Dreamland (13 page)

As Dea pulled up Connor's number, Nina prattled on about the things she'd seen on the ward: drugs concealed in the lining of jeans; needles folded between the pages of a Bible; diet pills rattling in the belly of a teddy bear.

Dea's fingers were shaking as she typed out her text.

            
Please come. Today. BRING CLOTHES.

            
I'll explain everything.

Then, for good measure:
I'm not crazy
.

She hit send.

“One time, you wouldn't believe it, someone brought a lighter hidden in a shoe. Tried to burn the whole place down.” She laughed.

“I'm done now.” Dea replaced the phone in her bag and stood up. She wanted desperately to keep the phone on her, but she had nowhere to conceal it and couldn't risk getting in trouble. She showed Nina her hands, to prove she hadn't taken anything.

“Good girl.” Nina swung the locker closed and locked it. “You send a message to your friend?”

“Yes.” Dea felt like she was choking on the word. It was one o'clock. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

Two o'clock came and went, then three. She wished, now, that she had taken her cell phone, found some way of concealing it in her flimsy cotton pajamas. She wished she knew whether Connor had written her back. If he hadn't, or if he didn't come . . .

That was the biggest question. Whether he would come. Whether by now, despite what Gollum had told her, he'd decided she was a freak, suicidal, the crazy child of a crazy-ass mother. She could only imagine the stories he must have heard from his uncle, what people must be saying about her in school.

School. She'd never thought she might actually
wish
to be back in school.

She washed her face and brushed her teeth again, just to have something to do. There were no mirrors in this part of the hospital—she was glad of that, though she would have liked to see her mother again—and she hadn't seen her own reflection in days. She braided her damp hair by feel. Three thirty. She went into the hall and saw Eva, the anorexic, sitting with yet another visitor—her dad?—in the plastic chairs of the waiting room. Eva was the most popular girl on the ward, apparently.

She returned to her room and stretched out on the bed. Closed her eyes and tried to nap, but she was too agitated.

Four o'clock. She was guessing, estimating the time by the activity of the nurses doing their rounds and the quality of the light filtering through her window. If Connor didn't come, she'd have to figure out a new way to escape. She examined the locker to see if she could force it, but she had no idea how to pick a lock and nothing to pick it with, anyway. The sharpest object she was allowed was a plastic fork. She couldn't just make a run for it, either. The doors at the end of the hallway were locked. Even if she could somehow finagle it, the hospital would call the cops, and the cops would have no problem finding her if she went anywhere dressed in hospital-issue pajamas.

Connor was her only hope.

Five o'clock. Almost time for the shift change, and the perfect time to make a move. She looked into the hall again. Roddy was on the phone, gesticulating, his voice rising and falling over a swell of unconnected phrases: “Water supply . . . if the FEMA got wind of this . . . the Republican National Council . . .”

Behind him, a woman worked a mop up and down the hallway. Dea could see earphones hanging around her neck.

She closed the door, and the sound of Roddy's voice was muffled. Mid-November, so the light was dying, rust-colored on the floor. She curled up on the bed. It felt like she was dying, too—bleeding out, wasting precious minutes. It had been days and days since she'd walked a dream, and Dea was weak.

It wasn't until the knocking began that Dea sat up, realizing she must have fallen asleep. The light was gone. Her room was in darkness. Suddenly the door opened. The dazzling brightness of the hallway made her blink.

“What are you doing, sitting around in the dark?” The lights clicked on, and Maria, one of the night nurses, was revealed. She didn't wait for Dea to answer. “Come on out. You got a visitor.”

Dea's mouth went dry. She stood up, unsteady on her feet, hot all over. There was Connor: standing in the hall, looking rumpled and soft, like he'd rushed there from somewhere else. She almost didn't believe it. She blinked several times, as if he were a mirage and might vanish as she approached. But he was still there. Then she noticed that his arms were empty—he hadn't brought her any clothes. Or maybe they'd been confiscated already. Her stomach sank.

“Don't take too long, now,” Maria said. “Visiting's done in half an hour.” She backed out of the room, leaving the door open. Yet another rule.

Conner and Dea were alone. They stood for a moment in awkward silence.

“You came,” Dea said.

Just as Connor cleared his throat and said, “I got your text.”

“Shh.” Dea jerked her chin toward the hallway.

“I had to tell my dad I was going to Gollum's.” Connor
lowered his voice so he was barely speaking above a whisper. “You said you would explain.”

Dea's heart was beating so fast, she felt like she might faint. “I will. I promise.” In the hall, a nurse passed, limping slightly, as if her whole body ached. She shot a quick glance into Dea's room but kept moving. “I'm in trouble.”

“I can see that,” Connor said.

“But I'm not—I'm not crazy.” Dea's voice broke. She cleared her throat. “Please. I need your help. Get me out of here, I'll tell you everything.”

Connor stared at her for one long moment, as if trying to judge whether she could be trusted. “I brought some stuff for you,” he said finally. He unzipped his sweatshirt. Underneath it, he was wearing a second sweatshirt, this one so small its sleeves stopped four or five inches above his wrist bones. It was pink. “My stepmom's,” he said quickly, when Dea stared. He reached into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a pair of leggings. “These, too. I didn't think you'd want me wearing them.” It was the first time he'd cracked a smile. “And a T-shirt. I'm wearing two.”

“You're a genius,” Dea said.

Connor shrugged. “Don't forget, I was a psycho when I was little,” he said, serious again. “I killed my family, remember? I know how these places work.”

Dea wondered whether the woman, Kate Patinsky, was still harassing him—it occurred to her that people at school must be saying bad things about Connor too. But there was no time to ask him now. He backed into the little bathroom and, because there was no door, Dea turned away so he could change. Then
it was Dea's turn. Connor had left the leggings, the pink sweatshirt, and a T-shirt with a faded Coca-Cola graphic folded neatly in the sink. The clothing was all a bit too large, but Dea didn't care. It felt delicious to be wearing real clothes, even clothes that were borrowed.

The fact that she had no shoes was a problem. It would look bad—even after she left the Crazy Ward, it would raise eyebrows. And the hospital complex was big. There was no way she could make it to the parking lot without passing doctors, and nurses, maybe even some of the same people who'd admitted and treated her. She needed to blend in as much as possible. But she was running out of time. Once the night nurses finished chatting and sucking down coffee, it would be dinner time. Then the halls would be full of nurses wheeling trays and bearing pills and Connor would have to leave, and Dea would lose her chance.

“So what's the big plan?” Connor said. He had turned again to face her. She had forgotten how much she liked the angles of his face, and his eyes, warm and bright. “You can't just walk out of here.”

“Visitors do it all the time,” Dea said. “They get punched out by the cleaning crew, no questions asked.”

He looked her up and down, frowning. “Stay here,” he said, as if she had any other choice. She couldn't even leave the bathroom; if she did, she'd be visible from the hallway to anyone who passed. And she couldn't be seen in street clothes. So instead she sat on the toilet lid, sucking in deep breaths. Her heart was worse than it had been in years. She pressed a palm flat across her chest, thought
calm down, calm down, calm down
, but it didn't
help. When she stood up again, blackness clouded her vision.

Connor reappeared, holding a pair of cheap-looking black heels, scuffed at the toes. Dea couldn't believe it. “How?” was all she could ask.

“My stepmom works in an office,” he said. “She always keeps extra shoes under the desk. For dates with my dad or business meetings and stuff.” He shrugged. “The nurse working the welcome desk must be on break. But the shoes were there.”

“It's shift change.” Dea pulled on the heels. She couldn't even feel guilty about stealing. “She's probably in the staff room gossiping with everyone else.”

The shoes were too small, and looked ridiculous with her outfit. But she didn't care. She took a few tentative steps around the bathroom, wobbling a little. She hoped they wouldn't have to run.

“What now?” Connor was watching her with an expression she couldn't decipher.

Dea took a deep breath. “Now we walk out.”

“Just like that?”

The back of her neck was sweating. “I hope so.”

“What about the nurses?” he said. “What about the doctors?”

“You tell me,” she said. “You're supposed to be scouting.”

“I'll take that as an order,” he said. He vanished again, presumably to duck out into the hall, and reappeared a second later. His face was practically gray. Dea realized he was risking a lot—risking
big
trouble—just to help her. She was sure his family had warned him against her. Gollum had implied he was practically on lockdown. For all he knew, Dea was actually crazy, and
would try to impale herself with a butter knife as soon as they were out of the ward. Or impale him. “Coast's clear,” he said. “Except for someone mopping. And there's a girl sitting out by registration.”

“A girl?” Dea's heart sank. She hadn't even considered the idea that one of the other patients might be killing time in the waiting area.

“Super skinny,” Connor said.

Eva. Dea knew hardly anything about her—they'd spoken only once, when Eva had unexpectedly volunteered the information about Roddy's fake phone calls. She had no idea whether Eva would be inclined to give her away or not. On the one hand, she didn't think Eva could possibly have anything
against
her. On the other hand, people were petty on the ward. She heard the chatter all the time from the nurses. Roddy wasn't speaking to Andrew, because Andrew supposedly got more pudding with his dinner. Melissa had accused Kaitlyn of stealing her favorite socks. And on and on.

She had to risk it.

“Let's go.” She tugged up her hood and cinched it tight, shaking her hair forward so it mostly concealed her face. She edged out of the bathroom behind Connor, uncomfortably aware of the loud clicking of her heels against the linoleum. She heard a burst of laughter from down the hall, in the direction of the staff room, and Nina hooting, “Girl, you're
crazy
. You oughta be locked up, too.”

Connor glanced at her and she nodded. Her throat was so tight she could barely swallow.

They moved out into the stark-bright hall. Dea's whole body
was alert, stiff with fear. The guy with the bleached hair was standing at his door again, peering out the small window into the hall. As they moved past him, he suddenly reared his head back and slammed it once again the glass. Thud.

“Stop it,” Dea whispered desperately. He did it again. Thud. Connor had frozen. Thud, thud. “Stop it, please.” She wasn't even sure if he could hear her. She knew that once he got started, he wouldn't stop until the nurses came with more medication. Already, the voices in the break room had gone silent. “Please. It's okay.” She pressed her palm to the glass, as if she could reach through it and force him to be still.

It worked. He jerked his head back and stayed there, his eyes clicking from her palm up to her face again. Dea felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back. Seconds stretched into infinity. At last, he smiled and touched his finger to her palm, through the glass.

“Bye-bye,” she whispered. She watched him mouth the words back: “Bye-bye.”

The nurses' voices started up again.

Ten more feet and they'd be at the swinging doors. Dea felt like she was moving through a dream, like every step she took she was actually getting farther from escape. But then they were there: standing just inside the doors that led to freedom, next to the waiting room with its crappy green carpet and the collection of plastic chairs. Eva wasn't even watching TV. She was just sitting there. Dea kept her head down, hoping her face was mostly concealed. The janitor was still wearing headphones, working a wet cloth over the reception desk.

“Excuse me.” Connor was doing his best to sound casual but
Dea heard the strangled quality of his voice. “Excuse me.” He had to tap the janitor to get her to look up. She did, finally. “Can you let us out, please?”

She lifted a headphone away from her ear and shook her head, like
I didn't hear you.
From the corner of her eye, she could see Eva watching them—rigid, suspicious.

“Out,” Connor repeated.

The janitor moved for the door.

“Wait,” Eva called out.

Dea's chest seized up. She willed the janitor to punch in the code, to let them through, to ignore Eva. But now the woman's hand was hovering, hummingbird-like, in front of the keypad. Dea felt herself turning against her will.

“Dea.” Connor's voice was a low whisper, strangled. But it was too late. She had met Eva's eyes. They were staring at each other across the short distance.

Eva's eyes looked like the carvings on statues Dea had seen in certain history books, as if they had been gouged out of her skin with an instrument. Dea had stopped breathing. Now Eva would raise the alarm. Now the nurses would come pouring out of the break room, rushing down the hall to see what the fuss was about, and Dea would be hauled back to her room and strapped down to her bed for all eternity.

“I like your sweatshirt,” Eva said. She had a husky voice, low as a boy's. For a quick second, Dea was sure she saw Eva smile.

“The code,” Connor said. “
Por favor
.”

The janitor didn't look at Dea again. She punched in the code—a quick string of numbers and letters—and the doors clicked open. Suddenly, in a panic, Dea forgot how to move.
Voices crested behind her, ricocheting off the walls—a burst of laughter, a subtle shift in the pattern of conversation. The nurses were coming to do rounds.

Connor took Dea's hand and pulled her forward, into the hall. Dea took a quick, gasping breath, as if she'd just surfaced after being too long underwater. The doors closed behind her with a soft
whoomf
, and she heard the lock slide home.