Hate List Part 9

"He's a very nice officer, Valerie. He's not out to get you. He's just trying to find out what happened."

I nodded again, deciding that I was suddenly too tired to fight with her. Suddenly I decided it really didn't matter what she thought. This was so big she couldn't save me even if she did think I was innocent.

We sat there for a few minutes. I flipped the channels on the TV and ended up watching Rachael Ray, who was cooking some sort of chicken or something. We were both silent, save for the shush of Mom's shoes when she shifted positions or the squeak of the vinyl seat of the wheelchair when I did. Probably Mom couldn't think of anything else to say, either, if I wasn't going to give her some big, dramatic soap opera confession or anything.

"Where's Dad?" I finally asked.

"He went home."

The next question hung heavily between us and I considered not even asking it, but decided she was waiting for it and I didn't want to disappoint her.

"Does he think I'm guilty, too?"

Mom reached over and unkinked a spot in the remote control cord, keeping her fingers busy.

"He doesn't know what to think, Valerie. He went home to think. At least that's what he says."

Now that was an answer that hung just as heavily as the question, if you asked me. At least that's what he says. At least that's what he says. What was that supposed to mean? What was that supposed to mean?

"He hates me," I said.

Mom looked up sharply. "You're his daughter. He loves you."

I rolled my eyes. "You have to say that. But I know the truth, Mom. He hates me. Do you hate me too? Does everyone in the world hate me now?"

"You're being silly now, Valerie," she said. She got up and picked up her purse. "I'm going to go down and grab myself a sandwich. Can I bring you anything?"

I shook my head, and as Mom left a thought flashed through my head like a strobe light: She hadn't said no no.

Mom hadn't been gone long when there was a soft knock on the door. I didn't answer. It just seemed like too much energy to open my mouth. Not like I could keep anyone out these days, anyway.

Besides, it was probably Detective Panzella, and no matter what, I was determined that this time he wouldn't get a single word out of me. Even if he begged. Even if he threatened me with a life sentence. I was sick of reliving that day and just wanted to be left alone for a minute.

The knock came again and then the door swished open softly. A head peeked around it. Stacey.

I can't tell you the relief I felt at seeing her face. Her whole face. Not just alive, but not even marked. No bullet holes. No burn marks. Nothing. I almost cried seeing her standing there.

Of course, you can't exactly see emotional scars on someone's face, can you?

"Hey," she said. She wasn't smiling. "Can I come in?"

Even though I was really happy to see that she was alive, I realized once she opened her mouth and the voice that came out was the voice I'd laughed with, like, a million times over the years, I had no idea what to say to her.

This may sound stupid, but I think I was embarra.s.sed. You know, like when you're a little kid and your mom or dad yells at you in front of your friends, and you feel really humiliated, like your friends had just seen something really private about you and it totally takes away from the "got it under control" persona you're trying to project into this world. It was like that, only times a billion or something.

I wanted to say a ton of things to her, I swear. I wanted to ask her about Mason and Duce. I wanted to ask her about the school. About whether or not Christy Bruter lived and Ginny Baker, too. I wanted to ask her if she knew that Nick was planning this. I wanted her to say it blindsided her, too. I wanted her to tell me I wasn't the only one guilty of not stopping it. Of being so incredibly stupid and blind.

But it was just so weird. Once she came in and said, "You didn't answer when I knocked so I thought you were asleep or something," it all felt so surreal. Not just the shooting. Not just the TV images of students streaming, half-b.l.o.o.d.y, out of the cafeteria doors of my high school like a nicked vein. Not just Nick being gone and Detective Panzella chanting Law & Order Law & Order phrases at my bedside. But all of it. Every bit, going all the way back to first grade when Stacey showed me a loose front tooth that stuck straight out like a piece of gum when she poked her tongue behind it and me baring my stomach on the monkey bars on the playground. Like it all was a dream. And this-this h.e.l.l-was my reality. phrases at my bedside. But all of it. Every bit, going all the way back to first grade when Stacey showed me a loose front tooth that stuck straight out like a piece of gum when she poked her tongue behind it and me baring my stomach on the monkey bars on the playground. Like it all was a dream. And this-this h.e.l.l-was my reality.

"Hey," I said softly.

She stood at the end of my bed, awkwardly, the way Frankie was standing on the day I woke up.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

I shrugged. She'd asked me the same question a million times, after a million sc.r.a.pes, in that other, dream world. The one where we were normal and little girls didn't care about their stomachs showing on the playground and the teeth stood out like Chiclets. "A little," I lied. "Not bad."

"I heard you have, like, a hole there," she said. "Frankie told me that, though, so who knows if you can believe it."

"It's not bad," I repeated. "Most of the time it's pretty numb. Pain pills."

She started sc.r.a.ping at a sticker on the bedrail with her thumbnail. I knew Stacey well enough to know that this meant she was uneasy-maybe p.i.s.sed off or frustrated. Or both. She sighed.

"They said we can go to school next week," she said. "Well, some of us. A lot of kids are afraid, I think. A lot are still recovering..." She trailed off after the word "recovering," and her face flushed, as if she was embarra.s.sed to have mentioned it to me. I was struck with another dream image, one of the two of us sweating under a sheet draped over a picnic table in her back yard, shoveling imaginary food into baby doll mouths. Wow, it had seemed so real, feeding those plastic babies. It had all seemed so real. "Anyway, I'm going back. So is Duce. And I think David and Mason too. My mom doesn't really want me to, but I kind of want to, you know? I think I need to. I don't know."

She turned her face up and watched the TV. I could tell that her mind was hardly on the cream puffs being pulled out of the oven by whatever food show host was cooking at the moment.

Finally she looked at me, her eyes a little watery.

"Are you going to talk to me, Valerie?" she asked. "Are you going to say anything?"

I opened my mouth. It felt full of nothing, like maybe full of clouds or something, which I think is only appropriate when you come out of a dream world like that and into an ugly, horrid reality, so horrid it has a taste, a shape.

"Did Christy Bruter die?" I finally blurted out.

Stacey looked at me for a second, her eyes sort of rolling around, all soft-like, in her head.

"No. She didn't. She's just down the hall. I just saw her." When I didn't say anything, she tossed her hair back and looked at me through squinty eyes. "Disappointed?"

And that was it. That one word. It told me that Stacey, even my oldest friend Stacey, the one who was with me when I started my first period, the one who wore my swimsuit and eyeshadow, believed I was guilty, too. Even if she wouldn't say it out loud, even if she didn't think I pulled the trigger, deep down she blamed me.

"Of course not. I don't know what to think about anything anymore," I answered. It was the most truthful I'd been in days.

"Just so you know," she said. "I couldn't believe what happened. I didn't at first. When I heard everyone saying who did the shooting I didn't believe them. You and Nick... you know, you were my best friend. And Nick always seemed so cool. A little Edward Scissorhands or something, but in a cool way. I never would have thought... I just couldn't believe it. Nick. Wow."

She started to walk toward the door, shaking her head. I sat in my wheelchair, feeling numb all over, taking in everything she had said. She couldn't believe it? Well, neither could I. Mostly I couldn't believe that my oldest and "best" friend would just a.s.sume that everything she'd heard about me was true. That she wouldn't even bother to ask me if what they were all saying was what really happened. That moldable Stacey was being molded into someone who no longer trusted me.

"Neither could I. I still don't sometimes," I said. "But I swear, Stacey, I didn't shoot anybody."

"You only told Nick to do it for you," she said. "I've gotta go. I just wanted to tell you I'm glad you're okay." She put her hand on the door handle and pulled it open. "I doubt they'd let you anywhere near her, but if you see Christy Bruter in the hallway here, maybe you should apologize to her." She stepped out, but just before the door swished closed behind her, I heard her say, "I did," and I couldn't help but wonder for, like, eight hours after that, what on earth Stacey had to apologize for.

And when it dawned on me that she was probably apologizing for being my friend, that dream world just blinked out, vanished. It never existed.

10.

I thought I was going home. Mom had slipped in while I was sleeping and had laid out another outfit for me to get into, before disappearing again like smoke. I sat up, the morning light streaming through the window and across the foot of my bed, and brushed the hair out of my eyes with my fingers. The day felt different somehow, like it had possibility.

I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed the crutches the night nurse had left propped against the wall next to my bed, and used them to hop to the bathroom-something I'd been able to do by myself for a full day now. The pain medication still made me woozy, but I was off the IV now, and the wrap around my leg was still bulky, but not bad. My leg only throbbed a little, sort of like a splinter lodged in the wedge between your fingers would do.

It took me a while to maneuver myself around and get down to business in the bathroom, and when I emerged again, Mom was sitting on the edge of my bed. There was a small suitcase on the floor at her feet.

"What's that?" I asked, crutching back to the bed. I picked up my shirt and began peeling myself out of my pajamas.

"Some things I thought you might need."

I sighed, pulling the shirt over my head, and began working on my pants.

"You mean I'm stuck here for another day? But I feel fine. I can get around fine. I can go home. I want to go home, Mom."

"Here, let me get that," Mom said, leaning forward to help me shimmy into my jeans. She snapped them and zipped them for me, which felt weird and comforting all at the same time.

I hobbled to the wheelchair and plopped into it. I pulled my hair out of the back of my shirt and got settled. I wheeled to the nightstand, where a nurse had left a tray of food for me. I smelled bacon and my stomach growled.

"So have they said yet when they'll let me go home? Tomorrow? I really think I can go home tomorrow, Mom. Maybe you can talk to them about it." I opened the lid on the breakfast tray. My stomach growled again. I couldn't get the bacon into my mouth fast enough.

Just as Mom was opening her mouth to speak, the door swung open and a guy in a pair of khakis and a plaid shirt with a lab coat tossed over it came through.

"Mrs. Leftman," he said jovially. "I'm Dr. Dentley. We spoke on the phone."

I looked up, my mouth full of bacon.

"And you must be Valerie," he said, his voice measured and careful. He held his hand out like he wanted me to shake it. I swallowed the bacon and shook his hand tentatively. "Dr. Dentley," he said. "I'm the staff psychiatrist here at Garvin General. How's your leg feeling?"

I looked at Mom, but she was looking at her feet, like she was pretending we weren't in the room with her at all.

"Okay," I answered, reaching for another piece of bacon.

"Good, good," he said, the smile never leaving his face. It was a nervous smile, almost like he was half afraid, but not of me personally. It was almost like he was half afraid of life. Like it was going to jump up and bite him any moment. "Tell me about your pain level right now."

He reached behind him and whipped out my chart, which, of course, had their pain management a.s.sessment page taped to the back of the clipboard. I'd been answering this question about a hundred times a day since I got here. Is your pain a ten? A seven? Maybe it's a 4.375 today?

"Two," I answered. "Why? Am I getting out?"

He chuckled and used his forefinger to push his gla.s.ses back up on the bridge of his nose.

"Valerie, we want you to heal," he said, in this patient kindergarten-teacher voice. "And we want you to heal inside as well. That's why I'm here. I'm going to do some evaluations on you today so we can determine the best way we can help you get to a place of mental health. Do you feel like hurting yourself today?"

"What?" I looked over his shoulder again. "Mom?" But she just kept staring at her shoes.

"I asked if you're feeling like you might pose a danger to yourself or others today."

"You mean am I going to commit suicide?"

He nodded, that stupid grin hanging on like a barnacle. "Or cut yourself. Or if you're having dangerous thoughts."

"What? No. Why would I want to commit suicide?"

He shifted slightly to one side and crossed one leg over the other. "Valerie, I've spoken quite extensively with your parents, the police, and your doctors. We talked at great length about the thoughts of suicide that have apparently plagued you for a good long time. And we all fear that, given recent events, those thoughts might be increasing."

Nick had always been obsessed with death. It wasn't any big deal, you know? Some people were obsessed with video games. Some people thought about nothing but sports. Some guys were totally into military stuff. Nick liked death. From day one when he was sprawled across his bed talking about how Hamlet should have killed Claudius when he had the chance, Nick had talked about death.

But they were stories, that's all. He told stories about death. He recounted movies, books, all with tragic and meaningful death scenes. He talked about news reports and crime reports. It was just his thing. And I adopted his language; I told stories, too. It was no big deal. Really I didn't even notice I'd started doing it. It felt like fiction, all of it. Shakespeare told stories of death. Poe told stories of death. Stephen flipping King told stories of death, and none of it meant a thing.

So I hadn't even noticed when the talk increased. Hadn't noticed when it got personal. Hadn't realized that Nick's stories had become tales of suicide. Of homicide. And mine had, too. Only, as far as I knew, we were still telling fiction.

When I thumbed through the e-mails Detective Panzella had given me on his first visit to my room, I was dumbfounded. How could I have not seen it? How could I have not noticed that the e-mails told an alarming story that would have made anyone sit up and notice? How could I have not seen that Nick's talk had gone from fiction to fact? How could I not see that my responses-still just fiction in my head-would make me look for all the world like I was obsessed with death, too?

I don't know, but I hadn't seen it. As much as I wished I had, I hadn't.

"You mean those e-mails? I didn't mean it. It was all Romeo and Juliet Romeo and Juliet. It was all Nick. Not me."

He kept talking, as if I'd never said a word. "And we all believe that the best course of action for you at this juncture is to keep you safe and enter you into an inpatient residential program where you can get some help to battle those suicidal urges. Group therapy, individual therapy, some medication."

I grabbed my crutches and pulled myself to standing. "No. Mom, you know I don't need this. Tell him I don't need this."

"It's for your own good, Val," Mom said, finally looking up from her shoes. I noticed she had her fingers wrapped around the handle of the suitcase. "It'll only be for a little while. A couple weeks."

"Valerie," Dr. Dentley said. "Valerie, we can help you get what you need."

"Stop saying my name," I said, my voice rising. "What I need is to go home. I can battle whatever urges at home."

Dr. Dentley stood and leaned over to press the call b.u.t.ton on the remote. A nurse scurried in and picked up the suitcase, then just stood at the door, waiting. Mom stood up, too, edging toward the bathroom, out of the way.

"We're just going to move up to the fourth floor, where the psychiatric wing is, Valerie," Dr. Dentley said in that measured voice. "Please sit down. We'll take you in your wheelchair. You'll be comfortable that way."

"No!" I said, and I guess from the way Mom blinked when I said it I must have been screaming, although I didn't feel it. All I could think about was tenth grade Comm Arts cla.s.s when we watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. All I could think about was Jack Nicholson screaming at the nurse about wanting the TV on and the creepy blank-faced Indian and the nervous little guy in gla.s.ses. And-here is the dumbest thing of all-I even had the thought that when word got around that I'd been locked up in a psych ward, everyone would totally make fun of me. Christy Bruter would have a field day with this one. And all I could think was They're going to have to take me up there dead, because there's no way I'm going up there of my own power They're going to have to take me up there dead, because there's no way I'm going up there of my own power.

Dr. Dentley must have had the same thought because once I started screaming, "No! I won't go! No! Get away from me!" the pleasant look on his face turned just slightly and he gave a nod to the nurse who scurried out of the room.

A few moments later two big orderlies came in and Dr. Dentley said, "Be careful of the left thigh," in this very clinical voice and then the orderlies were on me, holding me down while the nurse came at me with a needle. Instinctively I dropped back in my wheelchair. My crutches clattered against the floor. Mom bent over and picked them up.

I thrashed as best as I could with what felt like a thousand pounds on top of me and I screamed as loud as my voice would allow. So loudly, pieces of my words were silent, flinging themselves into the air so forcefully I imagined foreign-looking people in distant countries picking them up like artifacts in the dust. One of the orderlies moved to get a better hold of my arm, which gave me just enough room to kick. I kicked out with all I had, landing a good one on his shin. He let out a shoosh shoosh through gritted teeth, bringing his face kissing-close to mine, but it did nothing to help me. I was pinned. The nurse stole behind me and I moved the only thing I still had power over-my lungs-when she stuck the needle in my exposed hip through the open s.p.a.ce of the wheelchair. through gritted teeth, bringing his face kissing-close to mine, but it did nothing to help me. I was pinned. The nurse stole behind me and I moved the only thing I still had power over-my lungs-when she stuck the needle in my exposed hip through the open s.p.a.ce of the wheelchair.

Within seconds, the only part of me that cooperated with fighting my fate was tears, which smeared my face and collected in my neck. Mom cried, too, and I took some satisfaction in that, though not nearly enough.

"Mom," I whimpered, as they rolled me past her. "Please don't do this. You can stop this..." She didn't answer. At least not in words.

They wheeled me down the hallway toward the elevator. All the way I cried, I begged, I repeated, "I didn't do it... I didn't do it..." but Dr. Dentley had disappeared and all that was left were the two orderlies and the suitcase-toting nurse, none of whom acknowledged they even heard me.

We came to an intersecting hallway with a sign that said ELEVATORS ELEVATORS and an arrow pointing the way. Just before we turned, we pa.s.sed a room, and a face that I recognized. and an arrow pointing the way. Just before we turned, we pa.s.sed a room, and a face that I recognized.

They say that near-death experiences change people. That they suddenly discover what tolerance and love are really about. That they have no more use for pettiness and hate.