We'll Never Be Apart (6 page)

I flinch. “No. I'm not mentally challenged,” I say through clenched teeth.
Calm, Alice. Just get the information you need and go.
“Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“I think you were pretty clear what foot you wanted to be on when you called me a cocksucker and flipped me off.”

“Yeah, well, I was tired . . . I'm sorry.” It comes out sounding lame. Because it is. I'm not that sorry.

He laughs and starts to pick up his tray, like he's going to leave. “Yeah, I can tell you mean it.”

Shit. Double shit. He's going to leave and I don't have what I need yet.
Before I can think, I reach up and grab his forearm. There's an immediate heat that flows through our skin. A pleasurable spark shoots up my spine and explodes like firecrackers.

“Easy, Sparky,” he says, prying my fingers from his arm. “I like it rough, but not in public places.”

Sparky.
Wonderful. He's given me a nickname. I wonder how he would feel if I gave him one, too. Maybe douche canoe. Or turd burglar.

“You're such a dick.”

“There's that dirty mouth again. That didn't take very long.”

“Look, we haven't really met yet, I'm—”

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “I know who you are, Alice. What do you want?”

So rude. I fold my hands in my lap and knot my fingers together until my knuckles turn white. The tightening of the skin makes my burn itch. “When I came in last night you said ‘fire starters,' as in more than one.” He arches an infuriating brow at me as if to say,
your point?
I remember what Amelia said.
He was in the D ward.

There are four wards at Savage Isle. The A and B wards are completely voluntary. They house your basic low-risk patients—depressives, drunks, and druggies. A and B warders can leave at any time. The C ward is for involuntary commits—high-risk patients who pose a danger to themselves or others. Cellie and I both have histories as C warders. So it's no surprise that I've ended up here again. In all three wards, A, B, and C, patients can move around and interact with one another. The D ward is involuntary and completely locked down. D-ward patients are confined to their rooms and allowed only an hour or two a day to “socialize.” There's no way Cellie is in the A or B ward. Which means she's got to be in D. Where else would they put her? The realization fills my chest like ice water. I think back to my initial conversation with Dr. Goodman. How he so easily evaded my question. He didn't want me to know. Maybe he even guessed my intent before I'd decided on it. She's here and she's close, in the D ward. Dr. Goodman all but confirmed it.

I lift my chin. “My sister is here. She's in the D ward.” In the time it takes to blink, my mind runs through the scenarios. Like an architect, I map out the two wards, C and D. At the end of this hall is a locked door, then another. Both require security badges for keyless entry. Then there are flights of stairs, so many that Jason and I got dizzy running down them. Then there's a yard, a field that's only grass, then the D ward, on the farthest side, in a corner surrounded by guard towers, high fences, and barbed wire. My mind hits a brick wall.
Impossible.
It's impossible to breach the D ward. “You've been there.”

Chase doesn't deny it. “So?”

“I need your help.” Chase knows the D ward, the winding hallways, the entrances, the exits, and the techs' schedules.

He looks down at his shoes. “How come they won't let you two be together?”

“I'm not sure.”
Because she tried to kill me, and I intend to return the favor.
“I need to find her, though.” My legs tense in their sitting position. He takes a deep breath, and his jaw works like he's chewing my words. “I need to see her.”

“I've been there.” He shrugs, rolling back his shoulders as if he doesn't want to say the next part. “When I first came here, that's where they put me.” Part of me wants to ask him what he could possibly have done to wind up in D ward. But I can't risk pissing him off. I need to convince him to take me there. Plus it's actually better if I don't know. Plausible deniability is my new middle name.

“Will you help me get to the D ward? I'd be willing to return the favor.” Favors in the C ward don't come without a price. Last time we were here, Cellie stockpiled candy and traded it for all sorts of stuff: cigarettes, food, even an upgraded wristband.

Something in Chase's face changes, and I feel like the advantage has been passed to me. I've got him on the hook.

“No,” he says.

No?
Surprise and defeat blaze through me. All I can think of is Cellie's icy hands, stained with Jason's blood. Chase's rejection is humbling. I get up to leave.

“No,” he says again, more forcefully.

“I get it,” I say over my shoulder.

When he grabs my hand, his thumb moves over the raised skin of my burn. I flinch and pull away. “That's not what I meant,” he says. “I meant . . .
No,
I don't want anything from you.” He takes a deep breath. “I'll help you.”

I am uncomfortable with this. I'm not used to people doing things for free. “Why?”

He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his greasy hair. “You remind me of someone, all right?” I open my mouth but he rushes on. “Don't ask me about it. That's what you can do. Leave it at that. You remind of someone, and I'll help you.”

I don't like it. But he's offering to help, and I'm in no position to refuse. “Okay,” I say.

“Okay.” He spits into his palm and holds it out for me to shake, a triumphant smile on his face, like the devil after he's won someone's soul. I grimace and back away. “C'mon, Sparky. You're gonna have to get over your aversion to fluids if we're going to do this. It's blood in, blood out.”

I open my palm and remember a time when Jason traced my lifeline with his finger. It was the first time we held hands. I spit.

Soon. I'm coming for you soon, Cellie.

“How was your first day back, Alice?” Dr. Goodman asks. We sit across from each other. It's still raining out, and in the corner of the room, just above Doc's right shoulder, is a water stain, wetness collects in the middle of it, and drips into a metal bucket. One drop. Two drops. Three drops.

“Alice?” He prompts me.

I map the lines on his face. How was my first day back? I think about the sugary vanilla scent, the taste of stale cake in my mouth, and the sound of flies buzzing. “It was great.” My voice sounds a touch too high, falsely bright.

“Nurse Dummel told me that you were ill,” he says.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say, so I shrug. “Yeah, she said something about the medication not being right.”

He scrutinizes me. “Tell me about it.”

I choose ignorance instead of confrontation. “I just got really sick all of a sudden.”

“Would you tell me if something else was going on?” His voice settles over me, wrought with concern.

“What else could be going on?” I volley back.

“I don't know. I can't see inside your head. But you're on some pretty heavy medications, and there can be all kinds of side effects. If we're going to have a successful relationship, you need to trust me. Part of that trust is telling me what you're feeling. Do you trust me, Alice?”

He's searching, and I know what he wants, so I say the only thing I know that's acceptable. “Yes, of course I do.” But I don't. Not really. Couldn't even if I tried. Distrust is second nature to me. Like swallowing or breathing.

“Excellent.” He settles back in his chair. “And how's the journaling been going?”

I think of the leather-bound notebook he gave me just under twenty-four hours ago. I've already filled a good portion of the pages. “It's all right.”

“Good, good,” he says, as if I've conceded something. He picks up his ever-present legal pad from the side table. Pen poised, he says, “Now I want you to tell me about the fire again.”

I tell the doctor the same thing I told him yesterday. Cellie set the fire. I know he wants more, that he will keep digging like an archaeologist, trying to unearth all my secrets until they're brushed and picked clean. He asks me about Jason, and that's when the cooperative rope breaks. I take out a piece of origami paper and fold it, making a frog. He feigns interest and asks me about my origami. But I stay mute. He scribbles on his yellow legal pad, page after page. We don't talk for the rest of the session.

Afterward, Dr. Goodman seems exhausted. He hands me two cups. One holds another white pill and the other just a swallow of water. I go through the motions again, show Doc that I've swallowed the pill, even though it's tucked safely in my upper lip.

On my way out I pass Chase. He stares straight ahead but grazes my shoulder. As we collide, he presses a plastic card wrapped in a piece of paper into my palm.

Back in my room, I flop onto my bed. While Amelia brushes her teeth, I wiggle the piece of paper and plastic card out of my back pocket, where I hid them from Donny. The white pill falls to the ground and rolls under the bed. I swing over the bed frame and pick it up, then place it under the mattress with the other pills. Lying back down, I open the note and read it. Scrawled across the lines, in messy boy handwriting, are nine words:

“Third door on the left, wear something dark. C.”

I crumple up the piece of paper and examine the plastic card.
OREGON STATE MENTAL HEALTH HOSPITAL SUPPORT STAFF.
I flip the card over to where there is a picture of a tech. A keycard. He stole a keycard. I chew my lip and wonder how far the distance is between stealing and murder.

The whoosh of the door unlocking draws my attention. Finally the last bed check comes. The door clicks open softly and the beam of a flashlight crosses over my feet, then Amelia's. I lie as still as possible. When the tech is gone and a few minutes have passed, just enough to clear the hallway, I get out of bed, shifting my weight so that it stays off the squeaky parts of the floor. I pick up my Converses
and pad across the room to the door. I slip on my shoes, then swipe the keycard over the black box and the door unlocks. I'm out.

The instant I step into the hallway, I regret it. That was stupid. So stupid. I should have poked my head out first and made sure no one was there. Fear climbs onto my shoulders and squeezes my throat. I press my back up against the door and wait for a shout or an alarm to ring in the distance. A bird has flown the coop. But everything stays quiet and still. No one comes. No alarms sound.

Mentally, I map out my path. In order to get to the boys' wing, I'll have to pass through the common area where the nurses' station is located.

I start to walk, small, hesitant steps that are noiseless. The hallway remains clear. I stay close to the wall, trailing one hand along the stucco and over the doors. By the time I make it to the common area, my palms are sweating. Hidden in shadow, with my back pressed to the wall, I listen for sounds of activity. During the day there are three or four nurses milling around the glass-paned counter. At night, the staff dwindles to a skeleton crew, one nurse and one tech. Thank you very much, state budget cuts. Heart pounding, I peek around the corner. A tech is in there, his head bowed while he types something onto a computer screen. A nurse pops into view, her back to the room as she riffles through files. It's now or never.

Two steps and I reach the couch. I take shelter there for a minute, glancing up once more to see if I've been detected. But the tech still types away and the nurse still files. Both oblivious. Two more steps and I reach the entrance to the boys' wing. I stop right outside the third door on the left. A sheet of paper is taped to it.
DANGER. NINJAS AND PIRATES AND LASERS AND SHIT
. Definitely Chase's room.

I raise my fist to knock but put it down, thinking better of it.
What am I doing?
The gravity of the moment gets into my lungs and sticks there. I press my open palms against the door and bow my head. If I go through with this, if everything goes as planned and we make it to the D ward, will I be able to press my fingers into Cellie's neck? Draw the life from her so I can take life for myself? If I go through with this, I'll be no better than Cellie. Can I really do it?
Yes.
A voice in my head speaks. I may not be better than she is, but I know I will be better off without her. Without thinking, without blinking, I swipe the keycard over the black box. The door lock clicks open. I turn the handle and walk in.

F
ROM THE
J
OURNAL OF
A
LICE
M
ONROE

 

Grandpa died in the winter and the Chans sent us away in the spring. It was that time of year when the light changes, the snow melts, and daffodils break through the newly thawed earth.

When Shawna came to collect us, Mrs. Chan wouldn't come outside. She stood at the window, curtain pulled back, and watched as we got into an unfamiliar car that had coffee-stained seats. This is something we would get used to. Something we would perfect. How to say goodbye through paned glass. Mr. Chan helped us get buckled in. Before he shut the door, he handed me a stack of origami paper along with a how-to book. “From Darla,” he said.

Shawna drove us across town until wood-planked fences turned into chainlink ones. The houses in this new neighborhood wept with neglect. Faded paint. Peeled-up roof tiles. Brown lawns. Shawna stopped the car, turned to us, and said, “This is a transition home. You won't be here for very long.” Another thing we would grow used to: our transient nature. We would become like the wind—so easily blown, so easily turned.

It was here, amid old worn-out furniture, pit bulls, and gypsy children, that Cellie started her first fire. She stole a doll from a redheaded girl who was sweet and kind and asked me to be her friend. Cellie took the doll right out of her sleeping fingers and made me follow her out of the house, into the garage, the doll hanging limply at her side.

I don't think Cellie planned to set the doll on fire. She planned on destroying it for sure—on slashing its face or ripping the limbs from its stuffed body. The matchbook on the workbench was an impulse, the closest thing within reaching distance. But when Cellie lit the match and brought life to a flame for the very first time, it was a revelation.

After she lit the doll's hair on fire, Cellie made me hold her hand while it burned. But I didn't watch the doll. I didn't want to see its smiling face turn to ash. Instead I watched Cellie's face. Emotion washed over her like a baptism. Manic glee tipped to calm happiness, then ended in beautiful serenity. For a twisted split second I longed for that peace.

Years later, Jason would tell me about Prometheus. How he stole fire from the gods and gifted it to mankind. How in one single moment humans were able to make light, warmth, pain, and death at the same time. Fire was a necessity. In order for some forests to grow, first they had to burn. In order to create, you had to destroy. And when he told me that story, all I could think about was Cellie and that doll.

When the fire was done, all that was left was scorched concrete and the smell of burnt plastic. Cellie pulled me behind her, back into the redheaded girl's room, where she superglued the girl's eyes shut (the glue was another find from the workbench).

And that's how the firemen found us. Their axes were drawn and their radios blared, but they just stood there, frozen in time and space, mouths hanging open like unhinged doors while the redheaded girl clawed at her eyes and screamed that she'd gone blind.

 

They took us to the emergency room. All of us. Cellie and I were put in different rooms, and one by one we were questioned. Everyone asked
why.
First the doctor and then the ER social worker. But I didn't have an answer, so they drew a curtain around me. Isolated and alone, I missed Cellie. I didn't feel whole without her. I sat cross-legged in the bed as words filtered through the thin fabric. Words that sounded eerily familiar.

Split.

Apart.

Sick.

And then I remembered Cellie's siren cry when she thought they would separate us and my fevered promise,
Wherever you go, I'll go too.
I knew then what I had to do. I jumped down from the bed and tossed the curtain aside. With more fear than conviction, I confessed what I knew to be a lie. After all, blood was blood.

“I set the fire,” I said.