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Authors: Cecilia Galante
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on top of that bike sometimes can make me feel like I’m flying.” He paused. “I like that feeling, you know?”
“Yeah.” My heart pounded. “I know.”
The car slowed as he eased it along the curb in front of a low gray building. Thick hedges flanked the entrance, and small windows stared out at the night like empty eyes. He turned off the engine, ran his fingers through his hair. “All right. You ready?”
No.
I nodded.
He pointed to the hospital. “This way.”
Maybe I was still in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
mode, expecting to see patients slumped over in chairs muttering to themselves or tight-lipped nurses in starched uniforms handing out pink and blue pills. Still, even with my sunglasses on, I hadn’t expected things to look like this. Except for the woman sitting behind a wide desk at one end of the hallway, the entire first floor looked like someone’s living room. A
wealthy
someone’s living room. Plush red chairs with fat pillows were pressed up neatly against the walls. Two gigantic area rugs pictured flying cranes and gold-roofed pagodas. The windows were dressed with heavy brocade drapes that fastened in the middle with silk braided ties. The sound of classical music drifted down from somewhere by the ceiling, and I could smell wood polish in the air.
“This place is unreal,” I whispered, trotting to keep up with Dominic.
“This place has a lot of money,” he murmured back. “Treating mental illness is frigging expensive.”
He stopped in front of the desk, which, besides the pane of glass surrounding it like a moat, could have been any front desk. In any hospital.
“I’m back to see my sister, Cassie Jackson,” Dominic said to the receptionist. “She’s in special observance on the third floor? I have another visitor too.” He reached out and touched my arm lightly. “Right here.”
“Your names?” The woman, young, pretty, glanced at me and then back at Dominic. Beneath her hands, which were poised over the computer keyboard, I could see a copyof
Twilight: New Moon
overturned in her lap. And except for a pale blue mark on the outside of her neck, her flawless skin had an alabaster quality to it. I looked at the blue spot on the woman’s neck again; at this distance, even with my dark glasses on, I could see the navy, cylindrical shape beneath it, one side of it darker than the other.
“I’m Dominic Jackson.” He stepped back, making room for me. “And this is Marin Winters.”
I slid a glance at him. He remembered my last name too?
“Have a seat, please.” The woman looked at the screen as she spoke, her fingers racing along the keys. “Someone will be with you in a moment.”
We sat down in the beautiful, silk-backed chairs. A trembling had started in my fingertips, and I slid my hands under my legs. I could feel the muscles in my arms quavering; the middle of my stomach felt light and dense at the same time. Across the room, the blue mass in the receptionist’s neck throbbed like a traffic light.
Please,
I thought.
Please let the inside of that hickey be the only thing I see in this place today.
Several silent moments passed. I stared at my red Keds, pressing the insoles together over and over again, as if the movement might realign everything else inside that felt off. When an attendant appeared and said, “Marin and Dominic?” I stood up too quickly.
The attendant, who was dressed all in white besides his black shoes, led us into an elevator that smelled likeWindex. I looked around, but there were no buttons to push, no panel to direct us where to go. Instead, the attendant inserted a small silver key into a keyhole near the doors and turned it to the right. The elevator jolted awake and began to move. I stared at the floor, then over at the attendant’s shoes, which were tied with big, loopy laces. I wondered what kinds of things he saw in a place like this, if he’d ever gotten hurt, wrestling someone to the ground. Had anyone ever spit on
“Yeah.” My heart pounded. “I know.”
The car slowed as he eased it along the curb in front of a low gray building. Thick hedges flanked the entrance, and small windows stared out at the night like empty eyes. He turned off the engine, ran his fingers through his hair. “All right. You ready?”
No.
I nodded.
He pointed to the hospital. “This way.”
Maybe I was still in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
mode, expecting to see patients slumped over in chairs muttering to themselves or tight-lipped nurses in starched uniforms handing out pink and blue pills. Still, even with my sunglasses on, I hadn’t expected things to look like this. Except for the woman sitting behind a wide desk at one end of the hallway, the entire first floor looked like someone’s living room. A
wealthy
someone’s living room. Plush red chairs with fat pillows were pressed up neatly against the walls. Two gigantic area rugs pictured flying cranes and gold-roofed pagodas. The windows were dressed with heavy brocade drapes that fastened in the middle with silk braided ties. The sound of classical music drifted down from somewhere by the ceiling, and I could smell wood polish in the air.
“This place is unreal,” I whispered, trotting to keep up with Dominic.
“This place has a lot of money,” he murmured back. “Treating mental illness is frigging expensive.”
He stopped in front of the desk, which, besides the pane of glass surrounding it like a moat, could have been any front desk. In any hospital.
“I’m back to see my sister, Cassie Jackson,” Dominic said to the receptionist. “She’s in special observance on the third floor? I have another visitor too.” He reached out and touched my arm lightly. “Right here.”
“Your names?” The woman, young, pretty, glanced at me and then back at Dominic. Beneath her hands, which were poised over the computer keyboard, I could see a copyof
Twilight: New Moon
overturned in her lap. And except for a pale blue mark on the outside of her neck, her flawless skin had an alabaster quality to it. I looked at the blue spot on the woman’s neck again; at this distance, even with my dark glasses on, I could see the navy, cylindrical shape beneath it, one side of it darker than the other.
“I’m Dominic Jackson.” He stepped back, making room for me. “And this is Marin Winters.”
I slid a glance at him. He remembered my last name too?
“Have a seat, please.” The woman looked at the screen as she spoke, her fingers racing along the keys. “Someone will be with you in a moment.”
We sat down in the beautiful, silk-backed chairs. A trembling had started in my fingertips, and I slid my hands under my legs. I could feel the muscles in my arms quavering; the middle of my stomach felt light and dense at the same time. Across the room, the blue mass in the receptionist’s neck throbbed like a traffic light.
Please,
I thought.
Please let the inside of that hickey be the only thing I see in this place today.
Several silent moments passed. I stared at my red Keds, pressing the insoles together over and over again, as if the movement might realign everything else inside that felt off. When an attendant appeared and said, “Marin and Dominic?” I stood up too quickly.
The attendant, who was dressed all in white besides his black shoes, led us into an elevator that smelled likeWindex. I looked around, but there were no buttons to push, no panel to direct us where to go. Instead, the attendant inserted a small silver key into a keyhole near the doors and turned it to the right. The elevator jolted awake and began to move. I stared at the floor, then over at the attendant’s shoes, which were tied with big, loopy laces. I wondered what kinds of things he saw in a place like this, if he’d ever gotten hurt, wrestling someone to the ground. Had anyone ever spit on
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