Sister Pact (16 page)

I hear the door open. A light switches on. A man walks over to my bed wearing green scrubs that make him look like a doctor. He is. Just not the kind who needs to wear scrubs. As one liar to another, I am offended by his weak attempt to make me believe he's more powerful than he is.

“Hi, Allie.” He flips the page. Is he checking to see if he has my name right? How many suicide attempts could he have to deal with in one day? “I'm Dr. Ziggler.”

I take in his colors. Gray hair. Blue eyes. Platinum wedding band.

He pulls up a chair. The noise of the legs being dragged against the tile floor makes me wince.

“Headache?” he asks.

I put my hand to my head, a movement so practiced I don't even have to try to fake it, and that's a relief. “Yeah,” I manage.

“Hmmmm. You get those a lot?”

I wonder what this could possibly have to do with taking a bunch of pills. One doesn't lead to the other. Necessarily. I stay silent.

He clears his throat. “You get a lot of headaches, Allie?”

“Yes.”

“And you take…” The rustling pages are like helicopter blades cutting into me. “Relpax, Topomax, Phenergan, Frova…”

“Not all at once.” It's supposed to be a joke. I hope he laughs. He does, a little.

“Your tox screen from your stomach showed different sedatives and stimulants. That's just what you took yesterday.” He flips another paper in my chart. “The blood tox screen, the other stuff you've taken within the last couple of months, showed additional recreational drugs, cough and cold medicines. So I guess I've got to ask, your headache meds not working?”

I stare at the wall.

“You want to tell me about it?” He lowers my chart and looks at me, like he's got all the time in the world. Like it doesn't matter that it's dark outside and he probably has a family to get home to or that he's ignoring the phone vibrating like mad in his pocket. He focuses on me. That almost makes it worse.

“I don't know what to say.”

“I'm worried about you, Allie,” Dr. Ziggler says, making me wish I were worthy of his concern. Because he's a good guy. I can tell. Even if he lied to me with the scrubs, he had his reasons.

“I'm good,” I say.

He laughs.

“Considering, I mean.”

“I'm not sure I believe that.” He puts his left foot on his right knee and lets it bounce a little.

I stare, because even though it's a little gesture, it says he's confident and nice. If he played baseball, he'd be a second baseman, I'm guessing.

“Allie…” Dr. Ziggler tries to get me back on subject.

“I didn't mean it. I didn't think… I wasn't trying…” I stare at the wall again, the tears wrenching themselves out of me, even though I try to keep them in. “Nobody believes me. But I really didn't.”

“You seemed like you did.” His voice is calm. “That was a lot of medicine to take if you didn't.”

“I guess I did at the time. But I don't anymore,” I offer. True.

“Can you tell me why?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Do you know?” He persists.

“No.” Lie.

“You want me to let you in on a little secret?” He leans forward.

“Okay,” I say.

“I believe you.”

He shouldn't. I'm lying. I know exactly why I did it. Every reason is lined up in my head like crayons in a box.

“Most people don't know why,” he continues. “Even when the reasons seemed so clear at the time.”

Maybe. When I was taking the pills, I didn't think about it. I just did it. But I had to know on some level, didn't I?

“The most important thing is to be honest. It's the only way to get better. Whatever is hurting you, we have to get it out of you. That's the only way to get better.”

Maybe.

“So, will you try to let me help you. Will you do that?”

“Yes.” Lie.

“Good. Because I want you to get better. There's no secret that's worth this.” He holds up his hands to indicate my current address.

I stay silent.

“You're seeing Dr. Applegate, right?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like you to stay here for a little while. Till you feel strong.”

I wipe the tears from my face.

“Sometimes having someone you love die makes you feel so sad, you don't want to live anymore. It's understandable. I'd like to put you on something to make you feel better. Exchange all those other pills for just one. Will you let me do that?”

He makes this sound so personal. He's worried about me. Would I let him help me? I'm so beat-down tired that I almost believe him. Almost. Then I remember. He's lying too. He showed me the moment he walked in wearing scrubs, as if he were the kind of doctor who operates instead of just messes with your mind and hands out pills.

I think about Leah throwing away her pills because they made her fat. The same pills that made me feel drugged and tired and totally disconnected. Those are the pills he thinks will fix me. “I'll try,” I lie.

The door opens. Mom slides in. Dr. Ziggler unfolds his leg and pushes himself out of the chair, extending his hand. “I'm Dr. Ziggler.”

“Karen Blackmore,” Mom replies.

“Allie and I were just talking about a few things.”

Mom looks at me. Then back at him.

“I'd like to put Allie on an antidepressant.”

Mom nods.

The door opens again. Dad's entrance is stronger than Mom's but quieter than his earlier one. Contrite Dad is on the scene now. He makes my stomach crawl, but he's not dangerous. Not like angry Dad.

Dr. Ziggler extends his hand again. “Mr. Blackmore?”

Dad nods.

“I'm Dr. Ziggler. I was just telling your wife…”

“Ex-wife,” Mom chimes in. I want to crawl under the covers. Dad gives Dr. Ziggler an aggravated smile. Lie. They're still married. For now.

“I was just telling Karen that we'd like to put Allie on an antidepressant for starters. Time in our inpatient facility will allow me to monitor her to make certain she reaches therapeutic levels.”

“No.”

“No to the medicine or no to the inpatient stay?” Mom demands.

“No to the stay.”

“Mr. Blackmore, I think you're making a mistake,” Dr. Ziggler says.

Dad flashes his aggravated smile again. “Thank you for your help, but we can give Allie everything she needs at home.”

“She needs a neutral place to heal,” Dr. Ziggler insists. “She needs a break from whatever it is that made her feel compelled to take those pills.”

“Don't worry, Doctor. We've already made some changes.”

My stomach turns. I wonder what he means by that. With Dad it could be anything. He knows how to hurt you in the name of loving you. Just ask Mom.

“I'm not sure…” Dr. Ziggler tries.

“We'll follow through on all your recommendations. She wasn't taking her meds. We'll make sure she does now.” Dad shoots Mom a look.

“We thought she was doing okay,” Mom says.

“She has to stay in the hospital for two more days. That's the law. After that, the choice is yours. My recommendations will be on file in case you change your mind.”

Dr. Ziggler moves to the bed and shakes my hand. “Pleasure meeting you, Allie. Please stay well.” His crystal-blue eyes are so clear, I want to jump into them. I want him to take me with him. Away from Mom and Dad. But he's not my father. I wasn't that lucky.

I watch him leave the room, my hopes sinking with every squeak of his sneakers. I'm going home. With them. Back to whatever they've done to sanitize my house. I try not to cry.

“Allie, you okay with this? You want to come home, right?” Mom asks.

“Sure,” I lie, and I'm surprised at how little effort that takes.

I've been telling lies for so long now, I'm not sure I know the truth. Each lie I tell connects to the previous one. These are Jenga lies. I'm not sure which one will send the whole tower tumbling. So I protect all of them—until I can think straight enough to keep the tower standing.

“You're going to be fine, Allie,” Mom says, slipping me a new cell she must have gotten while I was sleeping. Mom's always prepared. Always has her bribes ready. As if she knew Dad would win and she'd have to make it up to me somehow.
May as well benefit
. Leah's words come back to me from when we got the phones.

“We're going to take care of you,” Dad says. Lie. “I love you, Allie.” Big fat lie.

I'm surrounded by lies. I'm swimming in them. And with no backup—no pills, no Leah, no Nick. No Max or Emery. Something Dr. Ziggler said made me think. Maybe
they
are what's making me sick. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's them. I'm so consumed with that thought, I don't hear the nurse come in.

“Open up, Allie. Time for your meds,” she says.

Mom and Dad watch me. I obey and accept the pill, like taking communion. Only something about taking the medicine feels wrong. So I push it to the back of my mouth and trap it against my teeth. What makes these pills different than the ones that landed me here? One pill made me see Leah. A different pill will take her away. I feel like I'm in Alice in Wonderland again. The wrong Alice, definitely.

“Why don't you try to rest,” the nurse suggests as she writes in my chart. “Best thing for you really.”

I wonder how much she thinks she knows about me. I think of all the reasons I took those pills, all the things I told myself. I had to save my art. I had to save my sister. But those were lies. I was the one who wanted the pills. Me. Not Leah. Because she was never really there. Except in my mind.

“Visiting hours are over,” the nurse says, her tone short. She adjusts my IV line and checks the numbers on the machine hooked up to me.

“Good night, Allie.” Mom brushes my cheek with a quick kiss.

“See you tomorrow,” Dad says from across the room. He opens the door and backs out.

As soon as they all leave, I cough the pill into my hand. I go to the bathroom, wrap it in toilet paper a few times, and flush. I know I should trust Dr. Ziggler. But I don't want to be numb anymore. Any kind of numb.

I turn off the light and go back to bed. The dark room makes me feel completely alone. I do the math. No more Emery. No more Max. No more Nick. No more Leah. Who else is left? No one. Just me.

I play with my new cell. It's just like my old one, but it has an orange plastic cover. Max's color. Figures. When it powers on, there's no picture of Em and me, just the general, factory-issue wallpaper. Maybe that's better. My contacts are loaded. I scroll through and block Max and Emery. That done, I think about Leah again. There's no trace of her on this phone. Are there traces of her in my mind? I heard her. I saw her. I felt her. She was so real to me. Only she wasn't.

I want Leah. Even if she's not real.

Before, the pills and the headaches were catalysts. Now I've got nothing but the pain. And it's not enough. I close my eyes and let myself fall asleep.

I dream about Leah. She's underwater and I can't get to her. I see her face, bloated and pale. Someone is pouring milk through a funnel into her ear. I hear people talking about her. About how they're going to miss her. She opens her eyes underwater and reaches out for me. Her hand grabs mine, and she pulls me under. I gasp awake.

I crawl out of bed and walk to the window. It's the middle of the night. But in the lamplight, I can still see trees, the parking lot, the glint of metal from the cars. It must have rained because the ground is wet. I don't remember hearing the rain. I missed it, like all the things Leah is missing now. I don't want to miss any of it. The parties, the pep rallies, laughing with friends. I've always been tethered to this world while Leah was the one who was floating—like if she couldn't live the way she wanted to, she'd rather die. That thought settles inside me. I know it's the truth.

I press my forehead against the window so I can feel the cold and the condensation. I would miss this too if I'd done it—the way the window feels after it's rained.

I crawl back to my bed and close my eyes.

My cell rings, an unknown number. I answer it before thinking.

“Hello?”

“Allie?” John Strickland's voice.

I'm so surprised, I almost drop the phone.

“Allie, you there?”

“Yeah.”

“I just heard. You okay?” His voice is soft.

“Yeah.”

“I just… I need to know… Were they mine?”

I'm startled by his question. I feel all hollowed out and exposed. Dr. Ziggler said the road to recovery starts with coming clean, but it doesn't seem right to hurt him.

“No,” I say. “They weren't.”

“I always wondered about Leah, if she took mine, if that's how she did it.”

“No. Mom's.”

I hear him breathe out heavy. “Thanks. I mean, it doesn't change anything, but I always worried about that. Are you really okay?”

“Mostly. I didn't actually mean to.”

He laughs a small, soft one. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm glad you're okay. You have to remember that Leah wants you to be happy. She loved you very much.”

“You too.”

He laughs. “Yeah. Me too.”

He hangs up, and I think about John Strickland's dangerous eyes. His pirate heart. I let his concern wrap around me, and it feels good, even if it's temporary. Even if it's borrowed from Leah, it still feels good.

I stash my phone under my pillow. My eyes feel heavy, and I let them close. I relax and start to drift, but just before I fall asleep, a hand brushes my cheek. The touch is light and leaves the tiniest scent for my beaten-down psyche to decipher: mango. My eyes won't open, so I must be dreaming. I guess dreaming's okay. Dreaming doesn't get you in trouble. Dreaming doesn't land you in the hospital with nurses and doctors writing notes in your chart that aren't true. Dreaming is a free pass. Better than a random pill.