We'll Never Be Apart Read online

  The door beside me opens and the nurse reappears.

  “All right, Alice, the doctor will see you now.”

  I push off the wall, keeping my eyes on the boy’s retreating back. Just as I’m about to enter the office, he stops, glances over his shoulder, and smiles at me. Intimately. Like he’s happy to see me. Like I’ve just made his day. He smiles as if he knows me. And I get an odd sense of déjà vu. (Jason would say it was a glitch in the matrix.) I can’t seem to shake the feeling that he actually looks familiar. That I’ve seen his face before. That I know him, too.

  The doctor’s office is cluttered. Shelves and file cabinets, bursting with books and stacks of paper, line the walls. It’s like I’ve been sucked into a vortex and I’m standing in Dumbledore’s office. I wish. I also wish I didn’t know this office so well. But I do. Dr. Goodman stands in the middle of the room. He’s young, with thin wire-rimmed glasses. I always thought he looked like the kind of guy who doesn’t own a TV. He holds a thick file between his pasty hands. My file.

  “Hello, Alice,” he says. He waits, as if he expects me to say something. I don’t know why he would, based on our past history of awkward, semi-silent therapy sessions. “It’s nice to see you again.” He crosses the room and extends a hand for me to shake.

  I look down at his open palm and my hands twitch inside the pockets of my hoodie. I like the way the fleece lining feels, soft like a teddy bear. I remove a hand, shake his, and then quickly stuff mine back in my sweatshirt.

  “Please, have a seat,” he says, motioning to an armchair. He addresses the nurse, who hovers in the doorway. “I think we can take it from here, Ms. Dummel.”

  Nurse Dummel puckers her lips. I wonder if she knows that her face looks like an asshole when she does that. She gives me a long, lingering gaze before nodding her head. “All right, Dr. Goodman. Donny’ll be coming back to escort her to her room. He’ll be right outside the door if you need him.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Doc says. The nurse gives me one more assessing glance, like I’m a downed power line throwing off sparks, then leaves, shutting the door behind her.

  I settle into the chair and Doc sits across from me. A heavy silence stretches between us. Doc crosses his legs, adjusts his tie, clears his throat. He picks up a yellow legal pad and a pen from the table next to his chair. “I’m happy to see you, Alice. It looks as though you’re recovering well.” I wait for him to get to the point. Usually our meetings follow an agenda. Sharing feelings. Exposing secrets. Talking about the past.

  “Do you know why you’re here, Alice? Do you know why you’ve been returned to the hospital?”

  Images surface. Pictures of my great escape with Jason. Spirals of stairs. Murky water. A red barn at night. But the memory is like water slipping through my fist. My voice is quiet as I speak. “There was a fire.”

  Doc jots something down. “Tell me about that night, Alice. The night you left the hospital.”

  I knot my fingers in my lap and stare down at them, still unable to meet Doc’s eyes. After a while, my gaze shifts toward the window. Outside, the sky is overcast and gray. A thick fog rolls in behind the steel mesh and it’s hard to see anything beyond the hospital grounds. “How come it’s always so foggy here?”

  The doc glances out the window. “It’s because we’re so close to a lake. We’re in a convergence zone. Does the fog disturb you?”

  Why does he have to answer every question with a question? I shrug a shoulder. “No, it doesn’t disturb me. I just think it’s weird, you know? If we can’t see anything but the fog, how do we know we exist beyond it?”

  He chuckles, and for once, his hand doesn’t move to scribble on the yellow notepad. “That’s very philosophical of you, Alice. Perhaps you should walk through it and see what comes out the other side.”

  I know what’s on the other side of that fog. It’s water, deep gray water that makes your bones shake and your lips turn blue. I know because Jason and I swam across it. He pulled me to shore and covered my shivering body with his.

  “Alice, are you listening?”

  “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I was asking you to tell me about the fire.” Doc taps the pen against the notepad.

  Maybe it’s an act of mercy, this lapse in my memory. Maybe my brain doesn’t want me to find out what happened. It’s rejecting the possibility that my sister, my own blood, could do this to me—to Jason. Too bad I don’t need my head to tell me what my heart already knows. “I don’t remember,” I say.

  Doc shuffles some papers around and brings my file to the top. He opens it. “I have the police report here from that night.” I stare at my left hand, the one without the burn. I study the bitten-down tips of my nails and the worn cuticles. Cellie used to tell me that the white parts underneath the nail were lies. When she thought I wasn’t telling the truth, she’d grab my hands, inspect my nail beds, and claim that the white part had spread. Then she’d accuse me of things. Of keeping secrets. Of wanting to hurt her. Of loving Jason more. “Was Celia with you that night?” Doc asks.

  “What does your report say?”

  He glances at the paperwork. “It says she was.”

  I blink and see an image of my twisted twin. The memory comes screaming back. She’s standing over Jason and me while the fire blazes around us, the look on her face a cross between pity and revulsion. I feel a million things in that moment. Bad things. Hateful things. All directed at my sister.

  Doc uncrosses his legs and leans forward, his nose brushing up against my personal bubble. I press myself back into the armchair. His breath smells like old coffee, bitter and stale. “Do you know why you’re here, Alice?”

  I shake my head. All I can think of is Cellie. Cellie and Jason. The vision shifts and there’s only smoke. I can’t see Jason but I can feel him. His hands touch my face and he whispers something to me, but the words don’t compute. “Jason.”

  I don’t realize I’ve actually spoken his name out loud until I see the stern expression on Doc’s face soften. So far I’ve managed to hold off on asking Doc about Jason, but now, with this compassionate look he’s giving me, I feel my resolve unraveling.

  “Alice.” He says my name like it’s an apology. “I’m afraid Jason didn’t make it.”

  Something that feels like a jagged rock lodges in my throat. For a moment there’s nothing in the room but my ragged breathing. Jason. Dead. Gone. So final. I reach for the image of him again. I see him smiling that crooked grin of his, as if he had just hijacked the world and was going to take it for a ride. I see us, two people with the moon at our backs, running with our arms opened wide. In love. Foolish. And living on borrowed time. A sob breaks in my throat. Doc reaches for the tissues on his side table and offers the box to me, but I recoil. I swipe at the tears and force myself to breathe evenly. Raw grief still simmers below the surface, but at least I’ve stayed the panic attack.

  Doc settles the tissues back on the side table. “Would you like to talk about Jason?”

  I shake my head. How could Cellie do this? I’ve known for a long time that she wanted me dead—was plotting my death by a thousand tiny cuts. But Jason? She loved him. At least I thought she did.

  “I can imagine this is very difficult.” He tries to sympathize, but it comes off as patronizing. “I remember you shared a foster home with Jason a few times.”

  Twice. Jason, Cellie, and I shared a foster home twice. A hot tear slips down my cheek but I stay mute. I force my features back into a cool façade, a mask I’m used to wearing and have perfected.

  Doc taps his pen against his legal pad. “I’d like for you to be able to talk to me, Alice. I know in the past our conversations have been difficult. I understand if you’re not ready.” He closes the file, shuffles his stuff around, and takes out a black leather-bound book. “There’s something new I’d like for you try. As part of your therapy, I’d like for you to journal.” He moves to hand me the journal, but when I don’t reach to take
it, he places it gently in my lap. “I won’t read it unless you want me to. But I believe it will help you. I want you to start at the beginning, at your first memory, just write it all out. My hope is that it will bring you clarity and a way to exorcise your emotions. Grief is a powerful thing, and sometimes, if it’s ignored, we can become lost in it.”

  I resent the “we” in his speech. We are not a “we.” There is him and then there is me. Nothing connects us. He leans over again and places a ballpoint pen on top of the journal. My fingers touch it involuntarily. We’re not allowed to have pens. In the wrong hands they can become weapons.

  As if reading my thoughts, Doc says, “Usually you wouldn’t be allowed to have a pen. It’s a privilege reserved for yellow- or green-banded patients. But I believe it’s the appropriate therapy for you. I also believe I can trust you with it. Can I trust you, Alice?”

  I give a swift, jerky nod, mentally cataloging these two new items, adding them to my others. It’s a foster kid thing. Tallying your possessions, counting and re-counting them like precious jewels.

  “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

  2

  The Girls’ Wing

  “ALICE, DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID?” DOC 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.