Page 61

Jessica

I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I feel like I’m in some episode of Black Mirror or something.

Dr. Joe just pimp-slapped his nurse, who is handcuffed to the chair and supposedly tried to kill me last night and is also claiming to be my mom?

Maybe I’m hallucinating all this, because this is like the craziest soap opera episode ever.

Whatever is going on, I’m done. Like, jail might actually be better than this.

Especially if slapping people is okay. There seems to be no oversight in this place.

Are there any other doctors? Can I be transferred?

Can I complain to a manager? I mean, the fact that I’m grateful for underwear is ridiculous.

He’s up in her face right now, ranting at her, and there’s definitely some personal drama at work here. I inch to the edge of my seat and jump in as soon as he pauses to take a breath. “Um, excuse me?”

“What?” he bites out, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s locked in on her, and he looks super pissed. And I was thinking about marrying a guy like him. See, that’s why I can’t find love. I pick assholes. Assholes dressed up to look like sweethearts.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say quietly.

“Hold it.”

“But I can see the bathroom like, right there. Is it okay if I go real quick?” I point to the open door; it’s literally five steps away.

“No.”

This is ridiculous. “I’ll be like two minutes. I promise.” I’m great at this. Mom says I could wear down a pencil eraser just from asking it to death.

“Think about our life together,” she says quietly. “Think about your proposal. Your—”

“You guys keep talking; I’ll be right back,” I whisper, and I stand, easing around his chair. He looks at me, then at the open door, the bathroom sign half-visible.

“Be quick,” he orders. “Then right back here.”

“I will,” I promise. I move fast, before he changes his mind, easing through the open door and pushing open the swing door into the bathroom. There are two stalls, and I use the first one, sighing in relief at the gush of urine.

I’m so lucky I haven’t gotten a UTI. I’ve had two so far this year, which supposedly means I’m chronic. Talk about the worst pain of my life. Pissing wasn’t even the worst part, even though it felt like razors coming out.

I wipe and pull up the cotton underwear and scrub pants, tightening the drawstring and tying it into a bow.

I wash my hands, taking my time with the soap and doing the full twenty-second process that Chunky Mike’s always stipulates but we never actually do, scrubbing the soap underneath my fingernails and over my palms before I rinse them clean.

I grab two paper towels and pat my hands dry, then smell them.

Lavender, and maybe vanilla? Super yummy. I push on the door and peek out.

Their voices are quiet, and now he’s got a hand on both of her chair’s armrests, pinning her wrists down as she says something.

It sounds like she is crying, and I hesitate, not thrilled at the prospect of returning.

I glance down the hall, and at the end of it is a door with a wide bar instead of a knob. Not a closet. An exit.

Maybe I could just leave.

I hesitate, then step in that direction, moving down the hall and toward the door at the end. Lie about it, and I’ll put you in the box.

I was going to cut your wrists and stage it to look like a suicide.

I mean, how many red flags do I need? What is the worst-case scenario if I leave? I already supposedly killed my mom. Playing hooky from psychotherapy has to be a slap on the wrist compared to that.

I take a few more steps away from his office, listening to see if he notices. He doesn’t, and I move faster, breaking into a jog as I get farther down the hall. My socks are silent on the tile floor, the anti-slip pattern on the bottom helping me gain traction.

There’s a cry from one of the rooms to my left, and I pause at the sound. The hall is empty, and for the first time, I really study the place. It’s all glistening white walls and tile floors. The room beside me has Higgins written in neat Magic Marker on a label on the door.

There’s another cry from inside the room, and I reach for the door handle and pause again, unsure if I should open it. Maybe there’s a psychopath in there, one who used to eat people on the weekends.

Fuck it. I turn the handle and pull.

Well, that’s anticlimactic. It doesn’t budge.

The room has the same little door thing that the food comes through, and I crouch down and flip the lock, then swing open the door.

There’s a woman’s face right there, and I fall backward, clamping my hand over my mouth to stop the scream. She’s old, like my mom’s age, and her eyes dart to the left and the right like Ping- Pong balls. “Who are you?” she whispers, and her voice sounds like cheese coming through the grater.

Her breath is terrible; I’m five feet away, and it’s like a hand, covering my face, refusing to let me breathe. Is mine that bad? I try to remember brushing my teeth, and it has been a bit. “I’m Jessica—”

“You gotta get me out of here,” she hisses. “My name is Tricia Higgins. I have two children. Call the police. Have you called the police?”

“No, I—” I look back at Dr. Joe’s office.

“Go get help,” she says urgently, her hand gripping the opening. Her fingernails are all bitten to the quick. “Hurry. Before they find you.”

I push up to my feet and don’t wait for more. I’m four steps from the exit, and I hit the bar with both hands and it gives, the metal door swinging open. No alarm sounds, and I spill out, then stop in the bright afternoon sun.

I’m in the woods.

It’s such a surprise that I take a moment and stare, not understanding what I’m seeing.

I had been expecting a view of Pomona Avenue or perhaps a back parking lot.

Instead, there’s pine straw everywhere and an older SUV parked next to a tree stump.

From somewhere to my left, a bird chirps.

I whirl around, and the building before me looks like an old barn, the stall doors boarded up.

Had I not just come out of it, I would have called it abandoned.

I look back at the door I came out of, and there’s a small keypad hidden beside the handle, the only hint of what is inside.

This feels bad. Like, really bad. I stumble backward, then turn and consider my options. There’s a wide road that goes off through the woods. I head toward it, breaking into a run on the soft pine straw.