We'll Never Be Apart Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Celia

  Savage Isle

  The Girls’ Wing

  Vanilla Cake

  Deals

  Ward D

  Group Therapy

  Razorblades and Cigarette Burns

  The Quiet Room

  Jellyfish

  Viking Funerals

  Code Red

  Seclusion

  Comatose Mix

  The Doctor’s Office

  Complicity

  Hip-hop and Happiness

  The Garden

  Mates for Life

  Chase’s Room

  Confessions

  Purple

  Escape

  The Perfect Plan

  Falling Down

  Possibilities

  Celia

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 by Emiko Jean

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  Book and jacket design by Lisa Vega

  Jacket photograph © 2015 Getty Images

  Hand-lettering by Leah Palmer Preiss

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Jean, Emiko.

  We’ll never be apart / Emiko Jean.

  pages cm

  Summary: Haunted by memories of the fire that killed her boyfriend, seventeen-year-old Alice Monroe is in a mental ward when, with support from fellow patient Chase, she begins to confront hidden truths in a journal, including that the only person she trusts may be telling her only half of the story.

  ISBN 978-0-544-48200-5 (hardback)

  [1. Mental illness—Fiction. 2. Psychiatric hospitals—Fiction. 3. Posttraumatic stress disorder—Fiction. 4. Death—Fiction. 5. Twins—Fiction. 6. Sisters—Fiction. 7. Love—Fiction. 8. Foster home care—Fiction.]

  I. Title. II. Title: We’ll never be apart.

  PZ7.1.J43We 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014046785

  eISBN 978-0-544-63650-7

  v1.1015

  For Craig,

  who really keeps the sun in the sky

  and the stars apart

  and the water in the oceans.

  I wrote this book for you.

  PROLOGUE

  Celia

  LATER ON, WHEN THEY QUESTION ME, I’LL SAY IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. An unfortunate tragedy. But it was neither. When they ask me what happened that night, I’ll say, It was a mistake. But it wasn’t. I don’t remember, I’ll say. But I do.

  I, Celia Monroe, remember everything.

  If I close my eyes, I can still see Alice and Jason running ahead of me, holding hands, their bodies suspended in a sliver of moonlight as they dashed through the forest. Before everything changed, the three of us were inseparable—Alice and I, especially. We were like the constellation Gemini, mirror images, forever united in the shimmering heavens.

  There were no stars the night Alice and Jason escaped from the facility, but even in total darkness, they made it past the barbed-wire fence to the other side of an almost-frozen lake and through an overgrown field, where they finally found refuge in an abandoned barn. I crept in when I thought for sure they had gone to sleep, but their whispers made me pause, and my heart beat like a tethered bird’s. They vowed quietly to each other to keep running, to head west, toward a better life. A life without me. And suddenly I saw myself for what I was, the perpetual third wheel, soon to be abandoned.

  I slipped from my hiding place, and when I found a gas lamp in the horse stall, I thought it must be a sign. Some divine intervention telling me that what I was about to do was right. My hand didn’t shake as I lit the match and connected it to the wick. For a moment the warmth that sprang from the glass soothed me.

  Alice found me first. Even in the poor light I could make out her face. We were twins, identical from our long brown hair to our too-large eyes. It was the small things that made us different.

  “Please don’t,” she said.

  Those two words had become her mantra lately. Please don’t set those leaves on fire. Please don’t hurt that dog. Please don’t hurt me anymore, Cellie. I wanted to shout, ball up her words and hurtle them at her. She thought there was something good left inside me. Something she could draw out and bargain with. But that part was long gone, ground to ash by her betrayal.

  Jason showed up next. Once, I could have stared at him for hours. His lovely face. The square set of his jaw. The green in his eyes that made me think of walking barefoot in grassy fields. Jason, the boy I loved, who always loved Alice more. He pushed the hair from her shoulder tenderly and murmured something in her ear. The way he looked at her made my stomach feel empty and my body feel small. I spun from them and took a few steps away. I didn’t hear him approach, just felt his fingers as he laid them over mine. I studied the tattoo of a unicorn on his wrist, all psychedelic colors and thick, bold lines, a reminder of happier times. “Just let go,” he said.

  Let go. It sounded like an invitation.

  The lamp exploded on impact. Fire spread like roots through the moldy hay and slats of the dry barn. When wind swept through the open window, bringing new oxygen to feed the flames, it felt like I was flying. I’d never been so high.

  Alice fought it. I didn’t know she had it in her. She screamed and tried to run for the exit, but the fire hissed and the barn buckled. Something collapsed, blocking her way. I watched as she dropped to her knees and tried to claw her way out, but Jason wrapped his protective arms around her, stilling her frantic movements. He knew it was too late.

  For minutes that felt like hours, they coughed and murmured pathetically to each other. Then he passed out, leaving my poor Allie to fend for herself. As she drifted into unconsciousness, her eyelids twitched, as if she were lost in a nightmare. I resisted the urge to touch her, to offer her a small measure of comfort while Fate wrote the final period on her life. There was even a piece of me that wanted to weep into her neck, the way you weep into the neck of an old dog right before you put it to sleep.

  It wasn’t long before the police showed up. Sirens wailed and flashing lights whirled, casting the night into a frenzy of red and blue. When they found me, I didn’t fight—didn’t bite or spit or claw. I was lifted and then strapped to a stretcher. Through the open door of the ambulance I could see the firemen hauling out their bodies, like trash bags going to the curb.

  They placed a plastic sheet over Jason but held off on Alice. Someone shouted, “This one’s alive!” They began to work on her wrecked ship of a body, pounding her chest so hard I could practically feel her ribs splintering.

  “Die,” I whispered into the chilly night air. Just go.

  But of course she didn’t. It would’ve been so much easier if she had.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Savage Isle

  IN MY MIND THERE ARE BLACK-AND-WHITE PHOTOS. They float around, landing softly here and there, resting on top of other memories, dreamscapes and nightmares. Sometimes they bloom color, like the one I’m focusing on now. It unfolds, like a flower opening for the sun, the petals wet and dark. Slowly it bleeds brilliant pigments. Dark sky. Clear rain. Yellow headlights. A boy with curly hair and a crooked grin. Jason in the rain. My favorite memory of him.

  “When was your last period?” the nurse asks me. “Alice?” The nurse’s voice is like snapping fingers, calling me to attention. The image fades. White paper crinkles as I shift uncomfortably on the exam
table. I try to count the hours, the suns and moons, and remember how much time has passed since the fire. It’s been weeks, I think. Tsunamis have decimated cities in less time than that. I rub a hand over my chest where breathing is still difficult. The nurse’s white ID badge reads NURSE DUMMEL, OREGON STATE MENTAL HEALTH HOSPITAL. I recognize her face from before, from my last stay here. The face of a bulldog. Round cheeks set over a row of bottom teeth that stick out just a smidge too far. Nurse Dummel clears her throat.

  “Uh, I don’t know . . .” I say. “I’m not sure. Maybe two weeks ago?” I swallow. Even though it’s been a while since the fire, my tongue still tastes of ash. Maybe it always will.

  Nurse Dummel types something into a computer. “And how are the burns?”

  The burns that travel over each shoulder blade and down past my right wrist tingle. Miraculously, the fire didn’t touch my left hand. The skin there is still soft and smooth. “Better,” I say.

  Although I don’t remember the fire, I do have some fuzzy recollections of my intensive care stay. The bitter uncertainty of those days and the bright, bright pain that just wouldn’t go away.

  “That all?” the nurse asks. “No pain, numbness, or swelling?”

  “No. It’s just itchy now.”

  Outside, wind howls and shakes the thin walls of the building. A shudder rolls through me. Oregon State Mental Health Hospital is located on a thin strip of densely forested island. The hospital advertises itself as a peaceful haven where troubled souls recover, but there’s nothing tranquil about this place. Even the name of the island, Savage Isle, was born from blood. In the late 1800s, a hundred Native Americans were forcibly relocated here, only to be killed later in a massacre. Old newspapers say there was so much blood that winter, it looked as if red snow had fallen from the sky.

  “That’s good. You’re lucky you can feel anything at all. Some second-degree burns cause loss of sensation.” Lucky. Am I lucky? That’s not how I would characterize the situation.

  “You’ll need to stay on antibiotics for the next couple of weeks and keep up with your physical therapy.” I almost laugh. When I left the ICU, a doctor gave me a pamphlet on hand exercises, explaining that they would help me regain full mobility. That was the only physical therapy I received. I flex my hand now. The movement causes a subtle ache, but other than that, everything appears to work just fine.

  A white wristband prints out next to the computer. “Left wrist please,” Nurse Dummel says, gesturing for me to hold out my arm. I comply, and she snaps on the tight plastic. There are four colors of wristbands at Savage Isle. I have worn them all before. All except for red. Nobody wants a red wristband. Upon admittance, everyone is given the standard white, and after a period of about twenty-four to forty-eight hours on semi-restricted status, they’re usually granted a yellow wristband that comes with very few restrictions. After yellow comes green. Green means go. Stay up late, visit home, drink caffeine, get out of Savage Isle.

  “All right, kiddo,” Nurse Dummel sighs, handing me a pair of ratty scrubs. “Stand up, take everything off, and put these on.”

  I wait a heartbeat to see if she’s going to leave and give me some privacy, but she just stands there, watching me with a hawk’s stare. I change quick and quiet and I think of Jason. When we kissed, his lips tasted like fresh spring water and hot tamales. I didn’t have the courage to ask about him in the hospital. I feared his fate. Sometimes not knowing is better than knowing. Still, somewhere inside me the truth clanks like a ball and chain . . . It’s not possible he made it out of the fire alive. I ignore it. Denial is kinder, more gentle. Uninvited thoughts of Cellie pop into my mind, but I push them away. I refuse to waste worry on my twin. Worry is lost on her.

  When I finish putting on the scrubs, I throw my hoodie back on, hoping the nurse will let me keep it. I don’t like being cold. She doesn’t notice, or pretends not to, and gestures toward my shoes. “All right, shoelaces have to come off. This your bag?” She points to the corner of the room where a lavender duffel sits on the floor. It’s worn and dirty, the color almost bleached to gray.

  I pull my sneakers off and de-thread the laces. The nurse shakes her head a little as she slips on a pair of latex gloves. She picks up my bag and places it on the exam table. In a detached and efficient manner she sorts through my things. A couple of pairs of pants, some shirts, an iPod, toothbrush, toothpaste, some floss, and origami paper, all my worldly possessions.

  She holds the origami paper up and raises her eyebrows. I mirror her look, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue like a petulant child and snatch the sheets from her fingers. They were a gift, a gentle reminder to Cellie and me that we weren’t always alone. I don’t want Nurse Dummel’s greasy fingerprints all over them. When she sets them aside, I’m relieved. “You’re good to go,” she says. “You can pack up everything except these.” Nurse Dummel confiscates my toothbrush, floss, clothes, and headphones and dumps them into a plastic bag. I quickly tally the number of items left in my possession—an iPod that’s useless without the headphones, some toothpaste, just as useless without the brush, and my origami paper. Nurse Dummel opens the door and gestures for me to follow her. I gather my three remaining possessions and place them in the lavender duffel bag, careful not to accidentally crease any of the origami paper.

  Outside the exam room a big guy with a mullet stands guard. He follows us as we walk down a hallway that quickly turns into another. A sterile maze. We pass a sign that says ADMITTANCE WARD C, then another that says PATIENTS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. He swipes a badge over a black box and the doors swing open. I shift my duffel bag uneasily. There’s a familiar rush of anxiety as we come to a second set of doors. Once again the guy with the mullet swipes a card over a black box and the doors seem to magically swing open. As soon as I step over the threshold, they swing shut behind me with a soft clink.

  The place looks the same as when I left it, like something ate the 1970s and then threw up all the furniture here. We’re in the common area, the coed area. There’s a box TV with two channels, one with good reception. We used to have a DVD player for movies, but some kid peed on it and it shorted out. There are a couple of couches with pillows that look like they’re frowning all the time, some cracked green leather chairs, a few imitation wood tables, and steel mesh on all the windows. I think about the time I visited the zoo as a kid, pressed my face between the steel bars of the polar bear cage, and watched the animals pace. Their padded feet were silent and had worn huge, gaping tracks in the dirt. How many months would it take to make such deep grooves? My toes curl in my laceless shoes. The common area is empty, probably because it’s close to dinnertime. The smell of beef stroganoff permeates the air.

  “Donny will take your bag to your room,” Nurse Dummel says. I shrug the duffel off my shoulder and hand it over to the tech. He takes it from me, narrowly avoiding skin-to-skin contact.

  The nurse keeps walking and I hurry to keep pace with her long strides. The C ward is shaped like a circle with three arms, the common area at its center. Two of the arms are long hallways that stretch into dead ends—they’re all patient rooms. One hallway is for boys, the other for girls. The third hallway houses the cafeteria, the recreation room (where you can glue shells onto wooden boards or ride one of three exercise bikes), classrooms, doctors’ offices, and group therapy rooms. The nurse leads me down the third hallway toward the doctors’ offices. She pauses in front of a plastic chair just outside a door across from the cafeteria.

  “Wait here,” she says. She knocks on the door and then enters.

  I look at the chair. Its cracked seat looks uninviting and painful. I jam my hands into my hoodie pockets and lean against the wall.

  I’ve just begun to chew the inside of my cheek when there’s a buzz, followed by the cafeteria doors swinging open. A steady stream of teens emerges. Their gaits are sluggish and their gazes downcast, like they’re afraid to make eye contact. Cellie used to tell me they were like jellyfish. Overmedicated jellyfis
h. Gelatinous balls whose touch is poison and who always have to move, because if you stop moving, you’re dead. Most of them I don’t recognize. Which isn’t a surprise. Savage Isle is state funded, so patients are encouraged to stay for as little time as possible. Plus, my last stay here with Cellie was short—cut short, I should say. Barely enough time to make friends or, in Cellie’s case, enemies. I study the new crop of patients as they exit the cafeteria. A second buzzer sounds and the jellyfish move a little quicker (a change in the tide), off to the common area or rec room for “free” time. The irony is not lost on me.

  The last patient out is a boy. A boy with a measured, unhurried walk. A walk that screams the opposite of jellyfish. He wears one of those baseball hats with no logo, just solid black. He’s definitely new. I would’ve remembered him for sure. His head is bowed, so I can’t see his face. Two techs follow close behind him.

  “Move it along, Chase,” one of them says.

  He doesn’t turn around. His only acknowledgment is a slight tilt that brings his head up and makes his eyes level with mine. They are blue, the kind of blue that is so light it makes his face look pale. A long scar runs down his left cheek. From a razorblade? A knife? Something sharp that can cut deep. Despite the scar, he’s not bad looking. If he weren’t so banged up, he would be out-of-this-world hot. If anything, the gash tempers his beauty, makes him seem real and maybe a little dangerous. He wears a thin T-shirt and jeans that ride low. He’s noticed me staring at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He laughs, low and sexy, takes off his baseball hat, and smoothes a hand over his mussed blond hair.

  My cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, and the guilt I feel is almost as immediate as my body’s response. For one split second I forget about Jason’s cinnamon breath, the curve of his smile, and the touch of his callused fingers. All because of this stranger whose eyes make me feel all lit up inside. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. The boy passes me, leaving behind the scent of clean laundry.