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The first time I tried
to kill myself I sucked down half a bottle of Advil. Turns out you can’t OD on Ibuprofen, but it can sure as heck make you feel like you’re dying. I puked every ten minutes for six hours straight. Even when there wasn’t anything left to puke, my stomach convulsed and heaved until I expected to see my toenails drop into the bowl.

Dr. Jansen must have felt sorry for me then because he sent me home with a prescription of oral Gaudium and instructions to take the rest of the week off from school. I guess the obligatory injection I got on my sixteenth birthday wasn’t enough.

“The first few days you’ll feel a little dizzy, so I’ll start you on a low dosage,” he’d explained. “We’ll increase it over the next few days, and in two weeks or so we can start weaning you off. By then your production of dopamine and serotonin will have reached optimum levels. Your depression will be permanently cured.”

Of course, I already knew all about the miracles of Gaudium, named after the Latin word for
joy
. As the CEO of Rawley Pharmaceutical, Papa never failed to take credit for the creation. But not anymore. Not since he was blamed for those women dying.

Dr. Walsh doesn’t let me off as easily as Jansen did. For the next three days I lay curled up on a bed in the adolescent psyche ward serving time on a 72-hour hold. How anyone can
not
want to kill themselves while being in here is beyond me. Frankly, though, I haven’t minded it. It’s the most isolated I’ve been in months.

I ask the staff to leave me alone and they do; not to mention, the ward is practically empty except for a handful of thirteen or fourteen-year-olds who mostly steer clear of me. Apparently nobody anywhere near my age has been admitted in months thanks to Gaudium, and the statewide policy of inoculating teens with it when they turn sixteen.

On the third day of my imprisonment, Dr. Walsh stops by after breakfast. “How are you holding up?” she asks, sitting across the table from me. The smell of gardenia is noticeably absent. “I’m releasing you today, you know. Your mother’s waiting in the lobby.”

Behind us, a couple of kids are draped on the couch watching a recorded episode of “Psyche.”

“What if I don’t want to be released?” I challenge her, stealing a glance at the TV screen.

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

At the end of the table is a box with an assortment of puzzles and board games. I fish out a pair of dice and toss them onto the table. Two and six.

“I had considered extending your stay here,” she replies. “But when I suggested it to your father he said he wanted you to come home.”

“Papa was here?” I glance up from the dice.

“No,” she answers. “We spoke over the phone.”

Of course. Mama has visited every day, but not Papa. I throw the dice again. Three and two.

“I looked at your medical report. Your wrist is healing nicely.” Dr. Walsh reaches for my hand as if to touch me, but I withdraw and slide both hands under the table. When she retreats, I pull them out again and rub the dice between my palms.

“Mira,” her voice is quiet and calm. “Do you still have thoughts about killing yourself?”

“I always feel like killing myself.”

Snake eyes.

Dr. Walsh drums her fingernails on the table. “I wish you’d talk to me,” she adds. “Three days and you haven’t said much at all. It’s against my better judgment to let you go home. But your father—” Her voice cuts off. I can hear her frustration. “I need to know you’re not going to try anything.”

I clasp the dice tightly in my fist. “Then let me stay here.”

I try to lift my gaze again to look at her so she’ll know how badly I mean my words, but I know it won’t do any good. Papa practically owns this hospital. He’s got more clout than just about anyone. If Dr. Walsh refused to sign the release papers, he would just go over her head and get someone higher up to get the job done.

The doctor sighs heavily. “You’re coming to see me at my office tomorrow. In the meantime, if you feel like you want to hurt yourself again, you need to tell someone—your mother or your father.”

I snicker at the thought.

“You can always call me, but is there someone else at home you can talk to?”

Is
there someone? I think: There’s our cook, Helen. There’s Papa’s chauffeur. And there’s Jordan. Not what I’d call the ideal lineup, but I nod my head anyway.

Dr.Walsh gives a half-satisfied smile. “All right then,” she proclaims, getting to her feet. “I’ll tell the nurse to let your mom in while I sign the forms.”

A buzzer sounds, and the wide double doors barricading me from the rest of the world swing open. Mama comes in, her face pinched with worry. With her is Jordan Cummings, Papa’s closest friend and
my
self-appointed bodyguard. Unlike Papa who retired from Rawley to run for office, Jordan divides his time between the pharmaceutical company and managing Papa’s campaign. At a lean six-feet with a hint of gray at his temples, he’s a perfect fit for political life.

“Hey there, Sunshine,” he says, offering his familiar smile. “Ready to go home? The car’s waiting, but so is every news station this side of the Rocky Mountains.”

“The media’s out there?” I ask, suddenly petrified. “Who told them?”

Mama sets something down on the table in front of me. An Abba-Zaba. She knows it’s my favorite candy. “A nurse, a custodian, a parent of some other patient—what does it matter who told them?” she replies with an exasperated shrug. “The sooner we get you home, the better.”

I can see it now:–
Daughter of Medical Mogul Has Mental Breakdown
–
Story Tonight at Ten
! Glancing down at the purple flannel pajama bottoms and t-shirt I’m wearing, I think about the press parasites waiting outside; the way they push and shove to get a mic in your face—I feel so exposed.

Jordan seems to know just what I’m thinking, as he holds up a plastic grocery bag and reaches his arm into it like it’s a magic hat. “Voila!” he says, pulling out my favorite hoodie, the black one he bought me in Venice Beach last summer. He then retrieves some jeans and my pair of Converse and drops them into my lap. “Better hurry. Your carriage awaits, my lady.” He winks.

Dr. Walsh returns with paperwork in hand. “Don’t forget about our follow-up appointment tomorrow, all right?” Drawing a business card from her pocket, she holds it out to Mama along with her copy of the release form. “In the meantime, call if you need anything.” Mama’s busy with me, so Jordan takes the information and shoves it into a pocket, and Dr. Walsh walks away.

I head for the restroom where I tug on my jeans. Then I slip into my hoodie, pulling the hood onto my head and the sleeves down past my fingertips. When I step out of the bathroom I ask a passing nurse for some surgical gloves, but her caustic expression is enough to make me regret asking. “Never mind,” I say. Then I join Mama and Jordan at the door where we all share apprehensive glances, like Gladiators preparing for battle.

Mama whispers in my ear, “Remember the drill. Face down, hands up,
silencio
.” Slipping the Abba-Zaba in my pocket for later, I follow her and Jordan through the double doors and into the elevator. It’s only the next floor down, but the ride seems to take forever. When the doors slide open my stomach lurches. The front of the hospital is all glass, and from here I can see hordes of reporters and photographers congregating outside where several police officers are attempting to hold them at bay. Parked at the curb is Papa’s black Benz. For a split second I wonder if he’s come for me himself. But of course Papa wouldn’t be here. More bad press is not what he needs now.

As the hospital doors open to the nightmare, I’m hit with a blast of heat that can only be delivered by a So Cal afternoon in July.

The barrage of questions begin:

“Did your father’s investigation have anything to do with your suicide attempt?”

“How do you think this will affect your father’s campaign?”

In an instant, Jordan is beside me, fielding questions while Mama bundles me into the backseat of the Benz.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Jordan calls out to the frenzied pack in a smooth voice, “Mr. Ortiz has no official comment to make at this time but requests that you respect his family’s privacy. He will be available tomorrow to discuss his campaign and the investigation.”

“But, Mr. Cummings,” shouts one female reporter wearing black rectangular glasses. “Under the circumstances, will Mr. Ortiz consider withdrawing his bid for Governor?”

“We have no further comment at this time.”

A moment later, Jordan slips into the backseat of the car beside me and Mama. As he shuts the door, I catch a glimpse of the 1911 Colt pistol he carries beneath his jacket. Not that I know much about handguns, but this one’s his pride and joy, something he shows off whenever he has the chance. I don’t mind. Despite everything I’ve done to myself, I feel safer when he’s around.

Jordan tells the chauffeur to head out. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks me, brushing off the lapels of his suit coat.

“Not bad?” I reply, tucking my hands under my knees. “In a few minutes my face is going to be all over the news.”

“Now, Mira,” says Mama, “don’t worry about it. It will all be forgotten tomorrow.”

Mama. Always the optimist. I guess that’s what I love about her. She’s managed to weather the first stretch of a gubernatorial campaign, a Federal investigation of her husband, and a lunatic daughter who shrivels at the slightest touch…still, she smiles.

“Your dad’s sorry he couldn’t meet us at the hospital,” Jordan says. “But with everything going on, he thought it best to wait for you at home.”

Mama squeezes my knee through my jeans. “I’m sure he would have come if he could,” she adds. I cringe at her touch, even though the denim keeps her skin off mine. And yet I long to feel her warmth again. It seems like forever since I’ve let her touch me.

As we pull out of the hospital parking lot, I glance back at the media mob packing up their gear and retreating to their respective vehicles. Behind them, the hospital’s new ten story Rawley addition juts skyward. Like the older complex in Bakersfield, the outer walls are polished red granite with wide reflective windows. The bottom floor will house a cafeteria and patient lounge, while the upper floors will be home to medical offices and the laboratory. The first four floors have been complete for a while, but the top floors are not much more than steel girders and scaffolding. It looks more like a giant erector set than a hospital. It should have been finished by now, but construction stopped when the investigation began. It reminds me of myself—empty, broken, abandoned.

The chauffeur takes us through
our gate and up the gravel lane, stopping at the front entrance to the house. Papa had it built a few years ago. It looks like that southern plantation in
Gone with the Wind
; tall, scalloped columns out front, a massive circular drive, and a sprawling lawn. Inside, the floors are white marble, and all the wood trim and banisters are maple. It cost a bundle, but as Rawley’s former CEO, Papa’s got plenty.

As promised, Papa meets us at the door.

“So, how’d it go?” His question is directed at Jordan, not me.

“Not a hitch.” Jordan gives Papa a brief report on the media frenzy at the hospital, then excuses himself, saying something about needing to call Papa’s attorneys. Once Jordan’s gone, Papa turns to Mama and kisses her on the cheek.  He starts toward me, but I take a step back.

“Oh, that’s right,” he says. “Sorry.”

He’s dressed in a dark suit and tie, which he loosens before sliding it out from his collar. Papa’s not a tall man, barely five-and-half-feet, but he’s strong and good looking. His black hair is combed back from his face, a face adorned with dark eyes and a sculpted jaw line that has captured the hearts of Californians. A Latino JFK.

“How was the inquiry?” Mama asks, taking Papa’s tie and draping it over her arm.  She heads for the sitting room and mixes him a drink.

“Those damn piranhas just want to take any bite out of me they can,” Papa replies. His back is turned to me like I’m not even here. But in this house, not here is the best place to be.

“I keep telling the commission that being a CEO was all about the money, marketing, and international distribution. Rawley Pharmaceutical eradicated Autism, for God’s sake. We’re on the brink of curing Alzheimer’s
and
schizophrenia, yet they want to gut me like a fish because some basement level researcher tested a couple of volunteers without Federal authorization. Volunteers, mind you! It’s not like the corporation raided villages and slapped them in chains.”

“Of course not, Beto.” Mama remains calm, handing him his glass. She glances at me over his shoulder. “Mira, why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest?”

Papa turns to look at me as if noticing me for the first time. “Oh, I’m sorry, Pumpkin,” he says, wiping the condensation from his glass with the thumb of his right hand. His fingers are thick and strong, but soft. No calluses because he’s spent most of his life behind a desk or in front of TV cameras and microphones.

“I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” he tells me. “You know, you really gave us a scare this time.”

This
time? So the first time was child’s play?

Beneath the fleece sleeves of my hoodie and the white gauze taped around my wrist, my wound still throbs.  The staples are out now, replaced by a bunch of tiny butterfly strips. It’ll heal eventually, leaving only a scar behind as evidence.  But will the reason I did it ever go away?

Mama grasps my shoulders and steers me toward the staircase. “I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in.”

“Mama, I’m sixteen.”

“So? Go on. I’ll be right up.”

I obey—mostly.  The staircase starts wide at the base and narrows as it curves around a huge Greek pillar toward the landing on the second floor. About halfway up I pause, concealed by the pillar, and listen.

Papa sets his glass down on the foyer table with a little more force than usual. “I am sorry, Ana,” he begins. “I’m just so aggravated about this unwarranted investigation. What evidence do they have anyway? Hell, the guy who supposedly conducted those drug trials has been dead for years. What was his name again?”

“Stark,” Mama sighs. “Gregory Stark. We were introduced at an office party once, don’t you remember?”

“So this Stark guy is dead, and now they need someone to hang in his place. And I’m the perfect target, of course. The first Hispanic candidate for governor in this state with a helluva good shot at winning. They’ll stop at nothing to tear me down. Nothing!”

Everything goes quiet. Mama’s probably removing Papa’s jacket, rubbing his shoulders the way she does when he gets worked up. They continue talking, but with softer voices.

“What about Mira?” Papa asks. His tone is calmer now, more concerned. “Did the doctors say anything more?”

I try to picture their faces. I know Mama’s looking hopeful, nodding her head, smiling as if everything’s going to be okay. “Dr. Walsh wants to evaluate her again tomorrow,” she says.

“Evaluate her? What for? She’s depressed. Give her Gaudium.”

“She received her immunization on her birthday two months ago, just like the policy requires.”

“And that policy is in place for a reason, Ana. Gaudium is still relatively new. Supplies are limited at this point, which is why we’ve only distributed it to children with Autism and teenagers. But once this investigation is over Rawley can go into full production, making it available to everyone. Mira’s fortunate to have received it when she did.”

“I agree, Beto, and Dr. Jansen even prescribed a booster. But it has had no effect on her.”

“Impossible.”

“But what if Mira doesn’t have depression or any sort of imbalance? Gaudium couldn’t help her then. Beto, what if she’s telling the
truth
?”

A silent pause. When Papa speaks again, his voice is strained. “She won’t let anyone near her. Jesus, Ana…she thinks she can read people’s minds.”

Mama’s probably looking into Papa’s eyes, searching for the right words to say.  “I know it seems improbable—”

“
Improbable?
Ana, it’s crazy!”

“I just think that after what’s happened, we should take what she says more seriously. Maybe she should have stayed at the hospital a while longer like Dr. Walsh suggested.”

“No.” My father’s answer is firm, final. “Thanks to some anonymous tip the press has already spread this thing all over the place. They can attack me all they want, but they’d better leave my daughter out of it.”

At this point their voices drift off, presumably into the dining room. I can’t hear them anymore, but Papa’s words resonate in my mind.
It’s crazy
. Or, more accurately,
she’s crazy
.

I don’t want to hear anymore. So I head for my bedroom at the top of the stairs. It doesn’t matter that it’s never really felt like mine. The decorators Papa hired insisted on painting the walls a swirly pink and green, Hannah Montana theme. It was fine when I was twelve, but that was four years ago—and I hate the color pink. I’ve hidden most of it beneath a collage of posters from my favorite Broadway shows, like
Wicked
,
Once
and
Memphis
. There are more posters on the ceiling over my bed stuck up with thumbtacks, and a floor to ceiling bookshelf filled with my favorite novels. Papa bought me the latest iPad for Christmas, but I still prefer real books.

I slip into my room and close the door behind me. Then, pressing my back against it, I sink to the floor and pull my knees up to my chest. If only I could stay here in my own little sanctuary, maybe I’d have a shot at survival. I wrap my arms around my legs and lay my cheek against my knees. I try to coax back the tears, but despite all my efforts a few drop onto my jeans leaving three dark, damp spots behind.