We'll Never Be Apart (27 page)

“I'm sorry this happened, Alice,” Dr. Goodman says. He goes on to tell me all sorts of things, about how hopeful he is for my recovery. How when I'm ready, he'll be there to listen. He wonders if I know now that Celia isn't real. He says I must have so many questions. I do. Or I did. But right now, they don't seem to matter. “You won't have to worry about Chase coming back to the hospital. I'll find him a placement at another facility.” He's trying to reassure me, but it's pointless. I close my eyes. Dr. Goodman keeps talking, but all I hear are the wheels of the police car on wet cement and the sound of Chase taking me to the edge and pushing me off.

CHAPTER

I
SPEND TWO WEEKS IN SECLUSION,
undergoing intensive therapy with Dr. Goodman. Donny is my babysitter. For a while I can hear Cellie's voice. She talks to me when Donny won't. Dr. Goodman says this is common. That I may sometimes hear her, but the important part is that I now know she isn't real. He says that the brain is a fragile thing and that mine invented Cellie as a mode of survival. I guess he's right. The way he says it, it's like he thinks I'm some kind of miracle. But I don't feel that way. I feel more like a monster. Something that somebody sewed together with leftover parts, and I can only hope one day to be whole.

When I ask the good doctor my questions—
How could I not have known? Why did I remember Celia and other people interacting?—
he is patient and kind and gives me the answers that Chase found in my file. Because of my mental state, Dr. Goodman felt that I wasn't ready to hear that Celia was a waking hallucination. He said he had tried to tell me before, during my first visit to Savage Isle, but my hallucinations were deep-rooted and became increasingly worse. I had called him a liar and said he was plotting against me.
Everybody's lying. Everyone's lying.

I
had screamed that, not Cellie.

Dr. Goodman hopes that the medication he prescribed will eventually enable me to differentiate reality and fantasy. And that's exactly what Celia was. What she
is.
A fantasy. Someone I invented all those years ago while I waited to be found in a cold house next to a dead body, because my mind couldn't bend toward the truth.

Dr. Goodman and I spend hours reviewing my journal entries and deciphering each one. Together we carefully unlock my warped memories, memories I had twisted and recreated so that Cellie was real. Dr. Goodman is right. The mind is a wondrous thing. My mind rejected so much. The pain of my grandfather's death. Horrible foster homes. Jason's madness. Celia absorbed it all. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thankful for her. She kept me together for a long, long time.

After two weeks, Celia quiets, and I return to the general population. Time is different in the hospital. It passes slowly, and sometimes the days blur together into one big nothing. Before I know it, three months pass. My red band is replaced with a yellow one, and my privileges are reinstated—which includes use of the telephone.

Lately, Chase has been calling. He was transported to another facility that night. When they questioned me about our escape, I did my best to cover for him. I said it was all my idea, which it kind of was. I was the one who pushed him to help me. I even claimed that I aided in stealing the keycards—and that I asked him to lift my file.

I think the lies worked, because recently Chase was granted outpatient treatment, along with probation. Which in total is the equivalent of a slap on the wrist. I was candid with Dr. Goodman and told him all about the stolen moments Chase and I shared—sneaking up to the rooftop, kissing in the pagoda, spending the night in his room. Since I was still trying to sift fiction from reality, I asked Dr. Goodman what he thought of Chase's motives. And Dr. Goodman agrees with me. Chase's motives, though misguided, were pure, born from good intent. I trust Dr. Goodman now. More than I trust myself. Sometimes when Chase calls, I talk to him, and sometimes I don't feel like it. He always seems to understand. Last time we talked, he asked if he could visit and I said I wasn't ready. But yesterday I was. And today, he's coming.

My mind hums with excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. There's a slight bounce to my step as I make my way to the visitors' area. I spy him right away through the half window in the door. He sits in a brown chair and every line of his body is filled with nervous energy, from his elbows resting on his knees to his hands clasped together, to his feet tapping on the ground. Sara is also there, standing farther back, clutching her purse to her chest.

In no time I'm through the door and standing next to Chase. He looks up as if I've surprised him, like he wasn't expecting me.

“Hey.” He stands up, wipes his hands on his jeans, and then grips me in an awkward hug. “I made you something.” He reaches down to the table beside him and picks up a bright bouquet of origami flowers. “Here,” he says, pressing them into my hands. “I've been practicing. Whenever we talk on the phone, I practice.” He takes off his hat and runs his hands through his hair. “I'm sure it's not as good as you would do it.”

“They're beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I figure they're better than real flowers. You probably can't have real flowers in here, anyway. Probably some bullshit reason like you might try to eat them to poison yourself.”

I laugh, and it breaks the tension. A little. I put my hand on his elbow, and he goes still. “Really, they're wonderful. Thank you.”

He relaxes, and then suddenly I'm enveloped in a tight hug. “Christ, I've missed you,” he says into my hair. We hold on to each other a touch longer than is appropriate. When we draw away, the tension is back. But this time it's a different kind of tension, full of all our intimate moments. I still find him beautiful, more so than when we first met. Because now there are no more secrets between us.

We sit and he resumes the same position as before. He waits. Dr. Goodman steps into the visitors' room and stands by Sara. They watch me. It's something I'll have to get used to, until I earn their trust. I clear my throat. It doesn't taste like ash anymore.

“How are you?” Chase asks.

“I'm better,” I say, and smile at him.

A shudder runs through Chase's lean frame, and he grips his knees. “I'm so sorry, Alice, more sorry than you can ever imagine. The last time I saw you—”

I lean forward and touch his hands. “It's okay.” I swallow. “I think I actually have to thank you.”

He snorts in disbelief.

“No, I mean it. I don't know how long it would have taken for me to realize . . .” It's still hard for me to say her name.

“Are you really doing okay?”

I'm not doing bad, but I'm not doing great either. Most days it feels as if I'm coasting. Dr. Goodman says that part of my recovery is learning to be truthful with others and myself. But sometimes there's compassion in withholding. I take Chase's hands in mine. “I'm doing great.
Really.
”

Chase bows his head. He trembles and comes apart. I sit on the arm of his chair and hold him. His arms encircle my waist and his head rests on my stomach. His tears are for me, I think, but also for his sister, for himself. I always thought something was haunting him, and now I know it was. The dark specter of his past. He keeps saying he's sorry. I run my fingers through his hair. Like I said before, he doesn't need to apologize. I've already forgiven him. Dr. Goodman says there's grace in forgiveness, the ability to pardon others and ourselves. And I suppose it's true. It was easy to forgive Chase, but it's not as easy to forgive myself. Sara says it will take time.

When it's over, and he's done, and the last shudder has racked his body, he smiles, and it's like the ghost that's been haunting him has finally been called away. Maybe she has.

There's another awkward silence. Neither of us knows what to say next. We've already said so much. Finally we say goodbye, and Chase says he'll come again next week. I tell him I'm looking forward to it.

Donny escorts me back to my room. I hold the paper flowers Chase gave me close to my chest. We pass a couple of techs chatting in the hallway.

“Jeez, it's hot out today,” tech one says.

“I know,” tech two says, and rubs the back of his neck. “I'm burning up.”

I pause mid-step. Donny nearly runs into me. “Alice, everything all right?”

I can smell kerosene and burning hay. I take deep breaths, willing the olfactory hallucination away. Dr. Goodman says this is normal. That it's part of my PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. That some things may trigger memories that seem like they're happening right now. The scent dissipates, and I'm back in the hospital looking at Donny's overly concerned face. I smile at him. “I'm okay. Just needed to catch my breath.”

He accepts this and we keep going. When we get to my door, I thank him as he opens it. Alone in my room,
I lean back against the door and take another moment to compose myself. I don't like being in here alone. I close my eyes and do a deep-breathing exercise Dr. Goodman taught me. Inhale, hold for three seconds. Exhale, hold for three seconds. Inhale. Exhale. I open my eyes, feeling calmer.

Outside the steel mesh window, the sun dips below the horizon
and beams of light filter through the trees, reminding me of crooked teeth. The light fills my room, illuminating my paper zoo and spinning dust around the animals, touching each paper leg and folded head with a golden hand. I place Chase's flowers inside the zoo, right in the center, a garden for my animals. In the corner of the dresser is the heart-shaped rock Chase gave me. I found it, a few days after my weeks in seclusion, behind the dresser. Often I think of the day he gave it to me, and I am quietly thankful. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. If I'll get out of Savage Isle . . . if I'll go to college . . . if Chase and I will be together again. But that's the wondrous thing.
I don't know.
I, Alice Monroe, am suddenly full of possibilities.

EPILOGUE

A
T NIGHT WHEN EVERYTHING IS QUIET,
she stares at the plaster walls in her hospital room and weeps. Softly I come, from somewhere deep inside, somewhere where her regret and sadness collide.

Allie,
I say. She closes her eyes tight and heaves a breath, as if trying to blow me away.
Allie,
I say again. She's fighting me, trying to convince herself of the illusion. But I can feel her clinging. I am her lifeboat, the only constant in a sea of chaos. I am better than nothing, and nothing is all she has.

Her face cracks, and I know she's lost the internal war she's waging. “Yes, Cellie,” she answers.

I am sorry,
I tell her.

She turns in her bed to face the window. Outside, clouds shift and cover the moon, stealing light from the room. “You've said that before.”

I've meant it, every time.

“You're not real.”

I laugh at the word, and I feel it ripple through her body.
I am real. You made me.

“I want you to go away,” she says, but her voice is weak. She curls herself into a ball.

Poor Alice. Always alone. She needs me. I risk a touch to her brow and she furrows it. She can feel me moving around inside, filling up all that empty space.
I'll tell you a story.
It's a memory I've been keeping, tucked safely away. I tell her of our day with Grandpa, weeks before he died. How he took us to the zoo and we watched a lion with her cubs. We ate cotton candy, and the sugar melted between our fingertips. Grandpa paid for us to feed the elephants, and one wrapped its trunk around her arm. I remind her of Grandpa's wrinkled face in that exact moment, how it lit up like a thousand lanterns in a dark sky and then erupted in laughter.

My whispers paint a picture in her mind and she smiles, the memory unfurling like a little fire sparking in her belly. Slowly, her tears dry. And I know, I
know,
we'll never be apart.

I owe thanks to so many people.

To my super agent, Erin Harris, for pulling this manuscript out of the slush pile and seeing its potential, for reading each draft and never tiring, and for helping me navigate the wild waters of publishing. This book would not exist without you.

To my editor, Sarah Landis, for her wild enthusiasm, for taking a chance on this dark, gritty book and seeing all the beauty in it. And to Christine Krones, for her kindness and guidance through copy edits and much more.

To the entire team at HMH Books for Young Readers, for a beautiful cover, for awesome marketing support (Hayley Gonnason, Ann Dye, Lisa DiSarro, Amanda Acevedo), and for everything else—it truly takes a village.

To my family, for their unwavering support: Kiya and Mariko, sisters and best friends, for always
loving
everything I write, including a really bad book about Fairies. Nate, big brother, for fun title variations such as
We' ll Never Pee and Fart
and
Let's Eat Split Pea Soup and Shart
. Tony, Ev, Liz, Elaine, Aimee, and Jody. Grandpa Bill, wherever you are, I hope you're smiling. How did I get so lucky to be a part of such an amazing family?

To my mom, for taking me to the library and encouraging prolific reading, for reading my bad poetry in high school, and reading my work now; hopefully it is slightly better.

To my dad, for taking me on walks and looking at the stars, and for teaching me that I could be anything—a doctor, an astronaut, a dancer on a star.

And finally to my husband, Craig, to whom this book is dedicated: None of this is possible without you.

E
MIKO
J
EAN
is an elementary school math teacher whose work with children in foster care inspired
We'll Never Be Apart
. She lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington.