A Danger to Herself and Others(59)

They did? I guess my parents’ lawyer was more effective than I gave him credit for.

“And the evaluation showed that Hannah Gold is crazy!” Mr. Smith interjects.

The judge continues, “The evaluation revealed that she needs treatment. But her diagnosis doesn’t prove she’s at fault for what happened to your daughter.”

“There’s no excuse for what happened to my daughter.”

“That may be true, but there’s simply no evidence that Hannah coerced your daughter onto that window ledge or pushed her while she stood there.”

If we were in a courtroom, the judge might bang her gavel and order Mr. Smith to sit down. I wonder how many other cases she has to get through today, how many people she has to set free or imprison before she can go home tonight.

I wonder if Mr. Smith is as infuriated by the judge’s use of that may be true as I was when Lightfoot said it to me.

“I’ve made my decision,” the judge reiterates.

Agnes’s mother doesn’t say anything, but tears stream down her face. She reaches for her husband’s hand, and he sits back down. The lawyer leans over and whispers something—words of comfort, maybe, a promise to appeal, perhaps explaining the differences between civil and criminal cases—but they don’t react. Eventually, he stops talking and leans back in his chair.

I’m not supposed to say anything. It’s been made abundantly clear that my memory of what happened this summer doesn’t matter. It’s October second; summer is over. My parents’ lawyer says something about the paperwork that will need to be filed before I can be released from Lightfoot’s care.

No one asked me for my version of events.

If they asked, would I tell them about the voice I heard?

Just a little tap.

Would it matter if I told? Just because I heard a voice doesn’t mean I pushed her. Did I push her? I wish my brain could remember exactly what happened that night.

It wasn’t like the movies. Agnes didn’t sway gently before she lost her balance. Time didn’t magically slow down, giving me a few extra seconds to consider what to do next.

It happened fast. It wasn’t graceful. It didn’t look pretty.

If they asked, would I tell them that?

I remember the voice, and I remember reaching out. I don’t remember making contact with her skin, but if my brain could hallucinate touch, then surely it could hallucinate not touching too, right?

Lightfoot said it was unlikely I wanted to hurt Agnes.

Unlikely isn’t impossible.

This girl is dangerous.

Hannah Gold is crazy.

A danger to herself and others.

I know I’m not supposed to speak, but the words come out of my mouth all on their own: “I’m sorry about Agnes.”

Everyone in the room looks at me. If I weren’t so heavily medicated, I might think the involuntary apology was a symptom of my disease. So crazy I can’t stop myself from speaking when I’m supposed to keep quiet.

“I’m sorry about Agnes,” I repeat, a little louder. I look at Mrs. Smith and choose my words carefully. “She was a good friend. We used to stay up all night talking. I miss her.”

My parents’ lawyer puts his hand on my shoulder tentatively, as if he’s not sure what might set me off. “Hannah, there’s no need for you to say anything at this point.”

He speaks slowly, like he doesn’t think I can understand him. Like my diagnosis means I’m hard of hearing on top of everything else. Will people talk to me this way for the rest of my life? Like I’m a wild animal they don’t want to startle?

“But I am sorry.” I stand, shrugging off the attorney’s hand. He backs away from me. “I wish it hadn’t happened.”

“Hannah, what happened wasn’t your fault.” Lightfoot’s voice is clear as a bell, full of authority. I shake my head. It is my fault. It wasn’t just a terrible accident—or anyway, it wasn’t entirely an accident. I’m the one who wanted to play games that night. I’m the reason Agnes got up on that windowsill. Whether or not I pushed her, she fell because of me.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Please let me be sorry.”

Our brains make us who we are. Isn’t that exactly what Mr. Clark meant when he said a brain injury may affect countless aspects of a patient’s life? So then if we alter our brain—through drugs, alcohol, injury (Agnes), or antipsychotics (me)—are we less our true selves than we were before? Because that means I was myself this summer:

Myself when I hooked up with Jonah,

Myself when I befriended Agnes,

Myself when I heard the voice telling me to give her a little tap.

The person I am now is different. Strangers pity her, her parents can’t even look at her. The person I am now won her case, but I’ve never felt more defeated. Lightfoot thinks I want to hear that what happened isn’t my fault. She doesn’t understand that it’s my brain, my self, that she’s releasing from responsibility.

If I’m not responsible for my words and actions, then I’m nothing. No free will, no self.

Even toddlers are taught to say they’re sorry when they’ve done something wrong. Do the people in this room expect less of me than they would of a three-year-old?

Agnes’s mother finally speaks. “We don’t want your apologies.” She stands. “You have no right to miss our daughter. You have no right to say her name.”