The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(46)

“She might get overly excited,” Jack explained as we walked into a well-lit corridor on a surprisingly modern, pleasantly designed floor. Bright artwork filled the walls, and plants stretched in front of long windows. “Or she might withdraw. Don’t be offended, either way. It’s not personal.”

She, she, she. Who was this she? He hadn’t said a word about the gossip he’d overheard on the night of the party, and I’d been too embarrassed to admit that the person I’d oh-so-wrongly assumed to be his mother was, clearly, not. I greatly regretted my earlier cowardice and wished I’d just asked him. Too late now.

“Does she know I’m coming?” I asked, a slow panic brewing in my stomach.

“Yes. But she gets confused about time, so she might not be expecting you.”

“She’s expecting,” Rupert said. “She’s been talking nonstop about it since dinner. You tell her all the rules?” he said, motioning his head toward me.

“What rules?” I asked.

“Don’t give her anything,” Jack said. “And don’t let her take anything, either. No cords, no electronics, no shoelaces, no metal or glass.”

“Anything can be a weapon,” Rupert said. A weapon she’d use on me? Shoelaces? Would she try to strangle me?

“And don’t try to shake her hand or anything,” Jack added. “She sometimes gets freaked about touching.”

We passed a set of double doors marked DAY ROOM ONE and headed to a patient wing, passing a couple of nurses along the way. Other than that, it was quiet, which seemed bizarre—no screaming and wailing like the psych wards on TV. Midway down the corridor, a door cracked open and a head poked out, just for a moment. And all my slow panic speeded up significantly.

“Fifteen minutes,” Rupert said. “I’ll be at the end of the hall when you’re ready.”

Jack took a deep breath and knocked on the door before opening it. “It’s just me.”

No reply came. I followed him into a small private room that smelled of cigarette smoke. A darkened bathroom sat to the left of the entrance, and further in, the rest matched my mental image of a college dorm room: white walls, tiled floor, chunky wooden table, and some built-in shelves. A single bed sat under a window, and on the bed was a chubby girl who had short, dark hair and more pink pajamas.

“Yo, Jillie,” Jack said. “I brought someone to meet you, just like I promised.”

Jillie. Jillian.

His sister was definitely not at a European boarding school.

The girl appeared to be our age. She looked relatively normal. No crazy eyes. Well, at least not that I could tell, because she wouldn’t look at me directly. She blinked a lot and tugged on a curling lock of hair at the back of her neck.

“Jillie, this is my friend, Beatrix. Bex, this is Jillian, my twin sister.”

Twins.

I didn’t know what to say, but she still wasn’t looking at me, and things were getting uncomfortable. So I just said, “Hi there.”

It was enough to warm her up. She flicked a couple of furtive glances my way. Then she surprised me. “Jack told me about you. It’s your birthday.”

“Was her birthday,” Jack corrected. “A few weeks ago.”

“Oh, that’s right. I’m allergic to dairy, so I can’t have cake,” she said, picking up a pack of cigarettes hidden beneath a stuffed frog on her windowsill.

“You got your lighter back?” Jack asked.

“Out of pity,” she said. “Dr. Kapoor will eventually take it away. He always does.”

The window opened only partially, allowing a few inches of fresh air before a set of chains went taunt. With shaking hands, Jillian lit up a cigarette and blew smoke through the cracked window. “They don’t want you to jump,” she said, catching me staring at the chains. “On the fifth floor, you can’t even open the windows.”

“The fifth floor blows,” Jack said, pulling out a chair from her table and gesturing for me to sit. He then perched on the bed next to Jillian. “You okay today?”

She drew her knees up to her chest. “Not really. Well, I guess I am. Pretty good. Yeah. Sort of.” She floundered as if she truly wasn’t sure how to answer, and took a long drag off her cigarette. “It’s not a bad day.”

“Excellent. I’m glad to hear it.”

“You’re really tiny,” Jillian said to me. “What’s your shoe size?”

I thought about the shoestring warning. Was she angling for my shoes? I fought the urge to hide my feet behind my sketchbook satchel. “Uh, five?”

“That’s small. I miss buying shoes. We only get the slip-ons,” she said, nodding toward a pair of Vans that were decorated with painted zigzags on the flaps. Then she tapped Jack on the shoulder. “Remember those purple heels Mom told me I couldn’t have? She said they looked like porn star shoes.”

“I remember,” Jack said.

“They had the bows on the straps. I loved those bows. Why do bows make everything cuter? If you have a shitty present you want to give someone, you can slap on bow on it, and then it’s okay. Doesn’t really matter what’s inside. If it’s wrapped nicely, no one is going to complain. And really, anyone who complains about a present is a dick. Unless it’s an inten—” She grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath, then tried again. “An in-ten-tionally bad present. Like, maybe if you hate someone, but you’re forced to give them a gift in one of those white elephant tiger safari exchanges.”