Intertwined

CHAPTER 17

From the case journal of Dr. Morris Gray

January 23

SUBJECT A. What can I say about him? First time I saw him, I was reminded of my daughter. Not in appearance, of course, they look nothing alike. Not in demeanor, either. Where my daughter is wild and carefree, laughter so easy for her, A is quiet and shy, afraid to look people in the eyes. I have never seen him smile. My daughter is happiest when surrounded by people. A is happiest in the shadows, alone, unnoticed. But I can see the longing in his gaze. He wants to be part of the crowd. He wants to be accepted. That he isn’t breaks my heart. And that is where the two are most similar. The love I feel for them, in one case understandable, in the other…not.

Love is exactly what A needs, though. No one has loved him since his parents gave him up, while my daughter has been coddled her entire life. That is why she smiles and he does not. And yet, despite their different pasts and opposing natures, they both possess a bone-deep vulnerability that radiates from them. Something that strikes the heart, like claws digging in and refusing to let go. Something that imprints them in your mind so that you can never forget them.

I’ve noticed the way some of the other patients look at A. They, too, feel those claws. They, too, are drawn to the young boy without knowing why.

Funny, though, that the only patients concerned with him are those who are here because they see things that aren’t there, talk to people who aren’t there and think they are spawned from hell itself.

During therapy sessions, I’ve asked a few of them why they watch A so intently. The answers were the same: he draws me.

That shocked me each time I heard it because I had felt drawn to this institution with the same intensity they were drawn to the boy. I’d driven past it and had been filled with a need to work here, even though I’d already had a job. A well-paying job at a private practice I’d had no intention of leaving. I could have risen up the ladder and eventually become a partner. But none of that had mattered after I drove past Kingsgate Psychiatric Hospital.

I’d wanted to—had to—go inside. I’d wanted to be there, to stay there forever. What surprised me most about my determination was that my daughter, also in the car, had cried when we passed it. She’d been perfectly happy there in the backseat of my sedan, applying her favorite flavored ChapStick, when she’d suddenly burst into tears. I asked her what was wrong, but she’d just rubbed her chest as if it hurt, unable to explain.

I never took her back, but I myself went. The feeling of belonging, of needing to be there had increased. And when I saw A for the first time, I’d been filled with the urge to hug him. To welcome a beloved family member home. Was I going crazy?

February 17

Subject A was beaten up today. The patient responsible claimed he’d only wanted the urge to be near A to disappear, that he couldn’t live with the invisible tether that bound him to the boy anymore.

I was finally able to give A a hug. He won’t remember it, of course, because he was unconscious and drugged with sedatives, and that’s best for both of us. I can’t really give him what he wants, a place to belong. Still, I hadn’t wanted to let go. Tears had even filled my eyes.

Again, I have to wonder what’s wrong with me.

February 18

Subject A is recovering nicely. I spoke with him briefly, but the pain medications made him groggy and hard to understand. At one point I think he called me Julian, but I can’t be sure.

There has to be a way to help him. There has to be something I can do. He’s a good kid with a kind heart. Another patient had visited with him and had eyeballed his Jell-O. Without any hesitation, A offered up the Jell-O, though it was the only thing he could eat and he wouldn’t be given another. Well, shouldn’t have been given another. I brought him two an hour later.

February 21

My first true session with Subject A. He’s been diagnosed with schizophrenia by several doctors and frankly, though it’s highly uncommon in children under sixteen, I understand why. He has a tendency to retreat inside his head during conversation, mumbling to people who aren’t there.

Do I believe that myself? I’m not sure. And it’s not just because the illness is rare in children. To be honest, my doubt upsets me. Only one other time have I felt it, and that ended in a disaster I have yet to overcome. Grief still eats at me, in fact. But that’s a story for another journal.

Before the meeting with A, I perused his file and found something interesting. Since his admittance three months ago, he has escaped a locked room twice—just disappeared from it, leaving no trace of how he managed the feat. In both instances, he reappeared in rooms he shouldn’t have been able to access. Everyone thinks he has simply learned how to pick locks and he himself probably thinks it’s a fun, harmless game. But I’m upset by it. I’ve dealt with that before. Not with him, but with someone I love.

I guess I’m not going to wait for another journal entry to veer in this direction after all. My daughter’s mother used to do the same thing. Before her pregnancy, that is. She would walk into a room one moment, headed in my direction, and then simply vanish before my eyes. I would search the house but find no sign of her. This happened six times. Six hellish times. Usually she would reappear a few minutes later. Once, though, two days passed before she returned.

Each time I asked her where she had gone, how she had gone. Each time, she gave me the same sobbing answer: into a past version of herself. Time travel. I knew it wasn’t possible, but she insisted that it was. When I asked for proof, she could give me none.

She is the reason I entered into this field. I’d wanted to understand her, to help her. Oh, did I love her. Still do. I can’t hide that, though I should. Too bad I failed her. The only time she claimed to feel normal was the nine months she carried my precious baby girl. And after that, well, I wasn’t given a chance to help.

Mary Ann’s hand was trembling as she flipped to the next page of her father’s journal. She and Riley had pilfered it from the study while her dad slept, head resting on the keyboard nearby. He’d fallen asleep going over his notes about Aden, or rather “Subject A,” so they’d had to pry them out from under his head. That he’d kept them here, and so easily transportable, was shocking, but it proved how much they meant to him—and perhaps how often he read them.

She’d been poring over them ever since, nausea churning faster and faster in her stomach. At first, the term Subject A had bothered her, but then she’d realized that had been her father’s way of retaining Aden’s privacy, even in his personal journals. But she knew it was Aden, and the things he’d endured…the grief her dad felt for some mysterious doubt about the young boy’s “illness…the way her dad had written of her mother as if she were already dead at that time, only speaking of her in past tense all left Mary Ann reeling.

At the time he’d written these journals, her mother had been alive and well and caring for Mary Ann at home. And why couldn’t he let others know that he loved her, his own wife? Wasn’t that something husbands and wives were supposed to be proud of?

Trembling, Mary Ann read on….

March 1

My second session with Subject A.

A fight had erupted the day before, all of the patients in a frenzy. Seems A told one of the patients he was going to die that day with a fork to the throat. That patient became angered and attacked A. The patients around them jumped into the fray. The hospital staff rushed to the group and began pulling them apart, injecting them with sedatives. But at the bottom of the pile, they found the patient A had predicted would die. He’d had a fork buried deep into his throat, blood pooling around him.

A hadn’t done it, that much we know. He’d managed to work himself out of the flailing throng and press himself against the wall, forked himself, in the side. Plus, another patient still had his hand wrapped around the utensil, shoving the metal prongs deeper. Had the patient committed murder because of what Aden had said? How had A known the guy had hidden a fork in his sleeve, though? Had he seen it and hoped the guy would use it the way he described? A self-fulfilling prophecy?

When I asked A these questions, he gave me no answers. Poor kid. He probably thought he’d get in trouble. Or maybe it was guilt. Or pain. I have to reach him, have to gain his trust.

March 4

After my prior encounter with Subject A, I was still a little shaken. Maybe I should have waited to see him again. Maybe then this third session wouldn’t have proven to be our last.

A was different today. There was something about him…his eyes had been too old for his age, filled with knowledge no eleven-year-old should have. I had trouble looking at him.

At first, everything progressed as I’d hoped. He’d begun to answer my questions, not evading as usual, but finally allowing me a peek inside his mind and why he does the things that he does. Why he says the things that he says. What he really thinks is going on in his head. His answer—four human souls are trapped inside him.

I dismissed the claim as his way of coping with what was happening to him. Until he mentioned Eve. That intrigued me. Eve was a person who can supposedly time travel. Just as my wife claimed to be able to do.

Everything A said meshed with her accounting. They didn’t simply venture to the past, but into their own lives. They changed things. They knew things. Add in their similar disappearances and the fact that A’s eyes had flashed to a hazel-brown when they were usually black…for a moment it was as though I was talking to Mary Ann’s mother.

The sensation disturbed me, I admit it, disturbed me so much I went a little crazy myself. I even threw A out of my office. The only way he could have known about my wife was by raiding my office, unlocking my file cases and reading my private journals.

Either that, or he was telling the truth.

Part of me, the part that had always longed to prove my wife had not been mentally ill, had wanted to believe him. But how could I believe A when I hadn’t believed her? I had hurt her, each and every time she’d tried to explain her experiences to me. I had destroyed her confidence, made her think she was crazy. To believe A, a relative stranger, was to admit she’d been right and I’d hurt her for no reason.

How could I live with the guilt of hurting the woman I loved? I couldn’t, and I knew it. So I kicked A out and left the institution. I even quit my job. I mean, the kid mentioned my daughter. Had spoken of her with utter confidence—had spoken of things he couldn’t possibly know. Or shouldn’t know. I’ve never been so stunned and upset in my life.

To believe he’s right…I can’t. I just can’t. And even if the things he told me come true…I can’t.

May 8

It’s like my wife has died all over again. I can’t get A out of my head. I find myself thinking about him, wondering how he is, what he’s doing, who is treating him. But I won’t allow myself to pick up the phone and check on him. I’m not objective about that boy. I couldn’t help the love of my life, so I certainly can’t help him. A clean break is best. Isn’t it? I used to think so. Now, two powerful words haunt me.

What if…

My current wife sees my preoccupation and believes I’m thinking of another woman. One I love more than her. I try to tell her that isn’t true, but we both know it is. I have never loved her the way I should. I’ve always loved another.

I never should have gone to that institution. I never should have taken on A’s case.

So many questions, Mary Ann thought, dazed. And so many things no longer made sense. This time her dad had spoken of both a wife and a “current” wife. One was a mentally ill woman who had given birth to her. The other was perfectly sane and had raised her. They were one and the same, though, so two wives shouldn’t have been possible. Unless…

Had the woman who raised her not been her birth mother? Again, that didn’t make sense. Mary Ann looked like her mother. They shared the same blood type. There was no doubt they were related.

And there was no doubt her mother had loved her more than anything in the world, as a real mother would. The woman had nursed her when sick, held her when she’d cried. Had sung and danced with her when she was happy. They’d had tea parties together and raced Barbie Corvettes. If Mary Ann knew nothing else, she knew she’d been loved.

Was it possible her dad had married two different women who’d looked just alike? The first had given birth to her, and the second had raised her? It was a possibility, she supposed, if far-fetched. But if so, why had he never told her?

Though she didn’t want to, she gave the journal to Riley. He stared at the bound leather for a long while before focusing on her. He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Soft, sweet, offering comfort.

Tears burned her eyes. “Take it back to the office, please. I don’t want him to know I took it.”

Riley nodded and left, his gaze staying on her until he disappeared around the corner. He didn’t return to her bedroom. The sun was already rising, and he had to get back. She knew that, but she missed him anyway. He’d held her while she’d read, offering what reassurance he could.

She couldn’t go to school today. She was too raw inside. She needed solitude. That’s not the only reason. Being away from her dad, away from Aden, even away from Riley, would give her the time she needed to think. Again, you’re evading. This mystery surrounding her mother disturbed her. She needed time to process it. Liar.

She wiped a budding tear from the corner of her eye. Fine. She needed Riley. Wanted his arms around her again. Wanted to talk to him, present her questions and hear his thoughts. Why had he gone? Where had he gone? To collect Victoria and escort her to school? Wasn’t he supposed to protect Mary Ann now? To protect her, he needed to be with her.

At the very least, he should have said goodbye.

God, when had she become so needy?

That doesn’t matter right now. Only one thing did, and that was Aden. He’d been right, she thought. Her dad really had thrown him out of his office. Because he’d loved her mom—her real mom? A woman who had been a little bit crazy? — and Aden had awakened memories of her that had sent him into a tailspin of uncertainty?

Pot and pans began banging downstairs and she knew her dad was up. She rose from bed, showered and dressed as if she planned to go to school. In the kitchen, her dad had breakfast prepared and waiting on the table. Scrambled eggs and toast. He was in his usual chair, hidden behind a paper. The thing that proved how upset he was was the colorlessness of his knuckles as he clutched the sports section.

There was nothing she could say to soothe him—not without admitting what she knew. And if she began talking to him, she knew she would ask questions he wasn’t yet ready to answer. Questions with answers she would be better off finding on her own. He was hiding something from her, and she didn’t want him to have the chance to lie to her.

It was odd, knowing her dad had secrets. Odd, disappointing and yeah, upsetting. He’d promised to be open and honest with her always. You promised the same, she thought, but look at her now. Lying about study groups, sneaking around, reading patient files. Guilt was suddenly swallowing her up.

“I don’t want you hanging out with that boy, Mary Ann.”

The out-of-the-blue statement surprised her; the sternness of his voice jolted her into speechlessness.

“Aden Stone is dangerous.” He set the paper down and stared over at her, his eyes devoid of emotion. “I don’t know what he’s doing in Crossroads or how you met him, but I do know he’s no one you should trust. Are you listening to me?”

Nothing in the journal, upsetting as the entries had been to her, had explained such an intense reaction. She cleared her throat. “Yes.” She was. But that didn’t mean she’d obey. Aden was a part of her life she would not give up. Ever.

“If I have to, I’ll call the school and—”

She slapped her palms against the table. “Don’t you dare! You would get him in trouble and they would pull him from class, then shove him back into a mental institution. A place he doesn’t belong and you know it! Tell me you won’t do that to him. Tell me you aren’t that cruel.”

She’d never spoken to him like that, and he blinked over at her in astonishment.

“Tell me!” Once more she slammed her hands against the table, rattling the dishes.

“I won’t,” he said softly, “but I need you to tell me you won’t hang out with him anymore.”

“Why?”

He pressed his lips together, refusing to answer.

The doorbell rang.

Her dad frowned. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.” She unfolded from her chair and strode to the front door, happy for the reprieve. When she opened it and saw the visitor, her heartbeat picked up speed. Riley. He looked as rugged and ruthless as always, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, his dark hair unkempt from the wind.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to ensure that they were alone. They weren’t.

“Yes, what are you doing here?” her dad asked rudely from behind her. “And who are you?”

Unperturbed, Riley inclined his head in greeting. “Hello, Dr. Gray. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Dad, this is Riley.” Keeping the elation out of her voice was a struggle. “He’s new to my school. I’ve been showing him around and stuff.”

“Does he—”

“No,” she interjected, knowing he meant to ask if Riley hung with Aden. “He doesn’t.” He hangs with me.

“So I ask again, what are you doing here?”

“Dad!”

“It’s fine, Mary Ann.” To her dad, Riley said, “I’m here to pick up your daughter for school.”

“She likes to walk.”

“Not today. I’ll be right back. Behave,” she said to her dad. She raced into her bedroom, grabbed her backpack and soared back down the stairs. Her dad and Riley were watching each other silently.

She kissed her dad’s check, noticed that he appeared older than he ever had before, with lines of tension branching from his eyes. “Bye. Love you.”

“I love you, too.” He didn’t say anything else, didn’t try to stop her. She was glad. She didn’t know how she would have reacted or what she would have said. She needed Riley right now. Her dad had answers, but Riley had those comforting arms. Inside his shiny red sports car, she buckled.

When they rounded the street corner and were out of sight, he twined their fingers together. Her world suddenly felt right again.

“Where’d you go?” she asked.

“Had to see to Victoria, shower and change.”

“Oh.”

“I hated to leave, though.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Goose bumps broke out over her skin. A little bit down the road, the trees thinning, she realized he wasn’t leading her toward the school. She frowned. “Where are we going?”

He flicked her a grim smile. “You need to learn how to survive in this new world you’ve found yourself in. You also need a distraction.”

“What does that mean? About surviving.”

“You’ll see.”