Ultraviolet (4 page)

“After you had been in the hospital for seventy-two hours,” Shabnam continued, “your involuntary status was renewed for another two weeks, since you were still deemed unable to understand your situation or make informed decisions about your care. During that time your mother applied to have you transferred to Pine Hills, and it was agreed that this transfer would be in your best interests, so that is why you are now here. Now, I have a form to give you.”

She slid a sheet of paper across the table. “This is a notice to let you know that your new psychiatrist, Dr. Minta, has completed a certificate of renewal, which will authorize him to keep you here as an involuntary patient for another four weeks.”

I stared down at the paper, willing the words to stop wriggling and let me read them.
I am of the opinion that the patient is suffering from mental disorder of a nature that likely will result in serious bodily harm to the patient, and/or serious bodily harm to another person, unless he or she remains in the custody of a psychiatric facility. . . .

“So this means,” I said slowly, “that I’m stuck here until the end of July?”

“Possibly,” she said. “However, you have the right to be informed of Dr. Minta’s reasons for his decision. And you also have the right to appeal, and ask that your involuntary status be revoked.”

My stomach turned over. I knew I was supposed to be here for my own safety and the protection of others, but I was far more likely to get into trouble at Pine Hills than I was at home. Here I was trapped and stressed out and surrounded by unpredictable people, with nowhere to escape if things got too much for me. But if I could get out of this place, and go somewhere safe and quiet where I could be alone . . .

“If I did appeal, how would that work?” I asked.

“Once they receive your application,” said my adviser, “the Consent and Capacity Board will arrange a hearing here at the hospital within seven days. You can ask your lawyer to represent you, or I can help you apply for legal aid.”

That sounded good. I’d been hoping to talk to a lawyer anyway, if only to answer my questions about the police. “And if I win my appeal?”

“Then your status would be changed to voluntary,” she said. “You would be free to refuse treatment if you wish, and leave the hospital at your discretion. But if your appeal is denied, your next hearing would not be for another six months, or until you are on your fourth Certificate.”

“My
fourth
?” My heart lurched. “You mean my psychiatrist can just keep issuing these things?”

“If he thinks it necessary, yes,” said Shabnam. “As I said, the current Certificate authorizes him to keep you here for one month. The second would last for two months, the third for three months, and so on.”

In my mind’s eye I could see the calendar floating all around me, like a rainbow scarf. To be stuck here for months on end with no privacy and no freedom, forced to take drugs that fogged my mind and grayed my senses, unable to play my keyboard or do any of the other things I normally did to relax . . . How long would it be before the stress got too much for me, and I did to somebody else what I’d done to Tori?

I couldn’t let that happen. I straightened up in my chair.

“All right,” I said. “I want to appeal.”

Another thing I learned was that being on antipsychotic medication makes you really, really tired. I thought that maybe they’d just given me an extra-strong sedative at St. Luke’s, but even after a night’s rest, I didn’t feel any less bleary. I borrowed some magazines from the lobby and tried to read, but the words swam away from me. Then I laid out a game of solitaire, but it took all my concentration just to get through one round. Finally I convinced the nurses to let me go back to bed, only to be reminded that being exhausted and being able to sleep are not always the same thing. So I ended up just lying there for most of the day.

I was still afraid to spend much time with my fellow inmates, in case something went wrong. So I asked if I could take my meals in my room, but the nurses refused. They only did that for patients who were sick or in isolation, they said. So at lunch and supper I had to join the others in the kitchenette. There were eight of us all together, though the ward could hold as many as fourteen. The food was brought in from the cafeteria, and by the time it got to us it was lukewarm. But we could also eat bagels (pre-cut, since none of us were allowed knives), or fruit, or yogurt. And there was plenty of milk and juice in the fridge. No tea or coffee, though—I guess caffeine would have been one drug too many.

I didn’t talk to the others much. Some of them were manic or lonely enough to start up a conversation whether I encouraged them or not, and I soon learned more about their diagnoses, treatments, and medical complaints than I’d ever wanted to know. But confronted with a patient like Micheline, whose face was set in a permanent scowl and was already carrying on a constant, muttered dialogue with the voices in her head, I didn’t know where to begin. I knew I should try to be friendly, but what if I said something that upset her, and she freaked out? I couldn’t risk getting into a fight, not after what had happened with Tori. So I mostly just kept to myself.

At last, the day shift ended and the night shift came on— including Ray, who ambled around the ward like a tame bear and smiled at me so sweetly that my eyes stung and I had to look away. The nurses called him “Sunshine,” and seeing him interact with the other patients, I could see why. He could coax a smile out of nearly anyone, even Micheline, and unlike the other aides he wasn’t afraid to pat a shoulder or give a hug if he thought someone needed it. When two of the younger boys started swearing and shoving each other around, Ray gently pried them apart and talked to them in his soft, furry voice until they cooled down. With Ray around I felt safe, and I was grateful for that small comfort.

Visiting hours were after supper, and I braced myself in case my mother decided to put in an appearance. But the only one who showed up was Micheline’s older brother—greasy-haired, plaid-shirted, and reeking of cigarettes—and I was torn between disappointment and relief. When I came back to my room, however, I found a suitcase full of clothes sitting at the end of my bed. Apparently my mother had dropped it off at the front desk earlier in the day. She’d also left a note, to say that she and my father would be coming to see me tomorrow.

I looked at the card a long time. Heavy cream-colored stationery, with that familiar liquorice-whip handwriting. It might have been a note to one of her real-estate clients for all the warmth it held: no “Love” in the signature, no Xs or Os below it. Just letting me know we had an appointment, so I could be on my best behavior.

I dropped it in the wastebasket and went to line up for my pills.

I got up and went to the window, laying my forearm along the sill and resting my chin on it. Shadowy pine trees blocked out most of the sky, but if I pressed my face against the Plexiglas and looked straight up, I might be able to see the stars. I could feel their subtle warmth, listen to their tinkling music, and maybe feel a little less alone.

I tipped my head to one side and there they were: three stars, bright as a promise. But instead of giving off the crystal wind-chime noise that had soothed me since childhood, they sang an eerie, piercing harmony unlike anything I’d heard before. And their colors were strange, too. The first star burned blue neon, the second electric green, and the third . . .

I ransacked my vocabulary, trying to put a name to that elusive hue, and failed. It wasn’t red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, or violet, or any of the million variations in between. It was something entirely new, a color beyond ordinary perception.

And yet I was seeing it.

I jerked back from the window, rubbing my eyes.
I am not crazy
, I told myself.
I’m not.

But after everything that had happened to me in the last couple of weeks, it was getting harder and harder to believe it.

I hadn’t been expecting to see him until after lunchtime, plus I’d only had about three hours’ sleep the night before. So for a moment I could only blink at him, too dazed to follow.

“I’m having you moved to Yellow Poplar,” he continued. “Your privileges will be limited at first, but if you continue as you have been—”

I understood now. He was trying to bribe me into giving up my appeal. But I couldn’t see how I would be any happier in Yellow than I was in Red, and the danger of hurting someone would be just as great. “I don’t want to go to Yellow Ward,” I said hoarsely. “I want to go home.”

“Alison.” Dr. Minta’s tone became paternal, and I could taste his condescension, cloying as a mouthful of toothpaste. “I understand you’d rather not be here. But I think you’ll find being in Yellow Poplar a positive experience. Why don’t you come for a walk with me, and let me show you around?”

He swiped his keycard and the doors
chunk
ed open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of sunlit corridor beyond. My resistance deflated, and I followed him out.

We visited the gymnasium first, where a couple of dull-eyed boys were shuffling around the basketball court. We watched them shoot air balls for a while, then moved on to the recreation center to see the stack of battered board games and the Ping-Pong table with its missing net. In the adjoining room, a few more kids sprawled in front of the big screen TV, watching a video about drug and alcohol abuse. None of them looked thrilled to be there, but they didn’t look particularly threatening either, and my anxiety about mingling with my fellow patients eased a little.

“This is our education room,” Dr. Minta continued, leading me down the hall to another doorway. “And there is the back of Kirk’s head, which is the only part anyone gets to see of Kirk when he is on the computer. Say hello, Kirk.”

“Hey,” said Kirk, without turning. His hair was the color of wet sand, feathering around his ears and over the nape of his neck. On the monitor in front of him, a video clip was playing. I grimaced and looked away.

“During the summer months, we offer tutoring to any patients who need it,” Dr. Minta said. “We can help you make up any work or exams you missed during the regular school year. Kirk, don’t forget this door needs to stay open.” He wedged the doorstop back into place before leading me into the adjoining room. “And here we have arts therapy. We offer sculpture, painting, drama, and music—”

Music
. It was the first good news I’d had since I got here. But though I saw a guitar, some bongo drums, and a few other instruments, there didn’t seem to be any piano. “I have a keyboard at home,” I said. “Could I ask my parents to bring it here?”

Dr. Minta regarded me with brows raised. “So you’re a pianist, are you?”

I had a sudden, unpleasant image of being forced to play in front of my fellow patients at some kind of psychiatric talent night. “I’m . . . uh, still learning,” I said with a queasy twinge.

“Well,” said Dr. Minta, “we have to be careful about electrical cords, so I can’t make any promises. But if you appear to be making good progress with your treatment, I’ll see what I can do.”

Electrical cords. Of course. I’d forgotten that anything even remotely like a rope was taboo in this place, in case somebody tried to hang themselves with it. But my keyboard was my heart, my brain, my extra limb. Playing it calmed me, when nothing else could. Surely that ought to count for something, too?

After Dr. Minta had shown me the cafeteria and the visitors’ lounge, our next stop was the library. The collection was mostly reference works and self-help manuals, with a few literary classics for good measure. But the lilac walls and plum carpet conjured up a serene atmosphere that reminded me of my bedroom at home, and it had a comfortable-looking sitting area with the best view I’d seen in days—across the courtyard to the rocky, pine-dotted hillside beyond, with a tantalizing glimpse of blue lake in the distance. I wanted to curl up on the sofa and drink it in, but Dr. Minta was already moving on. I made a mental note to come back later.

“. . . And here’s where we hold our group therapy and education sessions,” said Dr. Minta as we passed through another room, where framed motivational posters crooned platitudes at a circle of empty chairs. “We ask that patients attend at least two sessions a day, but you can participate in more if you like. I’ll give you a schedule.”

In all my life, I’d only met a couple of people I trusted enough to tell about my feelings, and even my father and my best friend Melissa didn’t know half of what went on in my head. The idea of opening up to a group of strangers seemed less like therapy to me than torture. But I had to at least pretend to cooperate if I wanted out of here, so I kept quiet and followed Dr. Minta out.

We ended the tour in Dr. Minta’s office, where I chewed my way through a handful of jelly beans while he asked me how I was doing on my medication. But I’d already told him yesterday that it made me tired and restless, and he’d told me those symptoms were quite common and would eventually go away, so there didn’t seem to be much point in going over it again. Nothing I said was going to make him take me off the pills altogether, and switching to a different prescription might make matters even worse.

“What about your mood?” he asked. “How would you describe the way you’re feeling right now?”

Knowing that I’d soon be facing off against him at my appeal, it was hard to confide in him even if I’d wanted to. I felt like anything I said, however innocent, was going to be used against me. “I don’t feel angry, if that’s what you want to know,” I said. “I don’t feel like doing anything dangerous or violent. I’m just . . . here.”

“That’s good,” he says. “But just because you’re starting to feel better doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods yet. Considering how severe your symptoms were when you were admitted to St. Luke’s, and the persistence of those symptoms until just a few days ago—”

I was not going to let him talk me into withdrawing my appeal. Even if he thought he was doing it for my own good. “I know I was acting crazy,” I said. “But I’m over that now. It’s done.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Dr. Minta. “But remember, your symptoms only improved after you started receiving antipsychotic medication on a consistent basis. That’s why I believe it’s important to keep you at Pine Hills a little while longer, so that we can make sure you’re really stable, and that you won’t hurt yourself or anyone else again.”

Ever since my rights adviser told me Dr. Minta wanted to keep me here for another four weeks, I’d wondered what I’d done to make him think I was dangerous. I’d thought he must be basing his decision on my records from St. Luke’s, but . . .

I reached into the jar of jelly beans—not even looking this time, because I could sense their colors by touch. I pulled out a black one for strength, and a violet one for calm. Then I asked, “What do you mean,
or anyone else?
”

Dr. Minta was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What do you remember about the afternoon of June seventh, Alison?”

“I don’t remember anything,” I replied—and all the jelly beans I’d just eaten came rocketing back up my throat. I gagged, coughed, and swallowed hard until I’d got them down again. “Sorry,” I panted, “must have gone down the wrong way—” but a second surge of nausea nearly undid all my efforts.

“Let me get you some water,” said Dr. Minta. I hunched on the sofa, breathing into my hands, until he came back and handed me a paper cup. But by then I’d realized what was making me sick, and though it shook me a little, I was pretty sure I could make it go away. I drank the water slowly, and then I said with perfect truthfulness, “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

And just like that, my stomach was calm.

“Of course,” said my psychiatrist. “I don’t want to press you into anything you’re not ready for. But when you do remember what happened that day, or feel ready to talk about it . . . you can come to me any time. Any time at all.”

His voice was soft, but there was something hungry behind his eyes, and it made all the hairs on my skin stand up and quiver. Because I knew now why he was so determined to keep me here.

It wasn’t because I’d done anything wrong. He just wanted to find out if I’d killed Tori, and if so, what I’d done with her body. He’d claimed that anything I shared with him would be confidential, but how hard would it be to phone in an anonymous tip to the police hotline? He might never be able to admit that he was the hero who’d solved the Tori Beaugrand case, but he’d have the private satisfaction of knowing the police would never have found her body without him. . . .

“Feeling better now?” asked Dr. Minta.

I couldn’t say yes without throwing up; I was afraid even a nod might be dishonest enough to trigger my gag reflex. So I just gave a watery half-smile and looked at my feet until Jennifer arrived to escort me to lunch.

“Hey,” said a voice, and I turned to see a boy about my own age standing there. He was tall and skinny like me, with dark blond hair and an impish curl to his mouth. For a moment, I wondered why his voice was familiar, and then I realized: I’d been introduced to the back of his head.

“Kirk, right?” I said. His name was spicy and elastic, like cinnamon gum. The letter
I
hinted at self-centeredness and
R
could be unreliable, but they couldn’t compete with those forthright
K
s on either end.

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his feathery hair, and the smile became a flash of teeth. “And you’re . . . ?”

“Alison,” I said, relieved to have met someone so friendly and nonthreatening. “So what are the rules around here?”

“We all have our own special trays,” said Kirk, leading me to a stack at the end of the counter. “They’re marked with a secret pattern of notches on the underside, and if you pick up somebody else’s by mistake, they hunt you down and beat you to death with it.”

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” he said. He grabbed two trays and slid them onto the rails. “Okay, here’s all you really need to know: the lemonade tastes like pickle juice. The croissants are always stale. And don’t eat the meatloaf, ever.” He caught the cafeteria worker’s glare and winked at her. “Oh, and you have to take at least two servings of fruits and vegetables every meal. The Canada Food Guide has spoken. Plus the nurses will snark you out if you don’t.”

“Really?” I said.

“Serious. They’re big on healthy eating here. And exercise. You don’t exercise every day, you lose privileges. I dropped ten pounds once just trying to get back my computer time.” He reached for a ripe-looking peach, the only one in the bowl.

“Don’t,” I said.

“What, you want it?” He held it out, but I shook my head.

“It’s rotten,” I said. “Look at it.”

“Huh,” he said, turning it over in his fingers and looking dubious. But he must have been used to humoring his fellow patients’ quirks, because he put it back and picked up a banana instead. “This one okay?”

I nodded, and he offered the fruit bowl to me. I resisted the impulse to rearrange it so the colors balanced, and picked out an apple. A bowl of vegetable soup, some crackers, and a muffin later, I followed Kirk to the end of the line, where to my relief the cashier merely glanced at our wristbands before nodding us through. Apparently she only took money from staff and visitors.

“Here we are,” pronounced Kirk, thumping his tray down onto one of the tables. At the far end, a heavyset boy lifted his head and regarded us with eyes mild as a cow’s, then returned to poking at his salad. “That’s Roberto,” Kirk told me as we took our seats. “He doesn’t talk much since the meds kicked in. Welcome to Fine Pills.”

“You mean Bunny Hills,” said a skeletal girl with blonde hair, wriggling into the seat beside Kirk. “That’s what they call this place at the Regional Psych.”

Kirk snorted. “Those pseudos at Regional, they think they’re so hard-core. They’re just jealous ’cause we’ve got all the prime chicks. Like Micheline.” He raised his voice on the last couple of words, leaning back in his chair for a better view. “Right, Mish baby?”

I’d thought he must be joking, but there she was at the next table, all inky hair and sneering mouth, giving Kirk the finger. I hadn’t seen Micheline at breakfast back in Red Ward, but assumed she’d just been too sick or stubborn to get up. I’d never imagined she was well enough to be transferred here.

“She loves me really,” confided Kirk. “Oh, this is Cherie, by the way,” and with that he picked up his bagel and took an enormous bite.

“Hi,” said the blonde girl. She gave me a wan smile and began pushing her salad around her plate.

As we ate, the tables around us filled up with patients. Some were animated, chatting easily with those around them. Others sat with slumped shoulders and eyes on their plates. One boy stared across the room with burning eyes, his fingers tapping out a persistent rhythm:
ratta-ta-tat, ratta-ta-tat
.

“Hey, Sanjay!” called Kirk, as a boy in glasses stumbled down the aisle toward us. “Where you been?”

Sanjay lurched to a stop at the head of our table, his gaze wandering over Cherie, Kirk, and Roberto before riveting itself to me. “Who’s she?”