Page 23

“I’ll send a cruiser out to get you,” he said.

“No!” I interrupted. “I’ll get there myself.” I ended the call and tossed the phone on Gran’s recliner. It bounced off of herStay Sassythrow pillow and landed unceremoniously on the rug. The pit in my stomach was expanding by the minute. The oily smell of the police cruiser filled my nostrils; my stomach recoiled at the memory.Don’t think about it.I was good at that: turning off my feelings and wading through something without acknowledging it with words. Sometimes it was better not to give words to your thoughts, it deprived them of oxygen. It was a topic Piper and I disagreed on. When I saw her writing in one of her journals, trying to hide it from me, I’d think, poor, unfortunate soul…

Grabbing my things, I headed for the door.

Chapter9Present

I Get Offthe ferry at Whidbey, and my phone tells me it’s ten degrees colder here than it was in Seattle.You’re taking a boat route rather than a bus route!An amazingly cold experience. Shivering, I follow the email’s instructions to where theWater Glassis optimistically bobbing on the waves. A small line has formed to board, colorful puffer jackets punctuating the endless gray. Every step that takes me farther away from Gran and Cal gives me anxiety. I cannot protect them from an island. It’s been a full-time job to rationalize the position. The continuous operation of the hospital and the tediousness of travel require swing shifts. Three days, two nights on Shoal Island. My supplies are carefully rolled into my backpack: three pairs of white scrubs, two pairs of sweatpants and T-shirts for down time, a novel, a plastic bag of toiletries, a pack of playing cards, and snacks. The captain, a stocky man, stands on the dock unsmiling while we waddle past in our winter gear. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing, so I follow suit, quickly finding a seat so I’m not a nuisance. I notice I am the only one already wearing my white scrubs; my coworkers having wisely donned warmer pants for the trip.Fifteen minutes later theWater Glassparts the kelp as she pushes toward a little beach surrounded by formidable rocks. The island is hilly and heavily forested. Excitement surges in my belly. I stand too soon. Silly. The motion knocks me back to my seat. Someone laughs—a woman wearing a bright red parka and dark sunglasses. She’s sitting across from me and two seats over. She clutches the handrail for support to show me, and I copy her.

“Happens every time,” she says. “You the new girl?”

“Iris.” I show my teeth, and she shows hers. Hers are very nice teeth, straight and just the right size. Everything about her is the right size. She is wearing red lips, contrasting with the black fur lining the hood of her parka.

“That won’t do,” she says.

“What?”

“Your first name. We don’t use those. We all go by our last names. It’s a safety thing. I’m Bouncer.”

“I guess I’m still Iris,” I say.

She doesn’t look convinced. “No shit. What’s your first name then?”

“I thought we weren’t allowed to say?”

“Touché.” A tighter smile this time. My sister’s case went cold so fast, her name never became a thing. There was no one looking for her like they did with Elizabeth Smart and JonBenét Ramsey. The chance that someone will recognize my name is small, but I still want to be careful.

I fall in line behind Bouncer as we make our way off the dock. At least twelve people get off before me, and there’s another ten or so behind. The path to the hospital from the boat dock is paved and narrow, affording only one person at a time—or two people walking arm in arm. Unless I want to get cozy with Bouncer, I’m forced to stare at her back as we trudge the path along the beach. The smell of wet earth lifts from the ground with the mist.I cling to the straps of my backpack. The path suddenly curves left, pushing us toward the center of the island. When we finally crest the hill, my thigh muscles are screaming.

I unbutton my coat and see that I’m not the only one. People are pulling off their winter gear as we walk. I’m excited when the sign comes into view: white letters on a blue/black paint: Shoal Island Hospital. There’s a large space beneath the name, where the wordsfor the criminally insaneused to be. I want to stop for a moment and take it all in, but I’m already lagging way behind Bouncer.You can come back later and take a photo to show Cal and Gran.I pick up the pace, lightheaded from excitement. The path curves again, and suddenly there she is: a strange sight. A mutt of a building, it is an architectural abomination. A Victorian-looking dollhouse is at the center, plucked from another era, neatly painted. Projecting out of either side of the house are two differently styled buildings. On the left is a lodge house, and on the right and extending toward the cliff wall is a brick building; the type of structure you’d imagine a prison to look like: imposing and bleak. It’s all surrounded by the greenest grass I’ve ever seen.

Modern cream armchairs sit around a huge hearth fireplace. The ceiling is expansive, white with heavy walnut beams. It looks, for the most part, like a lodge. To the right of the fireplace is a wide carpeted staircase that narrows at it climbs to the second floor. My options are to go left, right, or up the stairs. Everyone else seems to be filtering left toward a set of propped-open double doors. I slow down, and the man behind me grunts in frustration. Someone tall pushes past me, their backpack knocking me in the head. I’m being herded, taken somewhere I don’t want to go.

The switch happens in a matter of seconds: my adrenaline turns cold, and a flush of negative energy runs through my body. I am suddenly a fish out of water, gasping for air, eyes glossy with shock.I should not be here; my plan was silly—childish even—what was I thinking?

I smell popcorn; I want to retch. I feel pressure on my wrist, and when I look down, a hand is encircling it—red fingernails, red hair—Bouncer pulls me out of the stream of humans and leads me away. We stop near the fireplace, where she pushes me gently into an armchair. I am a frozen dinner—cold on the inside, hot on the outside.

“You’re having a panic attack,” she says. “Here—” She shoves a pink water bottle into my hand.

“Hold it with your other hand…”

I look at her in confusion.

“Go on…do it.”

Bouncer and her bottle turn into a watercolor beneath my tears and sweat. I fix my gaze on her hair—candy-red—and transfer the bottle to my left hand.

“Switch again,” she says. I do as I’m told, watching as she crouches on the cream rug, balancing on one knee as she searches the pockets of her backpack. I can hear the movement of things: keys, paper, plastic tinkling around in its depths.

The color of her hair reminds me of the heart-shaped lollipops Cal gave to each of his classmates on Valentine’s Day.

“Keep doing that…back and forth.”

She has something in her hand when she stands up. Motioning for me to take a sip of water, she eyes me warily.

“Kid, get it together,” she says under her breath. I nod, screwing off the metal cap and lifting the bottle to my lips. I swallow two measured swigs before handing it back to her. Better. I look at her gratefully.

“Look, you can leave now if you can’t handle it, the boat sticks around for thirty minutes.”