The Beckoning of Broken Things (The Beckoning Series) (3 page)

When All Smiles retrieves me for group therapy, the drugs have kicked in, big time.
I feel like I am the Titanic, about to go down. I shuffle along behind him, my limbs heavy and lethargic. We enter a cheery room with a circle full of chairs holding a circle full of other sedated individuals. All Smiles introduces me.

“Group, this is Marissa. Marissa Engles. Can you give her a warm welcome?”

The group stares. One of them waves. Another claps.

I want to scream. I have officially arrived on Zombie Island. I lift my hand in a half-hearted gesture and settle into the only remaining chair. The room is painted in bright colors - blues and yellows and greens.
It’s a sharp contrast to the clinical white I woke up in. A window is open allowing the breeze of a splendid Pacific Northwest day to stir the air. Bars cover the window, lest we get any ideas of escape rattling around in our heads.

My eyes
track a big blowfly that has made an appearance. It cruises through the room and lands on my hand. It’s the biggest fly I have ever seen. I flinch and flick it away. It swirls around again and lands on my shoulder. I grimace and brush it off. It makes a loop and beelines for my hair.

Don’t brush me off this time.

My eyes widen, and I jerk in my chair.
Who’s there?

It’s me, Tom.

Tom? What are you doing here?

Checking on you, that’s what. What did you get yourself into this time?

The group stares at me like I’ve grown a third arm. The fly tickles as it crawls through my hair. I hate flies. I gingerly nudge it from my scalp. It whizzes up to the ceiling and lands on the white light fixture.

All eyes track the fly.

“Is that your fly?” a mousy blond woman asks me.

“Er, no, I don’t own a fly.”

“It seems to like you,” a red-headed guy in his late twenties or early thirties says. “I would fly into your hair, too, if I could.” He flashes me a shy smile with just a touch of sexy.

That’s an odd come-on.
“It’s just a fly. What are we all doing here?”

“We’re waiting,” says mousy blond.

“For our fearless leader,” adds red-headed guy. “He’s kind of a prick. Making us wait is part of his M.O.”

He winks at me
, and I see mischief behind his blue eyes. I might just like this guy.

Where’s Daniel?
I beseech Tom the fly for answers. Just saying my soul bound lover’s name stirs both longing and consternation.
Bound against my will. But the sexual connection…
Heat and pleasure swirl in my core.

Oh, he’s in a bit of a pickle, too.

What kind of a pickle? Where is he?

The door bursts open and a rotund man enters the room
like a wave of dirty water. Each person recoils slightly in his or her chair. The man looks to be about 5’7”. He’s got a hook nose, a scar running along his forehead, and an angry sneer. This man is definitely not arriving from Camp Happy. His hair is the color of a muddy river bank. He wears a blue tie, a white dress shirt, and gray slacks. A ring of dried, yellowish perspiration lines his armpit.

Watch out for that one,
Tom says in my head.

Who is he?

Dr. Farty Pants. He’s the big cheese windbag around here. He acts like a ringmaster at the circus.

I splutter and choke back a laugh. Dr.
Farty Pant’s head whirls around to face me. I pretend to cough and choke. “Sorry, I have a tickle in my throat.”

“Get her a glass of water,” he says to the red
-head.

“Yes, Dr. Bellows,” the guy says
, and he gets to his feet and makes his way over to the water dispenser. He hands me the water and winks.

We all
sit, expectant. Or maybe we’re just too heavily sedated to care what happens next.
How will I ever get out of here?
I ask Tom.

We’re working on it.
He lets go of the light fixture and zips around the room.

“Get a fly swatter,” Dr. Bellows calls.

Tom the fly zips out of the room, safe, before Dr. Bellows has a chance to swat him to death. I’ll probably never get that image out of my head.
A sorcerer and falconer as a fly…

Dr. Bellows scrutinizes each of us. “How are we all feeling today?” he asks. It comes out sounding like a challenge. He looks over to the red
-head. “Rafe? Any more episodes?”

Rafe? I like the guy all the better.

Rafe’s face turns scarlet and a pool of shame puddles around his ankles. I think he’s going to drown in it, he looks so miserable. I wonder if I’m going to have to haul him up by his hair and perform mouth to mouth on him to save him when he says, “I had an episode, yes.” He tells this to Dr. Bellows while looking out the window. “But my drugs were adjusted, and I’ve been fine ever since.”

Dr. Bellows nods.
“Good. That’s fine.” He turns his attention to me. “Ms. Engles. Care to share how you’re feeling today?”

This place is sure obsessed with how I’m feeling. “Not really, no.”

“Just one feeling.” He gives me a cold, clinical smile. He smirks. “It could be anything. Scared. Mad. Confused.
Sad.” He nods. “Give it a try.”

My eyebrows knit together. “Anything?”

The corners of his mouth turn up in a placating expression. “Anything at all.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine is not a feeling.”

“I’m on drugs. How should I know what I’m feeling?”

A couple people in the group titter. A few heads bob up and down in agreement. Rafe smirks.

Dr. Bellows face starts to twist up. His lips purse
, and he works them from side to side. “A little cooperation is in order here, Ms. Engles.”

The guy is starting to piss me off. “I didn’t come here willingly
, and I’m not feeling cooperative right now. How’s that for a feeling?” I flash him a cold smile. Dr. Bellows stands directly in front of me so I have to move my body to the right or left to see anyone across from me. “You’re a little too close,” I say.

“All you have to do is
tell me one genuine feeling, and I’ll leave you alone. Anything. Anything at all.” He leers down at me.

I want to punch him. I want to kick him in the knees and make him crumple.
Lava spurts into my veins. I feel the light start to emerge, pushing through this fog of Haloperidol.
Not here. Not now.

Dr. Bellows is studying me. He cocks his head. His face is full of concern.

I catch the rage in my fists and hold it tight, bearing down on it, willing it into a ball of molten steel.

Dr. Bellows steps back. Everyone in the room seems to be tense, holding their collective breath.

“I’m fine,” I continue. “Just a little frustrated, that’s all.”

Dr. Bellows leans forward, like he’s heading into a stiff wind. “Say more about the frustration.”

I explode out of my chair like an atomic bomb, nearly colliding with Dr. Bellows. “I’m not supposed to be in here. I don’t belong here. My aunt’s the one who’s crazy. She’s the one who did this to me, and she’s holding my dog hostage! I was put here against my will!” The words come out at an inhuman decibel level and tears actually leak out of my eyes at the thought of Sober. The group skitters backwards in their chairs. One of the chairs tips over, and the mousy blond haired woman cries out from the floor where she has fallen.

Dr. Bellows rises to the outburst, eager to assume control. “It’s okay everyone. I’ve got this. Easy. Easy, Ms. Engles. Rafe, see to Miss
Carpaccio. Call for assistance if need be.” He looks at me like I’m a wild horse and he’s bound and determined to be the first to ride me. His hands are outstretched, palm down. “Easy.”

I sit down, shaking my head from side to side. “You asked me what I was feeling. I told you,” I say through clenched teeth. My body is shaking from the effort of holding back the light.

“I did. I did,” he agrees. “I just didn’t expect an outburst. We encourage feelings, we just encourage them in a more civilized manner.” He whips a notebook out of his pocket and scribbles a few notes. “We’ll have to deal with your anger in a one-on-one session.”

“Why?”

“Because we do.” He scribbles some more notes. “This little episode has upset the balance today. I’m going to give you some outdoors time, everyone. We’ll pick this up later this afternoon.” He glares at each person and waves his hand back and forth to disperse them.

They all pick themselves up and shuffle from the room. I start to wander off, too, when Dr. Bellows cuts off my departure with his bulk. “Ms. Engles, we need to have a chat.”

I blow the breath out of my cheeks and stop. “Why?”

He comes up to me and stops a little too close for comfort. I step back.

He steps closer. He picks up a strand of my hair and twirls it around his finger. “I pull a lot of weight around here.”

“Okay.” I grab his hand and remove it from my hair.
“Good for you.”

“I can get you released sooner than later.” He strokes my cheek with his sweaty, pudgy fingers.

I close my fingers around his hand and start to squeeze.
I really, really want to let the light flow and break every bone in his hand.

“Or,” he says,
pinning me with his eyes. “I can hold you here longer than necessary.”

Point taken.
I drop his hand.

“It’s your choice.”

“So this is one of my choices?” I laugh. It’s a mirthless sound that lands at my feet. “I was told I have no choices here.”

“Well, you don’t exactly have choices. Think of it as an opportunity. An opportunity has presented itself to you.” He smiles and reaches for my ha
ir again.

Oh, the things I could do to this man if I let the light flow through my system.
I close my eyes and trap the light and feelings inside my head. I squeeze my eyelids tightly. When I open them, Dr. Bellows is studying me.

“You’re different.”
He releases the lock of hair after taking a small sniff of it.

“Different how?”

“I’m not quite sure, but this is going to be enjoyable.” He straightens his tie and opens the door for me. “After you.”

I wander out, feeling cooties and crawlies all over my body from head to toe.
I really don’t like this man. Tom was right. I need to watch out for him.

I make my way to my white room. Rafe is lounging in the hallway near my room, studying something. He’s slouching, but he seems to be pretty tall - 6’3” or 6’4”, I’d say. Muscled. I wonder if they have a gym here. When I get closer I see that he’s clutching a pamphlet called
Is Aggression Anger?
My eyebrows knit together as I approach. “Is it?” I ask.

He whirls around. “
It is. Aggression is a form of extreme anger. I should know.” He pauses and bites his lip, looking at me intently. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m super. I’ve got Haloperidol humming through my system
, and I’ve never felt better. You?”

He snorts. “Same. Rafe Caldwell, by the way.” He sticks out his hand.

He’s got the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Full kissable lips. Short ginger hair. Freckles everywhere. He looks like a candy bar that you could eat and never quite be satisfied - you’d only end up wanting another. In other words, you’d be addicted. “Marissa Engles,” I answer. I start to extend my hand and then consider.
What if I shock him with my erratic energy? I don’t want to end up in isolation or whatever they do to severe head cases.
I draw my hand back. “Uh, I’m kind of sensitive about touch.”

He cocks his head. “Really? Or is it because you don’t want anyone to know you’ve got electricity buzzing through your veins?”

“What? Who told you that?”

He puts his hands behind his back and leans against the textured, white wall.
His ginger hair makes a sharp contrast to the white. “I snuck a peek at your patient records. They said you’re delusional, thinking you can stream light.”

“That’s private!”

“I know. I just wanted to find out more about you. All the staff is up in arms about you being here. They’re twittering and clucking in the break room between shifts. You’re trending.” He smiles. “Your aunt has been a longtime supporter of this place. That’s why all the fuss over you being here. She’s probably responsible for entire wings being constructed with her donations.”

“Aunt Topaz?”

“Yep.”

We both lean against the wall, silent.
Why would Aunt Topaz donate to this place?
I ponder this for a while and come up blank. “I like your name.” I continue to look at the opposite wall.

“Thanks. It means wolf. I’m a re
d-headed wolf.”

I turn and catch his small smile
with my eyes. It comes and goes, though, fleeting. “I’ve seen red wolves. At the zoo in Tacoma. They were beautiful.”

He smiles again, still staring at the opposite wall.

I rest my back once more against the paneling, right next to Rafe. There’s a cheap picture of an abstract, geometric something or other hanging across from me. It appears to be something from Walmart. I study it. I could do so much better. My paintings are alive. This one is dead. Colors and lines arranged without feeling, like a mechanical drawing.

“So. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you have electricity in your veins?”

I scoff and ignore the question. “You’re awfully nosy.”

“What else is there to do in here?”

“How long have you been here?” I turn and lean my shoulder against the sturdy surface, staring at him. I like the way he looks. He looks sexy and wild. He looks like someone who walks to his own beat. He looks like a fascinating troublemaker, although now he’s a sedated one. I know I’m with Daniel, but there’s no harm in appreciating the world around me.

He drags a hand through his hair. “Too long. At this point they’re just keeping me here, just because.”

“What are the episodes Dr. Farty Pants asked you about?”

He chortles with laughter. “Dr. Farty Pants?”

“That’s what my…never mind. It’s just a name I made up.”

“I get mad - like you did. Extreme anger is called an episode around here.”

“What are you mad about?”

Rafe stares at this shoes. His face reddens and the pool of shame puddle
s around his ankles again.

“Are you going to need mouth to mouth?”

His head whips around and he stares at me. “What?”

“Mouth to mouth. You seem to be drowning over there. In a pool of what looks like shame.”

He stands up taller as if sucking up the shame. He shakes his head and stares at me. “I’ve…I’ve gotta go. I have all these duties.” He makes air quotes around the word duties.

“I’m sorry. I just blurted that out. I tend to do that. I’m sorry.”

He runs his hand through his hair again. “It’s okay. I just…we just…we don’t know each other all too well. How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t.
You probably can, but you don’t know that.”

“Bingo.” He stabs the air in front of him.

“What are your duties?”

He looks away from me. “Oh, this and that. I file stuff. Help out wherever they need me.”

I frown. “Don’t they have staff to do that?”

“It’s supposedly a privilege for good behavior. I’ll supposedly get out of here sooner with this opportunity.” The air quotes
go up again around the word opportunity.

“I see. I was handed an opportunity, too.”

His face hardens and his cheeks color. “I was worried about that. That bastard can do what he likes to me but to you? No.”

What’s he talking about?

“I’ve got to go. I can’t be late or the opportunity…” More air quotes. “The opportunity will be taken away from me. And I want to get out of here. I’ll see you around, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he whirls and ambles down the hall.

This place is giving me the
major creeps now. My stomach bunches up like dough being kneaded by strong hands. I push the door open to my room and pace, back and forth, back and forth.
I have got to get out of here. I miss Daniel. I miss my dog. Hell, I even miss the old coot Tom - when he’s not pretending to be a fly.
But right now, I’m tired. So tired. Eyelids are being dragged toward the floor, like weights are affixed to each eyelash. The pacing stops. The bed beckons. And I fall asleep at 11:00 in the morning, as if it’s midnight.
Damn drugs.
That’s the last thing I think before falling into oblivion.