Read Online Ultraviolet by R. J. Anderson - Free Book Online Page A

Her emphases left no doubt of how unlikely she thought this was to happen to any of us. “It causes involuntary, repetitive movements—”
    Kirk contorted his face into a grimace and poked out his tongue, blinking exaggeratedly all the while. “This could happen to you, kids! So whatever you do, don’t stop taking your happy pills!”
    “That’s it,” said the nurse. “You’re gone.”
    Unfazed, Kirk got up and sauntered out the door. But by then the damage had been done. I thought about the medications I was on, the side effects I’d already experienced, and a chill settled into the pit of my stomach. Tardive dyskinesia sounded like the kind of thing that could ruin the rest of your life. What if taking Dr. Minta’s pills did that—or worse— to me?

    . . .

    I was sitting in the library after supper, watching the setting sun cast its long rays through the pine forest, when an aide came to the door. “Alison? There’s someone here to see you.” I’d been expecting this, but I didn’t feel ready for it. Licking my dry lips, I got up and followed her out, silently reminding myself to stay calm.
    The visitors’ lounge was tucked into a corner by the cafeteria, a low-walled triangle of glass blocks that offered little privacy to anyone sitting there. Especially not if he was standing, like my father; I could see his stooped shoulders and graying red hair from thirty feet away. As I approached, he turned, and I expected my mom—slight, brunette, and fifteen years younger—to stand up and show herself as well. But she didn’t. She wasn’t there.
    “Here we are,” said the aide. “I’ll be across the hall if you need me,” and with that she retreated, leaving my father and me alone.
    “Hello, Alison.” He sounded hesitant, but then he usually did. His gaze wandered around the lounge, stuttering over the frayed upholstery, the dusty fake plants, the windows cloudy with fingerprints. “How are you doing?”
    “I’m okay,” I replied, and it only made me feel a little queasy to say it. Maybe I was finally getting used to the taste of my own lies.
    “Really?”
    His faded blue eyes were creased with anxiety. I could taste tears in the back of my throat, but I swallowed them. My dad had never been good at handling emotional outbursts, and I didn’t want to scare him away. “Yeah.”
    “Well.” He let out his breath. “That’s good. For a while, you were . . . in pretty bad shape.”
    “I know.” It must have been so hard for him, seeing me like that. I’d always been his nice quiet daughter, the one who could sit with him in his study while he worked on an article or graded papers, and not disturb him at all. “But I’m better now.”
    He patted my shoulder, then ambled over to one of the cleaner chairs and sat down. I followed. “Your mother was hoping to come,” he said, “but . . . it didn’t work out this time. She’s going to come another day.”
    So either my dad had done something to upset her and she’d decided she couldn’t stand to be near him, or else she’d simply chickened out. Maybe watching me thrash around in panic or lie there in a drugged stupor had been easy, compared to facing a daughter who might actually have something to say.
    “What about Chris?” I asked. “Is he going to come and see me, too?”
    “Oh. Er. Well, your mother thinks it wouldn’t be such a good idea to bring Christopher here. He’s still young. . . .”
    Eleven wasn’t that young, and my brother was hardly a sensitive child, but I got the message. My mother wanted to keep her screwed-up daughter and her normal son as far apart as possible. “Right.”
    “So, Alison . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “When do you think you’ll be coming home?”
    So my mother hadn’t told him about Dr. Minta’s decision, or my appeal. She’d kept him in the dark so he wouldn’t interfere.
Oh, Dad
. I wanted to throw my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder. I wanted to tell him everything, and beg