The Gateway Trilogy: Complete Series: (Books 1-3) Read online

  So it was in the file; he just wanted to see if I'd squirm. I looked him square in the eye.

  “Would it bother you? To be conceived in a bathroom at The Roxy while a hair-metal band played?”

  He didn't blink.

  “Yes,” he said, “it would bother me very much. Although, I'm sure you know it was due to your mother's mania that she participated in such risky behavior.”

  I did know that, but knowing didn't change anything. I would never meet my father because my mother hadn't gotten his name.

  Dr. Shaw folded his arms upon his desk. “There's no denying you've been dealt a difficult hand, Ember. I won't try to convince you otherwise. But I see that things have taken quite a turn for you this past year: lowered grades, repeated truancy, an inability to make friends. Can you tell me about that?”

  “Nothing that isn't in the file,” I said.

  I couldn't deny the charges; they were all true. Except that part about not being able to make friends. I was able, just no longer willing.

  “And this?”

  Dr. Shaw held up a sheet of college-ruled paper, frayed where it had been ripped from my notebook. There, in ballpoint ink, was the drawing that had put me on the radar of the school administration. It was crude; the spiraling black lines pressed deep into the paper, causing it to tear in the center.

  “It’s just a doodle,” I said.

  “Were you angry when you did it?”

  And therein lay the problem. I hadn’t been angry—I’d felt fine. As fine as I ever did, anyway. What most people found disturbing, I found comforting, even beautiful. When I’d started, I’d been drawing the inner rings of a tree, which is what I’d said when my teacher had caught me drawing in class. But as often happened, the piece had taken on a life of its own, morphing into something darker and apparently more sinister looking. She had held the paper up for the other students as a type of Rorschach test, people calling out what they saw in it.

  “I don’t know what it is, but it’s creepy,” a girl in the back had called.

  “It’s like a tornado. If they had tornadoes in hell,” another had said.

  “I’ll tell you what I see—a lot of therapy in her future.” That had been Todd McKey. We’d kissed once, back when I still went to parties.

  The entire class had broken into laughter. My drawing had been confiscated and I’d spent the rest of the period staring at a spot on my desk, willing myself not to run from the room.

  After class that day, Clare Humphries, cheerleader and all around high school superstar, had broken away from her group of friends to talk to me at my locker.

  “Hey,” she’d said, “don’t listen to those jerks. I thought it was pretty.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I’d replied, suspicious.

  Clare Humphries had never spoken to me before in my life.

  “No, I mean it, I could totally see your work in a gallery.”

  I’d let myself smile. “Oh, well that’s nice of you—”

  “Right next to paintings by Charles Manson,” she’d said in a singsong voice, then turned back to join her snickering cohorts.

  I’d spun to face my locker, tears stinging my eyes.

  The next day, I’d been called in to meet with the school guidance counselor and Clare Humphries got elected to prom court.

  “Well,” Dr. Shaw said, snapping me back to the present, “this file may tell me what you've been up to, but it doesn't tell me why, and that is what we'll be delving into during your sessions with me.”

  I decided to cut to the chase. “How long do I have to be here?”

  “I can tell you aren't going to like this answer,” he replied, gazing at me over steepled fingertips. “But that will be entirely up to you.”

  He was right. I didn't like it one bit.

  3

  I remained with Dr. Shaw only a short while longer. He could tell he wasn't going to get much from me, and Jo had mentioned his full calendar. When I left, there was a boy about fifteen with cropped black hair occupying the seat I had recently vacated in the waiting room.

  “There's an orderly waiting outside to take you back to your wing,” Karen said as I made my way to the door.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “Josh, Dr. Shaw is ready for you now.”

  “About time,” the dark haired boy muttered as I shut the door behind me.

  As promised, the orderly accompanied me back to the nurses' station, and thankfully, he did it in silence. Jo was drinking coffee when I returned.

  “I see you got the rules,” she said, nodding toward the rolled up papers in my hand.

  “Yeah. No fighting, trading meds, hooking up… That's all I remember for now.”

  “Those are the big ones,” she replied, “but make sure you follow all of them and you and I won't have a problem.”

  “Got it,” I said, then looked around awkwardly. What was I supposed to do now?

  “Your roommate is back from class,” Jo said, coming out from behind the station. “I'll introduce you.”

  I followed behind, and when we reached my new home away from home, Jo opened the door to reveal a petite blonde sitting cross-legged on the bed. She looked up from her beauty magazine and gave me a perfectly dimpled smile. What was her problem? The world loved girls like her.

  Eating disorder.

  Of course.

  “Lauren, this is Ember. Play nice,” Jo said, giving Lauren a warning look before she exited.

  “Don't listen to her, I'm harmless.” Her smile twinkled, but her tone left room for doubt. “What do you think of our room?”

  I looked around and shrugged. “Um, it’s fine, I guess. Hopefully I’m not here long enough to get too settled.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Aren't you here on a suicide?”

  “So they tell me.”

  She made a sound I couldn't distinguish, somewhere between sympathy and mocking.

  “Come on,” she said standing. “I’ll show you around.”

  I had no choice but to be rude or follow. It didn’t make sense ticking off my new roommate, so I trailed after her. Plus, getting the lay of the land couldn't hurt. Just past the nurses' station was a set of double doors propped open with chairs.

  “This is the rec room. Group meets here on Monday,” she said, “and you’ll have a one-on-one with Dr. Shaw once or twice a week.”

  “Depending on how screwed up I am?” I asked.

  “Basically. Your first real session with him takes like two hours, and after that he’ll decide how 'screwed up' you are and give you a schedule. Don't get your hopes up—on a suicide you're pretty much guaranteed two.”

  In the corner, a small group of patients huddled around a nineteen-inch television set from the ‘90s.

  “Strictly basic cable,” Lauren said, rolling her eyes.

  Another corner housed art supplies, which was the only bit of good news about the place so far. A middle-aged woman sat alone, doing a small watercolor of the trees outside.

  “Can we use these anytime?” I asked.

  “Except when the room is being used for something else. And you can't take anything from here into your room.”

  We'd see about that.

  Before I’d completed my mental inventory, Lauren was already leading me down another hall.

  “This is the dining area. Breakfast is at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. The food sucks. If it weren’t for the vending machine I’d have to become anorexic.”

  My mouth twitched into a smile. Bulimic. The Voice had been right. It was always right. So how had I ended up here?

  She stopped short and fixed me with an intense gaze. “The peanut butter cups are mine.”

  My smile broadened, but then I realized she was serious. “Um, OK…sure. You got it.”

  She let out a breath I hadn’t realized she was holding. “Good. My last roommate just could not keep that straight. It was a real problem.”

  On the surface she was everything I hated, but I kind o
f liked her for her honesty. It was refreshing. How often in life does someone just lay out what they need from you, no BS attached? I knew I wouldn’t be baring my secrets so easily, the least I could do was oblige her.

  We came to a window at the end of the hall. From the looks of it, I guessed we were on the third floor. Lauren pointed to a small building across the lawn.

  “That’s where we go to class,” she said.

  “Yeah, Shaw told me about that. We’re in a nuthouse but we have to go to school? That is such crap.”

  As if either weren't bad enough on their own.

  “It’s not so bad,” she said. “We take our time walking there—it’s nice to get outside—and everybody is in a different grade so half the time you’re just doing your own thing. And Mr. Morehouse is OK, as long as you don’t get on his bad side.”

  There wasn’t much else to show, so Lauren went to watch TV. I felt anything but social, so I shuffled back to our room and laid down. I wanted to read, but for all the bath products in different scents my mother had packed, she had, of course, neglected to pack a single book. Who needs mind expansion when you can smell nice?

  Again, the thought of my mother brought up feelings of guilt at what I’d done.

  Like she consults you on major life decisions…

  It had a point. Three different high schools in three years. We moved whenever she had the whim, or whenever our neighbors complained too much. All in L.A., but still, back when I had friends, it had been nearly impossible to keep in touch once we'd left one zip code for another. In a city with traffic as bad as Los Angeles, five miles became a long-distance relationship.

  Still, I wondered how she was, what she was doing. She'd been off her meds for over a month now, which is why there had been such a healthy supply for me to utilize. I imagined her pacing the floor of our apartment, chewing on her fingernails and muttering to herself, alternately worrying about me being under the care of doctors, and what might happen if I weren't under their care. My mother distrusted doctors. For a while that had worked to my advantage, helping me avoid having to see a shrink, but after my second suspension, the school had insisted.

  Neither of us were prepared for me to be home-schooled, so she had relented six months ago and I'd begun seeing Dr. Borden, PhD, in Van Nuys. I hated everything about it. The bus ride was needlessly complicated, the office was cramped, and Dr. Borden was a self-important woman with yellow hair and fake breasts that protruded from a neckline too plunging for her age. It didn't take long for me to realize that the only way to get through those sessions was to parrot back the psycho-babble she was spewing and act grateful for her insight.

  Mom had been so relieved when Dr. Borden informed the school that I had made real progress and now had the tools to cope with the everyday pressures of being a teenager. In reality, Dr. Borden was clueless to the facts of what my days were filled with.

  Since waking up that afternoon I'd been on auto-pilot, numbly obliging to being led through the day, but as usual, being left to my own thoughts was an exercise in torture.

  Only you could screw up a suicide. You're as crazy as your mother; they should just leave you here. How do I get out of here?

  That was the most prominent question, and I waited for the Voice to answer, but It didn't. I was never able to summon It at will. It just popped in when It felt like it, giving me morsels of information. Still, I was grateful for It. For months It had been my only friend, if It could be called that. And if It was just a figment of my imagination and I truly was insane, then at least I wasn't completely alone.

  Time passed, and I was no closer to figuring anything out. I found myself staring blankly out the small window near my bed, doing my best to block out the incessant chatter in my mind.

  When six o’clock rolled around, Lauren popped her head in.

  “Dinner time.”

  We walked down the hall with the rest of the inmates. Lauren gave me a sidelong glance, her nose wrinkling.

  “So, um, if you don’t have any bath products you’re welcome to use mine…”

  I barked a laugh. “Subtle.”

  She shrugged, unembarrassed.

  “I guess it has been a few days,” I said, “even if I don’t remember them. I’ll wash up after dinner.”

  Lauren chattered on as we walked through the dinner line. We both turned our nose up at the Salisbury steak and opted for the limited salad bar. I went to reach for a dinner roll, but Lauren gave me a slight shake of the head.

  “Those are hard as bricks by now. Only go for those on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

  I trusted her at her word. We got to the end of the line and she pulled a container of pudding from the stack on the counter. She tossed one to me without warning. Even in my surprised effort to catch it, I noticed her shove two more in her knapsack. Then she added one to her tray. It was a deft maneuver, not her first time.

  “You’ll never get better if you aren’t self-aware about your destructive behavior, Lauren,” Josh said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He’d apparently muscled his way to the front of the line.

  Lauren very pointedly ignored him.

  Undeterred, he went on in a low voice, “Give me one of the extras or I’m telling.” His eyes shone with a cruelty that made me think he’d rather rat her out then get the extra dessert.

  There was a brief standoff while the air around us buzzed with an intensity I wouldn’t normally attribute to pudding. Lauren cracked first.

  “Fine. Here.” Her hand slid from inside her purse, depositing the contraband into Josh’s jacket pocket.

  As we turned away I heard him mutter, “Friggin’ tapioca. Great.”

  Lauren winked at me. Served him right.

  We exited the line and I surveyed the room. Most of the tables were already occupied with people dining. For a moment I wondered what had brought all of these people to be patients here. Did they all feel the way I did? That their lives were a mistake? Some major cosmic screw-up that had deposited them in a world where they were never understood, and rarely—if ever—happy?

  “Ooh, Taren's table has seats.” Lauren zigzagged her way to a table near the back of the room.

  The young girl I had seen exiting Dr. Shaw's office sat with her head down, pushing food around on her plate. Next to her sat a tall boy with honey-colored hair and angular features. At our approach he looked up, revealing a set of disarming hazel eyes. Callie looked up, too, startled.

  “Hi, Taren.” Lauren beamed at him, saying hello to Callie only as an afterthought.

  He gave Lauren the briefest of nods and turned back to Callie, who still seemed to be holding her breath.

  “This is my new roommate, Ember. She tried to kill herself.”

  Lauren’s tone was matter-of-fact; my eyes bulged.

  Taren looked up again, registering my presence. “Well, that's an introduction you'd only get in a place like this, isn't it?”

  You can trust him.

  I nearly dropped my tray. Of all the things the Voice had ever said to me, this was the first time It had told me to trust someone. What?

  He's one of the good ones.

  I was standing stock still with my mouth hanging open. Taren cleared his throat and I realized he had stood and was holding out his hand for me to shake. I gave an embarrassed smile and held out my hand.

  “Sorry, I…um…”

  “It's OK. Lauren is still learning tact.”

  I nodded gratefully, but Lauren bristled and said, “Well, it's true…”

  We took our seats. I grasped for meaning to the words that had bloomed in my mind. It was always like that. Little hints about things that always proved true. But in the past, I’d been warned away from people. This girl is spreading rumors about you, that boy just wants to use you. I couldn't make contact at will. It just whispered things when It wanted to, and I vacillated between the certainty that I was losing my mind, and gratitude that I was being given insight from some sort of all-knowing being.

  �
��Have you met Callie?” Taren asked, gesturing to her.

  “Not officially,” I said, then addressed Callie directly. “But I saw you coming out of Dr. Shaw's office. Nice to meet you.”

  I did my best to sound pleasant, but when Callie lifted her eyes, she looked only marginally less frightened than when I’d first seen her. What had been done to this poor girl?

  “Hi,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  She lowered her gaze and hunched forward as she rubbed her forehead with the fingertips of one hand. Her entire presence held an air of fragility.

  I bent my head toward my plate, but peered through my bangs to study Taren, who in turn was watching Callie. So, he was one of the good guys. I had no idea what to make of it, and felt the need to explore the idea. But before I could come up with anything to say, Callie began muttering to herself. I didn’t understand the words, but she was clearly agitated.

  “You OK, Cal?” Taren spoke with concern and put a hand on her shoulder.

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Here we go again.”

  Taren looked up sharply and fixed Lauren with a glare, but instead of replying, he turned his attention back to Callie and began speaking softly to her. I couldn't make out what either was saying, but he was clearly trying to soothe her.

  “What? It's not my fault that we can't get through one meal without an incident. Look at her, she's totally faking it.”

  “She's not faking anything,” Taren said, breaking away from comforting Callie to admonish Lauren. “Not everyone needs to be the center of attention all the time.”

  Lauren flushed scarlet and clenched her jaw. Taren stood.

  “Come on, Cal, let's get you back to your room so you can rest.” He helped Callie stand and led her out of the dining hall.

  Lauren resumed eating as if nothing troubling had occurred. “That girl belongs upstairs,” she said between bites.

  “Upstairs?”

  “With the really crazy ones. You know—perverts, schizophrenics, the occasional ax murderer. People who don't even get the plastic knives.” Lauren held up her own knife for emphasis.

  “Lovely,” I replied, pushing my tray away. The wilted lettuce and anemic tomatoes weren't enough to rekindle my appetite. I felt sympathy for Callie. Twice I'd seen her, and twice she’d seemed like she was really losing it.