Saving Meghan(71)
Spence gave a nod that was neither a show of approval nor disapproval, just the acknowledgment of a claim that was not yet a fact.
Carl did not buy Becky much jewelry these days. His last purchase was a diamond-encrusted pendant from Tiffany’s with her initials engraved on the back, which she wore more than any other piece she owned. He probably would not remember those earrings even if he had bought them for her.
A knot formed at the base of Becky’s neck. She grew quite anxious, rethinking her decision to willingly give the detectives her computer and submit to their forensic tests. But there was no easy way to back out of the arrangement now. After the detectives were gone, Becky would go to her bedroom. She’d rifle through her jewelry box, even though she had little doubt that she’d find only one of her pair of diamond earrings inside.
CHAPTER 32
MEGHAN
Happy stinking birthday to me.
What a joke. Never in all my life did I think I’d be celebrating my sixteenth birthday in a psych ward, but here we are, so let the festivities begin. There were a lot of tears when Mom and I saw each other, but that was nothing strange. People cried all the time here. They hollered at empty space or stared blankly at their feet the same way they did at the television in the common rooms. There were always odd noises—weird gurgles, grunts, cries. One girl was convinced she was a horse. She’d gallop down the halls neighing and snorting at people so they’d know to keep away. It worked.
Mom and Dad were barely speaking to each other. It’s like they’ve already split up and I’m to blame. But that’s not really true. It’s my father’s fault, and he knows it. It’s not like we ever had the big happy family to begin with. I’ve only seen my Grandma Cora a couple times, and it’s been years since I’ve been out to California. Not that I want to go. She’s old and smells like bark, something decaying. Her fingers are always yellow and nicotine-stained, like her teeth. I don’t miss seeing her, or going to her jam-packed trailer home, which looks like a run-down flea market to me.
Aunt Sabrina could visit if she wanted to, but clearly she doesn’t. Which leaves my dad’s side of the family. I don’t know many kids with divorced grandparents, but I’ve got a pair. Nobody ever told me the reason they split up, and I never bothered to ask. My father always said he’d never end up like them, which is why he took great pride in holding his marriage together after Sammy died.
He’d talk about it at parties, which made Mom furious. But his drinking sometimes made it hard to keep his voice low and his thoughts to himself. I overheard him say that most marriages couldn’t have survived that kind of strain, but not his. You see, my dad can’t have weak things in his life. That’s why he can’t have a weak daughter. But he’s the weakest man I know.
There’s music at my lamest birthday party ever. It’s the first time I’ve heard music since I’ve been here. Somebody brought cheap Bluetooth speakers, so Taylor Swift sounds like she’s singing from the bottom of a tin can. Normally, I listen to music on my phone, which I haven’t had in days. Actually, I don’t know how long I’ve been here, because I’ve completely lost track of time.
But my phone! I just want my phone! I want to talk to my friends. I want to scroll through Instagram and see what they’ve been up to. I want to type in my familiar second language, the code of the teenager. J/K—just kidding. BRB—be right back. NP—no problem. But there are other codes, too. Codes my parents don’t know about that I could type right now and mean every bit. KMS—kill myself. TIME—tears in my eyes. VSF—very sad face. And then there’s KPC—keeping my parents clueless, which is exactly what I’m doing, keeping them clueless, or at least one of them.
Somebody (for sure not Mustache Man, who I bit) put up balloons and even hung a few streamers, but it’s like that old “lipstick on a pig” line. Today, we were in A Wrinkle in Time. I guess they wanted to see if a different room would lead to a different outcome. Things are different, all right, but not because of the room change. Evidently, I’m now the talk of the town. I’ve been on TV, in newspapers, Facebook, Twitter, blogs—everywhere there’s media, there’s Meghan.
My friends must be freaking out. I guess I’m something of a celebrity. I’m sure they’re posting to social media about me all the time. My mom came to the party armed with presents, but she’d say her biggest gift to me is all the attention she’s drummed up about my case. She’s super proud for making it happen. I don’t know how she got the ball rolling, but whatever she did, it’s supposed to put pressure on the hospital and make them let me go. Who knows? Maybe it will work, but I’m not holding out hope.
My mom said she had something important to tell me, but we were going to talk about it after I opened my presents. Speaking of presents, what the heck happened? They all looked like they’d been opened already. My mom was a damn fine present wrapper, but this job was whack. The paper was torn at the edges. The tape had been put on crookedly. I didn’t get it at first, but then Mom explained: “They had to open the presents first to see what I was giving you.”
I squeezed Mom’s hand and thanked her. I told her I loved her, which I did, more than anything. Then I opened my gifts. Of course I got books, because what else am I going to do in here? Dad got me Beats by Dre headphones. There was jewelry, a GoPro camera (which I couldn’t have, because I’m not allowed to film anything on this floor), a cool hat that would be great for the winter—unless I’m still in here. Kids on this floor don’t get fresh air.