The sounds of silverware clinking against ceramic dishes died away as the sun sank below the horizon. Counselor Wayne came around with everyone’s evening meds in tiny little paper cups, just like in Miami.
Stella swallowed hers in front of me, her white T-shirt riding up slightly with the movement. I glanced up and saw Jamie, who downed the contents of his makeshift shot glass too. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and Wayne moved on.
Then it was my turn. There were two additional pills inside my cup today. Oval and blue.
“You know the drill, Mara,” Wayne said.
I did. But I couldn’t have been more unenthused about taking them. What if they made me tired? My eyes flicked up, trying to find Noah in the small sea of faces in the dining room. He wasn’t there.
“Mara,” Wayne said, warmly but with a touch of impatience.
Damn it. I took the cup in my hands and swallowed the pills, chasing them with a gulp of water.
“Open,” he said.
I opened my mouth and showed him my tongue.
Wayne smiled and moved on to the next person. I grudgingly stood and brought my dishes over to the counter, then followed the line of girls walking down the hallway to their respective rooms. I grabbed my little tote with my shampoo and soap in it, helpfully packed by my mother as if she’d sent me off to summer camp, and headed to the girls’ bathroom for a shower. There were stalls, thankfully, but we had to avail ourselves of the spa-like bathroom in groups or pairs. My other half was Phoebe, of course. At that point, I was too used to my life sucking to care.
When I finished, my limbs felt weak with exhaustion and I almost dropped my towel before slipping on my robe. I managed not to embarrass myself, barely, then followed Phoebe’s stupid steps out of the bathroom and back down the hall. She opened the door to our unadorned white room, occupied by a pair of identical white twin beds. Phoebe sat on one at the far end of the room, leaving me the bed closest to the door.
Perfect.
Phoebe was quiet. She hadn’t said anything to me all day, in fact, and I counted myself fortunate. She watched me for a minute, then stood and turned out the main light while I rummaged in my recently-filled dresser for something to wear to bed, even though I had no plans to sleep. I shot her an annoyed look, which she either didn’t notice or ignored. Then she slipped under her covers and I changed and slipped under mine.
Each room had a schoolhouse clock positioned on the wall between both of the beds. Ours read ten o’clock, then ten thirty, then eleven. The seconds ticked away as I listened to Phoebe snore.
Then, in the darkness, two words:
“Get up.”
A harsh, female voice reached into my brain. I wanted to stab it.
My eyes opened slowly. Phoebe hovered near my bed. I started to sit up, but was surprised to find I was already sitting.
I was more surprised to find that my feet were on the floor, the slick tile surface cool beneath them.
“You were getting out of bed,” Phoebe said mechanically.
“What?” My voice was thick with sleep.
“You woke up,” she said to me. “You were going to get out of bed.”
I rested my forehead in one hand. My eyes traveled to the clock.
Four a.m. I missed it. Missed Noah. I was too late.
“Want to get some water?” Phoebe asked.
My throat was sour, my mouth and tongue coated with film. I nodded, not quite sure why Phoebe was being so uncharacteristically nice but not really with it enough to ask. I stood on unsteady feet and followed Phoebe out into the dimly lit hallway. We made our way soundlessly to the bathroom, passing Barney who was now at his console desk.
“We’re going to the bathroom,” Phoebe announced. He nodded at us, smiled, and returned to his book. Silence of the Lambs.
Once inside, Phoebe turned on the faucet. I was desperate for water; I lurched forward to the sink and cupped a handful, raising it to my mouth. I drank deeply, though most of the liquid spilled through my fingers, and quickly darted to catch another mouthful, and another. I didn’t think I could ever drink enough until, finally, the staleness in my throat softened, and the burn died away. I looked up in the mirror.
I was pale and my skin was damp. My hair hung limply around my face, my eyes staring blankly into the silvered glass. I didn’t look like myself. I didn’t feel like myself.
“Bloody Mary,” Phoebe said.
I jumped. I’d almost forgotten she was next to me. “What?” I asked, still focused on the stranger in the glass.
“If you say ‘Bloody Mary,’ three times after midnight, she’ll come to you in the mirror and scratch your eyes and throat out,” Phoebe said.
I stared at her in the mirror. She was looking at the ceiling.
“I just said her name twice.” She smiled. The faucet dripped.
“She had miscarriages,” Phoebe continued. “They said it made her crazy, so she would steal other women’s babies. But then they would die too. She killed them.” Phoebe met my eyes in the mirror, thoroughly creeping me out.
What was I supposed to say? I cupped one last handful of water and splashed it on my face instead of in my mouth.