Breakable Page 28

  Then Finn swore. “Why…would you… stick up for her? She’s… a piece of…”

  Mark roared and swung, landing a punch on Finn’s ribs.

  I sobbed. He was losing it. He’d end up really hurting Finn, and he’d hate himself. Think he was like his Dad. It would be all my fault.

  “M-Mark! Stop!” I gasped.

  Then they rolled. Finn got top, then pushed himself off of Mark and sprang to his feet, hands up. His face was red and purple in places. Blood seeped from a corner of his lip which was swelling fast. Mark was slower to get to his feet, but the look on his face chilled me.

  “Mark,” I breathed.

  “Just c-calm down, Mark,” Finn snapped, rubbing the blood from his chin with the back of his wrist. “She isn’t worth it.”

  Mark’s face twisted. I expected him to reply. But he didn’t make a sound. Just threw himself at Finn.

  “No!” I screamed.

  A guttural snarl left Mark’s throat as he tangled with Finn, punching, grabbing. They turned and swung, plowing into each other and breaking apart, but always, always moving.

  I tried to get out of their way, to get out of the room so I could call for help. But their swinging arms and staggering tussles blocked me. They drew closer, step by struggling step, and every time I tried to move, I slide further sideways.

  Then Finn lunged. I jerked back and tripped over the leg of an easel. Mark bellowed and they tumbled after me. The pile of easels crashed to the floor, taking my heart with them because they were getting closer to my easels and I couldn’t let them ruin my painting again.

  “Stop!” I screamed, then grabbed my head because yelling was like cutting through my skull with a shard of glass.

  Mark froze. His head snapped up and he paled. “Your head’s bleeding!”

  But I didn’t have time to reassure him, or explain, because behind him Finn rose to his feet. Before I could scream a warning, he threw himself at Mark, who slammed forward into the floor, scattering stools and brushes.

  Then I wanted to cry because Mark was on his hands and knees on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth. And I couldn’t get to him because between us Finn stood over him, wavering.

  “Why are you standing up for her?” Finn heaved, holding his ribs. “She’s a–”

  “Leave him alone!” I screamed again and winced, but this time I went for Finn because I was so sick of him twisting everything around.

  He barely glanced at me over his shoulder, just swiped his arm towards me to push me off. But he caught me on the side of the head and I fell like a tree, straight for the mirror.

  “NO!” Older Me screamed, her face twisted with despair. She cowered, arms over her head, as I crashed through.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  There’s a special kind of pain reserved for dancing with shattered glass. It comes in stages:

  The initial assault is fear; you see the glass coming and you know it’s going to hurt.

  Then there’s the moment everything explodes and the glass tears at your skin, catching, peeling, shaving you away and you think, I might die.

  Then the pieces fall and break into new pieces. You’re heading to the floor too, but they beat you there and all the tattered parts of you land on all the shattered parts of it. They are needles in open wounds. Knives on raw flesh.

  And then the fire arrives – hot, burning flames that lick the wounds. And every time you move, the tiny pieces that stuck with you cut a little deeper and the flames roar higher.

  In short, it sucks.

  If only it ended there.

  As my shredded body slumped to the floor, it didn’t land on the dusty linoleum of the art room. Instead, I passed through the frame of the glass, through the ripples and the shimmer, to bounce off a thick carpet in a small room I didn’t recognize.

  My entire body screamed with pain. I barely registered anything until I realized Older Me was there, her mouth wide – screaming or not, I wasn’t sure. She threw herself toward me, but my shattered body shook me. And as I reached for her, I blinked.

  Then she was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I let out the breath that’s been trapped in my chest since I started remembering.

  Doc sits back in his chair. His eyes are measuring me again. “That’s a very troubling story.”

  “And yet, you don’t seem very troubled by it.” If I don’t clench my teeth, they’ll chatter.

  One of his eyebrows climbs. “Frankly, I don’t believe it.” I open my mouth, but his hand comes up to stall me. “I’m sure you’re being honest – from your standpoint – about the mirror and what you see there. But it’s time for us to challenge this…this obsession. I refuse to believe you broke the time-space continuum when you went through that glass. And I think deep down, you don’t really believe that either.”

  “But I did!”

  “Oh? Then if you went into the future, how did you get back?”

  “I told you, when I closed my eyes, she was gone.”

  He sighs and holds my gaze for what seems like forever, but must only be a few seconds. Then he shakes his head, makes a note in his little book, and returns his eyes to me. “I won’t be signing you out today,” he says. The coldness in his tone shakes me to the core.

  “But I’m telling the truth!”

  “If that’s true, then you need to be here anyway.”

  “Doc–!”

  He’s clipping his pen and straightening the papers in his lap. “Stacy, I don’t believe you think this story is true. You’ve been here three months and in all that time, no one has observed even the slightest hint of psychosis.”

  “Exactly! So let me–”

  “But there is no doubt that you are a very troubled and emotionally traumatized young lady. It would be remiss of me to allow you to return to your life without having helped you combat the issues you face.”

  I curse. “You can believe whatever you want. Tell yourself whatever you want to justify keeping me here and taking my money. But I told you the truth.” And my throat catches, betraying me.

  Doc sighs, and shakes his head. “I had high hopes you’d make a smart decision today and come clean–”

  “I did!”

  “–but I can see that whatever is really behind your aversion to mirrors is still too important to you to give up. I’m sorry, Stacy. I don’t believe you’re ready. I’d like to see you in six more weeks of therapy, then we’ll talk again.” He starts closing my file. It isn’t a ploy. He really is dismissing me.

  I glance at the clock. It’s coming. “Doc, you can’t–”

  “I’m reassigning your therapist – again.” He eyes me over the top of his glasses. “But this time I’m not going to allow you to change. Either you work with one doctor for the entire duration, or the six weeks starts again.”

  “But–!”

  “I’d highly recommend that the next time we sit down, you are prepared to be more open. Or we’re going to be here for a while.” He gets to his feet.

  I panic. “Wait a second, you can’t send me back in there!”

  “I’m left with no choice,” he says, walking towards his desk. “You refuse to give me the complete truth. So you’re wasting my time.”

  “Doc–”

  “Go back to your room. I’ll have someone bring your bag soon. I don’t want you lifting that with your scars.”

  No. No, he can’t do this. “Just give me more time. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just…”

  He turns. Waits. “Just what, Stacy?”

  “Just a little more time. To process. Then… then I’ll look in the mirror. With you.”

  His eyes narrow. “How much time?”

  I glance at the clock, try to remember exactly… “Um, thirty minutes?”

  He checks his watch. “No. Sorry. I have another commitment at that time. If you are prepared to tell me what it is in the mirror that so frightens you, you need to do it now.”

  “I can’t do
it now!” My voice is too high, quaking. I know I sound petulant, but he can’t possibly understand. I’m here to change history. And I can’t explain that to him because then he’d definitely make me stay. In a strait-jacket.

  “Then I will see you in a few weeks.” He drops his notepad and pen to the desk, settles into the chair.

  “Doc, you can’t–”

  “I assure you that I can, Stacy. And I promise you, there will come a day you’ll thank me for this. When your mind is healthy and you’re–”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my mind!” I yell, stamping my foot. “I-I’m not afraid of mirrors.” I’m just desperate because it all hinges on this. Today. And I was sure if I could get the Doc to let me out I could get home in time. But… would it work if he was there?

  His head rises slowly, the expression on his face is similar to my mother’s when she’s decided I’m being difficult. “Goodbye, Stacy. I’m not discussing it further for six more weeks.”

  “Wait–”

  “Do I need to get security in here? Because I won’t hesitate.”

  “No! Just…just don’t make me leave yet!” I circle his desk so he can see that I’m serious. He comes to his feet quickly, glaring a warning at me.

  “Stacy–”

  “Please, you don’t understand!”

  “I understand that you’re upset. I’m willing to talk to you about it at a later date. But right now you need to step away and return to your room–”

  “I can’t!”

  “Stacy, take your hands off me.” His voice is low and authoritative. I hadn’t even realized I’d grabbed his shirt. But I’m not going to hurt him. He just needs to see–

  The door – the other door, the one that leads back into the hospital – swings open suddenly and two large orderlies charge in.

  “Sir, are you okay?” the first one calls as they round the furniture between us.

  I let go of Doc immediately, jump back, put my hands up so they’ll see I’m not hurting him. But one of them is on my right arm, holding with both hands as soon as I let Doc go. The other takes my left just a second later.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt him.”

  “I’m fine, gentlemen. Stacy didn’t harm me. She’s just excited.”

  “Excited?” I yell. My vision is beginning to blur. He’s really doing it. He’s really not going to stay with me. “I’m not excited. I’m trying to make you see that this is important!”

  Doc’s face drops into a concerned frown. “Stacy, of the two of us, I think I understand the importance of what’s happening to you far better than you.”

  “But–!”

  “Sedative, sir?” the guy on my right says quietly.

  “No!!!”

  But Doc’s already shaking his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Not if she cooperates from here. But please return her to her room.” His gaze drops to my face then. “Stacy, I want you to stay there until dinnertime. I’ll have your new therapist speak with you after the meal.”

  Too late. Too late! “Doc, please–!” But my feet almost leave the carpet as the orderlies move me. I’m practically being carried to the door. I strain to see him over my shoulder, wincing at the pain as the orderlies don’t allow me to turn. Every inch of my skin protests with fire and ice when I twist, but I have to see him. Have to convince him.

  “Doc!”

  Doc frowns at me, but says nothing as the men usher me out of his office – through the door that goes back into the hospital – and out into the hallway.

  “Please!” I scream at him.

  Doc stands in the doorway for a second. Then his head drops. He shakes it once and closes the door.

  He has no idea what he’s done.

  I sag between the orderlies, then snap back upright as my scars protest the added pressure.

  I try to walk, but my feet peddle half-heartedly, my hearth thumping, my head screaming. It can’t end this way!

  It’s hard to breathe, so I focus on the easy, the mundane – the crisp, clean hallway with grey linoleum floors and light green walls. It smells like potpourri. My stomach roils.

  “…just have some time to yourself, think things through. You’ll be fine. Don’t cry.”

  I hadn’t realized the guy to me right was speaking to me, trying to reassure me. I hadn’t realized I was crying.

  My room is only three halls away from Doc’s office.

  They lead me to my bed, question my stability. I tell them I’m fine. I apologize that they had to help.

  When I’ve convinced them that I’ve calmed down, they walk slowly for the door, glancing back at me and consorting in whispers. Ignoring them, I bury my face in the pillow and wait until they leave.

  It takes minutes for the door to click. When it does, between the heavy cotton under my face, and my hair falling to shield me from the light, I can almost believe it’s all been a dream.

  But two minutes later, when the room has remained silent, I look up.

  My room is empty.

  The clock says 2:17pm.

  Twenty-eight minutes. I failed by twenty-eight minutes.

  Then the tears really come.

  Chapter Forty

  No one understands what I’m trying to do. Not even the person who will benefit most from it.

  My hospital room is about to become the site of my ultimate failure. The entire cycle will begin again. My body is slack with desperation.

  But after a time, even I can’t avoid it any longer. I raise my head, feel the cold of tears on my cheeks as the air moves. The clock says 2:39pm. My stomach sinks. It’s happening.

  I sit up straight and wipe my face.

  Enough. Even though I’ve failed, she can’t be alone for this.

  I wipe my eyes which refuse to stop producing tears, stumble to the closet in the wall and swing open the door.

  On the inside is the mirror the nurses installed after my second therapist decided it wasn’t healthy for me to be avoiding mirrors completely. I’d pretended angst about it, but was secretly relieved. No more sneaking off to the bathroom to talk to her.

  I face the mirror and push my shoulders back. Try to straighten my ponytail. I look terrible. But that’s the least of both our problems today.

  Will I tell her?

  She’s so angry with me right now. It could mean losing her forever.

  Besides, there probably won’t be time.

  I open my mouth to say her name, to open the portal, or whatever it is we have that allows us to talk to each other. But my throat is closed with tears and fear and failure. I cough to clear it.

  “Sta-acy?” It comes out like a croak.

  Then she’s there, standing in front of a bunch of easels. Easels displaying her work. Our work.

  It’s been almost funny to me to examine her art when the chance presents itself. After all, she’s me. We took the same classes, had the same influences, were drawn to the same inspirations. And yet…

  Her faces are better than mine. Her still-lifes less stylized.

  I remember the portraits. And the self-portrait. I remember the pieces of Mark…

  She’s done better than I did. She’s given them more time. Or maybe she’s simply better.

  I hope so.

  She hasn’t realized I’m watching, and I take advantage of that, watching her quick, sure movements, grateful that she’s turned the easels to face the window. From this angle, I can actually see some of what’s on them.

  The clock overhead ticks one minute closer and the nerves in my stomach tighten, curl into a tingling mess that threatens to suck my navel into my spine.

  It’s almost ti–

  The door behind me swings open with a creak. I jump, haven’t even turned around before his voice fills my head.

  “How could you do this, Stacy? How could you give up? Did you think the doctor wouldn’t tell me?”

  “M-Mark?!” I whirl to find him standing in the doorway; drink in the sight of his face, his golden hair – just
beginning to lighten at the temples, his strong, broad shoulders, heavier than they used to be, but still magnificent.

  His face is hard and it pains me. But I can’t help the twirl of hope because he’s here. It’s impossible. But he’s here!

  Mark storms across the carpet to stand in front of me, grabs both my arms and gives me a tiny shake. “Why wouldn’t you just talk to him? How will you ever get better if you won’t let anyone in to this? I can’t make this better for you, Stacy. I can’t make you better.” He drops my arms, running one hand through his hair in a way that makes it stand up, and reminds me of when we were teenagers.

  I know what he’s saying is serious. I know I should be scared. But all I can think is that he’s here.

  Now.

  I never imagined…“What are you doing here?” I thought I had to get out of here. I thought I had to go to him.

  He slumps. “I was supposed to be coming to do a session with you and the doctor. But he said you tried to lie to him. Stacy, why would you do that? What’s going on?”

  Without thinking, I turn to see what Little Stacy’s doing. Then I wonder whether she can see him… but as soon as I face the mirror my questions are answered.

  She’s glaring at me, her mouth half-open, still unused to seeing him. Still angry with me for lying. But she doesn’t understand. I had to see if she could change our life. I had to see if she could take a different path.

  And she did! She finally did!

  I lied, yes, I lied. But it moved her. And she didn’t give up. She’s there, in the art room. And she will succeed. I’m sure of it. And now Mark is here too…

  It’s too much to think I might not have failed after all.

  Maybe…maybe we can change history.

  Mark sighs and steps forward, reaching for my arm more gently this time. He stares over my shoulder, into the mirror, into my eyes. For the first time in a long time I see what he must look like to other people – so tall and proud and sure. I remember how much I loved him for that. Before. Before he decided I was stone-cold crazy.

  It’s the thing that’s always between us now. His eyes rarely warm for me anymore. And when they do, it’s quickly followed by the moment when he remembers and the chill returns. Now, because he’s so sure I’m a mess, and because I fight him on it, there’s only anger in his gaze. And so much hurt.