Saving Meghan(94)

“Sweetheart, that’s an awful thing you said to him,” Mom told me as she pulled me into her arms. She shushed and soothed and did what only my mother could do—make me feel better. She was my hero, my champion. I couldn’t believe the allegations against her. How could someone with that kind of power to heal intentionally be making me sick? I couldn’t reconcile it. But then I thought of the secret I was still carrying and wondered if Mom might have secrets of her own.

I pushed the doubt aside—again. Mom and I were in this together, and there was a chance Dad could join us so, for now, I kept what I knew to myself. As far as being here in this Airbnb and not at White, well, that was a million percent better. No, make that a hundred million percent. There were no weird noises. No grunts. No tantrums. No group therapy. No blaring TV. No horrible lunches. This place was cool. Whoever lived here had awesome taste, and I wanted to be like her—arty, hip, and chic. But we were cool, too, kind of like outlaws now. I’d seen Thelma & Louise. We were like that: two best friends having the adventure of our lives, on the run from the crimes we’d committed—minus the super-hot Brad Pitt part. It was a thrill. And I’d never felt so close to my mother before.

There were some big drawbacks to this new lifestyle of ours, including having none of my things from home. I also couldn’t go for a walk outside, because Mom was freaked out about us getting caught. There was a rooftop where I could go for fresh air. I’d sit for an hour or two on a chair, reading books Mom bought for me at the supermarket.

The sun felt incredible on my face but, sadly, it didn’t make me feel any better. That good feeling I had when I first broke out of White had gone away like a short-lived adrenaline rush. The old Meghan had returned. Switches inside me started going off again. The fatigue was back with a vengeance. Going up the stairs to the rooftop was like a mountain-climbing excursion. I slept away most of the three days we’d been on the run.

We were still the hottest news story in town. Where is Meghan Gerard? I bet my friends at school were talking about me nonstop—Shelly Stevenson, Lily Beauport, Cecilia Montgomery, all of them. Too bad I couldn’t send them anything. In fact, I couldn’t send them anything ever again. It was like I was entering Witness Protection or something. I bet someday they’ll make a TV show or even a movie about me. That would be unbelievably cool. I could come out of hiding to do the talk show circuit. I’d probably get a book deal. Then I’d be able to get in touch with my friends and tell them everything. We’d hug, and it would be just like old times, only I wouldn’t be sick anymore. I’d be cured. And Mom and Dad would be together, and all would be forgiven. And I wouldn’t be burdened anymore.

I was in bed sleeping (nothing new there) when Mom called me into the living room. There was breaking news on the TV: Dr. Zach Fisher was giving a news conference outside the front entrance to White Memorial. His dark hair ruffled in the steady breeze. Reporters gathered around, shoving their microphones into his face. My dad stood next to Dr. Fisher, looking sad, as if he were attending my funeral. I saw Dr. Nash there, too, looking prim and proper, her hair tied up in a bun, glasses in place.

Mom turned up the volume. Dr. Fisher had finished whatever he had to say, so the reporters all started shouting questions at him. He ignored them, thanked everyone for coming, and then Knox Singer stepped up to the mic to announce that the news conference was over. This wasn’t like in the movies, where we happened to catch the news report right at the critical moment. We’d missed it all. But lucky for us, it was breaking news, so they reran the entire press conference about fifteen minutes later. This time we caught every word of it, including the most crucial part.

“I’m speaking directly to Becky Gerard,” Dr. Fisher said, his chocolate-colored eyes boring into the TV cameras. “Becky, please bring Meghan back to White. We found something in Meghan’s labs that’s very concerning to us. I won’t go into detail on TV, but please listen to me. She’s sick—very sick. You need to bring her back to White immediately so she can be treated for this new issue we’ve discovered. Everyone here at White Memorial—including the police—we all just want Meghan to come back so she can be cared for properly. I know you want what’s best for Meghan. It’s urgent, Becky. You must act now.”

Mom shut off the TV. She stared for a long time at the blank screen. I said nothing. My stomach was the size of a walnut.

“What could it be?” I asked.

“A trap,” my mom said. “It could be a trap.”

“But what if it’s not?” I asked. “What if there’s something truly wrong with me?”

I told Mom how I’d been feeling—the switches going off inside me, one by one, sensing that every day was bringing me one step closer to the last switch getting flipped.

“What do we do?” I asked Mom.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Mom said, stroking my hair. “I really don’t know.”





CHAPTER 45





BECKY


Of all the holes in her plan—and there were plenty—she’d never contemplated the possibility of a new diagnosis for Meghan. She’d broken her daughter out of White because she had feared what would happen without continued treatment—thoughts of Will Fisher had propelled her into action. Now she feared what might occur if they stayed in hiding.