A Danger to Herself and Others(74)

I should’ve asked what different treatments.

Electroshock therapy? (Supposedly humane now, but who do they think they’re kidding?)

A lobotomy? (Do they still do that? Anything is possible.)

More padded walls? More sedation and more restraints? More seven-by-eight-foot rooms? More vacations for my parents?

“For your headache,” Mom says loudly, as I reach up and take the water and medicine from her hand.

Mom settles herself back in her seat, and I stare at the chalky pill in my palm.

I never had a panic attack before I started taking these pills.

There was no reason to panic because I never questioned who was right or what was real.

I wipe my tears with my left hand, even though bending my elbow makes it ache. I never tried to hurt myself before I took these pills. What is that, if not proof positive that they’re bad for me?

Maybe I should skip this dose. Just to be safe.

The doctor my parents have lined up in New York is an expert, top of his field. He won’t be anything like Dr. Charan. After all, when I first met her, I guessed that she worked at the institute only because she was too incompetent to find a job anyplace else, and now I’m sure I was right: Why else would someone take a job at place like that? (Her name even sounds like charlatan.) Mom’s hoping for a more promising diagnosis, but I bet that this new doctor will realize I’m not sick at all. He’ll call Dr. Charan’s methods inhumane. She kept me locked in a room, and even if she claimed it was for my own safety, a good doctor like my new doctor (best in the business, like Mom said) would never do such a thing.

Then, again, I can’t be sure Dr. Charan actually kept me in isolation like I remember. If I really was in the throes of a psychotic episode at the time, then my memory of those weeks isn’t exactly reliable. Maybe I spent my afternoons weaving baskets in art therapy, maybe I took group showers, maybe I ate in the cafeteria as often as not.

When I complained about being stuck in the room, Dr. Charan had said, I’m sorry you feel that our interactions are so limited. At the time, I hated the way she made it sound like we might be having additional interactions I didn’t know about.

But now I wonder—were we?

In the car on the way to the airport, Mom said I was hardly kept in solitary. How does she know? Was she getting weekly reports about my performance in group therapy, my interactions with other patients?

Then there’s the fact that I hadn’t yet stepped foot inside the institute when I heard Lucy’s voice tell me to push Agnes.

And six weeks before that, my brain invented Jonah.

I shake my head. If I’m not sick, there’s got to be an explanation for those symptoms, too. It’s easy to assume that Dr. Charan lied to cover up her shoddy medical work. But why did my brain invent Jonah and Lucy? I close my eyes and concentrate until I’m certain I know exactly why: I was bored. The summer school classes were too easy. I got A’s without so much as cracking a book. I was like the girl in the Roald Dahl book I read when I was eight: Without enough stimulation, Matilda had magical powers. Once her brain was properly occupied, the magic disappeared.

That must have been what happened to me! The world wasn’t complicated enough, so my brain invented Jonah because I needed a challenge. Otherwise, why not make a perfect boyfriend instead of a cheating boyfriend?

And then when I was bored to tears in that place, my brain gave me Lucy. (Mom’s voice: For all we know, that place exacerbated her hallucinations.) The medication Lightfoot prescribed dulled my brain enough to make Lucy disappear, but I don’t really need it because I’m not really sick.

When I get home, I’ll have to be careful to keep myself occupied. I’ll take more classes—AP classes. No, college-level classes. I’m already signed up for that Russian literature lecture at NYU, but now I’ll add another class or two to my schedule. It’ll look great on my applications, and my brain will be too busy to make mischief. I’m not sick, I’m just smart. My brain isn’t broken; it’s actually so advanced it invented puzzles to keep itself busy. And people like Dr. Charan don’t understand that because they’re not intelligent enough.

My new doctor—expert, top of his field, best in the business—will un-diagnose me. He’ll say that clearly, Dr. Charan made a mistake. You know, crazy California doctors and all that.

My parents will be happy. They won’t be embarrassed by me, and they won’t be scared of me. We’ll go back to the way our lives used to be.

I take a deep breath. The lump in my throat shrinks and then vanishes completely.

When I get back to school, I’ll make a new best friend. I already know whom I’m going to choose: April Lu, Rebekah’s former best friend. We were in the same physics class last year.

April could be pretty if she wore the right makeup, if someone helped her pick out her clothes, if someone urged her to cut her jet-black hair into a short and edgy style. She’ll be grateful for my guidance, just like Agnes was. Just like Rebekah was when I offered to help her get her first kiss. Just like Alex was when I laid our sleeping bags side by side.

I roll the pill across my right palm, then close my fist over it. Yesterday’s dose is probably already leaving my body. I imagine my metabolism hard at work to get rid of whatever remains. Eventually, the medication will come out in my sweat, in my urine, in my saliva. Maybe one skipped dose will be enough. Maybe by the time we land in New York, the medication will be completely out of my system. Maybe Lucy and Jonah will be waiting at the gate. No, not at the gate, security won’t let people greet you at the gate anymore. They’ll be waiting for me in baggage claim.