After (6 page)

The nurse who had brought breakfast this morning had said this would happen. “Don’t be scared. You’ll need to bind yourself. Get an Ace bandage. Or a really tight sports bra. And ice, lots of ice.”

Devon gasps with the shock of it, the pain of it.

All eyes lock on her.

All eyes watch as her jumpsuit changes.

Two wet, warm circles form where her breasts touch the fabric, and spread.

Milk.
My
milk. Oh, God, why?

And Devon starts to cry.

The gavel bangs, and a guard ushers Devon out of the courtroom.

Devon’s face is down, hidden by the straight black strands falling across it like a widow’s veil. She watches only the gray, industrial carpet under her feet as she moves forward, her arms crossed tightly in front of her to hide her chest. She can feel the dampness there against the heels of her clenched fists—the cool, tacky dampness.

What had just happened in there? Everything was chaos at the end.

Her lawyer had rushed a whisper in her ear, a whisper that Devon hadn’t fully heard. She’d been distracted, desperately pressing her fists into her breasts to stem that warm and sticky oozing. But she was miserably unsuccessful, just as she had been unsuccessful That Night when she could no more control her body than she could stop each ticking second. That Night when this nightmare had begun.

“We’ll talk,” her lawyer had said. “Very soon.” Devon had looked directly at him then. She’d needed some sort of connection. But he’d quickly turned away from her to straighten his stack of papers, smacking them on the tabletop one or two extra times to give himself something to do until the guard appeared and led Devon away.

“Hold up a sec,” the guard tells Devon now that they are in the quiet hallway outside the courtoom. He squats before Devon to unlock her leg irons and remove them. “It’s Devon, right?” He looks up at her. “Devon Davenport?”

Devon nods.

He smiles as he straightens, awkwardly holding the leg irons in one hand. “Well, now it’ll be easier to walk at least.” He has dark, honest eyes that Devon trusts. His gaze drops for a moment to Devon’s tightly crossed arms.

Devon looks down at her feet.

“Hey,” he says. “I know it isn’t exactly easy in there. Especially the first time.”

Devon nods quickly. She’s anxious to get moving, to reach the next appointed place.

“All right,” he says. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Devon whispers.

“Then let’s go.” He slowly leads her away from the courtroom and through the hallway, a maze of white walls and olive green doors and gray carpet. When they finally stop, it’s inside a small and narrow room, a large closet actually, with shelves of folded things: blankets and sheets and pillows. The guard selects some of each and tightly rolls a blanket around it all. Devon allows her eyes to look around as the guard busies himself with collecting these things. She notices a shelf with jumpsuits, both blue and orange, and another with white tube socks and undershirts and rust-colored slides. Yet another holds white towels, just like the one she’d used to dry her body this morning. Rough and white and thin.

The shower. Her nakedness. The blood, diluted pink from the tepid water dripping down her legs.

Devon feels herself shake with the memory, and she hates herself for it. Hates her lack of control over her own body. Her lack of control, period. She hugs herself tighter.

The guard is watching Devon now. He had just said something and is waiting for her to respond.

Devon feels his eyes on her and looks up quickly. “I’m sorry?” she whispers. “I didn’t hear—”

“Your bedding. The residents here carry it to their unit themselves. So . . . ”

Devon hesitates a moment, studying the unwieldy bundle in the guard’s arms. Doesn’t he know why she’s here? Hasn’t he heard what had happened? About the kind of physical condition she’s in? No, not completely, she decides. He’d never ask her to carry all that by herself if he knew. She feels a tiny flutter of relief.

“Oh.” Devon clears her throat. “Okay. Sure.” She turns away from him slightly, so he won’t see the front of her jumpsuit, and carefully unwraps one arm from across her chest and then the other and reaches for the bundle.

When the transfer is done, when she’s clasping the bedding to her chest, she feels safer somehow. All those layers hiding her, protecting her, giving her a definite purpose. She will carry her bedding until she’s told to stop. She will not drop any of it, and she will not complain, no matter how far she must carry it or how heavy it becomes.

“Okay, then,” he says. “Let’s move along.”

Devon feels a sudden warmth gush between her legs then, feels it spread across the lining of her underwear, deep into the thick maxi pad the gray-haired guard had handed her after the shower. Panic grips her gut. Devon’s never prayed much, but she tosses one up now, a small one:
Please, God, don’t let it show on the outside. Please.

“Ready to roll?”

Devon nods and, ignoring the cramping across her abdomen, follows the guard through the maze of white walls and gray carpet.

They stand side by side, Devon and the guard, facing a metal door. The guard had pushed a buzzer, and they are waiting for the door to open.

“Unit D,” he says, filling the stiff silence between them.

“We call it Delta Pod, though. It’s that police phonetic alphabet thing.” Short silence. Then, “Eight pods total in Remann Hall, Alpha through Hotel—that’s, uh,
A
through
H
—but only one is female. At least most of the time. It all depends on the number of girls we get at any given time.”

Devon says nothing, but she wonders at the word
pod
, at what it means. Is it
pod
as in “peas in a pod”? Or
pod
as in iPod? Or
pod
as in the groups that whales travel within as they swim the wide open ocean beyond Puget Sound? She’d witnessed the free beauty of the whales once, on one of those orca whale watching tours out of Seattle. Her mom’s boyfriend at the time had made a big deal about paying for it, the guy who’d owned that used car dealership on South Tacoma Way. The one who’d snorted when he’d laughed and squeezed Devon’s mom in an obnoxious way when he’d thought Devon wasn’t watching.

But then a low buzzer sounds, and the memory evaporates because the guard’s pushing open the heavy door and they are stepping forward through it.

The door locks—
CLANK
—behind them.

A heavy, metallic, final sound.

Devon and the guard are inside a bright entryway, white walls on either side with closed olive doors. Underfoot is white vinyl tile, polished so it shines. Devon can see her own distorted reflection there, a faint orange smear topped with a black smudge for hair. She jerks her eyes from the image.

The smell here is similar to the hospital’s: disinfectant masking stale air with an underlying hint of cafeteria food—something beefy, like stew.

Straight ahead, the entryway opens into a large room. From it comes the sound of voices and movement. Sounds that fill Devon with dread.

Together Devon and the guard move forward, toward the noise.

Devon clutches her bedding tighter. Her arms ache from its weight, and her pelvis throbs. The bedding slips slightly, and she makes the readjustment. She is intent on directing her eyes in front of herself and in front of herself only, straying nowhere else.

Devon follows behind the guard as he veers toward a large desk just inside the vast room. A woman with a blonde ponytail is sitting behind it. She looks up briefly and smiles. Her smile is quick and bright.

“Hey, Joey,” she says.

“Hey,” he says back. “This is Devon Davenport. Just back from court.”

“Wow,” she says, reaching for a clipboard. “That rhymed. Impressive.”

“I try.”

The two guards exchange information, and in that space of time Devon allows herself a furtive look around, her eyes snatching up the details.

A huge, bright room. Four white walls, but irregularly shaped. A warped trapezoid.

A high ceiling, like in a gym.

That ubiquitous gray carpet with a sort of white vinyl tile sidewalk bordering the entire room.

The two longest—and adjacent—walls display perfectly spaced olive green doors, each labeled separately in white: D-1 to D-16. The cells probably, Devon thinks.

She feels herself shudder at the thought, then quickly flicks her eyes away toward the wall consisting entirely of glass with a door to a small outdoor courtyard.

The opening to the entryway from which she and the guard have just come takes up about half of the last side of the room. The other half is a wall housing three olive green doors. The doors have individual labels, stenciled in white on top of each doorframe: SHOWER ROOM. LAUNDRY. CONFERENCE ROOM.

This could be a freshly painted rec room in a Boys and Girls Club. A place she’d known well, one that wasn’t frightening. A place where she’d played Foosball and Ping-Pong with the other little kids after school while her mom worked. A place where Devon had first learned soccer, inside on the floor of a basketball court.

And the noise she hears is reminiscent of a Boys and Girls Club, too.

The noise.

She takes a breath, forces herself to look toward the noise. Toward the two round plastic tables situated off center in the irregularly shaped room.

Her heart hesitates, then pounds. The scene, like cigarette smoke in a small room, squeezes Devon’s lungs.

Girls.

Girls playing cards. Girls scribbling on paper. Girls laughing and talking or sitting alone.

Girls roughly Devon’s age.

Girls in orange jumpsuits. Like hers.

Pod
, her mind whispers.
Like peas in a pod. And you, you are here with them.

One or two girls look Devon’s way, curious. Another glances up, then says something to the girl beside her, who giggles. Another raises her hand and waves.

Devon looks away, to the desk the woman guard is sitting behind. It is solid and impersonal and somehow reminds Devon of the reference desk at Main Library.

Those girls aren’t anything like me
, Devon tells herself.
They’ve done something bad, really bad, to end up here.
The scariest kind of girl is in this place, the kind she’d give a wide berth to while jogging in Wright Park or step away from while waiting for the bus. The kind the police drag out of Stadium High in the middle of class.

She doesn’t belong here. Her thoughts turn desperate, grasping for supporting evidence. Her report cards are immaculate, certainly very unlike any of these girls’. Unfamiliar teachers recognize her in the halls and smile. Fellow students shout over the clamor to commend her latest performance in the goal: “Go, Tigers!” Strangers call her to babysit. She tutors fellow students in Spanish, gives young aspiring goalkeepers individual training sessions. Referees kids’ rec soccer games, keeps the parents on the sidelines in control and civilized. Don’t these people here realize this? Can’t they see it? She’s not anything like them.

She has to get out. Today. She must get out today.

“You need to leave your bedding here.”

Devon looks up blankly, the voice yanking her from her thoughts. She slowly comes to realize that the woman guard had just said something to her, and the man guard is no longer there. Where did he go?

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Devon stammers. “I . . . didn’t hear you.”

“No.” The woman gives Devon an exasperated smile. “No, you weren’t
listening.
What I said was: ‘You need to leave your bedding here.’”

“Oh.” Devon almost smiles with relief. She’s not staying after all! “Because I won’t need them.”

The woman eyes Devon quizzically. “No,” she says slowly, drawing out the word. “Because you haven’t been assessed by Mental Health yet. That’s usually one of the very first things we do here at Remann Hall after Intake, but the priority today was getting you into court. So, you can just drop your stuff right here, and I’ll take you to your cell.”

Devon stares at the woman, confused. She doesn’t get the connection between Mental Health and a pillow and blankets, why she must relinquish them if she’s going to remain here. She squeezes her bedding harder, takes a step backward.

The woman cocks her head, a frown creasing the space between her eyebrows. “Um, I think I just told you to drop your bedding here? You cannot take it with you. This is for your own safety, Devon, until Mental Health determines differently.”

The room quiets.

Devon can feel eyes, many eyes, from the tables behind her slowly homing in. Devon squeezes her own shut, feels her lips tremble. She just can’t do what this woman is asking of her. Not here. Not with all those girls watching. They’ll see her, they’ll see her jumpsuit. And then they’ll all know.

Devon shakes her head.

“Okay.” The woman sighs. “I don’t think you quite get how things work around here. It goes like this: I tell you to do something, and you do it. End of discussion. Now, let’s try this one last time. Please drop your bedding, right
here
and right
now
, and then I will take you to your cell.”

Devon’s arms quiver, from all the squeezing and the fear. The woman is obviously prepared to mete out punishment if Devon doesn’t comply. Devon can’t imagine what that punishment might be, but how could it be worse than what she’s just been asked to do? But still . . . she is unaccustomed to punishment or authority-figure disapproval. She is unaccustomed to confrontation. Except with an opposing player near her goal, but that skill has no crossover application in a place like this.

“Can’t I”—Devon takes in a shaky breath and swallows—“couldn’t I just . . . when I get to . . . my cell? Please? I promise—”

“No,” the woman interrupts. “And I’m losing patience, fast.”