Her voice has trailed off, but I know she’s not done. So we wait. And after a bit, she blinks a few times and seems to come back to life. “Julien has been…ill. We didn’t want people’s pity, so we decided it would be best not to reveal her diagnosis.”
“Diagnosis?” Maggie asks.
“She has…schizophrenia.” It’s like the word is being choked out of her. She pauses to take a drink of her cocoa, and I can’t help thinking she’s trying to wash that word right out of her mouth. “Apparently, it’s a disease that runs in my husband’s family. Julien was beginning to show symptoms in the last month we were in Ridgeview.”
“Is that why you left?” I ask, and immediately decide I shouldn’t have. It’s like laying all my cards on the table.
To my shock, Mrs. Miller nods. “We wanted a fresh start for Julien. Her disease has taken a very aggressive course. We wanted her to get the best treatment, and there are doctors here that were recommended to my husband. To both of us.”
No, this isn’t that simple.
“I was s-so surprised Mr. Miller could leave his b-business,” Maggie says.
Mrs. Miller cringes like she’s been dunked in ice. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes cut away.
“Can we see her?” I ask again, trying to bring back the open lady who seemed so ready to talk before. “I’ve really missed Julien.”
“She misses you too,” she says, smiling sadly. “She should be out of the shower, so I’ll go get her. Now, again, she has been medicated, but even then her handle on lucidity isn’t consistent.”
“So it c-comes and goes?” Maggie asks, frowning.
Mrs. Miller’s face is crunching with sadness, so I try to explain, drawing from the little I’ve read. “Schizophrenia can force people to sort of detach from reality. She might be fine one minute—”
“And then she might start talking about The Wizard of Oz as if it’s happened just next door,” Mrs. Miller says. Her expression is pleasant again, but her eyes hold so much pain, my own chest aches.
“Are you sure you’re prepared for this?” she asks.
No. No, I’m definitely not. But I nod anyway.
Chapter Twenty-two
Mrs. Miller leaves us to wait in a small living room with crushed velvet couches and antique tables. It’s all very Jane Austen. All that’s missing is a guy in a starched shirt. And maybe tea service.
We sit on the edge of the couch with our hands in our laps, too freaked out to say a thing. I hear voices at the top of the stairs and then footsteps descending. I don’t even know how it’s possible, but I tense up more.
Julien enters, dressed in khaki shorts and a couple of blue tank tops layered over one another. Her hair is still long and pale, curling at the edges just like a shampoo commercial. And her smile is the carbon copy of her mother’s. White and wide. And one hundred percent normal.
“Omigosh, Chloe!” Julien squeals as she crosses the room, tugging me into a hug. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
I catch Maggie’s gob-smacked expression over Julien’s shoulder, knowing mine has to match.
Julien pulls back from me, eager and happy. “Can you believe this house? What do you think of San Diego? Was your flight good?”
“Great!” I say, not sure which question I’m answering, but figuring it’s the best word to suit them all.
Behind Julien, Maggie is still staring. I can’t blame her. I mean, where’s the freaking crazy girl? I was expecting some hollow-eyed horror-movie extra, the kind of girl who rocks in the corner and avoids daylight. But this is just Julien.
“Oh,” Julien says, frowning and turning to Mags. “I’m so sorry, Maggie, I didn’t even say hello. It’s great to see you too.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Julien slides a slim arm around my shoulders, and I tense like she’s about to snap me in half. “I’m so glad you two made up,” she says. “You’d been friends for so long, and I hated seeing you fight.”
Maggie and I both offer parrotlike head bobs in response. The weird factor in this room is at an all-time high. I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole schizophrenia conversation in the kitchen, and then, right in front of my nose, Julien kind of fades out.
I think of a television losing signal or maybe ink dissolving in water. Her face goes dull and flat, as if everything’s kind of floating around her. And then she nods, as if someone asked her a question.
“You’ll have to fill me in,” she says, and it’s normal enough, but she’s not. Something’s just…off. Her voice is higher. Almost childlike.
“Of course,” I say anyway, moving to sit down on the couch.
Julien plays with the hem of her tank top, twisting it over and over, her fingers flicking in tiny, rapid movements that seem at complete odds with her vacant expression.
“Where should I start?” I ask, noticing Mrs. Miller for the first time. She’s still hovering by the door. Watching.
Julien looks up with that brilliant grin. “Start with the Wicked Witch because I haven’t heard a thing since I’ve been here. I need to hear every single thing. I keep track, of course. In my diary.”
I look to Maggie for help, but her expression makes it pretty clear she’s checking the hell out of this adventure.
“Uh, well, I don’t know much about that,” I say, “but everyone’s applying for colleges back home. And the winter dance is coming up after Christmas, so—”
Julien sits down beside me, slipping her arm through mine. “Oh, don’t be like that. I don’t want boring stuff about boys. Tell me what you’ve learned about the Wicked Witch.”
“Julien,” her mother says. It’s soft, but it’s a warning.
Julien doesn’t even look at her. But her eyes go round and big, and she squeezes my arm until I want to pull it loose. Now her voice is pip-squeak high, like she’s morphed into an overgrown toddler. “Oh no. Did she have a flying monkey go after you?”
“A what?”
“I knew she’d use them. I knew it. She did, and oh, that’s terrible. I don’t know what to do now. I just don’t know.”
Mrs. Miller moves closer, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “Julien, sweetheart, let’s not talk about that right now. Would you like to talk about the beach? You know how much you like the beach.”
Julien flips her hair and sucks her teeth in a way that brings me back to middle school in the worst possible way. “I can’t talk about the beach right now. Anyone could be listening, Mother. Anyone!”
I pull my arm free then because I have to. I just have to.
She really is crazy. Certifiable. I flew across the entire freaking country because I was positive this girl was kidnapped or hypnotized or some dire thing, but she’s not. She’s deeply mentally disturbed, and I’m here, obviously upsetting her, so I can dig into my own issues.
“Please tell me what you know about the witch,” Julien says, looking at both Maggie and me, and resisting her mother’s touch on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Julien,” Maggie says, and her expression and voice are both tender. “I d-don’t think we know much about her.”
“I know you don’t,” Julien says to her, and in that moment, she looks perfectly clear. Sharp and focused. The Julien I remember. She takes my hand and looks at me steadily. “But you remember, don’t you, Chloe? You know.”
I open my mouth, and she squeezes my hand and then I see it, clear as day.
Dr. Kirkpatrick at the front of a classroom, that ultracalm smile on her face as she drones on about…I can’t quite make it out. Relaxing.
She wants me to relax. Close my eyes and breathe deep. Let my mind open like a box.
I don’t close my eyes. I narrow them and watch her through the slits. She’s playing with her charm bracelet. It’s pretty. I see a picnic basket and a little dog…and ruby red slippers.
I feel a hand touch my arm, and I open my eyes. I don’t even remember closing them.
Maggie’s standing by the couch now, watching me with worry in her face. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” I turn to Julien, who’s humming quietly beside me. She’s still holding my hand, but she’s not looking at me. She’s not looking at anything. “Hey, Julien?”