Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) (18 page)

I confessed. “Here’s the truth.”

At least part of it. “I used to live St. Louis and I had this best friend, Rachel. She was more of a mentor really. Anyway, she got sick and now she lives in a hospital. I really want to see her. I haven’t been back to St. Louis since I left and I don’t think I’ll have another chance anytime soon.”

Kyra still hesitated, so I resorted to sticking my bottom lip out a little further.

“For an hour?” she asked.

“Less,” I said. “We can probably even squeeze in the Arch if you want.”

“I’d rather go to the Saint Louis Art Museum. They have the world’s largest Max Beckmann collection, but there’s no way I could be in and out of that place in an hour.”

“But you’ll take me?” I asked. I was careful to keep my bottom lip thing going.

“Only if you swear not to tell Ally,” she said, taking the exit onto I-64W St. Louis. “If she knows we deviated from the plan, she’ll kill me.”

“Then I’d replace you, no problem,” I said, happily bouncing in my seat. “Oh, and one more thing.”

Kyra’s shoulders tensed.

“When I say hospital, I mean mental hospital.”

“Oh my god, Jesse.”

“You don’t have to go in!” I added, quickly. “And I swear I won’t be very long.”

Kyra swore under her breath, but she didn’t turn back. I took that as a good sign.

It wasn’t that difficult to find St. Louis Psychiatric Rehabilitation Center. Mostly because Kyra had GPS, but also because when the GPS failed, like in telling us which entrance to use, my memory made up for the rest. I’d only been here once before, on our last day in St. Louis, but it was memorable.

I was out of the car when I realized Kyra hadn’t moved out of the driver’s seat. “Aren’t you coming?”

“You said I didn’t have to!”

My heart sped up at the idea of entering alone, but I couldn’t blame Kyra if this wasn’t her idea of a good time. Asylums are super creepy. Still, I kind of expected her to go in anyway. Ally would have.

“I’ll be right back,” I said again and reluctantly closed the door.

The entrance to the asylum was a large sweeping entryway with columns stretching up several stories. The urge to run back to the car was unsettling and definitely ominous.

The building itself was a square box of bricks and looked like it should be an old school or orphanage. A green and gold dome sat on top, pointing suggestively at the sky. Inside the look of last century prevailed with white cinder block walls and bland tile that squeaked beneath my sneakers.

I couldn’t remember where she was in the building but then I found a plaque on the wall, one with a black background and moveable white letters. I refrained from moving them around to make dirty words and instead searched for the ward I needed.

On the fourth floor I was confronted by a large reception desk, manned by a squat nurse with a beehive hairdo. I imagined her wearing her hair like this for the last five decades despite the fact the rest of her didn’t age as gracefully.

“We don’t have visiting hours except on Wednesdays,” she explained.

“I’m from out of state. I drove from really far away,” I pleaded. I bat my eyes. “Please.”

“Who are you here to visit?” she asked.

“Rachel Wright.”

She looked at her chart again and asked for my name. I gave it to her before it even occurred to me to give a fake name.

“You’re on the authorized list, and you do have an out of state address, so I’ll let it slide this once, hon,” she said with a tight smile. “Just sign this check-in sheet, please.”

I wasn’t sure why my name was on the list unless Brinkley put it there. I stared at the columns and hesitated. I didn’t want it to be known that I was here, but if I wanted to see her, what choice did I have? I scribbled my name as illegibly as possible. That way if anyone wanted to use this sheet in the court of law, there was no way in hell they could prove it was my signature. “Where is she?”

“Wait here and I’ll ask her where she wants to see you,” the nurse said.

Where she wants? Since when did they let the mental patient decide things? I was still puzzling over this when Queen Bee reappeared, holding a door open for me.

“Down this hall, fifth door to the right, hon,” she said. “She’s in her room.”

“You’re going to let me visit her in her room?” I asked. My shock must’ve been apparent. “Alone?”

“We put a chair in there for you.” Then the nurse returned to her paperwork.

I crept down the hall toward the open door the nurse had pointed at. I had no idea what I expected to see in Rachel’s bedroom or what state I expected Rachel to be in, but this wasn’t it.

As the nurse promised, they’d brought in a chair and sat it by one of the beds. Two twin beds rest side by side, one empty, one with Rachel in it. Rachel had her back against the wall and her knees pulled close enough to her chest to balance a pad of paper on her knees. Between the beds sat two end tables for each bed.

“Don’t be scared,” Rachel said, dark eyes finally looking over the edge of her knees. “I’ve had my medication today.”

I must have made a face because she burst out laughing.

“Oh, Jessup, come on! Lighten up,” she laughed so hard tears stung her eyes. “I’m just kidding.” She put her pad of paper on the bed and I realized it was a sketchbook much like the one I gave Gloria. With her hands free, she motioned me into the room. The fact that she was catatonic and drooling the last time I saw her, made this lively Rachel more than a tad shocking.

I stepped into the room.

“A little closer,” she motioned. The side of her hand was black with charcoal from her drawings, but seeing charcoal all over her hands was better than blood any day. “Let me get a good look at you. You haven’t aged a bit, not that we do, of course.”

I got a good look at her too. Her hair was the same chin-length bob, sleek and black as crow feathers. Her eyes were still black marbles in her olive face and I’d almost forgotten about the Monroe mole on her left cheek. Scrub-like pajamas and no makeup didn’t compare to the vibrant clothes and bright lipsticks that Rachel used to wear: lots of red and fuchsia, which always made her dark features that much more exotic. She wasn’t as glamorous as I remembered, but I guess living in a mental hospital will do that to a person.

“This is the part where you pay me a compliment,” she said and pretended to be affronted. “Have I taught you nothing?”

“You look well,” I stammered and tried to blink my way out of shock. “Way better than I expected.”

“Yeahhh,” she said, drawing the word out. “I’ve come a long way in the past two years, thanks to Brinkley.”

“Sorry.” I thought this was sarcasm over the fact that he put her here.

“For what?” she cocked her hair playfully to one side. It was so old-Rachel that I smiled. “I am grateful for all he does for me.”

I wasn’t following her. “Besides put you here, what has he done for you?” I asked.

“He visits. He brings me goodies and makes sure I have the best food and doctors. Patients like me have no families to speak of, yet I have three separate volunteers who come and spend time with me. One of them, Andrew, is so cute.”

She bat her eyes as if she truly believed she was spoiled. God, I’d never realized that I’d learned my mock modesty from her.

“You look so surprised!” she said, laughing again.

“Because last time I saw you were practically unconscious. And the time before that—!” I blurted out. Immediately, I took a step back. I’d read somewhere that if patients are confronted with their afflictions, they flip out. Or at least that’s what I thought I’d read in one of those articles Brinkley made me read, hoping I’d understand my clients’ aversion to dying. That is what I expected Rachel to do, flip out in denial and attack me or something.

“I’m really sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t have good control back then. The power was overwhelming before I learned to control it. I can only hope you’ll forgive me for that.”

“What do you mean ‘the power was over-whelming’?” I grabbed the back of the metal chair, but kept it between us. She was beginning to sound crazy again.

“You know what power I’m talking about,” she said. “I know you came here for answers. Even if you aren’t awake yet, you know you’re different.”

I spent most of my time as a corpse. Of course I knew I was different. “What do you mean I’m not awake? I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

She leaned in close and studied me. I didn’t feel particularly safe, hiding behind a chair.

“I see,” she began. “Someone just flipped your switch. You’re still warming up.” She returned to her drawing. “I, for one, am very excited, given who you are and all.”

“Why are you whispering?” I asked. Because she’s crazy. “And what do you mean who I am?”

She stopped drawing and frowned. “His daughter.”

“Whose daughter? Brinkley’s?” I asked. I wasn’t sure why Brinkley popped into my head.

Maybe because he was the only man old enough that both Rachel and I knew.

Rachel burst out laughing. “No.”

Then more and more laughter until tears blurred her eyes.

“This was a bad idea,” I said. “I don’t know why I thought coming here was the answer.”

Rachel’s hair fell forward into her eyes and curled under her chin. “Because you want to know about the angels.”

That stopped me. And the sing-song tone of her voice put me on edge. She was so normal five seconds ago, that I’d almost forgot she was crazy. Worse, I felt strange in Rachel’s presence, which I could only describe as electric. My skin seemed to shiver against my bones and my mouth went dry. Even though I was convinced she was obviously still completely insane, her words stirred something in me.

“Can’t you just tell me?” I asked.

She pointed at the drawings on her walls, the ones I’d casually overlooked when first entering. I knew the people in the pictures, including Ally and Gabriel—two people Rachel had never met.

Anger rose fresh up my throat and threatened to consume me. I tried to focus. Seeing Gabriel’s face on the walls was enough to remind me why I was here. “Some hurt and some help. That’s what you said. Tell me about the angels.”

She glanced at me over her sketchpad but remained silent. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to knock the notepad out of her hand and demand she speak to me. Scared that I might actually lose my temper on someone who was as mentally fragile as a child, I turned to leave the room.

“Wait!” Rachel called out, terrified. “Don’t go.”

“You don’t want to talk,” I said. I kept my voice tight, restrained. I couldn’t be mean to her.

She put the book down. “Can I at least have a hug?”

No way. I wasn’t even comfortable sitting beside the bed. How could I let a crazy person wrap her arms around me?

Go ahead.

The command was clear in my mind, seemingly more urgent with her outstretched hands groping the air for me.

Do it.

I crossed the room, one step then another. I was within her reach but she didn’t grab for me. She just opened her arms wider and invited me in. Was she compelling me with her mind or something crazy—no.

You can trust her, Jesse
.

I recognized the voice but I didn’t acknowledge it out loud. A mental asylum was the last place you’d catch me talking to my hallucination. Then I saw him, sitting in the empty twin bed. One ankle crossed over the other as he slouched against the wall behind it.

“Come on, Jessup,” Rachel pressed, wiggling her fingers. “Didn’t you miss me even a little bit?”

“More than you know,” I whispered. I meant it. This was my chance to apologize for real. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I blame myself. If you hadn’t worked so hard to train me, replacing so many people—”

Rachel pulled me off my feet into her bed. My heart tightened in panic as her arms closed around me.

“You were worth it,” she whispered and pinched my ear lobes then my cheeks, an old comforting gesture.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I was torn between guilt over her condition and fear that it was only a matter of time before I ended up right here beside her.

“You will be the one to save us, Jessup. I’ve seen it.” Rachel’s arms, soft at first, coiled tighter. It was like feeling a boa constrictor slowly tighten around my neck. So slow, that I didn’t realize I was in trouble until I couldn’t move. When I tried to jerk away from her, she only tightened her hold.

Her voice was so soft that I had to quit squirming or risk losing her words in the shuffle of our clothes and the bedding. “You must listen to your angel and only your angel. He knows what you need better than you do.”

“Wh—”

She squeezed me hard enough to force the air out of my lungs and cut off my words. “They are watching you, Jessup. And listening. Be careful of what you let them see. Keep your power secret. Trust only your angel.”

My heart was a thunderous roar in my temples. Combined with her death grip, the room was reduced to spots around me. It reminded me of Eve’s attack in the worst way. Claustrophobic. Suffocating.