We'll Never Be Apart (3 page)

“And you'll consider it? Journaling?” Doc asks kindly.

Again I give a vacant nod. My fingers curl around the leather-bound book and I bring it to my chest. I wish I had a picture of Jason. I'd paste it on the inside. Already his image is becoming cloudy.

Doc sits back in his chair. “I'm glad you'll consider it. Now, let's revisit our original topic—why you're here. You've said you don't remember the fire or what happened afterward.” He clears his throat and looks directly at me.

I scrub a hand over my face. Everything during that time runs together like a painting submerged in water. Tubes and wires. Buzzing machines and hazy faces.

Doc looks directly at me. “While you were in the hospital, a lot went on.” He clears his throat. “During that time you were charged.”

Ten invisible fingers wrap around my neck and squeeze. “Charged?”

“Yes. Alice, I'm sorry to tell you that you have been charged with first-degree arson and manslaughter.”

CHAPTER

“A
LICE, DID YOU HEAR WHAT
I
SAID?
” D
OC ASKS.
Worry creases his brow.

“Cellie set the fire,” I say, my hands balled into fists. I stand and push the chair back. It scrapes along the floor.

The doctor reaches out a quick, reassuring hand. “I believe you.” He glances meaningfully at the door, where I know Donny the Mullet waits on the other side, red wristband within reach. It's a veiled threat. And I don't appreciate it. Not at all. “Please, sit back down.”

I sit down on the edge of the seat, my body wound as tight as a bow. My lips are numb and my fingers dig into my palms. “Cellie set the fire,” I bite out. I know I sound like a broken record or some stupid bird that knows only one phrase, but I can't seem to stop saying it.

The doctor's eyes soften with what? Sympathy? Pity? Something I've seen before and don't like. “I understand,” he says. I don't think he does. “But you . . .” He hesitates a moment, searching my face. “You and Cellie have a history of this type of behavior.”

I know what Doc is talking about. Years ago, before the bad blood between Cellie and me, when I was young and foolish and thought I could make her well, I took the blame for a fire she had set. Since that day, we've been lumped together, the pyromaniac twins.

Doc is still talking, but I can process only every other sentence. “The district attorney was very generous in the charges . . . all agree . . . best for you to return to Savage Isle for psychiatric evaluation before the trial . . .”

“Oh my God.” This must be some kind of cosmic joke. Disbelief and utter despair run heavy and icy through my veins. Cellie's really done it this time. She's succeeded. She's brought me down. I'd clap for her if it all wasn't so awful.

“We all have your best interests at heart,” the doctor says.

I still can't focus on his words. All I can focus on are my breaths. Terrified breaths—and the dark trial looming over me. “When?” I ask.

“When what?” He seems taken aback.

“When do I go to trial?”

“It could be months. I don't think we should focus on that, though. I want us to focus on your recovery. You were injured in the fire. We'll wait until you're healed, see if your memory improves.”

A sudden thought occurs to me. “Will Cellie go to trial, too?”

Doc's lips press together and I don't think he's going to answer, but he does. “Yes.”

“Is she here?” I fidget with the pen and journal in my lap.

He glances at his watch and sighs. “We're almost out of time.”

I don't miss his not so subtle evasion. Questions jumble up in my mind. Where is Cellie? Could she be here? Is she undergoing psychiatric evaluation as well? But we're almost out of time, and there's something else I need, something more important. I think of my social worker, Sara, with her kind eyes that remind me of fireplaces and apple pie. “I want to see Sara,” I say, requesting a lifeline.

Doc sets the legal pad aside, leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers together, and breathes in deeply. His voice is steady but not devoid of pity. “Alice, as your attending physician, it is my duty to tell you that you've been involuntarily committed to the Oregon State Mental Health Hospital on Savage Isle to undergo psychiatric evaluation before going to trial. Because this is not your first offense and because you inflicted considerable harm, the judge has decreed a forty-eight-hour no-contact hold. After the forty-eight hours pass, you will be allowed visitors.” He pauses, studies me for a moment, and lowers his voice a decibel. “Is there something else I can do for you?”

He's offering me an olive branch. I'm wary, but I take a tentative hold. I hate asking for favors. It feels like you're trading power. But this is worth it because it's for Jason. “I'd like to attend Jason's funeral.”

“Perhaps that's something we can work toward.”

My grip on the olive branch loosens. I knew it. They always dangle something in front of you. I allow my eyes to frost over. “I see.”

Doc shifts in his chair, looks down at the open file in his lap. “There's something else. I want you to know that your departure revealed certain holes in our security here. Since you've been gone, those holes have been patched.” Is that another threat? It sounds like one to me. “Are we clear?” I nod swiftly. “In that case . . .” Doc shifts in his chair and grabs a little cup from the side table, along with a bigger cup full of water. “Medication time.” He holds them out to me. “They'll help you sleep, Alice. Make the time go faster.”

I take the cups from him and easily toss the pill and water back in one swallow. I open my mouth wide and stick out my tongue.

“Okay, Alice, we'll see each other tomorrow, same time, same place. Group therapy in the morning.”

I say nothing as I walk out the door and shut it behind me.

In the hallway, Donny the Mullet is nowhere in sight. But the mystery boy is. He sits in the chair just outside Doc's office, his legs splayed, elbows resting on them. Big headphones are looped around his neck. A soft beat emanates from them, and he drums his fingers to the rhythm. He looks up and smiles warmly at me. I glance over my shoulder just to make sure there's no one behind me. The hall is empty. It's just the two of us. Something inside me unfurls and reaches out to wrap around him, a stupid child that whispers:
friend?

“Overheard some techs talking about you,” he says. “How the fire starters are back.” He moves his thumb as if sparking an invisible lighter.

I suck in a sharp breath and take a step back. My fingers tense around the journal. Any kindness I felt for him drifts into the sky like a lost balloon. “Don't call me that.”

One side of his mouth curls up.

I shake my head and mutter, “Cocksucker,” as I pass him.

He laughs. “You got a dirty mouth.”

I flip him off and keep walking. Just then, Donny rushes through the hall. Before he can see me, I roll my tongue up into my right lip, spit the white pill out into my palm, and stuff it into my pocket. Behind me, the door to Doc's office opens. “Chase, come on in. We have much to discuss,” Dr. Goodman says.

Donny reaches me, the smell of cigarette smoke clinging lightly to his tech uniform. He expels a breath and seems relieved that he's found me. He motions with his head for me to come, and once again I'm trailing behind him, following his mullet down the harshly lit hallways. We make it to the girls' wing, and he pauses in front of a door. He passes a keycard over a black box, and the door clicks as it unlocks.

“You know the drill,” he says. “Last bed check is at eleven p.m. Breakfast at eight and group therapy after. There's a schedule on the back of your door.” As soon as I'm inside, the door swings quietly shut and I'm bathed in darkness.

The room is sparse. Even though it's dark, I know exactly how it's decorated, with a painting (probably of some serene landscape) that is caulked to the wall (to prevent suicide by art, which may be one of the most poetic ways to go), and twin beds, each with a squeaky metal frame. The bed closest to the window is currently occupied. A shard of moonlight slices through the room, illuminating my roommate's face and bright pink hair. Her arm, which is covered with long, thick white scars, rests on top of her blanket. There's a bathroom in the corner, with a toilet and sink. No shower. The bathroom has a door but no lock. It's an illusion of privacy, and I know in this place there is none. My lavender duffel bag sits on top of a wooden dresser that I'm sure is anchored to the wall. I drop the journal into my bag and fish out my toothpaste. I make my way to the bathroom, but on second thought I twirl back around and retrieve the journal and ballpoint pen.

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth with my finger. It's disgusting and does about an eighth of the job a real toothbrush would do. When I spit and rinse, my mouth still feels dirty. The journal and pen teeter precariously on the sink. I flick on the light, grab them, sink to the floor, and open to a blank page. I write for a few minutes, furiously scribbling until my fingers cramp and the burns on my hand and shoulders itch, almost like something is burrowing beneath the skin.

I rub the back of my head where a headache still lingers. Most of the medication I was given at the first hospital has worn off. I'm feeling more alert, anxious, and a little queasy. The numbness is dissipating, and emotions rip through me like fireworks in the night sky. I think of Cellie and her madness and where it's taken me. In my mind, a red carpet unrolls and all I can see is a future with steel wire mesh framed in windows, a future that was dim before but is even darker now. What little prospects I had left—the hope of going to college, of distancing myself from Cellie—have been extinguished.

All the grief I've tamped down erupts, and I quietly sob. I think of Jason. That I can't remember his last words hurts worse than any physical wound. Were they a plea? Did he quietly beg for his life and mine? Or were they soft and sweet—a final goodbye? Or maybe a promise to meet on the other side?

I let myself cry until there's nothing left but hiccups. I stand and brush myself off. A steel rod settles in my spine. It's then I know what I have to do, for Jason (and for myself). I say the vow aloud, just to make it real. “I'm coming for you, Cellie. Come hell or high water. I'm going to find you. And when I do, I'm going to kill you.”

I leave the bathroom and slip out of my scrubs. As I fold them, the white pill falls to the ground. Crying has made the headache worse, and now it's settled into a dull, aching throb. Leaning over, I pick up the pill and study it in the moonlight. I need a few hours without grief and guilt. I pop the pill into my mouth and swallow it dry. I try to keep the noise to a minimum as I climb into the bed. I lay back and wait for the pill to do its work, make the blue turn black. Tonight I'll allow myself to forget. And tomorrow, well, tomorrow is a new day.

In the hazy twilight of my sleep, I replay the day's events. Something that boy Chase said sticks out in my mind.
Overheard some techs talking about you, how the fire starters are back.
Fire starters.
He said
fire starters,
as in plural. Suddenly I know, as if there's still some chord that binds us, that Cellie is here. She's at Savage Isle, and Chase knows where she is.

F
ROM THE
J
OURNAL OF
A
LICE
M
ONROE

 

Doc says I should start at the beginning, at the place where this all started. I suppose he's right. Because it wasn't always like this between Cellie and me. There was a time when she was my friend. My best friend. A time when if she told me she'd murdered someone, I would have asked her if she needed help digging a grave. So where does a story that ends in fire and death begin? It begins in the snow on the coldest day of the coldest winter of the last fifty years, with two girls on their sixth birthday in a silent house. It begins with a body.

The first thing I remember is a dream. A dream that tasted like cake and was filled with confetti, balloons, and gold-wrapped presents. The second thing I remember is waking up to quiet, to hollow, empty air. Cellie was already up. She'd made her bed in the top bunk in a sloppy and hurried way that sometimes irritated me. I preferred things to be a bit neater, with clean lines and crisp folds. I shouldn't have been surprised. The night before, she'd kept me awake. Too excited to sleep, she'd chattered on about the next day. Our birthday.

The house was cold, and I shivered through the thin cotton of my nightgown. When my toes sank into the carpet, it felt as if ice crystals had kissed each fiber in the rug. For a moment I stayed still and listened to the quiet, trying to decipher a sound from below the stairs or from the snowflakes falling outside our window. But there was nothing, only the sound of my beating heart.

I bounded down the stairs, oblivious to what that silence was telling me. What secret it whispered. Like Cellie, I was too caught up in finding the promised birthday joy. In my haste, I kicked a slipper out of the way and sent it hurdling through the slats in the banister. It landed with a soft thud on the body. Grandpa lay sprawled out on the floor, his head tilted, so that his face caught the reflection of the snow through the window. I stopped, perched on the last stair. One arm was tucked under his stomach at a weird angle, the other arm stretched out, the fingers that clawed the carpet unnaturally still.

“He won't wake up,” Cellie said. She sat by the fireplace, her legs drawn up to her chest, her chin resting atop her knees.

I took a deep breath but still felt as if I couldn't get enough air. Cellie whimpered and ducked her head back into the dark cocoon of her legs. I crouched down and touched Grandpa's paper cheek.

“I tried that already,” Cellie said.

“Grandpa?” I whispered. He still smelled like Grandpa, a heady mixture of spicy cologne that always made me think of far-off lands. I don't know why.

Cellie grabbed my arm and pulled me away. “I
said,
I tried that already.”

“What do we do?”

She bit the inside of her cheek and turned to me, her look brighter. “We should let him sleep. He must be really tired. Let's open our presents.”

Four presents wrapped in gold and silver striped paper rested on the dining room table. We tore into them. Grandpa had bought each of us a new outfit, a game, and a book. We decided that we were hungry, but there was only canned food in the house, and we weren't allowed to use the electric can opener without Grandpa. Cellie found our yellow cake in the cupboard. We ate it till our stomachs hurt and then changed into our new outfits and raced around the house, slid down the banister of the stairs, and watched cartoons all afternoon.

By evening Grandpa still hadn't moved. Not a finger. Not a toe. Not a blink of an eye. His skin felt even colder. Cellie covered him with a blanket, and after we said good night to him, we went upstairs, hand in hand, and tucked ourselves into our bunk beds. We liked our new outfits so much we didn't bother changing out of them. From the top bunk Cellie read to me from one of the books Grandpa had bought us. I closed my eyes to the sound of her voice, so much like my own, so comfortable and familiar, like the feel of a well-loved blanket.

“Cellie?” I interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“Will you sleep with me?”

“Sure,” she said, shinnying down from the top bunk. As she climbed in next to me, I scooted over in the bed until my body touched the wall.

“Do you think Grandpa will wake up by tomorrow?” Tomorrow was a school day, and every Monday was show-and-tell. Taylor Knapp was bringing in his pet rabbit, and I'd never touched one before.

“Of course,” she said, her well-loved blanket voice suddenly scratchy, woven through with overconfidence and untruth.

I turned around and rested my head on her shoulder. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Me too,” she said. “Don't worry, Alice. Everything will be back to normal in the morning. I promise.”

 

Four days passed. Like weeds growing through cement, fear crept in. And with the worry, fear, and panic came bitter cold and hunger. The little ice crystals that had danced outside our windows now waltzed inside and coated the edges of the frames. Every night Cellie and I dressed in our snowsuits and huddled together in the bottom bunk under a mound of covers, but nothing warded off the chill. It would come like a thief in the night, stealing our body heat, robbing us of warmth. Every morning, Cellie would moan. She swore her blood was slush. Still she managed to roll out of bed, go down to the kitchen, and climb onto the counter. She would turn the faucet on to the hottest setting and we'd use the heat from the water to turn our slush-blood back to liquid.

We didn't go to school, and I missed show-and-tell. We also hadn't eaten anything but birthday cake. Cake that had gone stale and turned black around the edges. And then the flies came, dark obscurities that spent the day buzzing between Grandpa's eyelids and the frosting on our yellow cake.

On the fourth morning we lined up all the canned food on the kitchen counter and studied the labels and pictures. Baked beans. Ham. Corn. Hunger clawed and screamed at the base of my stomach. Cellie decided we should make a meal of the glossy photographs. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth and marveled at the different flavors.

“It tastes like Easter!” she exclaimed. “Now you have some.” But I couldn't pretend. I licked my lips and my eyes drifted to the cake.

“It's all right, Alice. You can have the last of it.” There was one thick red iced balloon left. My mouth watered and at the same time my stomach rolled. So hungry. So sick.

I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Cellie nodded and folded her arms over her chest. She held herself so tight her skin turned white. I think she might have been physically restraining herself from eating the rest of the cake. “Eat,” she said. “Then when you're done, we'll check on Grandpa.”

I didn't wait for her to insist again. I dug in, devouring the crusty yellow cake first and the red balloon last. Remnants of frosting clung to the cardboard sheet, and I used my finger to scrape it up. When I was done I grinned at Cellie, but my happiness was quickly extinguished by shame. Her eyes were glazed over and her hands trembled at her sides.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“It's okay,” she said, and rubbed her tummy.

A knock on the front door interrupted us.

I moved toward it, but Cellie grabbed my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Don't. We're not supposed to answer the door if Grandpa isn't home.” We stood like statues, weighing the meaning of those words.

“C'mon, let's go play outside. We can put on our snowsuits and make snow angels.”

 

When we stepped outside, icy wind whipped our cheeks and powdery snow swirled up from the ground like mini tornadoes. The yard was a perfect rectangle, and Grandpa had promised us that in the spring he'd plant a garden where we could grow tomatoes.

We ran a couple of laps. I chased her and then she chased me. We pretended to be airplanes zooming through the sky. I was thankful when warmth began to pump through my limbs. Still, my movements were slow and sluggish, and I stumbled more times than I normally would, the hunger in my empty stomach tripping me.

“Home sick from school today?” Our neighbor Mr. Chan peered over the fence, his mustache and hair catching drifting snowflakes.

Cellie and I stared at him from across the yard. Sometimes when we walked down the block to get the mail, Grandpa would stop and talk to Mr. Chan or his wife. They had a little white poodle named DeeDee that I liked to play with. It could do all sorts of tricks. Mr. Chan even trained it to take his socks off.

“Shouldn't be outside if you're sick,” Mr. Chan said, peering down at us.

I looked up at him. “We're not sick,” I said.

Mr. Chan's brow dipped. “Not sick?”

“Grandpa won't wake up,” I said.

Cellie shoved me in the back and I stumbled forward, my body rocking the fence. “Why'd you tell him that?” she whispered in my ear. I wanted to snatch the words out of the air, but it was too late. They'd already landed.

“Won't wake up?” Mr. Chan scratched his mustache. “Maybe I should come over and take a look.”

“No,” Cellie said. But Mr. Chan was already at the gate to our backyard, reaching his hand over and unlocking it.

Cellie pushed me. “Don't let him go inside.” She pushed me again, harder. Before I could yell or raise a useless hand to stop him, Mr. Chan stepped over the threshold of the back door and paused. He crossed himself the same way Grandpa did in church, put a hand over his mouth, stifled a gag, and muttered, “Dear God.”