the distractions, being in there.”

“Gosh, Leen. I’d never have pictured you meditating. Did you, like, learn it somewhere? Or just figure it out on your own?” There wasn’t an ounce of humor in Viv’s eyes. Just genuine interest.

What would she say if I told her the truth? Viv, of all people, might understand, after all. She was open-minded about these things. She’d probably love the fact that I’d been coming to terms with suppressed feelings. Could I . . . ?

“Well, it’s not really traditional. I have my own way.”

“You should come to the meditation center with me sometime,” she said. “In the Berkshires.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But, there’s . . . there’s something different about . . . about the way—”

One minute, I was speaking, then—my throat. Swollen shut. Hands on my neck—tightening. My hands? I loosened my grip. Still, something pressed my throat closed. No air. No breath. Viv leaned toward me. “Are you okay?” Blood rushed to my face. Eyes watered. No breath.

“Should I do the . . . that thing? Whatever it’s called? Leena?”

Don’t know. Oh my God. Jesus. Can’t breathe. Something’s pressing, pressing . . . I need air need air need—

Air.

A shift. A release. Yes, finally, a cough. Oh, Jesus. Tears swam in my eyes.

The cough hurt. Ripped my esophagus. My chest heaved, sucking in all the air, all the air from the room. Oh. Thank God.

“Leen, are you okay?”

I nodded, still trying to right my breathing. I coughed again. Tasted blood. I wiped the tears that had spilled onto my cheeks.

“What was that?” Viv said. “Did you choke on the food?”

Did I? The spaghetti-chicken-potatoes lay in the box on my lap.

“I guess so.” My voice rasped.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Was I? I could breathe. “Yeah. Sorry for scaring you. I’m fine.”

The food swam into an unappealing swirl of colors and textures. I set the box aside. I was exhausted. “I think I might need to sleep a bit more.”

Viv stood up. “Of course. Let me know if you need anything else. Okay?”

Left alone, I touched a hand to my neck. I lay down and tried to convince my lungs that there was enough air in the room. Something wasn’t right, though. The episode had spurred my nervous system to go into high alert. My breaths were too fast. My lips quivered. My skin crawled.

I needed the closet.

As I shut the door behind me, I realized that as unpleasant as the choking fit had been, it was probably fortuitous—it had stopped me from telling Viv something she really didn’t need to know.