Harbinger (14 page)

Her family must live in one of the back-to-your-roots Cooperatives. The war and rationing had done more than divide people economically; it had sent people scurrying back to the safety of their pasts. All kinds of people suddenly realized that they were fundamentalists about something. Anything that could keep “Us” together and “Them” out. There were White Power Cooperatives and Chosen People Cooperatives, and, in Nami’s case, Japanese Nationalist Cooperatives. But evidently, Nami was now, officially, a Them.

Something about her in-your-face bravado clicked into place. When you get expelled for being different, then “different” is all you have. It made me feel sorry for her in a way I knew that Nami would hate. I wished I could’ve unread her file, so she could just be fearless Nami again. I shut the top two drawers without looking for anyone else’s files.

In the bottom drawer, the folders were labeled with dates instead of names. The most recent one was this year, and I was surprised that the first thing inside was my confiscated sketchbook. I let myself touch the rough cardboard cover and straighten the spiral binding before I moved on.

Behind the sketchbook were reports from my past few days at Holbrook. In addition to notes like “Confinement to Meditation Center” and “Peer demonstration at lunch,” there were details about my eating habits (“consumed a sandwich, six Tater Tots, and a glass of orange drink”), my behavior during Free Time (“appears to be assimilating into Family Unit”), and a hundred other tiny moments during the day. And also, the letter from my parents enrolling me at Holbrook.

There was nothing about anyone else in the file. It was creepy to think I was being watched so closely, but also extremely boring.

The next folder was also about me and was much more interesting. It held pages and pages of correspondence from the past three years. Letters back and forth between Dr. Mordoch and my parents. Copies of articles from psychiatric magazines about teenage suicide from Dr. Mordoch. A few of my “bone” sketches from my parents. Descriptions of the Holbrook facilities.

The deeper I went into the drawer, the further back in time I went. When I was in seventh grade, the files changed. It was bizarre. Instead of focusing on me, they were centered on the creation of Holbrook Academy. Brochures for the new school. Legal permits. Zoning for solar panels. The Transfer of Property from the monastery to Dr. Mordoch.

This document was heavy in legalese, but it set out the conditions specified in Ms. Holbrook’s will. Except for superficial changes, the forest, statues, and buildings were to remain untouched.

Paper-clipped to the deed was another newspaper article from the local Maine paper. “Economic Hardship Forces Monastery to Sell Holbrook Estate.”

There was a note scribbled at the bottom. “This will bring Faye back.”

What?

The now familiar sensation of heaviness hit me. The medicine was definitely kicking in. And my mind struggled to stay focused. To grasp what I was seeing in front of me. I flipped through the next file. Old report cards of mine from sixth grade. Paperwork for enrollment at the new South Hills Cooperative School in fifth grade. The hospital report from when I’d been pushed down the stairs in fourth. And it kept going. File after file.

Trying to push away the suspicion that was gnawing at me, I skimmed faster. A school psych evaluation from third grade, noting my difficulty in making friends. A drawing of my hand decorated like a Thanksgiving turkey, the crayon pressed hard into the page. Immunization and doctor records, clearing me of autism, learning disabilities, and a dozen other ailments. The entire drawer was about me. My whole dysfunctional life, neatly color-coded and dated.

Chills crept down my back and I realized something. I wasn’t like the other kids in the top two drawers, a thin file holding an application and some school records. And I wasn’t just one of Dr. Mordoch’s patients. I was
the
patient.

All of this, all of Holbrook, was about me.

But why?

My hands shook as I pulled out the final file from ten years ago. The corners of the manila folder were soft and worn, the cardboard stained with an ancient coffee cup ring.

The file started with a form labeled “Patient Evaluation.” It was dated March 11 and was filled out in my mother’s handwriting: Faye Robson, Age 6, along with a Maine address and Social Security number.

The bottom section was filled out in Dr. Mordoch’s handwriting.

Referred by Mr. and Mrs. Robson (parents) for marked personality change and conduct disorder.

Parent interview: Parents report that Faye, previously a well-adjusted child, has recently undergone a marked personality change. They now find that she is difficult to talk to and avoids eye contact. They describe the child as “disobedient” and “sullen,” often keeping to her room for long periods and refusing to come out. She frequently succumbs to night terrors, screaming and flailing, from which her parents find it almost impossible to wake her. The child also refers to a “lady” who comes and speaks to her, and Faye’s parents assume this is a new imaginary friend. Faye’s aberrant behavior has been ongoing for several months, and is becoming more severe. The parents are able to pinpoint the specific day of the personality shift, December 8, after the family took an evening walk down to the beach. They have no hypothesis about what triggered the change and insist that they were with Faye the entire time. Despite their protests, it is obvious that the child suffered a trauma, and I have agreed to take her on as a patient.

Paper-clipped to it was a neatly typed transcript labeled “Interview with Faye Robson.” I read it eagerly.

“Faye, I’m Dr. Mordoch, a friend of your parents. Would you like a cookie?”

(Patient doesn’t answer.)

“I want to talk to you for a little bit. Can I come play next to you?”

(Patient shrugs.)

“Your parents tell me you like to play in your room. What do you like to play?”

“I color.”

“Would you like to color now?”

(Patient nods.) “I like the red crayons.”

“I like red too. It’s very bright. What else do you do in your room?”

(Patient shrugs.) “Sometimes she tells me stories.”

“Your mom?”

“No.”

“Who tells you stories, Faye?”

“The lady from the beach.”

“Tell me about the lady, Faye.”

(Patient shakes head.)

“Can you tell me what she looks like?”

(Patient shakes head again, visibly agitated.)

“It’s okay, you don’t have to. We can just sit here and color instead.”

(Patient breaks the crayon and stomps it into the carpet.)

A dotted line signaled the end of the session. It was weird reading words I must’ve said but didn’t remember. I didn’t even know who I’d been talking about. I tried to remember the sessions, the room, the beach, anything. But my mind was blank.

I moved on to the next interview and the next. After the first session, Dr. Mordoch varied her questions. How was I feeling? Had I had any more bad dreams? But they all ended up in the same place—with Dr. Mordoch asking about the woman and me refusing to answer.

Sometimes there were pictures I’d drawn too, normal little-kid stuff with houses and cats. Sometimes the transcripts had scrawled notes along the bottom. “Is this woman a manifestation or the perpetrator of Faye’s trauma?”

The last transcript in the file was from June 2. It was labeled differently. “Hypnotism and Overnight Observation of Faye Robson, Age 6. 2 mg of diazepam administered to patient for anxiety.”

“I want you to just relax, Faye. Are you comfortable?”

(Patient wriggles around in the chair for a moment, then nods.)

“Good. Now I want you to look at this light. I know it’s bright, but I want you to keep looking at it. Now take a deep breath and let it out.”

(Patient inhales and exhales.)

“Good. Keep looking at the light, and take another big breath and let it out. Let your muscles relax and go limp. You are comfortable and safe.”

(Patient inhales and exhales again.)

“Now Faye, I’m going to count backward from three, and as I do, I want you to relax and let your eyes close slowly. Just concentrate on the sound of my voice. Three, just relax. Two, let your arms and legs get heavy. One, close your eyes.”

(Patient closes her eyes.)

“Very good. Faye, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Faye. I’d like you to remember something for me. A day from a long time ago. From before you and I met. I want you to remember the first time that you met the lady from the beach. Can you do that? Can you make a picture in your mind?”

“Yes.”

“It is a Friday night in December. The trees outside your house are decorated with white Christmas lights, and it’s snowing for the first time all winter. Your dad made your favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs. It’s after dinner now, and your mom is helping you put on your coat and mittens. And your red hat. Are you picturing this in your mind?”

(Patient nods.)

“Good. Now you and your mom and dad all go outside for a walk. It’s dark and there are lots of stars. Your mom is holding your hand. Then you get to the beach and something happens. What happens, Faye?”

“I lose my mitten.”

“That’s right. You get excited about the waves. You pull away from your mom’s hand and your mitten comes off. Then you run down to the water and stick your hand in. How does it feel?”

“Cold. I want to splash, but it’s too cold. My breath looks like big puffs.”

“Good, Faye. Good. What happens next?”

“A wave comes. It sounds like music and my head feels funny. Like it’s too crowded in there.”

“What kind of music do you hear, Faye?”

(Patient pauses.) “Drums. Then the lady comes and talks to me.”

“On the beach? Does the lady talk to you on the beach?”

“No. Daddy tells me my story first and tucks me in.”

“Then the lady talks to you?”

(Patient nods.)

“What does the lady say?”

“‘I’ve waited a long time for you.’ And that I’m special . . . that the water made me special.”

“What else does she say?”

(Patient shrugs.)

“Can you draw the lady for me, Faye?”

(Patient picks up crayon and draws attached picture.)

I flipped to the next page, holding it up toward the brass lamps above Dr. Mordoch’s diplomas so I could see better. And there it was.

A rough outline of a person. The winged-V drawn where there should’ve been a face. The dark red wax biting deep into the paper.

16

WATER FLOODED ACROSS
the rug. It surged in through the window in a thunderous tide. It stormed down from the ceiling, sizzling as it hit the lightbulbs. And the memory surfaced.

Clutching that ten-year-old drawing in my hand, I pushed the soaked hair out of my eyes and braced myself for the oncoming waves. Spray spattered my jumpsuit. The cold weight of the water squeezed my chest. Salt choked me and blood rang out in my ears.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

My parents had taken me down to the beach. It had been cold and windy that night, and my mom had held my mittened hand tight inside her gloved one. I’d felt safe, warm, loved, a feeling almost as foreign as this hidden memory. My parents had been laughing at something, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was listening.

Music played across the beach, unlike anything I’d ever heard. Drums beat in the pebbles under my feet. An eerie chorus played in the shrieks of seagulls. There were words too, rising on the tide. Beckoning me to the water.

And I went. Pulling my hand out of Mom’s. Leaving my mitten behind.

I ran down to the water, the music growing with every step. I reached out, and just before I touched the waves, I heard my name echoing through the night.

Faye.

Then my fingers plunged into the icy tide and I was swallowed up. Bees stung. Water keened. Wind tore at me. And the whole world spun into pristine focus, as if I’d been sleeping all that time and had just woken up.

Later that night, a woman came to me when I was sleeping. I had only a shadow of a memory of her now. She’d told me I was special, but I’d already known that. The water, something in the water, had made me more than I was. Had given me a purpose.

All these years, I’d felt that. Known that there was a reason behind the nightmares and visions and seeing into others’ thoughts. I’d known they were important. I just hadn’t remembered why.

The memory cleared and with it, the water. I was left holding the piece of paper with the red figure and the symbol. Even though it was years later, I recognized it as something I’d drawn, like I had this morning when I’d seen the same design on the dorm room floor.

I still didn’t know what the pictures meant, but I could feel myself getting closer. The answers teased at me. Dangerous and exhilarating. Even though I was scared, I needed to understand.

There was one final page in the folder. A newspaper clipping dated the day after Dr. Mordoch had hypnotized me. The day after I’d told her about that night with my parents and made that drawing. The headline read, “Six-Year-Old’s Near-Drowning Sends Family Packing.”

The article didn’t say much, just that six-year-old me had wandered off that night and almost died. But there were two handwritten notes in the margins: “What about the digging?” And then, a little farther down, “Should I have let her go?”

Neither made any sense to me. And I’d reached the end of the files.

I thought about looking over everything again, but I was impatient with cryptic notes.
Enough.
I dropped the final folder back in the drawer and grabbed my sketchbook. But as soon as I had its familiar weight in my hand, I knew I couldn’t take it with me. If Dr. Mordoch was keeping track of every Tater Tot, she was sure to notice if my sketchbook went missing. I risked keeping the penlight from her desk, though. It would help me find what I’d come for.

The charged memory and the weight of the drugs had swirled together, leaving me with the kind of clarity that you only get deep in the night. When you’re too tired to lie to yourself. Somewhere downstairs more symbols were waiting for me. I could almost feel them. Their lines drawing me closer.

Sucking in air, I steadied myself and headed for the door.

It was pitch dark in the hallway, and I used the tiny penlight to navigate down the stairs and into the sitting room. Windows lined the wall looking out on the back porch. Light filtered in, and I could make out the striped wallpaper, a faux-antique coffee table, and leather couches, all carefully set up to make the place look old-worldly and lived in. This was one of the few rooms parents might see, and Dr. Mordoch had made sure it had the perfect feel.

The chandelier Kel had described was in the center of the room. The brass fixture glinted in the weak beam of my penlight, illuminating four V-shaped flying birds ringing the fixture. A flowery letter was inscribed next to each of the shapes, N, W, S, and E. And in the center, where the chandelier hung down, was an intricate metal rose. Its petals unfurling delicately.

I get it . . . The Compass Rose.

Beneath it, on the floor, bloomed a similar rose. This one was mosaicked in red marble. I shuddered. In the dim light, it looked like blood. The rest of the floor was done in cream tile, arranged in stars and octagons. A reddish ring circled the whole thing, mirroring the compass theme.

The flower pattern was covered up by the coffee table, and I pushed it aside a little, looking for more symbols. The legs of the table shrieked against the floor, echoing in the open room.

A few seconds later, a door slammed somewhere in the direction of the cafeteria. I shoved the table back and rushed to the corner, pulling at the door to the back porch. The porch door didn’t budge, and I saw, too late, that it was nailed shut.

Now I heard voices and dove behind the couch. I wasn’t going to get caught. Dr. Mordoch was not going to win this one.

Dust itched my nose. From my view of the slice of floor under the couch, I watched two pairs of shoes stride into sight. Then I heard Freddy’s gravelly voice.

“Hit the light switch.”

The chandelier blazed and I flattened myself even more.

“I told you, I saw a light in here.” It was Dragon.

“You said a flicker. A flicker could be anything.” Freddy paced around the room, sounding irritated. Getting closer. His shoes stopped right in front of the couch and I thought about shadows and stealthy mice and not breathing.

“Well, we both heard that noise. Like someone screaming.” Dragon didn’t sound like she was in a good mood either.

My cheek pressed against the cold red tile of the outer ring. The drugs were making it hard to focus again, but I didn’t dare close my eyelids. Instead, I stared at the cream tiles, keeping myself alert by following the pattern with my eyes. The four-pointed stars touched, tip to tip. Like they were holding hands all the way across the floor, forming octagons in the space between them. The floor looked old, some of the tiles were cracked, and the mortar was grimy and blackened with age.

No. Only some of the mortar was dark. Only some of the points of some of the stars were outlined by black mortar, whereas most of the points were outlined by dull gray.

I stopped looking at the bigger star pattern and focused on the darker mortar. It was like one of those optical illusions where you have to relax your eyes and suddenly a 3-D image pops out of the seemingly random design. I traced my finger over the rough grout, the stunning realization sinking in. The outline was the same winged-V shape I’d drawn on the floor of my room. The same shape from the column and the chandelier and the picture in the files.

Something between excitement and nausea stirred in my stomach. Each of the black Vs pointed toward the next one.
They’re not birds. They’re arrows.

“Listen,” Freddy ordered. “You search the top floor and I’ll do the bottom and we’ll meet in the middle. Just be sure not to set off any of the sensors.”

So there are alarms.

One pair of boots thunked up the stairs. The other went down the hallway leading to the cafeteria.

I looked from the receding feet back to where the path of arrows ran under a pleather couch. I wanted to follow the tiles, to shove the furniture out of the way and get to whatever it was they pointed at.

But not with Takers stomping through the house. It’d have to wait. I had to get out of here.
Now.

I climbed the steps as carefully as I could. I didn’t dare use my penlight, so I jammed it down in my sock. At the top of the stairs I listened for Dragon. She was still up on the third floor. I sneaked into the second-floor hallway, immediately pulling back against the wall, confused. Someone was there.

A tall girl was heading away from me, down the hall. A long, blond braid swung behind her. Rita.

I hurried after her, wanting to talk to her again, but afraid to call out. Rita turned the corner and I followed, closing the distance between us. Moonlight streamed through a hall window, and the tail of her braid gleamed as she turned again. Just ahead of me. Gaining on her, I broke into a run. Rounding a third corner, I reached out, ready to stop her, and ran straight into Kel.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I stumbled against him, the drugs making me dizzy. Pressing my hand into the wall, I steadied myself, looking around the hallway. “Where is she?”

“The Taker? I thought
you
were her.” The relief in Kel’s voice was obvious. “Or she was you. Or whatever. Last
I
saw, she went upstairs.”

He looked up. As if expecting to see Dragon through the ceiling.

“No. Not the Taker. The other student. The girl. She was right here.” I shook my head, trying to clear the drug fog that crept back into my brain. Nothing was making sense. “What are you even doing here?”

Kel grinned at me, and his slow smile made me suddenly aware that we were both leaning against the wall, shoulders almost touching. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist checking out the chandelier, and I thought you might appreciate a tour guide.”

I thought about the footsteps chasing me through the woods earlier. “Did you follow me down here?”

Kel looked a little sheepish. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to catch up to you. It wasn’t until you started running that I realized what it must’ve seemed like. So I waited a bit, then came in to find you. Unfortunately”—Kel gestured around the hallway, grinning at the dangerous game—“I seemed to have gotten a little . . . um . . . trapped.”

We were standing at a dead end. Rita must’ve known another way out, but I couldn’t see where. There were no doors. No windows. No place else to go.

As if to demonstrate this point, we heard the ominous
thud, thud, thud
of Dragon coming back down the stairs.

Smile still on his face, Kel’s eyes glittered. “Like I said . . . trapped.”

“Come on.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him back down the hallway. His excitement stung at me. Making my palms sweat. Adrenaline clearing out the drugs.

We raced the encroaching footsteps toward Dr. Mordoch’s office.
Please. Please. Please.
Flying into the room, I eased the door shut behind us. Just as a boot smacked the hallway floor.

Dragon’s footsteps grew louder.
Doors creaked open, then slammed shut again as she worked her way down the hall. I lunged for the skeleton key sticking out of the office door and twisted clockwise. There was a satisfying, soft click. I inched the key out of the lock, and Kel and I backed away from the door.

Our hands were still linked, and I noticed that for the first time since I’d met him, Kel’s gloves were gone. His long, bare fingers intertwined with mine. I felt the pulse racing in his wrist. The wild ache buzzing in his chest. Tension crackling across the surface of our skin.

Was this what it was like to be with someone? Aware of every inch of their body? So close that their sensations became your own?

I looked up into Kel’s eyes and suddenly, like thunder catching up with lightning, we were in sync. Our breath fell into a single hush of rising and falling. Our hearts slowed and matched each other beat for beat. And standing there in the dark, the house itself holding its breath around us, I could no longer see where Kel’s body stopped and mine started.

A soft hum floated into my mind. Kel’s song from Solitary. I let it wash over me. Let its refrain soak into my consciousness.

His thought drifted into my head, and even though I should’ve been surprised, his voice felt like it belonged there.
“I am with you.”

He pulled me closer. Hands enveloping my own. Bodies folding together. Lips inches from mine.

And the humming grew louder. A stinging, delicious, terrible chorus. Drowning out my thoughts. Until everything was Kel.

“You are not alone.”

Strong and irresistible, the song rose into a buzzing frenzy. Calling to me. My heart pounding out its beat.
“You don’t have to do this alone.”

I wanted our skin to melt away. Our bones to grow into each other. Our veins to twine and merge like vines wrapping tight.

I wanted to taste his lips.

“Nothing on this end.” Dragon’s voice came from right outside the door, and startled, I pulled away from Kel.

And I was alone again. But now there was no loneliness. The exhilaration of being known, of being seen, was like a drug. Powerful and revelatory. Something new had woken inside me. I felt it stirring, fighting its way up through years of isolation and doubt.

The Takers could not touch us. The footsteps outside the door were nothing now. This was just a game of cat and mouse.

And we were the cats.