As Dea pulled up Connor’s number, Nina prattled on about the things she’d seen on the ward: drugs concealed in the lining of jeans; needles folded between the pages of a Bible; diet pills rattling in the belly of a teddy bear.
Dea’s fingers were shaking as she typed out her text.
Please come. Today. BRING CLOTHES.
I’ll explain everything.
Then, for good measure: I’m not crazy.
She hit send.
“One time, you wouldn’t believe it, someone brought a lighter hidden in a shoe. Tried to burn the whole place down.” She laughed.
“I’m done now.” Dea replaced the phone in her bag and stood up. She wanted desperately to keep the phone on her, but she had nowhere to conceal it and couldn’t risk getting in trouble. She showed Nina her hands, to prove she hadn’t taken anything.
“Good girl.” Nina swung the locker closed and locked it. “You send a message to your friend?”
“Yes.” Dea felt like she was choking on the word. It was one o’clock. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
FIFTEEN
Two o’clock came and went, then three. She wished, now, that she had taken her cell phone, found some way of concealing it in her flimsy cotton pajamas. She wished she knew whether Connor had written her back. If he hadn’t, or if he didn’t come . . .
That was the biggest question. Whether he would come. Whether by now, despite what Gollum had told her, he’d decided she was a freak, suicidal, the crazy child of a crazy-ass mother. She could only imagine the stories he must have heard from his uncle, what people must be saying about her in school.
School. She’d never thought she might actually wish to be back in school.
She washed her face and brushed her teeth again, just to have something to do. There were no mirrors in this part of the hospital—she was glad of that, though she would have liked to see her mother again—and she hadn’t seen her own reflection in days. She braided her damp hair by feel. Three thirty. She went into the hall and saw Eva, the anorexic, sitting with yet another visitor—her dad?—in the plastic chairs of the waiting room. Eva was the most popular girl on the ward, apparently.
She returned to her room and stretched out on the bed. Closed her eyes and tried to nap, but she was too agitated.
Four o’clock. She was guessing, estimating the time by the activity of the nurses doing their rounds and the quality of the light filtering through her window. If Connor didn’t come, she’d have to figure out a new way to escape. She examined the locker to see if she could force it, but she had no idea how to pick a lock and nothing to pick it with, anyway. The sharpest object she was allowed was a plastic fork. She couldn’t just make a run for it, either. The doors at the end of the hallway were locked. Even if she could somehow finagle it, the hospital would call the cops, and the cops would have no problem finding her if she went anywhere dressed in hospital-issue pajamas.
Connor was her only hope.
Five o’clock. Almost time for the shift change, and the perfect time to make a move. She looked into the hall again. Roddy was on the phone, gesticulating, his voice rising and falling over a swell of unconnected phrases: “Water supply . . . if the FEMA got wind of this . . . the Republican National Council . . .”
Behind him, a woman worked a mop up and down the hallway. Dea could see earphones hanging around her neck.
She closed the door, and the sound of Roddy’s voice was muffled. Mid-November, so the light was dying, rust-colored on the floor. She curled up on the bed. It felt like she was dying, too—bleeding out, wasting precious minutes. It had been days and days since she’d walked a dream, and Dea was weak.
It wasn’t until the knocking began that Dea sat up, realizing she must have fallen asleep. The light was gone. Her room was in darkness. Suddenly the door opened. The dazzling brightness of the hallway made her blink.
“What are you doing, sitting around in the dark?” The lights clicked on, and Maria, one of the night nurses, was revealed. She didn’t wait for Dea to answer. “Come on out. You got a visitor.”
Dea’s mouth went dry. She stood up, unsteady on her feet, hot all over. There was Connor: standing in the hall, looking rumpled and soft, like he’d rushed there from somewhere else. She almost didn’t believe it. She blinked several times, as if he were a mirage and might vanish as she approached. But he was still there. Then she noticed that his arms were empty—he hadn’t brought her any clothes. Or maybe they’d been confiscated already. Her stomach sank.
“Don’t take too long, now,” Maria said. “Visiting’s done in half an hour.” She backed out of the room, leaving the door open. Yet another rule.
Conner and Dea were alone. They stood for a moment in awkward silence.
“You came,” Dea said.
Just as Connor cleared his throat and said, “I got your text.”
“Shh.” Dea jerked her chin toward the hallway.
“I had to tell my dad I was going to Gollum’s.” Connor lowered his voice so he was barely speaking above a whisper. “You said you would explain.”
Dea’s heart was beating so fast, she felt like she might faint. “I will. I promise.” In the hall, a nurse passed, limping slightly, as if her whole body ached. She shot a quick glance into Dea’s room but kept moving. “I’m in trouble.”
“I can see that,” Connor said.
“But I’m not—I’m not crazy.” Dea’s voice broke. She cleared her throat. “Please. I need your help. Get me out of here, I’ll tell you everything.”
Connor stared at her for one long moment, as if trying to judge whether she could be trusted. “I brought some stuff for you,” he said finally. He unzipped his sweatshirt. Underneath it, he was wearing a second sweatshirt, this one so small its sleeves stopped four or five inches above his wrist bones. It was pink. “My stepmom’s,” he said quickly, when Dea stared. He reached into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a pair of leggings. “These, too. I didn’t think you’d want me wearing them.” It was the first time he’d cracked a smile. “And a T-shirt. I’m wearing two.”
“You’re a genius,” Dea said.
Connor shrugged. “Don’t forget, I was a psycho when I was little,” he said, serious again. “I killed my family, remember? I know how these places work.”
Dea wondered whether the woman, Kate Patinsky, was still harassing him—it occurred to her that people at school must be saying bad things about Connor too. But there was no time to ask him now. He backed into the little bathroom and, because there was no door, Dea turned away so he could change. Then it was Dea’s turn. Connor had left the leggings, the pink sweatshirt, and a T-shirt with a faded Coca-Cola graphic folded neatly in the sink. The clothing was all a bit too large, but Dea didn’t care. It felt delicious to be wearing real clothes, even clothes that were borrowed.
The fact that she had no shoes was a problem. It would look bad—even after she left the Crazy Ward, it would raise eyebrows. And the hospital complex was big. There was no way she could make it to the parking lot without passing doctors, and nurses, maybe even some of the same people who’d admitted and treated her. She needed to blend in as much as possible. But she was running out of time. Once the night nurses finished chatting and sucking down coffee, it would be dinner time. Then the halls would be full of nurses wheeling trays and bearing pills and Connor would have to leave, and Dea would lose her chance.
“So what’s the big plan?” Connor said. He had turned again to face her. She had forgotten how much she liked the angles of his face, and his eyes, warm and bright. “You can’t just walk out of here.”
“Visitors do it all the time,” Dea said. “They get punched out by the cleaning crew, no questions asked.”