Project 17 (10 page)

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Liza reluctantly joins him and the other two Hollywood wannabes. Tony is helping Greta get ready for her close-up at this very moment. He's got some powder out, dabbing it across her rounded cheeks and pointed chin. "So you won't shine for the camera," he says.

Meanwhile, I pretend to ignore them by thumbing through a bunch of file folders.

"Seriously, Mimi," Derik says, copping an attitude. "I'd rather you guys just came with us." He looks back and forth between Chet and me.

"Go!" I tell him, flipping open one of the folders. "I'll be fine."

"Let's go," Greta demands. She runs a fingerful of Vaseline over her teeth, muttering something about how it keeps her lips from rolling up into her gums when she smiles. Like lip-rolling is some regular occurrence.

"We'll be right downstairs," Derik says. "We're gonna go by way of the cafeteria. Use the walkie-talkie if you need anything."

"Sure," I say to appease him.

But Derik doesn't look so sure. Still, he leaves me alone.

Finally.

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LIZA

IT'S ALMOST MIDNIGHT,
barely two hours in this place, but I feel like I've been here for days. It's just kind of crazy ... this sensation I have--like somebody's watching me. Ever since I set foot in this hospital, I've felt like there's someone standing over my shoulder, whispering into my ear, telling me that I shouldn't be here. It's got me completely on edge.

It doesn't help that Mimi is making me nervous, too. I mean, I try not to judge people, but it stresses me out just looking at her--dark hair, dark makeup, shrouded in layers of black like it's Halloween. Like she truly enjoys excursions like this.

We'd barely even made it inside this place, and there she was, telling us all about some cemetery we passed--a noticeable twinkle in her eye. Then, only a few minutes ago, she asked me all these questions--if I believe in coincidence, if I believe in a greater power, and if I wanted to

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read some patient's journal she found.

She discovered the journal tucked inside a mattress in one of the rooms. I didn't tell her this, but when she wasn't looking, I opened it up and read one of the entries:

March 5, 1981

After dinner. There's a girl here named Jessica who really scares me. she's sixteen years old and she's got these dead black eyes and this really hard stare. She watched me while I slept last night. And so I couldn't sleep at all; I couldn't stop shaking inside. It felt like my skin was icing up. Somebody told me Jessica's in here because she hears voices. I can't even imagine what that must be like.

Still, my foster care counselor says this is a good place for me. The counselor at the emergency room said so, too. I don't know. The only thing I know for sure is that I want to go to sleep and never wake up. That's why I took those pills. But the treatment here are supposed to make me better. I just hope this place isn't as bad as my last foster home.

Or the one before that.

Or before that.

Or the girls home.

And maybe I can do my art again. Maybe I can even get my GED.

More tomorrow.

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I don't know why I read that journal entry, or what compelled me to even open the notebook in the first place. There was just something that made me do it--a sudden urge that I can't quite explain.

But I guess I've been doing a lot of weird things since I got here.

Case in point, I stuck around when I could have left. I had the perfect opportunity to back out of this thing. Chet was even willing to drive me home. I mean, yes, I felt really bad for Derik. He's put so much energy into this project. And yes, I need this project myself--time's a-tickin' and I need to update my college applications with some extracurriculars.

But it was more than just pity and school. It was this place--the pull on me it had as soon as I stepped inside. Like, I want to go home but I need to see more. Like there's something bigger going on here than just abandoned buildings and debris.

Like exactly what Mimi said.

As if my internal struggle isn't unsettling enough, earlier, when Derik and the others weren't paying attention, I wandered into one of the rooms on my own and opened a closet. I found a noose in there. It was hanging down almost like an invitation. For just a split second something called out to me; I wanted to touch it.

And so I did.

With trembling fingers, I reached out and grabbed it, noticing my breath quicken and my legs start to shake.

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I backed away right after I did it, wondering what I was doing, why I was still there.

Especially because the noose felt like death.

It was just like the watercolor picture that Mimi found. It called out to me, too. There was just something about it--the colors the girl used, the missing body pieces, the way the paper felt between my fingers. In that instant, sitting in the reception room when nobody was looking, I just had to touch it, to know more about the girl who painted it.

And so I can't help but wonder if maybe, like Mimi, I'm being haunted as well. The thought of it only makes me tremble more.

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MIMI

ONCE DERIK AND
the others leave for the tunnels, I start flipping through the folders, searching for my grandmother's name. Since she was once a patient here.

I know it's not rational. I know the odds of finding any trace of her are slim to none. I mean, there are files
everywhere
in this place. It's hard to walk and not step on somebody's medical history. But I have to try anyway. Because after my grandmother was admitted here, it's like her whole entire family forgot about her.

But I'm not forgetting.

I may not have been around when it happened (I hadn't even been born yet), but I'm here now. And this visit is long overdue.

My older sister Micki has only filled me in on bits and pieces of what happened. She says that our family became ashamed of it--the idea of having someone in an asylum. She expects me to understand, to see their side of things,

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to consider the fact that my grandmother was admitted here long ago--when people were more private about things.

But I
don't
understand. And actually, when I really stop to think about it, it makes me sick. Because, what if something like that ever happened to me? What if I needed to be institutionalized? Would my family forget about me, too?

And so my grandmother lived here.

And then died here.

And no one even bothered to visit her.

Until now.

Chet plunks himself down next to me. "Come here often?" he asks, giving me the smarmy eye. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Come on." He laughs. "Where's your sense of humor?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but something tells me you're not in this for the laughs."

"Oh, really," I say, somewhat surprised by his perception. I mean, the guy's an absolute clown. To prove me right, he slips on the clown mask I found. It's the kind that has elastic across the back to hold it in place. A plastic version of Bozo, complete with a bulbous nose, happy lips, and fluffy red hair--even scarier than Tony's nest of thick brown curlicues and Chet's orange frizz put together.

The sight of it creeps me out. "Take that off," I snap.

"Not into clown kink, I take it." He takes the mask off.

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"What's with the black eye?" I ask, ignoring his attempt at humor, remembering how Derik had asked about the black eye yesterday at the diner, but how Chet had laughed it off.

"First answer my question," he says. "What's with the chip?"

"Excuse me?"

He reaches over to rub my shoulder. "There's a pretty bad one right there."

It takes me a moment to get it, and when I do, I can't help but smile. "Pretty clever."

"A curse I have to live with." He smiles back, his light brown eyes crinkling up. It's the first time I notice the dimple in his cheek. "So what's the deal?" he continues.

"No deal."

"Something tells me you have an agenda," he pushes. "So what is it? Something more interesting than combat boots and a 666 attitude, I hope."

I shrug, glancing down at a profile sheet. "Gus Newman," I read aloud, avoiding the question. "Age seventeen. High school senior."

"Let me guess," Chet says. "Too much funny dust?"

"Social anxiety issues," I correct, reading from the chart. "It says here he had difficulty relating to his peers. Sound familiar?" I raise an eyebrow at Chet.

"Nope. Not to me," Chet says, using the clown mask as a hat now.

I flip through the pages, looking for something

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meatier, some legitimate reason for Gus to be locked up in this place, but knowing that it happened all the time-- that sometimes people got checked in for the wrong reasons. "I once read about this boy whose parents dumped him off here, saying he was too rambunctious for them to handle. A couple years here, and no word from his parents--and the boy really
did
go crazy."

"Sounds like something my parents would do."

"That explains a lot."

Instead of responding, Chet pulls the clown mask back down over his face and sticks his tongue out through the lips.

"Do you know how many germs that thing probably has?"

"Does that mean we can't make out later?"

"You
can't
be serious."

"Try me," he says, his tongue flailing away.

I go to rip the mask off, but Chet does it for me. "Maybe later?" he asks.

"There isn't enough mouthwash or money on the planet," I say.

At that he gets up, stretches his arms, and readjusts his headlight. "Playing hard to get? I like that." He winks. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Just thought I'd pop over to the brain lab on my way to get some shock treatments."

"Seriously," I bite.

"Seriously,
come on"
he says. "Let's go for a walk. When

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was the last time you were in an asylum? Let's be crazy!"

I flip another page in the folder. "I'm busy."

"Well, unbusy yourself. Because I have to take a leak, and you have to come with me."

"Not a chance," I say, making a face.

"Come on," he begs, dropping to his knees. "You need to protect me from the evils that lurk."

The boy makes me laugh. I want to despise him, but I'm too busy laughing at his lame-o jokes. After squabbling over it for a few more moments, Chet finally agrees to go wee-wee by himself. Still, he assures me that he'll be just down the hallway, by the cafeteria, and that if I need anything I should call him on the walkie-talkie.

Meanwhile, I continue to page through the folders, reading some pretty intense stuff: several people who thought they were Jesus, a woman who liked to eat toilet paper, a guy who thought he was a chicken, a bunch of people with multiple personality disorders, and a handful with schizophrenia.

I pause at this one lady's chart. It seems she had people inside her ranging in age from 1 to 101. I try to make out what the doctor scribbled on her treatment page, but then I hear something--a creaking sound behind me, like someone is moving across the floorboards.

I turn to look, but there's no one there--just a bunch of windows that are all boarded up.

"Chet?" I say, looking around. I pick up one of the

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candles for added light. But I don't see anyone.

And so maybe I'm just hearing things.

I turn back to my reading, and reach for the journal. Even though it was kept in wax paper, it's still yellow with age. The corners are frayed and the back cover's almost completely torn off. Someone's decorated the front with decoupage--magazine cutouts of laughing children. Dozens of them. Little girls with open-mouth smiles and boys with huge, happy grins. But now there's an orangey-golden glaze that stains their faces, making them look almost sick.

I flip the journal open, noticing the name inscribed on the inside cover. It's written in pretty cursive, a vine of roses outlining the letters, and thorns digging in from all four sides--Christine Belle.

My skin tingles just seeing her name, knowing for sure now that the watercolor picture was indeed hers. I flip through a few pages, eager to read more about her.

But that's when I'm stopped.

"Mimi?" a voice whispers from somewhere out in the hallway.

My heart jumps. "Chet?"

But no one answers. And it's pitch black out there. My headlight only shines about eight feet, barely reaching the doorway.

"Chet, is that you?" I wait a couple seconds and then pick up my walkie-talkie. I press the talk button. "Chet?" But it doesn't seem to be working. I don't hear that