Текст книги "The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer"

Автор книги: Michelle Hodkin

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

47

BEFORE

I WOKE UP THE NEXT DAY IN A SKELETAL, INSTITUTIONAL bed inside the Tamerlane State Lunatic Asylum. The mattress beneath me was torn to pieces and filthy. The bed frame groaned as I shifted and I looked down at myself. I was dressed in black. Someone kissed my neck behind me. I whipped around.

It was Jude. He smiled, and snaked his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“Come on, Jude. Not here.” I ducked under his arm and stood up, tripping over the debris and insulation on the floor.

He followed me, and backed me up against the wall.

“Shhh, just relax,” he said, as he lifted his hand to my cheek and went for my mouth. I turned my head away. His breath was hot on my neck.

“I don’t want to do this right now,” I said, my voice hoarse. Where was Rachel? Claire?

“You never want to do this,” he mumbled against my skin.

“Maybe because you do it so badly.” My stomach clenched as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

Jude was still. I chanced a brief look at his face; his eyes were vacant. Lifeless. And then he smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

“Maybe it’s because you’re a tease,” he said, and his smile faded. I needed to leave. Now.

I tried to extract myself from between his body and the wall by pushing against his chest with my palms.

He pushed back. It hurt.

How was this happening? I’d learned over the past two months that Jude had his dick moments—entitled, spoiled, obnoxious—typical Alpha male garbage. But this? This was a whole new level of fucked up. This was—

Jude pressed me against the dusty, crumbling wall with the full weight of his body, cutting off my train of thought. I felt the individual hairs rise on the back of my neck and assessed my dwindling options.

I could scream. Rachel and Claire might be close enough to hear me, but they might not. If they weren’t—well. Things would get uglier.

I could smack him. That would probably be stupid, as I’d seen Jude bench-press twice my body weight.

I could do nothing. Rachel would come looking for me eventually.

Door number three seemed the most promising. I went limp.

Jude did not care. He crushed into me with more force, and I fought the swirling hysteria rising in my throat. This was wrong, wrong wrong wrong wrong. Jude crushed his mouth against mine, panting, and the force of him pushed me deeper into the wall, setting loose small clouds of dust that billowed around my body. I felt nauseous

“No,” I whispered. I sounded so far away.

Jude didn’t answer. His pawing hands were rough and clumsy under my coat, under my sweatshirt, under my shirt. The cold of his skin against my stomach made me gasp. Jude laughed at me.

It sparked a cold, rocking fury inside of me. I wanted to kill him. I wished that I could. I pulled one of his hands off my body with a force I didn’t know I had. He replaced it, and without thinking I hauled off and smacked him.

I did not even have the opportunity to register the sting on my hand before I felt it on my face. On my face. Jude’s blow came so fast and so fierce that it seemed to take me minutes, or hours, to realize he’d even hit me back. My eyeball felt like it was dangling from my socket. The pain bit at me from the inside. My whole being was hot with it.

Shaky-limbed and crying—was I crying?—I began to sink. Jude pulled me up, up, and pinned me, trapped me against the wall. I trembled so furiously against it that bits give way against my hands, my arms, my legs. Jude trailed his tongue over my cheek, and I shuddered.

Then Claire’s voice rang out, cutting the charged, silent air. “Mara?”

Jude backed away just a little, only a little, but my feet would not move. My cheeks were cold and itchy with tears and his saliva that I couldn’t wipe away. My breath was ragged, my sobbing silent. I raged at myself for not knowing the hollow stranger standing near me. And I raged at him for hiding himself so well, for tricking me, trapping me, crushing me. I felt something tug at the edges of my mind, threatening to pull me down.

A pair of footsteps a few feet away brought me back. Claire called my name again on the other side of the doorway; I couldn’t see her, but I clung to that voice, tried to shake off the infuriating helplessness and powerlessness that clogged my throat and weighed down my feet.

Her flashlight danced around the room and finally landed on Jude as he stepped out from behind the wall, raising tiny cumulus clouds of dust.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey,” Jude replied with a calm, even smile. It was impossibly more frightening than his rage. “Where’s Rachel?”

“She’s looking for the blackboard room to add our names to the list,” Claire said quietly. “She wanted me to come back and make sure you guys weren’t lost.”

“We’re good,” Jude said and beamed, flashing those all-American dimples. He winked at her.

The shrieking violence inside of me escaped in only a faint, wretched whisper. “Don’t leave.”

Jude stared hard into my face, his eyes reflecting pure anger. He didn’t give me a chance to speak before turning back to Claire. He grinned and rolled his eyes. “You know Mara,” he said. “She’s a little freaked out. I’m taking her mind off of it.”

“Ah,” Claire said, and chuckled softly. “You two kids have fun.” I heard her footsteps retreat.

“Please,” I said, a little louder this time.

The footsteps paused for a moment—one bright, hopeful moment—before picking up again. Then they faded into nothingness.

Jude was back. His meaty hand pushed against my chest, crushing me back into the wall. “Shut up,” he said, and unzipped my coat in one harsh motion. He unzipped my sweatshirt in another. Both garments hung limp from my shoulders.

“Don’t move,” he warned me.

I was frozen—completely, stupidly incapacitated. My teeth chattered and my body shook with anger against the wall as Jude fumbled with the button on my jeans, popping it out of the buttonhole. I had only one thought, just one, that had crawled like an insect into my brain and beat its wings until I could hear nothing else, think nothing else, and until nothing else mattered.

He deserved to die.

As Jude unzipped my fly, three things happened at once.

Rachel’s voice called out my name.

Dozens of iron doors slammed shut in a deafening clang.

Everything went black.

48

THE SOUND OF MY MOTHER’S VOICE SHOCKED me awake.

“Happy birthday!” She stood next to my bed and smiled down at me. “She’s awake, guys! Come on in.”

I watched numbly as the rest of my family paraded into my room, carrying a stack of pancakes with a candle in the middle. “Happy birthday,” they sang.

“And many moooooreeee,” Joseph added, with jazz hands.

I put my face in my hands and tugged on my skin. I didn’t even remember going to sleep last night, but here I was in bed this morning. Waking up from my dream-memory-nightmare about the asylum.

And about the Everglades?

What happened last night? What happened that night? What happened to me? What happened?

What happened?

My father pushed the plate at me. A tiny droplet of wax rolled down the side of the candle and lingered, trembling like a lone tear, before it hit the first pancake. I didn’t want it to fall. I took the plate and blew the candle out.

“It’s nine thirty,” my mother said. “Enough time for you to eat something and shower before Noah picks you up.” She brushed a strand of hair out of my face. My eyes wandered to Daniel. He winked at me. Then my gaze shifted to my father, who didn’t look as thrilled with this plan. Joseph beamed and waggled his eyebrows. He didn’t look tired. He didn’t look afraid.

And my shoulder didn’t hurt.

Did I dream it?

I wanted to ask Joseph, but I didn’t see how to get him alone. If it had happened, if he had been taken, I couldn’t let my mother know—not until I spoke to Noah. And if it hadn’t happened, I couldn’t let my mother know. Because she would have me committed for sure.

And at this point, I would be completely unable to argue with her.

I hovered on the edge of the dream and the memory, unable to tell which was which, as I accepted my family’s kisses and my present, a digital camera. I thanked them. They left. I pushed one leg out of bed, then the other, and planted my feet on the floor. Then one foot, then the next foot, until I reached my bathroom. Rain lashed the small window and I stared straight at the shower door, hovering between the vanity and the toilet. I couldn’t look in the mirror.

I remembered that night. Only when I was unconscious, apparently, and only in pieces, but they were taking on the shape of something enormous and terrifying. Something ugly. I rooted around for the rest of the memory—there was Jude, that asshole, that coward, and what he tried to do and then, and then—nothing. Blackness. The memory slipped away, retreating into the inscrutable vastness of my frontal lobe. It taunted me, niggled at me, and I was angry with it and the world by the time Noah knocked on the front door to pick me up.

“Ready?” he asked. He held an umbrella, but the wind unsteadied his arm. I examined his face. The bruise was gone, and there were only the smallest traces of the lacerations above his eye.

They couldn’t have healed that much in one night.

Which meant that last night had to have been a nightmare. All of it. The asylum. The Everglades. Had to have been.

I realized then that Noah was still standing there, waiting for me to answer. I nodded, and we made a break for it.

“So,” Noah said once we were both in the car. He pushed back his damp hair. “Where to?” His voice was casual.

That confirmed it. I stared past him, at a plastic bag caught in the neighbor’s hedge across the street, being battered by the rain.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, studying me.

I was acting crazy. I did not want to act crazy. I swallowed the question I wanted to ask about the Everglades last night because it wasn’t real.

“Bad dream,” I said, and the corner of my mouth curved into a slight smile.

Noah looked at me through rain-jeweled lashes. His blue eyes held mine. “About what?”

About what, indeed. About Joseph? About Jude? I didn’t know what was real, what was a nightmare, what was a memory.

So I told Noah the truth. “I don’t remember.”

He stared at the road ahead of us. “Would you want to?”

His question caught me off guard. Would I want to remember?

Did I have a choice?

The sound of the doors rang in my ears. I heard the tug of my zipper as Jude pulled it down. Then Rachel’s voice echoing in the hall, in my skull. Then she was gone. I never heard her again.

But maybe … maybe I did. Maybe she came for me, and I just didn’t remember it yet. She called for me, and maybe she came before the building crushed her—

Before it crushed her. Before it crushed Jude who crushed me. My mouth went dry. Some phantom memory teased my brain, announcing its presence. This was important, but I didn’t know why.

“Mara?” Noah’s voice reunited me with the present. We were stopped at a red light, and rain pounded on the windshield in waves. The palm trees on the median swayed and bent, threatening to snap. But they wouldn’t. They were strong enough to take it.

And so was I.

I turned back to Noah and focused my eyes on his. “I think not knowing is worse,” I said. “I’d rather remember.”

When I spoke those words, it hit me with exquisite clarity. Everything that had happened—the hallucinations, the paranoia, the nightmares—it was just me needing to know, needing to understand what happened that night. What happened to Rachel. What happened to me. I remembered telling as much to Dr. Maillard just a week and a half ago and she smiled at me, telling me I couldn’t force it.

But maybe, just maybe, I could.

Maybe I could choose.

So I chose. “I need to remember,” I said to Noah with an intensity that surprised us both. And then, “Can you help me?”

He turned away. “How?”

Now that I knew what was wrong, I knew how to fix it. “A hypnotist.”

“A hypnotist,” Noah repeated slowly.

“Yes.” My mother didn’t believe in it. She believed in therapy and in drugs that could take weeks, months, years. I didn’t have that kind of time. My life was unraveling, my universe was unraveling, and I needed to know what happened to me now. Not tomorrow. And not Thursday, at my next appointment. Now. Today.

Noah said nothing, but dug into his pocket for his cell phone as he drove with one hand. He dialed and I heard it ring.

“Hello, Albert. Can you get me an appointment with a hypnotist this afternoon?”

I didn’t comment on Albert the butler. I was too excited. Too anxious.

“I know it’s Saturday,” he said. “Just let me know what you find out? Thanks.”

He hung up the phone. “He’s going to text me back. In the meantime, did you have anything you wanted to do today?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, “I’m hungry. So how about lunch?”

“Whatever you want,” I said, and Noah smiled at me, but it was sad.

When we turned on to Calle Ocho, I knew where we were going. He pulled into the parking lot of the Cuban place and we darted into the restaurant, which was still insanely busy despite the epic flood.

I felt well enough to smile at the memory of the last time we ate here as we waited near the dessert counter to be seated. I heard the hiss and spit of onions meeting hot oil, and my mouth watered as I scanned the bulletin board next to the counter. Ads for real estate, ads for seminars—

I moved closer to the board.

Please join Botanica Seis for the seminar “Unlocking the Secrets of Your Mind and of Your Past,” with Abel Lukumi, ordained high priest. March 15th, $30.00 per person, walk-ins welcome.

Just then, our waiter appeared. “Follow me, please.”

“One second,” I said, still staring at the flier. Noah caught my eye and read the text.

“You want to go?” he asked.

Unlocking secrets. I turned the phrase over, chewing on my lower lip as I stared at the flier. Why not? “You know what? I do.”

“Even though you know it’s going to be New Age, spiritual nonsense.”

I nodded.

“Even though you don’t believe in that stuff.”

I nodded.

Noah checked his cell phone. “No word from Albert. And the seminar starts in,” he checked the flier and then his phone, “ten minutes.”

“So we can go?” I asked, a real smile forming on my lips this time.

“We can go,” Noah said. He let our waiter know that we wouldn’t be sitting, and turned to the counter to order something to go.

“Do you want anything?” he asked. I felt his eyes on me as I looked in the glass case.

“Can I share with you?”

A quiet smile transformed Noah’s face. “Absolutely.”

49

THERE WAS NO STREET PARKING NEXT TO THE Botanica, so we parked three blocks away. The torrential downpour had reduced to a heavy mist, and Noah held the umbrella over me. I moved it so that it was between us, and we pressed together underneath it. The familiar thrill of his proximity made my pulse gallop. We were closer than we had been in days. I didn’t include the shoulder incident from last night because it didn’t happen. My shoulder didn’t hurt.

I was warm next to Noah, but shivered anyway. The charcoal clouds did something to the atmosphere of Little Havana. The Domino Park was abandoned, but a few men still huddled in the rain next to the mural at the entrance, under the eaves of one of the small tents. Their eyes followed us as we passed. Smoke curled from the entrance of a cigar shop nearby, mingling with the rain and the incense from the computer repair store in front of us. The neon sign buzzed and hummed in my ear.

“This is it,” Noah said. “1821 Calle Ocho.”

I looked at the sign. “But it says it’s a computer repair store.”

“It does indeed.”

We peered into the shop, pressing our faces to the cloudy glass. Electronics and dissembled computer parts mingled with large terra cotta urns and an army of porcelain statues. I looked at Noah. He shrugged. I went in.

A bell jangled behind us as we entered the narrow store-front. Two young boys peeked out from above a glass counter with no adults in sight.

My eyes wandered inside the store, over the rows of shelves lined with plastic bins. Inside the bins, in no discernible order, there were halved coconut husks, bear-shaped containers of honey, several types of shells, rusty horseshoes, ostrich eggs, absorbent cotton, tiny jingle bells, packages of white plastic flip-flops, beads, and candles. Stacks of candles of every size, shape, and color; candles with Jesus emblazoned on the front, and candles with naked women emblazoned on the front. There were even dozens of varieties of ice cream sundae candles. And … handcuffs. What was this place?

“Can I help you?”

Noah and I turned around. A dark-haired young woman on crutches appeared in a door frame between the main store-front and a back room.

Noah raised his eyebrows. “We’re here for the seminar,” he said. “Is this the right place?”

“Si, yes, come,” she said, beckoning us over. We followed her into another narrow room with plastic patio chairs arranged on the white tile floor. She handed us two pamphlets and Noah handed her money. Then she disappeared.

“Thanks,” I said to him as we sat in the back of the room. “I’m sure this wasn’t how you planned on spending your Saturday.”

“I’ll be honest, I was hoping you’d suggest the beach,” he said and shook out his damp hair, “but I consider live entertainment a close second.”

I grinned. I was starting to feel better, more normal. More sane. My eyes wandered around the white room. Hospital white, and the fluorescent lights made it brighter. It contrasted oddly with the furniture—grandma furniture, really. A brown and yellow armchair, a pea green cabinet, more shelves with candles. Strange.

Someone coughed to my left; I turned my head and a pale, thin man dressed in a white robe, wearing white flip-flops and with a white triangular hat on his head, sat in the row in front of us. Noah and I exchanged a look. The other attendees were more normally attired; a heavyset woman with short, curly blond hair in jean shorts fanned herself with a pamphlet. Two identical middle-aged men with mustaches sat in the far corner of the room, whispering to each other. They wore jeans.

Just then, the speaker walked up to the podium and introduced himself. I was surprised to see him wearing a crisp suit, given that he was supposed to be a priest. A priest of what, I did not know.

Mr. Lukumi arranged his papers before smiling broadly and scanning the few filled seats. Then our eyes met. His went wide with surprise.

I turned around, wondering if someone behind me had caught his attention, but no one was there. Mr. Lukumi cleared his throat, but when he spoke, his voice shook.

I was being paranoid. Paranoid paranoid paranoid. And stupid. I focused on the lecture and on Noah, as he took an exaggerated interest in what was being said. I’m not sure what I expected, but hearing Mr. Lukumi discuss the mystical properties of candles and bead necklaces wasn’t it.

Noah cracked me up as he pretended to actively listen; nodding and murmuring at the most inappropriate moments. We passed the Cuban sandwich he’d bought back and forth during the seminar and at one point, I struggled so hard not to laugh that I almost choked on it. If nothing else, I was having some badly needed, well deserved fun after the hellish week.

When the talk ended, Noah went to the front of the room to chat up Mr. Lukumi as the handful of other attendees filtered out. I went to explore.

There was only one small window in the room, and it was partially hidden by a shelf. An overflow of rain gurgled out of a storm drain, sounding like a muffled plug-in fountain through the glass barrier. My eyes scanned the labels of dozens of tiny bottles and jars of herbs and liquids in front of me; “mystic bath,” “recuperation of love life,” “luck,” “confusion.”

Confusion. I reached out to inspect the bottle just as something squawked behind me. I whipped around and, in the process, dislodged a poured candle from the shelf. It fell in slow motion then smashed against the tile, the glass casing splitting into a thousand little diamond shards. Noah and Mr. Lukumi both turned in my direction, just as a small silver cup with jingle bells on it tipped over.

Mr. Lukumi’s eyes flicked to the cup, then to me. “Get out,” he said, as he approached.

His tone stunned me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Mr. Lukumi crouched and examined the broken glass, then raised his eyes to mine. “Just go,” he said, but his voice wasn’t angry. It was urgent.

“Wait a minute,” Noah said, growing annoyed. “There’s no call to be rude. I’ll pay for it.”

Mr. Lukumi rose from his crouch and reached for my arm. But at the last second, he didn’t take it. His tall figure loomed over mine. Intimidating.

“There is nothing for you here,” he said slowly. “Please leave.”

Noah appeared at my side. “Back up,” he said to Mr. Lukumi, his voice low. Dangerous. The priest did so without pause, but his eyes never left mine.

I was beyond confused, and speechless. The three of us stood still a few feet from the doorway. One of the children giggled in the other room. I tried to orient myself, to figure out what I’d done that was so insulting and examined Mr. Lukumi’s face in the process. His eyes met mine, and something flashed behind them. Something I didn’t expect.

Recognition.

“You know something,” I said to him quietly, not sure how I knew. I registered Noah’s surprise in my peripheral vision as I stared Mr. Lukumi down. “You know what’s happening to me.” The words felt true.

But I was crazy. Medicated. In therapy. And believing that was what had led me here to a hole in the wall with a medicine man made more sense than the impossible idea that there was something very, very wrong with me. Something worse than crazy. Mr. Lukumi dropped his gaze and my conviction began to slip away. He was acting like he knew. But what did he know? How did he know? And then I realized that it didn’t matter. Whatever insight he had, I was desperate for it.

“Please,” I said. “I’m—” I remembered the tiny bottle clenched in my sweaty fist. “I’m confused. I need help.”

Mr. Lukumi looked at my fist. “That won’t help you,” he said, but his tone was softer.

Noah’s expression was still wary, but his voice was calm. “We’ll pay,” he said, digging into his pocket. He had no idea what was going on, but he was going along with it. With me. Reckless Noah, game for anything. I loved him.

I loved him.

Before I could even dwell on the thought, Mr. Lukumi shook his head and motioned us toward the door again, but Noah withdrew a fat wad of bills from his pocket. As he counted them out, my eyes went wide.

“Five thousand to help us,” he said, and pressed them into Mr. Lukumi’s hand.

I wasn’t the only one shocked by the money. The priest hesitated for a moment before his fingers curled over the cash. His eyes appraised Noah.

“You do need help,” he said to him, shaking his head before closing the door behind us. Then his eyes found mine. “Wait here.” Mr. Lukumi headed to a back door I hadn’t even noticed. How deep did this place go?

He finally disappeared, and the sound of squawking and clucking met my ears.

“Chickens?” I asked. “What are those—”

A nonhuman scream cut off my question.

“Did he just—” My hands curled into fists. No. No way.

Noah tilted his head. “What are you getting so upset about?”

“Are you joking?”

“The medianoche we just ate had pork in it.”

But that’s different. “I didn’t have to hear it,” I said out loud.

“No one likes a hypocrite, Mara,” he said, a sad shadow of a smile turning up one corner of his mouth.

“And anyway, you’re running this show. I’m just the financier.”

I tried not to think about what might or might not be happening in the back room as the sandwich turned sour in my stomach. “Speaking of finances,” I said, swallowing carefully before I continued, “what the hell were you doing with five thousand dollars on you?”

“Eight, actually. I had grand plans for today. Hookers and blow aren’t cheap, but I suppose animal sacrifice will have to do. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” I deadpanned. I was starting to feel more normal. Relaxed, even. “But seriously, why the money?”

Noah’s eyes were focused on the back door. “I thought we’d stop in the art district to meet a painter I know. I was going to buy something from him.”

“With that much money? In cash?”

“He has cash vices, shall we say.”

“And you’d enable them?”

Noah shrugged a shoulder. “He’s supremely talented,”

I looked at him with disapproval.

“What?” Noah asked. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Since Noah’s money was now being used to support animal sacrifice as opposed to someone’s cocaine habit, I dropped the subject. My eyes roamed the room.

“What’s the deal with all the random stuff here?” I asked. “The rusty horseshoes? The honey?”

“It’s for Santeria offerings,” Noah said. “It’s a popular religion here. Mr. Lukumi is one of the high priests.”

Just then, the back door opened and the high priest himself appeared, carrying a small glass in his hands. With a picture of a rooster on it. Terrible.

He pointed at the ugly brown and yellow flowered armchair in the corner of the room. “Sit,” he said as he ushered me toward it. His voice was dispassionate. I obeyed.

He handed me the glass. It was warm. “Drink this,” he said.

My bizarre day—my bizarre life—was getting weirder and weirder. “What’s in it?” I asked, eyeing the mixture. It looked like tomato juice. I’d pretend it was tomato juice.

“You are confused, yes? You need to remember, yes? Drink it. It will help you,” Mr. Lukumi said.

I flicked my eyes to Noah and he held his hands up defensively. “Don’t look at me,” he said, then turned to Mr. Lukumi, “But if anything happens to her afterward,” he said carefully, “I will end you.”

Mr. Lukumi was unruffled by the threat. “She will sleep. She will remember. That is all. Now drink.”

I took the glass from him but my nostrils flared as I brought it to my mouth. The salt-rust smell turned my stomach, and I hesitated.

This whole thing was probably fake. The blood, the botanica. Mr. Lukumi was humoring us for the money. The hypnotist would probably do the same. It wouldn’t help.

But neither did the pills. And the alternative was waiting. Waiting and talking to Dr. Maillard, while my nightmares got worse and my hallucinations became harder to hide, until I’d eventually be pulled out of school—dashing any hope of graduating on time, of going to a good college, of having a normal life.

What the hell. I tilted the glass and winced when my lips reached the warm liquid. My taste buds rebelled at the bitterness, the metallic iron flavor. It was all I could do not to spit. After a few painful gulps, I wrenched the cup from my lips but Mr. Lukumi shook his head.

“All of it,” he said.

I looked at Noah. He shrugged.

I turned back to the glass. This was my choice. I wanted this. I needed to finish it.

I closed my eyes, tossed my head back and brought the glass to my mouth. It clicked against my teeth and I swallowed the thin liquid. I chugged it when my throat protested, screamed at me to stop. The warmth dribbled over both sides of my chin and soon, the glass was empty. I sat upright again and held the cup in my lap. I did it. I smiled, triumphant.

“You look like the Joker,” Noah said.

That was the last thing I heard before I blacked out.