Something has happened to Becky. She and her grandfather hadn’t spoken a word on the drive over, both of them too terrified of what might greet them when they got here, but Emma’s imagination had whipped through a thousand terrible scenarios. She pictured Becky’s legs crushed under the wheels of a car, Becky sick with a mystery illness no one could cure, Becky missing limbs or plugged into life-support machines. Twenty minutes earlier she’d been angry and frustrated with her mother, but now she hated herself for even thinking it. What if she was going to lose her for real?
Even though Becky still made me feel uneasy, I was worried about the same thing.
The woman in triage said something to Mr. Mercer in a low voice that Emma couldn’t hear. He nodded, then hobbled across the lobby to a gleaming bronze elevator. With a ping, the doors slid open, and he got inside. Emma followed him. “Where are we going? I thought she was in the ER.”
Mr. Mercer didn’t answer. She could see their blurred reflections in the dented metal of the doors, but unlike in the mirror at the restaurant, here they looked warped and eerie. A Muzak version of “Bad Romance” oozed out of the speakers. The elevator crept up an inch at a time.
“Have they checked her in already?” Emma asked again. “Is it serious?”
Mr. Mercer just pressed his lips into a white line. Then the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Gold letters spelled out the name of the ward on the sage green wall facing them: PSYCHIATRIC AND MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES.
Emma grabbed her grandfather’s arm and forced him to look at her. “What are we doing here? You have to talk to me.”
Mr. Mercer adjusted his crutches under his arms. “I don’t know much more than you do, honey. The nurse on the phone said it was bad. Becky’s had some kind of … episode.”
“Some kind of episode?” Emma’s voice sounded shrill in the quiet hallway. “What does that mean?”
Her grandfather opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a thickset nurse with a stiff gray bouffant hairdo came around the corner to meet them. She glanced at her clipboard. “Dr. Mercer?” she asked, her voice brisk and efficient.
Mr. Mercer stepped forward. “Yes. How is she?”
“Follow me.”
Wordlessly, they trailed the nurse through the waiting room and down a wide green hallway. The nurse’s rubber-soled clogs made no sound on the linoleum, but Emma’s heels clicked loudly. Otherwise, the ward was quiet. Instead of medical charts or germ prevention posters on the walls, there were soothing pastel landscapes and the kind of motivational posters you saw in a junior high classroom. One was even that gray tabby dangling from a tree limb with the words HANG IN THERE.
A strange sensation settled over me, sort of like a deep, vibrating hum. The farther we went into the ward, the stronger it became. “Be careful,” I whispered to my twin, wishing she could hear me. “Something isn’t right.”
They passed a nurse’s station, and Emma stared disinterestedly at a bulletin board that said VOLUNTEER OF THE MONTH in glittery letters across the top. But when she saw the girl’s picture hanging below, she stopped short. It was Nisha Banerjee, smiling almost shyly in her candy-striper uniform. Emma cocked her head. Nisha volunteered here? Emma remembered that Nisha’s dad worked in psychiatrics, but a stint on the psych ward seemed like a strange after-school activity.
You wouldn’t have caught me volunteering here in a million years, not even if it guaranteed me admission to the college of my choice.
When Emma looked up, the nurse was escorting Mr. Mercer around another corner. All the doors on the ward had a window near the top, so the patients could be watched when the door was closed. She was too afraid to peek inside, but she could hear one man singing softly in a language she didn’t recognize. Behind another door, a woman babbled something that sounded like “You have to find them in your hair, that’s where they like to hide.... They spy on you, so you have to pull them out by the root.”
Emma hurried to catch up to her dad and the nurse. “It looks like a total psychotic break,” the nurse was murmuring when Emma reached them. They came to a stop outside a closed door that looked just like the others. A cheap print of Monet’s haystacks decorated the facing wall. There was a stain of something red—blood?—on the linoleum floor.
The humming was louder now. The pain of everyone on this floor—their anxiety, fear, and heartbreak—vibrated through me. Each emotion had its own pitch, as though a dozen tuning forks were being struck simultaneously. But one feeling united all the patients on this floor: They were stuck, imprisoned in these rooms and in their own flawed minds. I understood how they felt, more than I cared to admit.
The nurse placed her hand on the doorknob. “Would you like to see her?”
“Yes,” Emma said bravely, stepping forward.
Mr. Mercer’s eyes snapped into focus, as if he’d been gazing somewhere far away and had only just realized Emma was there. He put his hand on his forehead and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have left you downstairs in the waiting room. This isn’t how I want you to meet your mom.”
Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “No. I’m staying.”
Mr. Mercer looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he nodded. “All right,” he said to the nurse.
She opened the door.
A woman in a hospital gown writhed back and forth on the bed in the room as though her skin was crawling with spiders. Her black hair was a deep tangle around her head. Her face looked hollow, and far too thin, and her skin had an unhealthy ashen hue. She wore a plastic hospital bracelet on her wrist. Emma could just make out the name written in thick black ink—Rebecca Mercer.
But this couldn’t be Becky. It looked nothing like her. It didn’t even look like the woman she’d seen in the car a few days before. This woman was deranged, a stranger. Tears dotted Emma’s eyes. She placed her hand over her mouth, swallowing a sob.
The woman’s head whipped around. Her gaze lit on Emma, and all at once she fell still.
“Hello, Emma,” she said.
Emma’s mouth dropped open. She took a staggering step back, blood rushing in her ears.
The room started to spin around me, too. Usually it was some sound or image that triggered one of my memories, a flash of light or the sound of a train whistle snapping me back to the last days of my life. This time, though, the same tremulous vibration I’d felt since stepping into the ward grew louder and louder, until it became a rushing, violent ache in my ears. I knew now what that sound was—it was the sound of madness, and my mother’s was the loudest of all. It attacked me like a swarm of bats, sweeping me under and pulling me down until all I saw was the darkness of my past.
7
STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT
The sound of my father’s SUV fades into the distance. No, not my father. My grandfather. The thought makes my fingers curl into fists, my nails pressing into my palms until they draw blood. I wipe the tears and grime from my face and sit still until the sound of his motor dies away.
What began as a date with Thayer, the only boy I’ve ever really loved, has ended with him speeding toward the hospital in my sister’s car, leaving me alone in the mountains with the knowledge that my entire life has been a lie. I’ve always known I was adopted—but until tonight, I never knew the people who’d raised me were actually related to me by blood.
The moon hides behind a cloud, and the canyon goes even darker than before. My hands start to shake, the adrenaline turning sour in my blood. What have I done? I said horrible things to the man I considered my father, then sprinted away. I feel like I’m going to puke.
Across the street from the canyon is a suburban neighborhood, all the houses arranged on a horseshoe of streets. Porch lights float in the darkness like fireflies. I see Nisha Banerjee’s house, the pool glittering in the backyard, the street lined with cars. If I hold my breath, I can hear the bass thumping in the backyard. That’s where I’m supposed to be tonight, at the tennis sleepover. Maybe I should go over there. At least some of my friends will be there—I need to be around happy faces right now, people who care about me. Nisha’s a pain in the ass, but she’s easy enough to ignore.
I pull out my phone as I cross the street to her house. Six missed calls, all of them from Mads. Maybe the ER called her about Thayer. I try to call her but it goes straight to voicemail. I hang up before the beep, not trusting myself to speak to a recording.
I’m almost at Nisha’s driveway when a creak from the house next door startles me. It’s Ethan Landry’s house, but I don’t see any sign of him, only a big telescope on the front porch pointed at the sky. Weirdo. Any other guy would point it toward Nisha’s, hoping to get a glimpse of a sexy pillow fight.
My hand is on the gate to Nisha’s backyard when I hear the phone ringing inside her house. “Hello?” Nisha’s voice answers. “Oh, hi, Mr. Mercer,” she chirps. “No, he’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”
I shift my weight. Why would my dad be calling for Dr. Banerjee? They both work at the same hospital, but as far as I know they don’t interact—my dad’s in orthopedics, Nisha’s dad is in psychiatrics. Maybe he’s calling to ask Nisha’s father to keep an eye out for me. Maybe he’s trying to round up some kind of dad posse.
Someone in the backyard shrieks, “Marco!” I hear a splash and then giggles. They sound so young, their voices so high and innocent, like they’ve never had to face anything heartbreaking or real. Suddenly all of the energy drains out of me at once, a dull ache pulling at my limbs. I can’t be here right now; I can’t paint a bubbly smile on my face and pretend everything’s all right.
Exhausted, I walk back across the road to the canyon and plop down on a park bench, figuring I’ll call a cab. Who knows where my car is after that freak drove off with it. Maybe my dad will cover for me. It’s basically his fault this happened, after all.
Thinking about my parents’ lies enrages me all over again. Why would they keep a secret like that from me? Was it so hard to admit that we were all related by blood? Maybe they were ashamed of me. Maybe they just wanted to make sure everyone knew the way I was wasn’t their fault, that I was a bad seed from who knew where—not some monster they created. Angry tears pool in my eyes and I quickly brush them away.
The snap of a breaking branch cuts through the darkness. As I turn, I suddenly realize the crickets have gone silent. I stare into the darkness, but I can’t see a damn thing.
What the hell am I doing here? A few years ago a woman got mauled while jogging through the canyon at dusk. She was training for a marathon. The authorities said she probably never even saw the mountain lion—the cats move so stealthily most people don’t know they’re being stalked until it’s too late. After that happened, you couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing a PSA warning people to hike in groups of two or more. Remember, there’s safety in numbers! Don’t go hiking alone in Pima County.
