A Danger to Herself and Others(41)

“But wouldn’t Jonah have heard what happened from your classmates in the dormitory? The summer program lasted another week or two after you came here.”

“You just said he didn’t live in the dormitory.”

“Right.” Lightfoot gives me another med-school nod. “But you said he did.” Her face twists with pity. No; it’s more than pity. She thinks she knows more than I do, and she’s waiting for me to understand it too.

Well, I understand everything. I understand that Dr. Lightfoot is lying to me, playing some kind of game, enjoying a sick power trip. Maybe she’s still mad at me for getting locked out of my room the other day. Maybe she wants to remind me that she’s the one in control, that as long as I’m in this room, the truth is whatever she decides it is. If she says Jonah didn’t live in our dorm or attend classes, I’m powerless to prove otherwise because she makes the rules, she’s the one calling my classmates and the school for evidence, not me.

Well, screw that. I mean, seriously, she can take away showers and cafeteria lunches and keep me in this room, but now she’s trying to take Jonah away? Lightfoot may be in charge of my life inside this place, but she doesn’t get to take away the life I had before I came here.

I’ll throw more than a chair this time. I grip the edge of the bed, then remember it’s nailed to the floor. I glance at the window. I’m so angry that I actually believe I could smash it with my bare hands, climb the eff out of here, and go home. I’d find Jonah myself and bring him back here just long enough to prove Lightfoot wrong, then run away and never come back. I ball my hands into fists in front of me like I’m ready to fight my way out of here.

The instant I stand, Stephen’s arms are wrapped around me. When did he get so close? I can’t move. There’s nothing nice about being held like this, nothing that remotely resembles a hug, an embrace, an act of affection. My arms are pinned to my sides. Despite my very limited mobility I’m completely out of breath, sweating as though I sprinted here all the way from San Francisco.

“It’s all right.” Lightfoot stands, kicking her chair toward the door. “I’ll give you a sedative to help you calm down.”

I try to shake my head, but I can’t even move that much. I want to scream, shout, but I can’t catch my breath. Am I crying? Why can’t I get the words out?

There’s a prick in my arm. (Where did that come from? Does Lightfoot always keep a needle in her pocket just in case?) Almost immediately, I slump in Stephen’s arms.

“You can loosen your hold, Stephen.” Lightfoot’s still speaking in that pitying voice that’s probably supposed to be soothing but it only makes me angrier. Or, it would be making me angrier if she hadn’t just shot me up with whatever medication she shot me up with.

I don’t like how it feels to be sedated. I know I’m angry, but I can’t quite feel it, like there’s a barrier between me and my emotions.

Stephen lowers me onto the bed. The sheets wrinkle beneath me. The springs dig into my back. I want to roll over but I can’t. Lightfoot stands over me.

“I’ve suspected this for some time,” she begins gently. “Hannah, I know this is hard to hear, but I believe Jonah was a hallucination.”

How can she have suspected this for some time? She didn’t even know about Jonah until yesterday.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

My mouth feels sticky. I can’t speak. Lightfoot reaches out and brushes tears off my cheeks.

I’m not crying anymore. I’m not anything anymore.

“Your brain invented Jonah,” Lightfoot explains, as though I might not know the definition of the word hallucination. She sits on the edge of the bed. I feel her hip against my arm, limp at my side.

If my muscles didn’t feel like soup, I’d shake my head. If my brain were going to invent a boy, why would it invent Jonah, a boy I had to share? A boy who picked someone else.

Not that my brain would invent anyone. I mean, I’m not naive—I know some people have diseases and imbalances that make their brains do that. People who hear voices and see things that aren’t there. But I’m not one of those people.

“I’d like to try putting you on a course of antipsychotics.”

Antipsychotic sounds like antibiotic. Like Jonah is a virus we need to eliminate.

Psychotic. How is it that I never realized the word psycho must have originated with psychotic? I imagine someone in a place like this a couple hundred years ago—an orderly or a nurse—randomly abbreviating the word to refer to one of her patients. I bet she had no idea it would catch on the way it did.

Antipsychotic. Anti means one that is opposed. I studied word origins for the SATs.

Lightfoot wants to use pills to oppose the psycho.

“I’d like you to take the medication willingly,” Lightfoot continues, “so I’ll give you some time to think about it.”

The words she doesn’t say are clear: It doesn’t matter what I decide. She’ll force me to take the medication if she has to. I’m under eighteen; if my parents consent, I’m taking it. And even if they don’t consent, Lightfoot could probably get the judge to agree to it. I think of the girls in the cafeteria, the ones who take their medication obediently, and the ones who kick and scream. Which will I be?

“I’ll come back to check on you later.” The bed squeaks as Lightfoot stands. She nods at Stephen. I can’t turn my neck, but I imagine he’s holding the door open for her. (Such a gentleman, the man who practically assaulted me moments ago.) I hear the magnetic click as the door locks behind them, leaving me alone in this tiny room.