My mother stares at me. “It’s . . . it’s nothing. I just wanted to let you know that I love you.” She hugs me.
“I love you too, Mom.” I turn back to the cartoon.
“It might not seem like it, but you’re getting well here. You’re getting the help you need.” She takes my hand.
“I know,” I tell her.
“Dr. Reynolds sounds very positive about your recovery.” Her voice quavers and she sniffles loudly.
At the mention of Dr. Reynolds, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I try to ignore it. “That’s nice,” I say uncomfortably.
She lets go of my hand and kisses my forehead. I don’t know how long she stays by my side, but when I think to look again, she’s gone.
It’s Baby who elbowed me awake in the morning. My nightmare was still fresh in my mind: the Florae had Baby and she was terrified, screaming. I shook the fear from my mind as I felt for Baby’s hand and signed, What? still half asleep.
Mom is talking really loudly.
I listened, but couldn’t hear anything. So?
She’s saying your name. I know it in loud speak. Maybe she needs you.
I sat up quickly and silently walked to the bedroom door. Putting my ear to the crack I could just barely make out my mother’s muffled voice.
“But Amy has already gone through intake. . . .” She paused, listening. “Yes, I know, but I don’t think she requires a full psyche-eval. . . . It just seems unnecessary.” She sounded exasperated. “Yes, of course I understand there are no exceptions, even if it is a waste of time.” There was another long pause. “I’ll have them there at eight.”
My mother was quiet, shuffling papers, when I pushed open the door.
“Oh hi, honey.” She hastily shoved her papers into her computer bag. “You doing okay?”
“I’m good. Better,” I told her. “Still in shock,” I added honestly.
She patted the empty spot next to her on the couch and wrapped her arms around me when I sat down.
“It’s okay for you to feel disoriented,” she assured me. “But it’s important for you to know that everything will soon seem routine.” She pulled back, then, and gave me a hard look. “You do know that, don’t you, Amy? You’ll fit in here just fine. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”
“I don’t think I understand what normal is anymore.”
My mother frowned, considering. “You should remain optimistic, especially when you speak to others about New Hope. . . .”
“Is this about the psyche-eval?” I asked. “I overheard you talking about it just now.”
“Honey, you’ll do fine on your psyche-eval,” she said brightly, but I sensed something else in her voice . . . anxiety? My mother was never anxious. “It’s just that you’ve had to deal with so much hardship over the years . . . you may have forgotten that things can be pleasant. Not everything left in this world is horrific.”
“I know that, Mom.” Even the After wasn’t all bad. I had Baby, a home, a life of sorts.
“Good. So during your psyche-eval, when you speak with Dr. Reynolds, just make sure you let him know that you feel hopeful, that you’re ready to move forward.”
“I will,” I promised, although I didn’t exactly feel hopeful or optimistic. I felt heavy, like New Hope was weighing me down. My mother was looking at me expectantly, so I smiled reassuringly, which seemed to satisfy her.
I wished it were that easy to shake my dark dread.
I hear Dr. Thorpe talk sometimes, about me and others. I kneel quietly next to my door while she’s in the hallway. I don’t think she realizes I’m there, or maybe she thinks that I can’t hear her.
The medicine hasn’t been making me as muddled lately and memories are starting to come back to me. I know I shouldn’t be in this place. I wonder how Baby is doing without me. I want to see her. I wish I could talk to her or to my mother.
I back away from the door as I hear Dr. Thorpe come closer. I sit on the bed and wait for her to enter with my food and medication. She pushes open the door and carries in my tray, placing it on the counter. As soon as her hand is free, she puts it to her earpiece.
“Ms. Harris is reacting well to her treatment,” Dr. Thorpe says, not bothering to look at me. She talks as if she is making a recording. “Her mood has stabilized, as has her erratic, violent behavior.”
What is she talking about? She can’t mean me. I’ve never been violent.
“The paranoid delusions that Ms. Harris was experiencing have completely disappeared, thanks to the antipsychotics prescribed by Dr. Reynolds and the antidepressants I prescribed. Ms. Harris has also been given a high dosage of the sedative ketamine and seems to be at a comfortable level of . . .”
“Excuse me, Dr. Thorpe . . .”
Dr. Thorpe pauses, looks at me as though I’ve suddenly appeared.
“Yes, Amy. What is it?”
“Who are you speaking to?”
She considers me. “I’m taking oral notes for the other doctors to consult.”
“You said I was reacting well to my treatment. If I’m showing improvement, can I go home?”
Her face becomes pinched and her body tenses. She doesn’t expect me to ask questions. “You haven’t fully recovered yet,” she tells me, her voice strained. “You can’t leave until Dr. Reynolds approves your release.”
I smile uncertainly. “Will that be soon . . . since I’m getting better?” I remember when the boy came to visit he said he would help me, or was that just a dream? He said to watch for someone. Kay. I keep thinking of her, but can’t remember who she is.
“We’ll have to wait and see what Dr. Reynolds thinks.” Dr. Thorpe turns and continues to talk into her earpiece while I watch.
I’ll get out of the Ward, no matter what Dr. Reynolds decides.
“I’m Dr. Reynolds.” The pale man offered a hand from his overstuffed chair. His smile seemed genuine, but his dark eyes were sharp, searching.
“I know,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was too tight and I shivered. “My mother speaks very highly of you.” I sat across a coffee table from him in an identical chair. I looked around the sparse room, taking in the bookshelves, a desk. I couldn’t help but glance at the door. Baby was sitting in the waiting room while I had my psyche-eval. I wondered if she’d be okay, if she needed anything.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
“It’s just . . . Baby isn’t used to being without me.” I looked at him fully for the first time. He was average height, normal weight, though his flesh seemed to hang loosely on his frame, giving him a strange, sickly look, like he had only just recently lost a lot of weight. His head was shaved clean. At least he didn’t go the comb-over route. The thought made me smirk.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, the hint of a smile on his lips, as if he already understood the joke.
“Nothing, really . . . I’m just . . .” I struggled. “I’m just happy to be here in New Hope. I’m feeling really optimistic.”
He studied me and scribbled in his notebook, a fake smile still plastered on his doughy face. “It’s good to be positive, especially after everything you’ve been through. New Hope must seem like it’s too good to be true.”