‘Shh,’ Rob says, pulling me into a hug. He holds me for a long time, rocking me back and forth. ‘You would never hurt anyone.’
Wrong. I’ve hurt lots of people. But murder? ‘I don’t remember.’ My voice gets high and thin again.
‘It wasn’t you,’ he whispers, easing me back into bed. ‘You need to rest. You’ll have an explanation for all this after you rest. I know you will.’
He goes into my bathroom and comes back a moment later with another handful of pills and a glass full of water.
‘It’ll be OK. I promise,’ he whispers. ‘You inherited a condition, and you went off your medication, but it won’t happen again. You’ll be OK.’
I’m shaking my head at him. It won’t be OK. Nothing will ever be OK.
‘You’ll feel calmer after you take these,’ he says, pouring the medication into my hand. ‘Take them, Magda. It’ll be OK because you’re not a bad person,’ he says, too firmly, like a part of him is still not convinced.
‘Yes I am, Rob. I’m a very bad person.’
‘No, you’re not. You just need your medication. We’ll – get rid of the clothes.’ He frowns, looking down, as he realizes what he’s committing himself to. But he doesn’t back out. Instead he nods his head, his decision made. ‘We’ll never tell anyone about this,’ he says firmly.
I take the pills and lay back, my stomach swooping like I’m sliding down a steep slope. I’m so tired.
‘You should hate me,’ I say. ‘Why are you protecting me?’
Rob shakes his head, smiling sadly. ‘Oh, Magda. I’d do anything to protect you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.’
I never got used to everyone being afraid of me.
Probably because it didn’t make any sense. There were some seriously scary people in that hospital. There were the explosive kind who would lose their shit over anything, and the creepers who watched and waited and harboured filthy intentions. I was neither of those. Yet everyone at the hospital was terrified of me.
I never had anything against any of the other patients. I genuinely wanted to get better. Well, OK, to be honest I always knew I wasn’t like the other patients. I had a handle on things, and they didn’t. But even though I knew there was no way for me to technically get better because I wasn’t sick like them, I did want to change myself enough so that I felt better. That’s nearly the same thing.
When Dr Holt came back as group leader, I began to hope I might actually achieve that. She was the one doctor on that floor who was there for the patients and not for her career. She was still alive in that part of her heart that allowed her to connect with us as a human and not just as an authority figure who was going to ‘fix’ us.
So when she pulled me aside and told me that she was going to recommend that I be released immediately, I was confused. I’d wanted out, but that was before. That was when fumble-fingered morons were in charge of me. I wanted to learn from Dr Holt. I wanted to get better. She was going to heal me.
‘But . . . I have so much work to do on myself,’ I said, shifting uncertainly.
She nodded hastily. ‘And you’ll do it someplace else,’ she said, lips pinched, eyes reluctant to meet mine.
I remember laughing. The weak kind of laughter that people do when they’re trying to convince themselves that they’re not getting thrown away.
‘They’ll never let me out,’ I said. I was trying to bargain with her. Make her see sense. But I already knew that even if I stayed, I wouldn’t be working with her any more.
Dr Holt looked right at me.
‘You’re not staying here,’ she whispered. A look of anguish crossed her face. ‘In one year, three suicides have been directly connected to you. I’ve never even heard of that before. And Zlata is dead because of your revenge plot to bring down a doctor – which worked. What if someone else angers you? Letting you out is a crime, I know that, but I’m trying to save these kids,’ she said, gesturing to our group of neurotics, shuffling weakly towards the rec room and their second dose of synthetic stability. She shook her head, her eyes shut, fighting a battle inside herself. ‘Out there, you’ll at least be dealing with people who can get away from you. In here, these kids are sitting ducks. You’ll kill them all.’ Her eyes grew sad. ‘I can’t stop you. I know that. I’m not clever enough to beat you, so I’m letting you go. God help me, I’m letting you go.’
The next day, I was released with a plastic baggie chock-full of prescription drugs, a plane ticket to my grandparents’ house, and a clean bill of health.
And my journal, of course.
4 AUGUST. DAWNING
I wake in the middle of the night.
Hunger has given me the jolt of adrenaline I needed to pull myself out from under the weight of my chemical sleep. Suddenly lucid and full of energy, I feel that I’m not alone in my room. I sit up carefully and see Rob sleeping on a mattress at the end of my bed.
I regard him for a while, noticing small things, like the fact that he’s changed his clothes and brought a small leather travel bag with him. It’s Hermès. Bespoke. But there’s no designer name stamped gaudily on the outside announcing its exclusive pedigree. I only recognize it because of the strap and distinctive hardware around the top.
I stare at the bag while, from the corner of my eye, I watch Rob’s chest rise and fall with the oceanic sound of deep-sleep breathing. The drugs have brought me back to that impassive state that seems safer for everyone. In this detached way of being, I notice that the bag has captured my attention, but I don’t know why because I feel nothing about it.