My phone vibrates almost immediately.
Davey F. (Mobile) Received @ 8:25PM:
Nope.
My heart jumps a little in my chest. Maybe he misread the text or was taking a nap and just woke up or something?
“Yeah, there’s been a bit of a mishap,” Dom says into the phone.
“Can you keep it down please?” I blurt. I’m annoyed that he and Ralph are talking about me right in front of me like they’re both my parents, or whatever.
Dom waves his hand at me for quiet. “I need you to drive over to Fang Road with me and pick up Kippy’s car . . . Yeah, long story, thanks, buddy. Call you in an hour.” He claps his phone shut. “What was that about, hey? You’re in trouble, Kippy Bushman, and it would really reassure me, see, if you could think on that instead of getting so persnickety.”
“Whatever.” I grip my phone.
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
Is everything ok?? . . . I got in all this trouble . . . I need to talk to you about the next step in our investigation . . .
Davey F. (Mobile) Received @ 8:27PM:
Carl already told me bout ur troubles
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
Carl, like your contact at the station? Is he the guy that checked me in?
Davey doesn’t write back.
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
WTF?? RU mad or something?
Davey F. (Mobile) Received @ 8:32 PM:
Is it true you hooked up w/ Colt
I close my eyes hard and slouch down in my seat.
Dom nods at me, not getting it. “That’s it,” he says. “Simple relaxation.”
Davey F. (Mobile) Received @ 8:33PM:
Carl told me. Said Staake saw.
I could just lie, I guess, but then I’d be like everyone else around here.
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
no hookup, just kissed! Pls don’t b mad . . . it wasn’t my fault
He doesn’t respond. I should have told him sooner about Colt. I should have said sorry about last night and that I think about him all the time, because it’s true.
To: Davey F. (Mobile):
it was a mistake, pls, I need a wingman
Davey F. (Mobile) Received @ 8:35 PM:
ur on ur own. Cya.
I groan and thump my head against the headrest. I can feel my eyes burning. I’ve never felt lonelier.
“Hey, what’s going on over there?” Dom asks nervously. He squeezes my knee, but I turn away and lean my cheek against the window. That’s when I see that we’re passing the sign for Nekoosa. We’re driving the wrong direction.
“Where are we going?” I snap.
“Now just you hang in there, Chompers,” Dom says, gripping my leg. “You know I love you, right?”
“What’s going on?”
“Listen to me, Kippy Bushman, you’re going to be okay. This isn’t permanent.”
I bang my fist against the window. “Tell me what’s going on.” My voice sounds monstrous—croaky and unhinged—like something from The Exorcist. I remember Mom all of a sudden, how she was right before she went to hospice: banging her way around the house, drooling, screaming profanities. I sound like her. I look like her and I sound like her.
“I told Sheriff Staake that you needed help, that’s all,” Dom says carefully. “But honey, I can’t give you the kind of help you need—I got him to agree to put you into my custody so that I could bring you somewhere you could get that help.”
My mouth feels dry. “So where are we going?”
Dom pats my leg. “Cloudy Meadows.”
“No, Dom. Please.”
“It’s only ninety days.”
All of a sudden I start screaming and won’t stop. But instead of turning the car around, or at least pulling over like I think he might, Dom turns up the radio, drowning me out with smooth jazz.
Cloudy Meadows is surrounded by trees and flanked by a cow pasture. The building itself is gray stone slab and concrete, all arches and towers and steeples, disappearing into murky clouds. Shadowy figures move back and forth behind the dimly lit windows, pacing lunatics or nurses making their rounds. It’s like the castle I imagined Mom’s monsters in.
“Dom, please,” I say. We’re at the bottom of the hill, still, waiting for security clearance on the other side of the wall. The cows have crowded into the corner of their field and are watching us from behind the adjacent barbed-wire fence.
“It’s going to be fine,” Dom says. “It’s all part of the agreement.”
I’m too exhausted from screaming the whole way to even talk to him, much less fight. Mounted cameras swivel on the front gate, flashing skinny red beams across our windshield, scanning us like a barcode. The gate swings open, and before we can pull in all the way, clangs shut, thunking against the back bumper of the Subaru.
Cloudy Meadows Sanatorium
6459 Old Highway 13
Battle Creek, WI 53092
Patient 276
Kippy Bushman, 16 yrs.
Unit: Adolescent Female
Self-committed? NO
Seeking treatment for: Delusional thoughts, paranoid thoughts, obsessive thoughts, grief counseling
Approved visitors: Dominic Bushman, Ralph Johnston, Davey Fried
Check-in notes: Grief counseling sought for death of friend, Ruth Fried. Most brutal slaughter in state since who knows when (this doctor’s opinion).
Check-in interviews:
Father, Dominic Bushman distraught at check-in. DB describes feelings of self-doubt while expressing deep concern for daughter’s mental welfare. When asked how long daughter had been expressing symptoms, DB responds, “I don’t know, I don’t know.” Explains that daughter has always been private but has history of psychosis. “She’s not a rabble rouser, no shenanigans, this is totally atypical—but after her mom died, yes, there was a period of obsessive thinking, tunnel vision. She technically assaulted someone—but I’m not convinced she meant to. Recently she’s been preoccupied with Diane Sawyer. I’m not sure if she knows the difference between what’s on TV or on the YouTube, and what’s in her head.” As a psychologist (self-described; works as a counselor in a middle school), DB was alarmed to find that the patient had constructed an elaborate fantasy world around friend’s death, and committed several delinquent acts. DB seems to think that Friendship police will drop recent charges against patient in exchange for her seeking psychiatric treatment.
Sheriff Bob Staake. Interview sought upon patient’s father’s request. SBS says, “I’m not dropping the charges just because she’s crazy. That girl’s a pain in my tush, you betcha, no offense. Always sticking her nose in my case, she was. Basically threw herself at the murderer, don’tcha know. Walked in and they were playing tonsil hockey. Next thing I know she’s conning undertakers and robbing dead ladies. I’m no doctor, but I’d say that young thing needs a good dose of Kick-in-Ass.” (SBS laughs)
BOUND
Up until this very second, I’ve felt packed in foam rubber, like I’m floating around weighing five hundred pounds. I actually don’t even know what day it is or how long I’ve been at Cloudy Meadows. But now, through the noise—metal spoons on metal trays, the squeals and gurglings of psychopaths—I’m beginning to make out noses and eye colors on what used to be a sea of featureless faces. I catalogue what I know: I am hungry. But then I remember: the pills make you hungry. There are pills in the food. I try again, rooting through my cobwebbed mind for memories or clues, the facts of my surroundings. Across the table from me, two blond girls are sucking on each other’s hair while eating mashed potatoes.
“I told you it’d work if you stopped eating the food!” someone whispers cheerfully into my ear. “Not so blurry anymore, right?” It’s squeaky, like a mouse’s voice, and I’m pretty sure I hear a British accent.