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  I head for the restroom where I tug on my jeans. Then I slip into my hoodie, pulling the hood onto my head and the sleeves down past my fingertips. When I step out of the bathroom I ask a passing nurse for some surgical gloves, but her caustic expression is enough to make me regret asking. “Never mind,” I say. Then I join Mama and Jordan at the door where we all share apprehensive glances, like Gladiators preparing for battle.

  Mama whispers in my ear, “Remember the drill. Face down, hands up, silencio.” Slipping the Abba-Zaba in my pocket for later, I follow her and Jordan through the double doors and into the elevator. It’s only the next floor down, but the ride seems to take forever. When the doors slide open my stomach lurches. The front of the hospital is all glass, and from here I can see hordes of reporters and photographers congregating outside where several police officers are attempting to hold them at bay. Parked at the curb is Papa’s black Benz. For a split second I wonder if he’s come for me himself. But of course Papa wouldn’t be here. More bad press is not what he needs now.

  As the hospital doors open to the nightmare, I’m hit with a blast of heat that can only be delivered by a So Cal afternoon in July.

  The barrage of questions begin:

  “Did your father’s investigation have anything to do with your suicide attempt?”

  “How do you think this will affect your father’s campaign?”

  In an instant, Jordan is beside me, fielding questions while Mama bundles me into the backseat of the Benz.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Jordan calls out to the frenzied pack in a smooth voice, “Mr. Ortiz has no official comment to make at this time but requests that you respect his family’s privacy. He will be available tomorrow to discuss his campaign and the investigation.”

  “But, Mr. Cummings,” shouts one female reporter wearing black rectangular glasses. “Under the circumstances, will Mr. Ortiz consider withdrawing his bid for Governor?”

  “We have no further comment at this time.”

  A moment later, Jordan slips into the backseat of the car beside me and Mama. As he shuts the door, I catch a glimpse of the 1911 Colt pistol he carries beneath his jacket. Not that I know much about handguns, but this one’s his pride and joy, something he shows off whenever he has the chance. I don’t mind. Despite everything I’ve done to myself, I feel safer when he’s around.

  Jordan tells the chauffeur to head out. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks me, brushing off the lapels of his suit coat.

  “Not bad?” I reply, tucking my hands under my knees. “In a few minutes my face is going to be all over the news.”

  “Now, Mira,” says Mama, “don’t worry about it. It will all be forgotten tomorrow.”

  Mama. Always the optimist. I guess that’s what I love about her. She’s managed to weather the first stretch of a gubernatorial campaign, a Federal investigation of her husband, and a lunatic daughter who shrivels at the slightest touch…still, she smiles.

  “Your dad’s sorry he couldn’t meet us at the hospital,” Jordan says. “But with everything going on, he thought it best to wait for you at home.”

  Mama squeezes my knee through my jeans. “I’m sure he would have come if he could,” she adds. I cringe at her touch, even though the denim keeps her skin off mine. And yet I long to feel her warmth again. It seems like forever since I’ve let her touch me.

  As we pull out of the hospital parking lot, I glance back at the media mob packing up their gear and retreating to their respective vehicles. Behind them, the hospital’s new ten story Rawley addition juts skyward. Like the older complex in Bakersfield, the outer walls are polished red granite with wide reflective windows. The bottom floor will house a cafeteria and patient lounge, while the upper floors will be home to medical offices and the laboratory. The first four floors have been complete for a while, but the top floors are not much more than steel girders and scaffolding. It looks more like a giant erector set than a hospital. It should have been finished by now, but construction stopped when the investigation began. It reminds me of myself—empty, broken, abandoned.

  The chauffeur takes us through our gate and up the gravel lane, stopping at the front entrance to the house. Papa had it built a few years ago. It looks like that southern plantation in Gone with the Wind; tall, scalloped columns out front, a massive circular drive, and a sprawling lawn. Inside, the floors are white marble, and all the wood trim and banisters are maple. It cost a bundle, but as Rawley’s former CEO, Papa’s got plenty.

  As promised, Papa meets us at the door.

  “So, how’d it go?” His question is directed at Jordan, not me.

  “Not a hitch.” Jordan gives Papa a brief report on the media frenzy at the hospital, then excuses himself, saying something about needing to call Papa’s attorneys. Once Jordan’s gone, Papa turns to Mama and kisses her on the cheek. He starts toward me, but I take a step back.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he says. “Sorry.”

  He’s dressed in a dark suit and tie, which he loosens before sliding it out from his collar. Papa’s not a tall man, barely five-and-half-feet, but he’s strong and good looking. His black hair is combed back from his face, a face adorned with dark eyes and a sculpted jaw line that has captured the hearts of Californians. A Latino JFK.

  “How was the inquiry?” Mama asks, taking Papa’s tie and draping it over her arm. She heads for the sitting room and mixes him a drink.

  “Those damn piranhas just want to take any bite out of me they can,” Papa replies. His back is turned to me like I’m not even here. But in this house, not here is the best place to be.

  “I keep telling the commission that being a CEO was all about the money, marketing, and international distribution. Rawley Pharmaceutical eradicated Autism, for God’s sake. We’re on the brink of curing Alzheimer’s and schizophrenia, yet they want to gut me like a fish because some basement level researcher tested a couple of volunteers without Federal authorization. Volunteers, mind you! It’s not like the corporation raided villages and slapped them in chains.”

  “Of course not, Beto.” Mama remains calm, handing him his glass. She glances at me over his shoulder. “Mira, why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest?”

  Papa turns to look at me as if noticing me for the first time. “Oh, I’m sorry, Pumpkin,” he says, wiping the condensation from his glass with the thumb of his right hand. His fingers are thick and strong, but soft. No calluses because he’s spent most of his life behind a desk or in front of TV cameras and microphones.

  “I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” he tells me. “You know, you really gave us a scare this time.”

  This time? So the first time was child’s play?

  Beneath the fleece sleeves of my hoodie and the white gauze taped around my wrist, my wound still throbs. The staples are out now, replaced by a bunch of tiny butterfly strips. It’ll heal eventually, leaving only a scar behind as evidence. But will the reason I did it ever go away?

  Mama grasps my shoulders and steers me toward the staircase. “I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in.”

  “Mama, I’m sixteen.”

  “So? Go on. I’ll be right up.”

  I obey—mostly. The staircase starts wide at the base and narrows as it curves around a huge Greek pillar toward the landing on the second floor. About halfway up I pause, concealed by the pillar, and listen.

  Papa sets his glass down on the foyer table with a little more force than usual. “I am sorry, Ana,” he begins. “I’m just so aggravated about this unwarranted investigation. What evidence do they have anyway? Hell, the guy who supposedly conducted those drug trials has been dead for years. What was his name again?”

  “Stark,” Mama sighs. “Gregory Stark. We were introduced at an office party once, don’t you remember?”

  “So this Stark guy is dead, and now they need someone to hang in his place. And I’m the perfect target, of course. The first Hispanic candidate for governor in this state with a helluva good shot at
winning. They’ll stop at nothing to tear me down. Nothing!”

  Everything goes quiet. Mama’s probably removing Papa’s jacket, rubbing his shoulders the way she does when he gets worked up. They continue talking, but with softer voices.

  “What about Mira?” Papa asks. His tone is calmer now, more concerned. “Did the doctors say anything more?”

  I try to picture their faces. I know Mama’s looking hopeful, nodding her head, smiling as if everything’s going to be okay. “Dr. Walsh wants to evaluate her again tomorrow,” she says.

  “Evaluate her? What for? She’s depressed. Give her Gaudium.”

  “She received her immunization on her birthday two months ago, just like the policy requires.”

  “And that policy is in place for a reason, Ana. Gaudium is still relatively new. Supplies are limited at this point, which is why we’ve only distributed it to children with Autism and teenagers. But once this investigation is over Rawley can go into full production, making it available to everyone. Mira’s fortunate to have received it when she did.”

  “I agree, Beto, and Dr. Jansen even prescribed a booster. But it has had no effect on her.”

  “Impossible.”

  “But what if Mira doesn’t have depression or any sort of imbalance? Gaudium couldn’t help her then. Beto, what if she’s telling the truth?”

  A silent pause. When Papa speaks again, his voice is strained. “She won’t let anyone near her. Jesus, Ana…she thinks she can read people’s minds.”

  Mama’s probably looking into Papa’s eyes, searching for the right words to say. “I know it seems improbable—”

  “Improbable? Ana, it’s crazy!”

  “I just think that after what’s happened, we should take what she says more seriously. Maybe she should have stayed at the hospital a while longer like Dr. Walsh suggested.”

  “No.” My father’s answer is firm, final. “Thanks to some anonymous tip the press has already spread this thing all over the place. They can attack me all they want, but they’d better leave my daughter out of it.”

  At this point their voices drift off, presumably into the dining room. I can’t hear them anymore, but Papa’s words resonate in my mind. It’s crazy. Or, more accurately, she’s crazy.

  I don’t want to hear anymore. So I head for my bedroom at the top of the stairs. It doesn’t matter that it’s never really felt like mine. The decorators Papa hired insisted on painting the walls a swirly pink and green, Hannah Montana theme. It was fine when I was twelve, but that was four years ago—and I hate the color pink. I’ve hidden most of it beneath a collage of posters from my favorite Broadway shows, like Wicked, Once and Memphis. There are more posters on the ceiling over my bed stuck up with thumbtacks, and a floor to ceiling bookshelf filled with my favorite novels. Papa bought me the latest iPad for Christmas, but I still prefer real books.

  I slip into my room and close the door behind me. Then, pressing my back against it, I sink to the floor and pull my knees up to my chest. If only I could stay here in my own little sanctuary, maybe I’d have a shot at survival. I wrap my arms around my legs and lay my cheek against my knees. I try to coax back the tears, but despite all my efforts a few drop onto my jeans leaving three dark, damp spots behind.

  Morning arrives, dragging me from what I like to call ‘outer darkness’. The term is one of endearment. I sleep deeply. I don’t dream. At least, if I do have dreams I never remember them when I wake up, which is a good thing since I’ve got so many other people’s dreams to worry about.

  At night my mind somehow files away all the other psyches I may have uploaded during day. Not that I forget. I never forget. But my brain sorts itself out, I guess, archiving memories, emotions and everything else, so that when I wake up all that’s left are vague impressions. Kind of like waking from a dream that evaporates before you can grab hold of it. It is the one thing about my condition that is bearable.

  My condition.

  That’s what Mama calls it—like I’m pregnant or mentally ill. I know she’s just trying to be sensitive, but it irritates the heck out of me.

  After a quick shower I throw on my jeans and tank top, with the familiar hoodie over that. Papa says I dress like a bum, but it’s become my ritual garb; my ultimate defense against the outside world.

  I head down the hall to Mama’s room and find her sitting on the side of her bed with her blood sugar monitor in hand. From a distance, it kind of looks like a cell phone. It’s the same size and shape, with a large LED screen and some little white buttons. Mama groans as she tries to slip the tiny plastic testing strip into the reader and misses.

  “Mama, your hands are shaking. Let me do that.”

  I pull a pair of silicon surgical gloves from the box on the nightstand and tug them on. Then I take the strip from her and slide it into the monitor. Retrieving a clean lancet from the black plastic container, I prick the tip of her finger and hold the bead of blood to the protruding end of the test strip.

  “You shouldn’t have to do this for me,” Mama says, running her shaking fingers through her disheveled hair.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “It’s all good.” The red LED numbers blink on the tiny screen. “72. Pretty low.”

  “No wonder I woke up. I always feel like crud when it gets that low. Hand me some juice, will you?”

  Mama keeps a case of juice boxes on the bookshelf beside her bed. She likes apple best, so I grab one, insert the straw, and hand it to her.

  “I may need two this morning,” she sighs. Finishing them both off, she sets the empty boxes on her nightstand before lying back down and pulling her comforter up to her chin. “I could sure go for a Double-Double right about now.”

  “You want a hamburger at—” I glance at her digital clock, “seven-fifteen in the morning? I’m pretty sure In-N-Out doesn’t open until ten.”

  “Oh. Well, Mickey D’s has been open since five.”

  “You really want a burger?” I roll my eyes at the pout Mama offers. “Okay…I’ll send Jordan to pick one up for you.”

  “Jordan is Papa’s campaign manager, Mira, not my personal gofer.”

  “You know he doesn’t mind,” I tell her. “He’d get you a burger if I asked him to.”

  Her shoulders slump in an intentional effort to look disappointed. “I think he left with your father already.”

  “Then I’ll have Helen make one in the kitchen.”

  “It’s not the same. I’m craving something greasy and salty. And I want French fries.”

  Mama grins. I don’t have to touch her to know what she’s thinking. She’s trying to make me want a burger, too—and it’s working. After spending three days in the hospital, a burger and fries sound like heaven. When I close my eyes and draw in a slow, deep breath, both she and I know she’s got me hooked.

  “How much time do you need to get ready?” I ask, surrendering to my now growling stomach.

  “Half an hour to get my blood sugar stable, and a few minutes to shower. We’ll go at eight?”

  “My appointment with Dr. Walsh is at nine.”

  “Perfect,” says Mama. “We’ll grab some burgers on the way.”

  At twenty after eight, Mama and I climb into the front seat of her little aqua VW Bug with a giant daisy painted on the front hood. She’s promised it to me once I get my driver’s license.

  “It’s a classic,” she says, touching two fingers to her lips and then the dashboard. She follows the same ritual every time she drives and claims that it is her best disguise from the paparazzi. “They haven’t caught me yet,” she adds, pulling into traffic.

  After a quick jaunt through the nearest drive-thru, we head for Santa Monica, gleefully stuffing our faces with hot, crispy fries. Just as we pull into the parking lot of Mercy Medical Plaza adjacent to the hospital, Mama’s cell phone rings. She swipes a stray smear of ketchup from the corner of her mouth and then answers.

  “Can’t this wait?” She pauses for a minute before saying, “No, i
t’s fine. I can be there in twenty.”

  She snaps the phone shut. “That was your father. There’s a problem at the convention center. Something to do with the seating arrangements for Sunday night’s fundraiser.” She sighs loudly. “Politicians! They all act like twelve-year-old girls. This one refuses to be seated next to that one . . .” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “Anyway, your father wants me to talk to the event coordinator and smooth things out.”

  “Papa knows about my appointment, right?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  She throws an apologetic glance my way. “I’m sorry, Mira. This fundraiser comes at a very precarious time for your father. He’s counting on this event to fund the last leg of his campaign. With all the bad press about the investigation—well…everything has to be perfect.”

  She pauses, carefully studying my face.

  “You know what? It can wait.” She starts to dial. “I’ll tell him I’ll swing by in an hour or two.”

  “No, Mama. I’m good. I can go on my own.” I open the car door and step out onto the sidewalk to prove it.

  Mama leans over the emergency brake to smile up at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I’m really not, but I smile anyway.

  “I’ll call Jordan, all right? He’ll come by in an hour to pick you up.” Mama reaches for my sleeve. She pinches the fabric between her fingers and rubs her thumb back and forth a little. “Everything will be all right. Okay?”

  She says this to reassure herself rather than me. I can read it in her face: You’re wearing a black sweatshirt in the middle of summer. You just got out of the hospital after trying to kill yourself. Of course you’re not okay. And she’s right. But instead of answering her, I simply nod and close the car door. My stomach clenches as I watch her drive away. Then I reach for the office door and step inside.