My Soul to Lose (4 page)

neck was a tangle of blood-crusted scratches.

And suddenly I remembered pain at my neck. Wet,

sticky fingers.

My right hand shook as I held it up to the light.

Dark crust still clung to my cuticles. Blood. I’d done

this to myself, trying to make the screaming stop.

No wonder they thought I was crazy.

Maybe they were right.

***

The nurse had said I wasn’t allowed to close my door,

but I closed it while I showered, and again when I got

out of the bathroom, because she’d left it open after

one of the fifteen-minute checkups.

Rachel Vincent / 27

Were they afraid I was going to kill myself? If so,

it’d have to be a pretty creative suicide. The only

things not nailed to the floor or the wall were the towel

on a shelf over the toilet and the tiny bar of hand soap

on the sink. In the end, my pride won out over vanity

and I washed both my body and hair with hand soap,

rather than go begging for basic hygiene supplies from

people I’d never met.

After my shower, I found a clean set of purple

scrubs folded on the bed, but I’d have to go without

underwear until someone brought me some clean

clothes. Nurse Nancy had said Aunt Val was supposed

to bring them, but when and if my aunt showed up, she

was
not
leaving without me.

Clean and dressed—if not exactly to my

satisfaction—I stared at the door for a solid three

minutes before working up the nerve to open it. I’d

missed both dinner and breakfast, so I was starving,

but less than eager to mingle. Finally, after two false

starts, I shoved still-wet hair back from my face and

pulled the door open.

My laceless sneakers squeaked in the empty

hallway, and I walked slowly toward the clinking of

silverware, acutely aware that while I did hear a couple

of soft voices, there was no actual conversation. Most

of the doors I passed were open, revealing room after

identical room. The only differences between those

and the room I’d been assigned to were the personal

possessions. Clothes stacked on open shelves and

pictures taped to walls.

28 / My Soul to Lose

Halfway down the hall, a girl a couple of years

younger than me sat alone on a bed in a room almost

as bare as mine, talking to herself. Not whispering

under her breath, or reminding herself not to forget

something important. Actually talking to herself, at

full volume.

When I turned the corner, I found the source of the

other voice, as well as what passed for the cafeteria.

Five round tables were set up in a large room occupied

with normal-looking people in jeans and T-shirts.

Mounted on the far wall above their heads was a small

television tuned to
SpongeBob.

“The trays are on the cart.”

I jumped, then whirled around to see another

woman—this one in cranberry-colored scrubs—sitting

in a hospital waiting-room-type chair near the

doorway. Her name tag read: Judy Sullivan, Mental

Health Technician. “Find the one with your name on it

and take a seat.”

I took a covered tray labeled Kaylee Cavanaugh

from the second shelf of the cart, then glanced around

for somewhere to sit. There were no empty tables—

most had two or three occupants—yet everyone ate in

silence, but for the sounds of chewing and silverware

scraping plastic trays.

The edges of the room were lined in more stifflooking waiting-room chairs and small couches with

pale green vinyl cushions, and one girl sat alone on

one of these with her tray on her lap. She picked at the

edge of a slice of meat loaf with her fork, but seemed

Rachel Vincent / 29

more interested in whatever patterns she was creating

than in actually eating.

I found a table and ate in silence, suffering through

half of the dry meat loaf and a stale roll before I

looked up from my tray—and directly into the eyes of

the girl sitting alone on the edge of the room. She

watched me with a creepy sort of detached curiosity,

as if I were a bug crawling across the sidewalk in front

of her. I wondered briefly if she was the ant-stomper

type. Then I wondered why she was at Lakeside.

But I purged that thought quickly—I didn’t want to

know. I didn’t want to know why any of them were

there. As far as I was concerned, they were all locked

up for the same reason: they were crazy.

Oh, and you’re the shining exception, right?
some

traitorous voice asked from deep inside my head.
The

girl who sees things that aren’t there and can’t stop

screaming. Who tries to rip her own throat out in the

middle of the mall. Yeah, you’re sane.

And suddenly my appetite was gone. But Meat

Loaf Girl—Lydia Trainer, according to her tray

cover—was still staring at me, limp black hair falling

over half of her face, revealing only one pale green

eye. My return stare didn’t faze her, nor did it force

her to acknowledge me. She just watched me, as if the

moment she looked away I might jump up and dance

the cha-cha.

But then someone else walked between us and

caught her attention like a ball of yarn rolled in front

30 / My Soul to Lose

of a cat. Lydia’s gaze followed a tall, heavyset girl as

she carried an empty tray toward the cart.

“Mandy, where’s your fork?” Judy the mental

health tech asked, standing so she could see the girl’s

tray. The tense way she held herself made me nervous.

Like she expected Mandy to lean forward and take a

bite out of her.

Mandy dropped her tray on the cart with a clatter of

silverware, then stuck one hand into the waistband of

her jeans and pulled out a fork. If I’d had any appetite

left, that would have killed it. Mandy tossed the fork

onto her tray, spared a contemptuous glance at the

aide, then shuffled in sock feet into another large

common area across the hall.

Lydia still watched Mandy, but now her features

were scrunched into a tense grimace and one hand

clutched her stomach.

I glanced at her tray to count her utensils. Had she

swallowed her knife, or something stupid like that,

while Judy’s attention was occupied with Miss Forkin-Drawers? No, all of the silverware was there, and I

could see no obvious reason for Lydia’s pained look.

Creeped out now, I stood and turned in my tray—

all utensils accounted for—then rushed back to my

room without looking up until I’d closed the door

behind me.

***

“Hello?”

Rachel Vincent / 31

“Aunt Val?” I wound the old-fashioned, curly

phone cord around my index finger and twisted on the

hard plastic chair to face the wall. That was all the

privacy I’d get in the middle of the hallway.

My kingdom for a cell phone.

“Kaylee!” My aunt sounded bright and cheery, and

I knew even without seeing her that her hair would be

perfectly arranged and her makeup expertly applied,

even though she didn’t have to be anywhere on the

weekend.

Unless she was coming to get me. Please let her be

coming to get me…

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Aunt Val

continued, a sliver of concern denting her otherwise

impenetrable armor of good cheer.

“Fine. I feel good. Come get me. I’m ready to come

home.”

How could you let them bring me here? How could

you leave me?
She would never have left her own

daughter in a place like this. No matter what Sophie

had done, Aunt Val would have taken her home, made

a pot of hot tea, and dealt with the issue privately.

But I couldn’t say that. My mother was dead, and

I’d had no one but Aunt Val and Uncle Brendon since

my father moved to Ireland when I was three, so I

couldn’t vocalize the soul-bruising betrayal twisting

through me like a vine choking me from the inside. At

least, not without crying, and crying might make me

look unstable, which would give them a reason to keep

32 / My Soul to Lose

me there. And give Aunt Val a reason to drop off my

clothes and run.

“Um…I was actually just about to head your way.

Have you seen the doctor yet? Do you think I’ll be

able to talk to him?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, that’s what he’s here for,

right?”

According to Nurse Nancy, the doctor didn’t do his

rounds on weekends, but if I told Aunt Val that, she

might wait for official visiting hours. Doctor or not, I

was sure she would take me home once she saw me.

Once she’d had a look at this place, and at me in it. We

might not share the same blood, but she’d
raised
me.

Surely she couldn’t walk away twice, right?

From somewhere near the common area, a

booming male voice announced that the anger

management group was about to start, then specifically

suggested that someone named Brent should attend.

I leaned my forehead against the cold cinder blocks

and tried to block it all out, but every time I opened

my eyes—every time I even took a cold, sterilescented breath—I remembered exactly where I was.

And that I couldn’t leave.

“Okay. I’m bringing some things for you,” my aunt

said softly into my ear.

What? I wanted to cry. “No. Aunt Val, I don’t need

things. I need out.”

She sighed, sounding almost as frustrated as I was.

“I know, but that’s up to your doctor, and if he gets

Rachel Vincent / 33

delayed…or something, wouldn’t you feel better with

a fresh change of clothes?”

“I guess.” But the truth was that I wasn’t going to

feel any better until Lakeside was a distant, unpleasant

memory, instead of my current waking nightmare.

“They won’t let you have anything but clothes and

books. Do you want something to read?”

All I wanted to read was the exit sign on the other

side of the locked door by the nurse’s station. The one

you had to be buzzed through.

“Um…I have a paper due next week. Could you

grab
Brave New World
from my nightstand?”
See? I’m

not crazy. I’m responsible and focused on schoolwork.

Don’t you want to take me home so I can live up to my

true potential?

Aunt Val was silent for a moment, and that

uncomfortable feeling in the bottom of my stomach

swelled. “Kaylee, I don’t think you should worry about

homework right now. We can tell the school you have

the flu.”

Footsteps shuffled past me, headed toward the

group session. I stuck a finger in my ear, trying to

block it all out. “The flu? Doesn’t it take, like, a week

to get over the flu?” I wouldn’t miss that much school.

I wouldn’t miss any, if she’d take me home today!

My aunt sighed, and my gut twisted around the

lump of dread anchoring me to the chair. “I’m just

trying to buy you some time to rest. And it’s not really

a lie. You can’t tell me you’re feeling one hundred

percent right now…”

34 / My Soul to Lose

“Because they shot me full of enough crap to put an

elephant to sleep!” And I had the cotton mouth to

prove it.

“And for all we know, you might actually be

coming down with a bit of the flu. I heard you sneeze

the other day,” she finished, and I rolled my eyes.

“They don’t lock up people with the flu, Aunt Val.”

Not unless it’s the bird flu or Stephen King’s end-ofthe-world flu.

“I know. Listen, I’ll be there in a bit, and we can

talk about this then.”

“What about Uncle Brendon?”

Another pause. Sometimes there was less meaning

in what Aunt Val said than in what she didn’t say. “He

took Sophie out to lunch to explain all this to her. This

has been really hard on them both, Kaylee.”

Like it’s easy on me?

“But we’re both coming to see you tonight.”

Except I would be out by then, even if I had to get

down on my knees and beg her to take me home.
If I

had to wake up here again, I’d lose my mind.

Assuming I hadn’t already.

“Promise?” I hadn’t asked her to promise me

anything since I was nine.

“Of course. We just want to help you, Kaylee.”

Yet somehow, I didn’t feel very comforted.

***

Rachel Vincent / 35

I waited in the common area, stubbornly resisting the

jigsaw puzzles and crossword books stacked on a shelf

in the corner. I wouldn’t be here long enough to finish

one anyway. Instead, I stared at the TV, wishing

they’d at least show some
good
cartoons. But if there

was a remote available, I had no idea where to find it.

A commercial came on and my attention wandered,

in spite of my best efforts to ignore my fellow patients.

Lydia sat across the room from me, not even

pretending to watch the television. She was watching

me.

I stared back at her. She didn’t smile. She didn’t

speak. She just watched, and not with an unfocused