A Danger to Herself and Others(12)

I suppose it was my fault. I was the one who told him to visit our room. I wonder what might have happened if he and I had spent more time together before he met Agnes. I could have stayed in his room with him and helped him unpack. I could have shown him that I could be a sweet girl, too.

I didn’t find out that they were a couple until after they became one. It wasn’t as if Jonah asked Agnes out for a date, and we giggled while she got ready and then winked at each other behind his back when he came by to pick her up. It was much more subtle than that. One day, I noticed that he sat closer to her on the couch in the common room than he did to me. When I came back from class, he’d be studying quietly at my desk while Agnes studied quietly at hers. He always moved before I had to ask, though. He was polite about it.

Then one night, he showed up after we’d turned off the lights and climbed into bed beside Agnes like it was the most natural thing in the world. Agnes must have left the door unlocked so Jonah could get in. It was obvious she was used to being close to him; she barely stirred when he slid between the sheets. It was like watching a celebrity couple go from denying rumors that they’re together to suddenly announcing their engagement: you knew it was coming—all the signs had been there—and yet it still surprised you.

Jonah saw me watching him in the moonlight, and he winked at me, as if we were in on some shared secret. I rolled over to face the wall and pretended to sleep. I heard the sounds they made: every time one of them shifted in the bed, every time they kissed (Jonah must have woken Agnes after I turned my back on them), every time Agnes tried to stifle a giggle so she wouldn’t wake me up. She was considerate—sweet—even then.





nine


Agnes and her parents were really close. Not close like my parents and me, but close. She talked to them every day.

Day one: I really like my roommate, Mama.

And later, what amounted to daily reports of our progress:

Hannah and I went to the movies.

Hannah and I discovered this amazing sushi place on University Avenue.

Hannah and I…

Hannah and I…

Hannah and I…

Maybe Agnes’s parents decided they didn’t like me weeks before we met. Maybe after all those phone calls, they thought of me as some big city girl putting big city ideas in their daughter’s head. After a couple weeks, Agnes switched from saying Hannah and I to saying Hannah says.

Hannah says I can visit her in New York for Thanksgiving.

Hannah says I should apply to Barnard.

Hannah says everyone has the latest iPhone.

Hannah says I should buy some new clothes for college interviews.

It’s not as though I put the words in her mouth. Besides, accusing someone of attempted murder is a bit of an overreaction to disliking your daughter’s roommate.

Especially when what happened was so obviously an accident.

Or anyway, they can’t prove that it wasn’t an accident, and isn’t that the important part? You know, innocent until proven guilty and all that. Beyond a reasonable doubt.

“What’s the status of the investigation?” I ask the next time Lightfoot’s ballet shoes tap tap tap into my room and Stephen takes up his position by the door.

“Think of this less as an investigation than as my chance to get to know you.” She stands in the center of the room (no folding chair this time), shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her papery clothes—blue, unlike Lucy’s and mine, which are green, maybe to match the walls—make noise when she moves. She blinks like she’s not used to wearing contact lenses. I bet they told her not to wear glasses around patients like me. Someone who may be a danger to herself and others could use the metal and glass to gouge her eyes out.

I wonder what this place’s policy is for patients who need to wear glasses. Are those patients forced to wear contacts too? Maybe they’re allowed to wear glasses when they’re alone, but are required to take them off when Lightfoot comes to call, sitting through their therapy sessions with fuzzy vision.

Lucy is at lunch with the other girls who have cafeteria privileges. (My meal was brought to the room, as usual.) Ever since she arrived, she’s been allowed out for things like that, maybe as a reward for staying with her potentially dangerous roommate without complaining, or maybe because they want to watch her eat so she can’t throw up as easily. Lucy also gets to leave the room for her sessions with Dr. Lightfoot, and yesterday they let her use the showers down the hall. I guess patients who throw chairs are expected to stick with sponge baths.

“How can you get to know me like this?” I ask. “You need to spend more than an hour a day with someone to really know them.”

“I’m sorry you feel that our interactions are so limited.”

I hate how she makes it sound as if the amount of time we spend together is a matter of opinion, like we’re having additional interactions I’m not aware of.

Also, how can she get to know me while I’m stuck in this place? This is hardly a normal environment. I know she thinks I need isolation from the familiar and all, but people are influenced by their environments and being stuck in this room is enough to drive a perfectly sane person mad. Not that I care whether Lightfoot gets to know me at all. I’m here because of a misunderstanding. I’m here to let this thing play out. I’m here until everything passes.