“No.” Em started pacing again, and I caught just a glimpse of her as she walked away, still wearing the jeans and blouse she’d had on that morning when we’d left for school. Her shoes were the same, too, except that now her sneakers were missing their laces, as per Lakeside policy. That way the residents can’t string a bunch of shoelaces together and try to hang themselves. Or one another.
“The last thing I remember is getting sleepy in third period, then there’s nothing until I woke up in the E.R. And honestly, I kinda wish I was still asleep, ’cause this shit is the stuff of nightmares.” Em paused, and though I couldn’t see her face, I realized what she must be thinking just a second before she confirmed it. “Sabine, is this you?” Emma shouted, her arms thrown out at her sides. “Are you doing this? Cut it out, or I swear I will kill you!”
That time I did groan, but no one heard me. That one outburst from Em had undone all the progress she’d made in convincing the counselor that she was neither Lydia nor crazy.
“Who’s Sabine?” The counselor pulled out the desk chair and sat, and suddenly I had a clear view of Emma. And as soon as I saw her, I realized that the feisty, fast-thinking Em who’d just tried to talk her way out of the mental ward was gone. This Em looked...distracted. Distraught.
“She’s a friend, kind of.” Em stared at the window, showing me her profile, and her hand slid into her hair and pulled on it, a gesture I’d never seen her use, and that she didn’t even seem aware of. “But only because she’d be so much scarier as an enemy. I need to get out of here. You have to let me out of here now!”
I was so distracted by how upset she was suddenly that it took me a second to realize what she’d said. She’d gotten sleepy in third period, and she didn’t remember anything that had happened after that. Had she fallen asleep? Had she been possessed when she’d freaked out at school?
“So, you don’t remember the ambulance? Or—”
“I don’t remember any of it, okay?” Em’s hand tightened around a handful of her hair and pulled so hard I winced. I had to get her out of there, but I couldn’t do anything until the counselor left. “I already told you that. I don’t know anything except that I’m not supposed to be here, so just shut the hell up!”
A high-pitched whining sound came from the room next door, and I retraced my steps until I could see the girl sitting on her bed, now rocking back and forth, clutching two handfuls of her own hair. Just like Emma.
And that’s when I understood. Em was syphoning this girl’s...whatever she was feeling too much of. Fear, maybe. Or panic. Or massive discomfort with...everything?
“This report says you didn’t know who you are,” the counselor continued. “You told your teacher you weren’t—” she glanced at the papers again “—Emily Cavanaugh. And now you’re telling us that you’re not Lydia. Would it be accurate to say that you’re still not sure who you are?”
“Do any of us really know who we are?” Em asked as I stepped into her doorway, and this time she was facing me. I didn’t realize she could see me—evidently I wanted her to—until her gaze focused on me. Her eyes widened, and she gasped out loud.
“Sorry!” I said, my voice audible to only her. “Pretend you don’t see me.” But, of course, it was too late for that. My interruption had made her look even crazier.
The counselor twisted and looked right through me, then turned back to Emma. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Em shrugged, visibly struggling to keep her focus on the counselor. She let go of her hair, obviously surprised to find herself clutching it, and closed her eyes. “I thought I saw something, but it was nothing.”
The counselor started to scribble something on her file, and Em’s eyes flew open. “Don’t write that down! I’m not seeing things. I said I thought I saw something, but I was wrong. I’m not crazy.” She tugged on the hem of her shirt, one of mine, which was a little baggy on her.
“Of course you’re not.” The counselor laid her hand across the file in her lap, legs crossed in her pencil skirt, her pen tucked beneath one finger. “‘Crazy’ isn’t a diagnosis.”
“No, I mean I’m not...” Em exhaled, and her shoulders slumped. I motioned for her to sit on the low, narrow bed, hoping that would make her look calmer, and she did. “Never mind.”
The counselor was quiet for a minute, watching Emma. Waiting to see if she’d say anything else. Then, when nothing else came, she tucked a strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear. “Do you feel like seeing your family now? Your parents are eager to see you.”
Crap. She still thought Em was Lydia. Perhaps an even crazier version of the Lydia who’d escaped.
“No!” Em’s brown eyes flashed, not in anger but in fear. Her hand snaked toward her hair again, but I shook my head and motioned for her to put her hands in her lap, which she did. “I told you, they’re not my parents. I don’t want to see them. If you make me, I swear I’ll kill myself.”
I shook my head, trying to tell Emma she was taking the wrong approach—threatening suicide in the mental health ward never goes well—but I only caught her attention and made her look crazy again.
“Lydia, no one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
“I don’t want to be here.” Her voice rose on the end, and the whining from the room next door increased in pitch and volume. One of the two of them was about to lose it, and if Em was that one, we were all screwed.
“Well, that’s out of my control, at least for the moment.” The counselor clicked the top of her pen repeatedly, retracting and exposing the ballpoint over and over. “But I do have several more questions for you.”
Emma scowled with Lydia’s face. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Go tell my parents to go home. Please.”
“We’re not really finished here....”
“I’m finished.” Emma stood, staring down at her. “I’m not going to say another word to you until you get rid of Lydia’s parents.”
“Do you really think that’s the best tactic to take? I’m trying to help you, Lydia.”
Emma glanced at me, and I motioned for her to sit again. She sank onto the edge of the bed and scooted back to lean against the wall. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and watched the counselor in silence. She wasn’t pouting. She wasn’t throwing fits. She just...wasn’t participating.
That was the best I could hope for, considering the state of the resident next door.
The counselor gave it several more minutes, while we sat there in silence—okay, I stood—and the girl next door whined. Then she sighed and left the room, patient file in hand.
As soon as the counselor was gone, I made myself corporeal enough to close Emma’s door. The moment it clicked home, she flew off the bed and hugged me so hard I wouldn’t have been able to breathe even if I’d needed to. “Get me out of here. Please. I can’t stay here. This place makes me feel...bad.”
“I know. It did the same thing to Lydia. I think she syphoned every psychosis in the whole damn place.” I blinked us both into my living room—with a stop in an empty parking lot on the way, because I couldn’t go that far in one shot. The best moment of the day was the moment my feet landed on my own carpet.