Contact Read online

  Also by

  Laurisa White Reyes:

  The Celestine Chronicles:

  The Rock of Ivanore

  The Last Enchanter

  The Seer of the Guilde (Coming in 2015)

  If you purchased this e-book from anyone other than Hallowed Ink Press or a licensed HIP reseller, you should be aware this e-book is stolen property.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Hallowed Ink Press

  Hallowed Ink Press is an imprint of Bokheim, Inc.

  http://www.bokheim.com/publishing

  Copyright © 2014

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  All graphics and text associated with Hallowed Ink Press are registered property of Bokheim, Inc.

  Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  First Hallowed Ink Press edition June 2014

  ISBD: 978-0-9858480-1-9 (Print)

  978-0-9858480-0-2 (E-book)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  I’m alive?

  Yes. Still alive.

  …Again.

  A tube runs from an IV bag into my arm, the plastic needle burrows under my skin like a tick. Thank God I was unconscious when they put that in. I cringe at the thought of being deluged with so many psyches at once—paramedics, nurses, doctors, all of them touching me.

  Where are my clothes? They must have taken them off when I was out. This flimsy gown can’t protect me. I want to tear off the tape securing the IV tube to my skin; rip it off like a band-aid. I want out of here, but then I see Mama sleeping beside me, her body sloped in a plastic chair. I shouldn’t have done this to her again. But I had to try.

  A plastic clamp pinches my finger, connecting me to a heart monitor. Three inches further up, my wrist is wrapped in gauze. Two months ago I would never have had the courage to do this—or any reason to. But now, feeling the staples beneath the bandage, I wonder how deep someone has to cut in order to die?

  The curtain jerks back, the metal rings dragging across the ceiling rail. Mama snaps to attention. I half expect her to stand and salute.

  “Miranda Ortiz?” says a woman in a beige linen suit and crisp white blouse. She is thin, stiff, and colorless. She reeks of Gardenias.

  “I’m Dr. Walsh from Mental Health,” she continues. The plastic laminated nametag hanging from her neck confirms this.

  Dr. Walsh extends her hand, but instead of taking it, I grasp the edge of my sheet and pull it up to my chin. Other than this stupid hospital gown, it’s the only barrier I’ve got right now.

  Mama stands up and reaches over the bed to shake the doctor’s hand. “I’m Mira’s mother, Ana,” she says wearily. She starts to sit back down, but Dr. Walsh interrupts.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Mrs. Ortiz. However, I’d like to speak to your daughter alone, if that’s all right.”

  Dr. Walsh is insistent, in a polite sort of way. Mama leans toward me, and for a split second I think she’s going to kiss me goodbye. Though deep down I almost wish she would, instead she offers me her gentle smile and tucks the sheet under my shoulder.

  “Please don’t go,” I whisper.

  “It’ll only be a few minutes,” she says. “I’ll be just outside, all right?”

  Mama brushes a strand of hair from my eyes with her manicured fingernails, careful to avoid contact with my skin. She smiles at me, but her eyes are wistful. As she walks out, my insides tighten up and I suddenly realize how much I’ve missed her touch. My instinct is to cling to her like when I was small, but instead I press my arms stiffly to my sides like a corpse.

  A security guard opens the door and accompanies Mama out into the hall. Dr. Walsh takes Mama’s empty chair, crosses one leg over the other and lays a clipboard on her knee. “So,” she begins, “you cut yourself last night. Is that right?”

  Her voice is casual and smooth, as if she’s just asked me what I ate for dinner. She waits for me to respond. When I don’t, she glances down at her clipboard. “I understand it’s not your first attempt. You were just here a couple of weeks ago, I see. Overdose, but no permanent damage done.”

  She glances up at me, pausing in case I have something to say.

  I don’t.

  “Miranda—”

  “It’s Mira.”

  “Mira, what happened that made you want to die?”

  Her perfume hangs heavy around her. I rub the sheet against my nose, trying to block out the overpowering smell. The silence between us feels awkward. It’s obvious she’s going to sit there for as long as it takes. I want her gone, so I might as well talk.

  “My boyfriend wants to dump me,” I tell her, and it’s true. Sort of.

  “I see,” she says. Her eyebrows lift a little. “Things aren’t going well between the two of you?”

  “Something like that.”

  Her eyes narrow as she looks at her clipboard again. She thinks she’s got me all figured out. She’s met a hundred kids like me, maybe more. In her eyes, I’m just like all the rest.

  Only I’m not.

  “Mira, do you mind if I ask you some questions?” She looks up at me, a trace of a smile on her lips. “Your answers will help me understand what’s happening with you, all right?”

  She begins with the same questions Dr. Jansen asked me the last time I was here: Do you have trouble sleeping? How’s your appetite? Do you feel anxious or sad more often than usual?

  She’s so pale with her white skin and bleached hair. Craig’s skin is light like hers. I used to relish his touch and let his lips linger on mine as long as he wanted. My skin tingles just thinking about him, but I shove the memories back, burying them down deep inside me where they belong.

  Dr. Walsh shifts in her chair, drawing my mind back to the present. “Mira,” she continues, “do you believe you have special powers?”

  Beneath the sheet my arm jerks, and the clip on my finger pops off. The monitor lets out a loud, piercing beep. I pat around the mattress, but I can’t find the clip. Then I see it dangling over the side of the bed. I reach for it, but Dr. Walsh gets to it before I do.

  “Here,” she says, smiling. “Let me help you.”

  “No, don’t!” I say, grabbing for the clip.r />
  Too late.

  Oh God. Please God, not again.

  I squeeze my eyelids shut, bracing for impact as she grasps my wrist in one hand and replaces the clip with the other. It takes only half a second, like those commercials where a crash test dummy rockets forward at high speed and slams into a wall. In that instant every thought in Emma Lynn Walsh’s head collides with mine—every thought, memory, hope, disappointment and dream. They come at me like a hailstorm, assaulting me at random. I see her as a child falling off her bike and scraping her knee, and her father scolding her for forgetting to brake. I see the wedding ring slide onto her finger—her yanking it off and flushing it down the toilet. I feel despair at her mother’s funeral and relief at her father’s. She masks so much pain with poise and self-assurance, but beneath it all she’s a mess.

  “Mira? Mira.”

  I open my eyes to see Dr. Walsh peering at me, a puzzled expression on her face.

  “Let—go—of—me,” I order though clenched teeth.

  Dr. Walsh releases my wrist. I turn on my side, rolling up in the sheet, attempting to disappear into my cocoon. I hear the chair legs scrape against the floor as Dr. Walsh slides it closer to my bed.

  I stare at the bottom of my IV bag, watching clear drops form, preparing to fall into the tube. One by one they hang there for a moment suspended in time, and then plop!

  I glance over my shoulder and look at Dr. Walsh. Her smile is gone. Both feet are on the floor, and she’s holding the clipboard up now, like a shield. There’s a yellow Sponge Bob sticker on the back, staring at me with a goofy, wide-mouthed grin.

  “Okay, Mira. Why don’t we get back to your boyfriend? You said he wants to break up with you. Why?” Dr. Walsh’s tone has changed. It’s softer now, more sympathetic, but what can I tell her that won’t sound crazy?

  “I won’t let him touch me anymore.”

  “So he told you he wants to break up with you?”

  “No. He hasn’t said anything—yet.”

  “Hasn’t said anything.” Her voice holds a note of confusion. “Then, how do you know?”

  She dangles the question in front of me like the proverbial carrot, hoping to draw me out. I don’t want to talk anymore, but something inside me needs to. Maybe part of me believes there is a chance, no matter how slight, that this woman might be able to help. That’s how desperate I’ve become.

  I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t. Instead, I just lay there wrapped up like a mummy, someone who’s dead inside. Only I’m not dead. I’m alive. Too much alive.

  Just then a nurse comes into the room to check my IV. “Are you comfortable, Ms. Ortiz?” she asks. “Your father called a bit ago. I assured him that if you needed anything, anything at all, I’d see to it myself.”

  The nurse, a plump middle-aged woman wearing purple scrubs, glances at Dr. Walsh and reacts as if the good doctor had just magically appeared there.

  “Oh my, I’m sorry, Dr. Walsh. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Not a problem. We’re finished here,” says Dr. Walsh offering a nod.

  I hear the snap of the clipboard’s metal clasp as she tucks her pen into it. Walking around the side of my bed, she gives me a conciliatory smile. “All right, Mira,” she says. “I’m going to have a word with your mother about getting you admitted. I need you to be somewhere safe, where we can keep an eye on you for a few days.”

  As Dr. Walsh turns to leave, I find my voice again. “If you hate them so much, why smell like them?”

  “Pardon?” She turns, pausing at the door.

  “Gardenias. You hate gardenias.”

  Her lips turn pale as she presses them together. I don’t want to do this, but I need her to believe me. My voice chokes when I say it. “It’s your mother’s perfume.”

  Dr. Walsh’s eyes glisten; hurt and confusion fills her face. Without a word, she turns and walks through the door, taking the invisible gardenia cloud with her.

  The first time I tried to kill myself I sucked down half a bottle of Advil. Turns out you can’t OD on Ibuprofen, but it can sure as heck make you feel like you’re dying. I puked every ten minutes for six hours straight. Even when there wasn’t anything left to puke, my stomach convulsed and heaved until I expected to see my toenails drop into the bowl.

  Dr. Jansen must have felt sorry for me then because he sent me home with a prescription of oral Gaudium and instructions to take the rest of the week off from school. I guess the obligatory injection I got on my sixteenth birthday wasn’t enough.

  “The first few days you’ll feel a little dizzy, so I’ll start you on a low dosage,” he’d explained. “We’ll increase it over the next few days, and in two weeks or so we can start weaning you off. By then your production of dopamine and serotonin will have reached optimum levels. Your depression will be permanently cured.”

  Of course, I already knew all about the miracles of Gaudium, named after the Latin word for joy. As the CEO of Rawley Pharmaceutical, Papa never failed to take credit for the creation. But not anymore. Not since he was blamed for those women dying.

  Dr. Walsh doesn’t let me off as easily as Jansen did. For the next three days I lay curled up on a bed in the adolescent psyche ward serving time on a 72-hour hold. How anyone can not want to kill themselves while being in here is beyond me. Frankly, though, I haven’t minded it. It’s the most isolated I’ve been in months.

  I ask the staff to leave me alone and they do; not to mention, the ward is practically empty except for a handful of thirteen or fourteen-year-olds who mostly steer clear of me. Apparently nobody anywhere near my age has been admitted in months thanks to Gaudium, and the statewide policy of inoculating teens with it when they turn sixteen.

  On the third day of my imprisonment, Dr. Walsh stops by after breakfast. “How are you holding up?” she asks, sitting across the table from me. The smell of gardenia is noticeably absent. “I’m releasing you today, you know. Your mother’s waiting in the lobby.”

  Behind us, a couple of kids are draped on the couch watching a recorded episode of “Psyche.”

  “What if I don’t want to be released?” I challenge her, stealing a glance at the TV screen.

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  At the end of the table is a box with an assortment of puzzles and board games. I fish out a pair of dice and toss them onto the table. Two and six.

  “I had considered extending your stay here,” she replies. “But when I suggested it to your father he said he wanted you to come home.”

  “Papa was here?” I glance up from the dice.

  “No,” she answers. “We spoke over the phone.”

  Of course. Mama has visited every day, but not Papa. I throw the dice again. Three and two.

  “I looked at your medical report. Your wrist is healing nicely.” Dr. Walsh reaches for my hand as if to touch me, but I withdraw and slide both hands under the table. When she retreats, I pull them out again and rub the dice between my palms.

  “Mira,” her voice is quiet and calm. “Do you still have thoughts about killing yourself?”

  “I always feel like killing myself.”

  Snake eyes.

  Dr. Walsh drums her fingernails on the table. “I wish you’d talk to me,” she adds. “Three days and you haven’t said much at all. It’s against my better judgment to let you go home. But your father—” Her voice cuts off. I can hear her frustration. “I need to know you’re not going to try anything.”

  I clasp the dice tightly in my fist. “Then let me stay here.”

  I try to lift my gaze again to look at her so she’ll know how badly I mean my words, but I know it won’t do any good. Papa practically owns this hospital. He’s got more clout than just about anyone. If Dr. Walsh refused to sign the release papers, he would just go over her head and get someone higher up to get the job done.

  The doctor sighs heavily. “You’re coming to see me at my office tomorrow. In the meantime, if you feel like you want to hurt
yourself again, you need to tell someone—your mother or your father.”

  I snicker at the thought.

  “You can always call me, but is there someone else at home you can talk to?”

  Is there someone? I think: There’s our cook, Helen. There’s Papa’s chauffeur. And there’s Jordan. Not what I’d call the ideal lineup, but I nod my head anyway.

  Dr.Walsh gives a half-satisfied smile. “All right then,” she proclaims, getting to her feet. “I’ll tell the nurse to let your mom in while I sign the forms.”

  A buzzer sounds, and the wide double doors barricading me from the rest of the world swing open. Mama comes in, her face pinched with worry. With her is Jordan Cummings, Papa’s closest friend and my self-appointed bodyguard. Unlike Papa who retired from Rawley to run for office, Jordan divides his time between the pharmaceutical company and managing Papa’s campaign. At a lean six-feet with a hint of gray at his temples, he’s a perfect fit for political life.

  “Hey there, Sunshine,” he says, offering his familiar smile. “Ready to go home? The car’s waiting, but so is every news station this side of the Rocky Mountains.”

  “The media’s out there?” I ask, suddenly petrified. “Who told them?”

  Mama sets something down on the table in front of me. An Abba-Zaba. She knows it’s my favorite candy. “A nurse, a custodian, a parent of some other patient—what does it matter who told them?” she replies with an exasperated shrug. “The sooner we get you home, the better.”

  I can see it now:– Daughter of Medical Mogul Has Mental Breakdown – Story Tonight at Ten! Glancing down at the purple flannel pajama bottoms and t-shirt I’m wearing, I think about the press parasites waiting outside; the way they push and shove to get a mic in your face—I feel so exposed.

  Jordan seems to know just what I’m thinking, as he holds up a plastic grocery bag and reaches his arm into it like it’s a magic hat. “Voila!” he says, pulling out my favorite hoodie, the black one he bought me in Venice Beach last summer. He then retrieves some jeans and my pair of Converse and drops them into my lap. “Better hurry. Your carriage awaits, my lady.” He winks.

  Dr. Walsh returns with paperwork in hand. “Don’t forget about our follow-up appointment tomorrow, all right?” Drawing a business card from her pocket, she holds it out to Mama along with her copy of the release form. “In the meantime, call if you need anything.” Mama’s busy with me, so Jordan takes the information and shoves it into a pocket, and Dr. Walsh walks away.