We Weren't Looking to Be Found, page 15
Dani puts down the letter and looks at me. “These are intense. Why are they just in here?”
“I don’t know.”
She stretches and looks around the room. The light’s changed, with the sunlight not falling against the back wall. “What time do you think it is? We haven’t cleaned anything.”
“Oh well. What’s Yolanda going to do about it? Make us not clean out the lost-and-found room?”
Dani grins. “When did you stop giving fucks?”
“She’s the worst. Because she pretends like she’s our friend.”
“I don’t get a friend vibe from her, really. She’s just working for the institution and not us. It’s in her best interest not to rock the boat.”
“God, I hate that phrase,” I say. “Don’t rock the boat. It’s like my parents’ excuse for everything. They don’t fight to make things better. They’d just rather give up.”
“I want to keep reading!” Dani whines.
“Who do you think Mikell is?” I ask.
She scans the letters again. “Is he her brother?”
“I don’t think so. He would’ve visited with her family. But I don’t think he’s a boyfriend, either, though.”
“So just a friend?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Read the next one,” Dani implores. “Read it out loud.”
So I do:
Dear Mikell,
Today was the worst day ever. I’ve literally done everything they’ve asked of me here. I play the part of the good robot. I take my meds. Go to therapy. Do my little watercolors in art class and pretend I’m inspired.
Well, what good has any of that been? Today was my official “check-in” with my treatment team, and do you know what they told me? They said I haven’t been exhibiting any “prosocial” behaviors and that I have to stay here for at least another six weeks! Mom and Dad signed off on this, and if I wasn’t the black sheep of the family before, I definitely am now. Everything gets blamed on my problems. Even the accident’s my fault now, despite the fact I wasn’t there and they know that.
My roommate’s dealing with some similar shit, so at least I have someone to talk to. Well, not exactly the same, but her older sister died last fall after contracting a virus in college. Meningitis, I think. But the similar part is that her sister was her parents’ favorite. The golden girl. She was at Georgetown, and her parents took money from the other kids’ college fund to pay for her to go because they said she was the smartest and deserved the opportunity. And it killed her. Can you imagine?
By the way, I have a formal diagnosis now. I thought I’d be labeled a sociopath or something, but my shrink called it a “conduct disorder” compounded with “traumatic grief.” The grief I get, but the conduct stuff is bullshit. Apparently it’s based on whether or not someone is willing to follow the rules in a society, not whether or not those rules are oppressive or cruel or unfair. That’s what no one is willing to consider. That maybe I’m not bad for the sake of being bad. I’m bad for the sake of survival.
Fuck. I know you understand this, and I’m so sorry for all you’ve been through the same way I feel sorry for myself. In a way, being in here has been an opportunity to reflect on what I believe in and what it means to fight for those beliefs. I guess the good thing is that there are a few people here who understand me, even if the staff isn’t interested in my ideas or how I really feel. Well, they’re interested but to a point. What they aren’t interested in is changing themselves. Most people are like that, I guess. Lazy. But I refuse to change and grow up and uphold the status quo just because it’s easier.
I promise to always fight. To always value the underdog.
Do you remember that time in third or fourth grade when we took a field trip to that park by the water and we got nets to try and catch butterflies so we could study them? You were so sad about the whole thing. Like, you already knew how beautiful the butterflies were without killing them. Or you knew that killing something beautiful was something only ugly people did.
Anyway, I just remember how distraught you were by the whole situation while everyone else was laughing and running around and having the best goddamn time of their lives. That’s a little what being here reminds me of. Does that make sense? It’s like everyone’s doing all this work and therapy and validating each other about finding the joy in life and building relationships that matter and all that. But I can only see the futility of their efforts. Like, it’s obvious life is going to destroy most of these girls. Life destroys most girls, I think. But being here feels like watching butterflies be oblivious to the net. Like I’m the only one who sees the real danger, and it’s breaking me, Mikell. That’s what I want you to know. I understand how you felt that day because it’s how I feel every day.
Keep fighting. Or maybe that should be: Keep your tenderness. Just hold it close. Okay?
-K
WE’RE NOT EVEN halfway through the letters when Yolanda returns and tells us we have to lock up and head back for dinner.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost five.”
I give a low whistle. “Damn, that flew by.”
She takes a step inside the room and looks around disapprovingly. “Because you were getting so much work done?”
“We got a slow start,” I say.
“You’ll have time tomorrow,” she says. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
Camila grips the letters and the music box. “Can we keep these? Please?”
Yolanda frowns. “What are they?”
“They’re these old letters we found,” I say. “There’s no name on them. Just an initial.”
“And you want to bring them to your room?”
Camila nods.
She sighs. “Why don’t you leave the music box here for now. It’s not going anywhere. The letters… I guess they’re okay to take, but be careful with them. They belong to someone.”
“Well, that’s why we should keep them,” Camila says cheerfully. “So we can figure whose they are. There’re clues in here that would help us find her. Whoever she is. She’d probably want them back.”
“Is there a question in there?” Yolanda asks.
“How could we find out who wrote them? Is there someone here who might know? Maybe Dr. Sánchez?”
“I can ask around,” she says. “But no promises. I said you could take the letters, but I’m not looking to get involved in your Nancy Drew mystery.”
Camila thanks her, but I can tell that Yolanda’s uncomfortable with the situation somehow. Like maybe she’s picking up on the same thing I am with Cams—she’s got this intensity about her that’s coming from those letters. It’s in the way she holds them close to her body, like they’re a part of her somehow. I haven’t seen that from her before, and I’m not sure what it means and I’m not even sure that it matters.
Still. That intensity. It’s there.
THE NEXT DAY, after lunch, my hands are shaking, but I’m determined to go through with it. As soon as I catch sight of Yolanda sitting alone, having handed out all the meds, I walk over to her. Stand awkwardly until I get her attention.
“Hi, Camila,” she says. “How’s it going?”
“Dr. Roberts said I could use the computer room until one today. I’m supposed to email my teachers about independent learning and summer school.”
“Sure. That’s fine. Make sure to check in with the aide there.”
I remain standing there.
“Is there something else?” she asks.
“Well, I ran something by Dr. R in session, and she said to ask you about it. It’s about dancing.”
“What about dancing?”
“I was wondering if I could lead a dance class. Just a simple beginners thing. Like a workshop. I’ve been using the yoga studio for the last week or so, and I thought it would be cool to be able to offer a class to anyone else who would be interested.”
Yolanda leans back, as if trying to get a better look at me. “You’d really want to do something like that?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“You know, that makes me incredibly happy to hear,” she says.
“It does?” My cheeks warm. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“It is a big deal,” she insists. “This is what we mean when we talk about community building.”
“Maybe,” I say, although honestly, I’m just doing this for myself. Something in me craves creation. A sense of accomplishment. And after talking with those girls yesterday, this felt like a thing I could actually get off the ground. If I were allowed to.
“When do you want to do this?”
I shrug. “As soon as possible. Just on a trial basis, you know. I don’t know if anyone would show.”
“And you said you spoke with Dr. Roberts? What about your parents?”
“What about them?”
“I think we should ask them first and get their input.”
My heart sinks. “Are you serious? They’ll never let me.”
“I’ll call them.”
“They’ll just say no. It’s too scary to let me do something. Better to keep me locked in a cage.”
“You’re not in a cage, Camila. Let me check on this. I’ll get back to you.”
“Great,” I say. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
I’m bristling with rage as I march toward the library. It’s like this place is meant to make me crazy. All the things I love and long to do—well, I’m told they’re not safe. And all the things that make me feel safe, like free will and independent thinking and personal space—those will harm me.
What’s the point of it all?
What’s the point of anything?
Thankfully the library’s empty. I can’t deal with talking to anyone at the moment, and I slouch in front of one of the computers with a grunt before pulling the bundle of music-box letters from the small tote bag I’m allowed to carry and setting them on the table beside me. Screw contacting my teachers back home. I’m here to do research on what I’m interested in.
The first thing I do, however, is pull up my email like a sadist. Not a lot’s in there except one nice message from Ivan and also two responses from places I’d contacted about funding. Both places sound really happy that I’d reached out, and they’re asking for more information on how they can help me realize my dream.
For a moment, I feel dizzy, detached, as if I’m actually leaving my body, but I force myself to close my eyes and focus on the breathing exercises Dr. Roberts taught me. I breathe and I breathe and let myself feel whatever I need to feel about this moment. Which is mostly fury. Despair. Utter helplessness.
But before long, another feeling bubbles to the surface, swimming around with all the rest. It’s a little bit of pride, I think. With a hint of righteousness. Or maybe that’s just what other people call bittersweet. Because my email pleas worked even if my plan to go to Fieldbrook didn’t. There are people out there willing to care about strangers. About dance. And this helps me focus on what I really came here to do, which is to figure out who wrote the letters we found.
Backing out of my email, I pull up the search engine and stare at it. The hardest thing is not knowing when the letters were written. Yolanda told us patient records were kept for a maximum of seven years and the same was true for personal belongings. However, the amount of crap piled in that room—including some of the movies and books I’d spotted—made it seem like it’d been a lot longer since anyone cleaned the place out, so I work under the assumption the letters were written in the last ten years.
Pulling the first few letters from the envelopes, I scour the writer’s words again. Dani and I finished reading them last night in our room, and the most frustrating thing is how abruptly the letters end. The girl, K, continued to write to her friend Mikell while referencing what we assume is her older brother’s death in circumstances that aren’t exactly clear. She also persisted in raging against her parents for their denial of their children’s issues and the facility itself for trying to make her conform to their idea of “normal” rather than admitting it was the world that was broken and damaged and traumatizing.
I guess that’s the part I relate to. Being fed the lie that taking meds and “doing the work” is always the answer, even when it’s no different having a doctor prescribe aspirin because someone’s hitting you over the head with a hammer. Or worse, you’re told the only true path to healing is replacing that hammer with a pile driver. The whole process is backward and infuriating, and so I long to join K’s revolution. To be the rebel I’ve never been willing to fight to be.
Leaning forward, I type in the obvious search terms, like “Mikell” and “butterflies” and also “Carson and Valerie twins.” Only, nothing comes up. I pull at the bandage on my arm while I scan the letters again, and then I see it. It’s not related to K, exactly, but it might help.
In the search bar, I type: “Georgetown,” “meningitis,” and “death.”
The hits pop up immediately. News article after news article about a tragedy that played out in one of the freshman dorms at the famed campus. Six students were sickened in mid-November, and sadly, two died. Both were girls: Valerie Mendelsohn and Sally Samaras. The press photos are heartbreaking—they’re just so young and alive. Like any girl I’d see in the hallway at my school. No doubt they were the pride of their families, going off to such an esteemed institution, only to be cut down in their prime. They were only eighteen.
I check the dates on the articles. They all ran in November of 2000, so nineteen years prior, which—if K’s roommate was sent to Peach Tree Hills in the immediate aftermath of her sister’s death—would indicate K was likely here at some point in 2001. Meaning, she’s in her mid-thirties at this point.
That can’t be right.
More searching. I’m able to pull up the obituaries for each girl. Sally’s the only one who is referenced as having been survived by a younger sister, Chloe. So I type in the search bar: Chloe Samaras.
And then there she is. I suck in air. Thank God for uncommon names. Chloe’s photos are less vibrant than Sally’s—she comes off as the more serious sibling, although maybe this wasn’t always the case. The resemblance between the two is evident. Chloe and Sally both have the same high cheekbones, thick glossy hair, and dimpled chins.
A little more digging and I unearth Chloe’s faculty profile on the website of a small private college in Colorado. It appears she’s earned a PhD in Middle Eastern studies and has written a book on the Arab Spring. Her page has links to a couple of online interviews, but they’re all focused on her scholarly work. None ask questions about her dead sister or the time she spent locked in a psychiatric facility.
“Hey,” a voice behind me says.
I whirl around to see Dr. Sánchez standing in the doorway.
“Yeah?” I say.
“You’re late for your therapy appointment.” She points to the clock, and I don’t know where the time went, but yeah, I’m ten minutes late.
“Sorry,” I say. “I lost track of time.”
“I thought we’d emphasized the importance of being where you’re supposed to be.”
“You did. I said I was sorry.”
“Well, I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” she says.
I duck my head, grab my stuff.
“Hold on.”
I look at her.
She takes a step inside the library, clasps her hands in front of her. “Your parents. I called them earlier. Yolanda asked me to with regard to this dance class you’re interested in teaching.”
“You called them already?” I ask.
“Don’t you want to know what they said?”
I sling the tote bag over my shoulder. “I don’t know. Do I?”
Dr. Sánchez smiles. “I think so. They said yes.”
I brighten. “Really?”
“Really. The only caveat is that you talk with them on the phone beforehand so that they understand what you’re hoping to achieve by teaching this class.”
“No. No way.” I shake my head vigorously.
“It’s just a brief call. That’s it.”
“No,” I tell her. “It’s never just one thing. They took something from me, and they don’t get to be the ones who give it back.”
“WHAT DID YOU MEAN,” I ask Dr. Allegheny, “when you said Camila and I might not be all that different from each other?”
“When did I say that?”
“The last time we met. Right at the end. I said she was mad at me, and you said we might have something in common.”
“Is something about that comment bothering you?”
“It’s not bothering me. I just don’t think I’m very much like Camila at all. I’ve been thinking lately that she reminds me a lot of my ex-boyfriend. They’re both quiet and repressed, and they’re both into self-harming or whatever.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend. And yeah, he had a thing with making weight for wrestling. But also, he’s always been pretty…”
“Uptight?” Dr. Allegheny offers.
“I was going to say unhappy. But the point is that he and Camila are alike in a lot of ways, and I don’t think I’m like either of them. They’re both so sensitive. It’s like they were born to suffer, you know?”
He nods. “I think I understand what you’re saying. But from my recollection, when I compared you and Camila, I wasn’t referring to your temperament or personality. It was in reference to her being angry at you for telling her doctor about the fact that she’d cut herself.”
“Oh.” I take this in. “Well, she’s not mad at me anymore. We talked about it.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I still don’t get the comparison, though.”
“Why don’t you keep thinking on it,” he urges.
“Sounds like you don’t know the answer, either.”
“Or maybe I just believe you do.”
I’m five minutes late meeting up with Camila and Yolanda at the lost and found, and we’re supposed to actually do some work today. I apologize when I reach them, but they barely acknowledge me.
