TWELVE
(IS RECKLESS)
I turned seventeen on the hottest day of August, a day reeking of pine sap and screaming with cicadas, while the sun seared the black rocks to charcoal. I came back from my walk around the courtyard red-faced and limp with sweat, to find that both my parents had come to see me. I left them waiting while I took a shower.
“You’re . . . looking well,” said my mother, when I came in. I’d sleeked my damp hair back into a ponytail, and put on a fresh T-shirt and the only pair of jeans I owned that still fit.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He’ll be back in a minute. He has to . . . arrange something with one of the nurses.”
Oh, no. Not a lighted birthday cake and the staff all gathered around singing. On his own my father would never dream of humiliating me that way, but with my mother, anything was possible.
“In the meantime,” my mother said, “why don’t we open your other presents? There’s one here from Melissa—”
Who hadn’t come to see me again, despite her promises. I took the package and dropped it beside me unopened.
“And one from Chris, and one from your father and me.” She handed them over and sat back, smiling nervously.
I unwrapped the smallest present first, to find a wooden puck with my initials carved into it. It had been sanded as smooth as an impatient eleven-year-old could make it, and stained to a glossy finish. I ran my fingers over it, and tasted a slow spiral of caramel. “Thank Chris for me,” I said. “Tell him I really like it.”
The other present turned out to be a sweater—soft, feminine, and very November, which made my teeth clench. What was my mother trying to tell me? That by the time winter came, I’d still be locked up here where I belonged? But I’d barely formed that thought when I saw the book of piano music lying in the bottom of the box. If I’d thought the first part of the gift was cruel . . .
My father cleared his throat. “Suzanne? We’re ready.”
“Come,” my mother said, getting up and beckoning me after her. I followed her out of the lounge and down the hallway to the arts therapy room, where Jennifer joined us with the key. She unlocked the door, flicked on the light—
And there it was. My keyboard, set up and waiting for me.
After I’d gabbled thanks and blown my nose and hugged both my parents as hard as either of them would let me, they said good-bye and Jennifer went back to her duties—though not before reminding me to keep the door open while I was practicing and to lock it behind me the moment I was done. I assured her I’d be careful, but the moment she was gone I switched off the lights and eased the door half-shut. If I kept the room dark and the volume low, I might be able to play without anyone interrupting.
Picking my way around scattered easels, drama props, and cheap instruments, I sat down on the piano bench and poised my hands above the keys, summoning up the memory of my last composition. Melody came first, icy-bright as sherbet; then the tropical hues of harmony, and the dusky tones of the bass clef. Louder notes projected themselves at the front of my mental stage, while softer ones lingered in the background. Holding the musical picture in my mind, I lowered my hands and began.
My fingers were clumsy from lack of practice, and at first they kept slipping off the keys, spoiling the symmetry of the piece with random blotches of color. But after a few minutes my muscles warmed up and the song began to flow, notes leaping out of the keyboard and splashing luminous across the air. Confidence returning, I started to improvise—a twist of syncopation here, a shower of arpeggios there—working my way from one end of the keyboard to the other in the sheer delight of seeing the notes again. At last I shifted into a minor key and slowed down, letting my fingers speak of all the emptiness I’d been feeling, the yearning for freedom and home.
Abandoned to the passion of music, eyes closed and body loose, I’d lost all sense of time when an uncomfortable awareness crept over me that I was no longer alone. Someone had slipped in the door while I was playing, and stood there watching me for . . . how long? I let my fingers fall from the keys, feeling fuchsia all over.
“Please don’t stop,” said Faraday. His voice sounded uncommonly hoarse. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, it’s okay.” I rubbed my damp hands against my thighs. “Is it four o’clock already?”
Faraday moved closer, touching the A-flat key so gently it didn’t make a sound. “When did this arrive?” he asked.
“Just today. My parents brought it, when they came.”
“Well, good,” he said. “Maybe we can use it in our next session, when we talk about the way you perceive music.”
“Is that how you convinced Dr. Minta to let me have it?”
Faraday didn’t answer, but he stiffened, and I knew my reckless shot had gone home. “I thought it must be you,” I said. “I couldn’t imagine how else my father could have got permission to bring my keyboard here. Especially after I turned Dr. Minta’s offer down.”
“He made you an offer?”
“Sort of. He suggested I set up the keyboard in his office. So he could watch me play.” Even now, the idea made me shudder. “I can’t believe you got him to agree to this.”
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
“I didn’t talk to Dr. Minta. I talked to Marilyn. She suggested the arts therapy room would be the safest place to put it, I assured her I’d take responsibility if there were any difficulties or objections, then she called your father and . . . here we are.”
I was dumbstruck. He’d actually done that? Gone behind Dr. Minta’s back and put his own study in jeopardy, just for me?
“But don’t let me keep you from playing,” Faraday said. “We can have our meeting tomorrow. Happy birthday, Alison.” He turned to leave.
I caught his hand.
Faraday went still. His fingers tensed, but he didn’t pull away.
“Sit down,” I said softly. “I want to play something for you.”
. . .
I drifted into the cafeteria that evening on a current of pure bliss, glowing with the exultation of making music. Not to mention the memory of Faraday sitting beside me on the piano bench, so close I could feel the heat of his body and his breath stirring my hair as I played, listening to a song I’d composed that very moment, just for him.
I hadn’t told him that, of course. When the music stopped, I’d been afraid even to look at him, sure that he could hear my rapid heartbeat as clearly as I could see his steady teal-green one. When he’d slid away from me and gotten up, the wanting inside me had ached so hot that I’d had to stifle a whimper. Inwardly I’d berated myself, not just for feeling more than I should, but for coming so close to showing it.
And then Faraday had put an arm around my shoulders and said in that low, delicious voice of his, “Thank you, Alison.”
Even if I hadn’t been three-quarters in love with him already, that would have been enough to tip me over the edge. The sensible part of me had any number of things to say about what a bad idea this was—he was a researcher and I was his test subject, he’d be going back to South Africa in a few more weeks, and for all I knew he might not think of me in a romantic way at all—but for once, I wasn’t listening. Because the excitement of being close to him had sliced through all the fog and fatigue that hazed my brain, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt fantastic.
When I’d filled up my supper tray and carried it to my usual seat, I found more birthday gifts waiting for me: a chocolate cupcake from the nurses, a small package of gourmet jelly beans from Dr. Minta, and a piece of white paper folded into quarters. I helped myself to a couple of jelly beans before opening the letter. It consisted of one line, in a familiar uneven scrawl:
I saw you with him today. Does Dr. Mental know?
The bottom dropped out of my stomach, and the candy in my mouth turned sour. I crumpled up the paper and shoved it into my pocket, but I couldn’t erase those taunting words from my mind.
What had Kirk seen when he glanced in the door? The two of us sharing the piano bench? The way Faraday had hugged me, however briefly, at the end? Or had just spotting us alone together in a barely lighted room been enough?
Sick as I felt, I forced myself to finish the rest of my meal and walk out of the cafeteria as though nothing had happened. But even though Micheline managed to go to bed quietly for once, I did not sleep well that night.
. . .
“Alison, I’d like you to come in for a moment, please.”
Dr. Minta sounded even more serious than usual, and his face held no hint of a smile. Apprehension curdling inside me, I followed him into his office and sat down in the morning light.
“I’m going to come straight to the point here,” he began as he pulled his chair around to face mine. “I’m beginning to be a little concerned about your relationship with Dr. Faraday.”
Don’t panic
, I reminded myself. “What about it?” I asked.
“I’ve noticed that you’ve become quite friendly with him, and he with you. It’s also come to my attention that he’s been visiting you outside of your regular testing sessions.”
“He only did that once,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “To make sure I was okay, after . . . what happened with the fire.”
Dr. Minta studied me, his expression skeptical. Then he said, “But you have become attached to him. Isn’t that so?”
Deep breaths, Alison
. “I like Dr. Faraday,” I said. “He’s been kind to me, and he’s taught me a lot about how my brain works. But . . .” I braced myself, knowing the next two words were going to taste terrible. “That’s all.”
Dr. Minta’s mouth flattened. “Alison, I don’t think you’re telling me the truth. Or perhaps it would be fairer to say, I don’t think you’re being honest with
yourself
.”
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s not unusual for patients to develop strong feelings toward their therapists,” Dr. Minta went on, “or even to fall in love with them. An experienced psychologist would be aware of the danger and make sure to keep proper boundaries in place, but Dr. Faraday is young, and I’m afraid that in your case he may have been . . . unwise.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Alison, you were seen together in the arts therapy room, with the lights off. Do I have to go any further?”
If I hadn’t known this was coming, I might have lost my nerve and confessed everything. But thanks to Kirk’s spiteful little note, I knew exactly where Dr. Minta was getting his information. And if it was a case of Kirk’s word against mine . . .
“My parents brought my keyboard yesterday, as part of my birthday present,” I said. I was pretty sure he knew that already, and he probably wasn’t too pleased about it either, but I wanted to make my story sound as innocent and aboveboard as I could. “I was practicing, and Dr. Faraday heard it and came in. He sat down, we talked about music for a while, and then he left again. The lights were dimmed because I wanted to practice in private, but the door was open. I don’t see the problem.”
Dr. Minta sat back, and I could see that my confidence had unsettled him. “Well, if you say that nothing inappropriate has taken place between you and Dr. Faraday, then I’ll take your word for it. But I strongly feel it would be best for you to keep your interactions with him on a professional level. And to stick to your regular meeting place and times from now on.”
He didn’t say
or else
, but he might as well have. And I knew that if I’d won this round, it was only because Dr. Minta trusted Kirk’s word even less than he trusted mine.
“Do you hear me, Alison?” persisted Dr. Minta.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I hear you.”
. . .
I’d thought Kirk would be disappointed when he found out his attempt to get me and Faraday in trouble had failed. But as he walked into group therapy the next afternoon, he was practically scintillating with energy. When Sharon prompted him to talk he fired out syllables like popcorn, rattling on about how
some
people liked to be judgmental and look down on him when he screwed up, but he didn’t care because all that mattered was staying real and being true to himself. Unlike some other people who acted like they had it all together, but were really just pseudos who’d get what they deserved in the end.
I’d heard Kirk go off like this before, so I didn’t pay much attention to the words. What bothered me more was the triumphant glint in his eye. Why was he so pleased with himself all of a sudden? Did he know something that I didn’t?
I tried to tell myself it was just the drugs making me paranoid, and that nothing would come of it. But when Faraday showed up half an hour earlier than usual and pulled me out of yoga class to talk to him, I knew with icy certainty that my instincts had been right.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“We have to hurry,” he said, taking my elbow and steering me down the corridor to the conference room. Once we were inside, he shut the door, took me by both shoulders and looked straight into my face. “Alison, do you trust me?”
Violet should always be tranquil and self-assured, but what I saw in Faraday’s eyes at that moment looked disturbingly like panic. “I—yes,” I said. “Of course.”
“Then listen.” His hands framed my face, smoothed the hair back from my temples. “You’re not insane. You’re not a murderer. And what you saw happen to Tori was real. Don’t let anyone make you forget that.”
Tremors ran all over my body, and my insides knotted. I wanted to beg him to tell me what was going on, but I already knew the worst: he was going away, and I’d never see him again. “Faraday—”
He leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “If I could have told you . . . if only there’d been more time . . .”
The door banged open, and the two of us leaped apart. Dr. Minta walked in, with a security guard and one of the larger male aides close behind. “Excuse me, Alison,” he said, “but I’m afraid this conversation is over. Mr. Faraday has an appointment with me.”
. . .
Nobody would tell me what was happening. Was Dr. Minta upset that Faraday had gone behind his back to get me my keyboard? Or was it something else—something worse? I tried to wait outside Dr. Minta’s office, but Jennifer shooed me away. Then I sat down in the lounge, where I could keep an eye on the main doors and hopefully catch Faraday before he left again. Time slowed to a drip, seconds swelling into minutes. No one came.
