11. smoke and mirrors

11

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

DAY 10

It must be after midnight by the time I rouse myself from the void of questions in my mind. The night is darker than before, the moon nearly set, and the air temperature almost classifies as chilly.

Hugging my arms to my chest, I shuffle around Callum's cabin toward mine. My sneakers scuff against fine gravel and the occasional larger rock.

I'm five steps from my door when I hear a feminine squeal. Freezing mid-step, I strain my ears for a repeat of the sound, and when it doesn't come, I tell myself I imagined it.

Then it happens again. This time, the squeal is followed by a low moan. Eyes scanning the cabins, I see only one with light shining behind the curtains.

Kinsey's.

My limbs tingle. Like an automaton, I turn and walk past Callum's cabin, Nix's now vacant one, and come to a stop .

"Please, please, please…"

The low chant reaches my ears through the partially open door.

Why is the door open?

Driven by a need to know if my worst assumption is true, I tiptoe to the narrow swath of light. I'm sure my heart is pounding, but I can't feel it. All I feel is the overwhelming compulsion to know.

I have a clear view of the bed and Dr. Chastain's back. Beneath him, Kinsey thrashes and moans. I barely notice they're both clothed. I just see him. On top of her.

Then Kinsey whimpers. "Please don't make me. Please, I don't want to, I don't want to…"

Finally, I feel something. A whole lot of something.

My sailing fist slams the door open. "What the fucking fuck!" I yell. "Get off her!"

Chastain jerks back, sliding off the bed and whirling around. His glasses are askew, his hair in disarray.

Motherfucker.

I hate him.

Totally. Irrevocably.

My palms slam into his chest before I'm even aware of crossing the room. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I scream at him.

He glances back at Kinsey, who's looking groggily around the room. She seems really out of it. Glazed eyes. Bedraggled hair and rumpled, barely there pajamas.

"Did you drug her?" I screech, shoving him roughly. It doesn't matter that he's a wall of solid muscle and barely moves. "You're scum! A fucking monster! "

"Amelia," he snaps, cheekbones flushing with anger. "Return to your cabin. Now."

Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. "Are you nuts? There's no way I'm leaving you with her!"

"Amelia, it's all right," says a woman behind me.

Turning, I see Nurse Nora standing near the kitchen, a clipboard in her arms and an anxious look on her face.

Adrenaline drains away in a rush, leaving me shaky and cold. "What the hell is happening here?" I ask her.

Kinsey moans, her head thrashing from side to side. Out of the corner of my eye I see Chastain move back to the bed.

"Night terrors," answers Nora gently. "We've been monitoring her sleep since she arrived."

My head shakes automatically. "What? No. Someone would have heard something. Woken up. Nix never said…" I trail off, feeling more than a few cards short of a deck.

Nora clears her throat daintily, glancing at Chastain. Without looking up, he nods brusquely.

Nora says, "The cabins are soundproofed but wired for sound in case of situations like these. Some of the most profound therapy happens during these hours. Kinsey's progress over the past months has been extraordinary."

Dots connect into lines in my head. "The only reason I heard something was because the door was open."

Nora turns scarlet. "My fault."

My gaze veers to the bed, to Kinsey's blankly staring eyes and tortured expression. "She isn't awake?"

"No," answers Chastain in a clipped tone. Icy eyes meet mine; beneath the ice, though, there's a firestorm. "Are you satisfied? If so, please leave. "

Shame curls through me, shadowed by a strange sense of loss.

I accused him of rape.

"I… I?—"

"Don't bother apologizing," he says coldly. "Go."

I go.

I dream of the day I died. Or rather, the day I wish I'd died.

The sky is a pale, washed-out blue typical of Los Angeles. The air is warm and heavy, smelling of smog and wasted lives.

Two caskets sit side by side, poised above the dark cavities that will house them forever. One full-sized, one child-sized. Their matching mahogany surfaces are so polished they catch the sun through the trees and send glare periodically into my eyes.

The weather is a mockery. This isn't real.

Nothing's real.

"What does it feel like?" Chastain asks.

He sits in the uncomfortable wooden folding chair to my left, dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt. He's not wearing glasses and his hair is mussed and natural, like he just rolled out of bed. No razor-sharp part in sight.

I know I'm dreaming. He's not really here. Neither am I—at least, I'm not here as I was, a seven-year-old in an ill-fitting black dress and shoes that pinched my toes. Shoes that were dug out of my closet from where they'd been gathering dust since Christmas. There hadn't been time or the desire to buy new ones.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, then wipe damp palms on my knees. "Like emptiness."

"Is that what you imagine death feels like?"

I glance around, seeing only blurry faces. Apparently as a child I hadn't paid much attention to the other attendees. I briefly wonder why the two chairs on the other side of me are empty—on this horrible day, they were occupied by my father and Jameson.

"Amelia?"

"I don't know what death feels like," I answer belatedly. "I mean, not really."

"You've come close before…"

I think of the Cave of Swallows and my malfunctioning parachute. The moments in which my backup chute hadn't responded to my desperate tugs.

"Weightlessness, maybe."

He nods contemplatively. "Where are your brother and father?"

"I don't know," I say crossly. "This is a dream."

"Don't you think it's interesting they're not here?"

I tell Dream-Chastain, "I think I hate you."

He smiles like I've only seen him smile once before, at Nix's farewell party, giving me a glimpse of a younger, more carefree man. Leo, not Dr. Chastain.

The knowledge hurts for some reason.

When I don't speak, he says musingly, "Perhaps they're not here because in this difficult time, you were alone. Left to process your feelings without the support of loved ones. "

I smile tightly at him. "This dream sucks. Can you at least take your shirt off or something?"

He chuckles, deep and amused. "No."

I throw my hands up in a wordless plea. "Fine. You're right. My grandparents were all dead by this point. My aunts and uncles tried to help, but I wasn't exactly receptive to sympathy."

"Why not?" He pauses. "You think you should have died instead of your mother and brother?"

"No. Yes. I don't know."

"The rational adult says no, the emotional child says yes."

"Whatever you say, Doc."

He smiles again. "It's not me saying anything, Amelia. You're speaking to yourself through me. Your guilt has driven you to become the adult you are today. With no one to tell you as a child that the accident wasn't your fault, you've carried misplaced shame all your life."

"It wasn't my fault," I whisper unconvincingly.

"And if you'd been at the swim lesson with them?"

Searing pain slices my heart. Words pour from me, unbidden. "My mom wouldn't have panicked and left early when Phillip swallowed some water. They wouldn't have been on the road when that dickwad decided to take a joy ride."

Chastain is silent for a long time. Long enough that I watch the shadowy funeral guests file past the caskets and leave. Long enough that I see the caskets being cranked gently into their earthen beds.

Finally, he says, "It's not your fault. I'm sorry no one was there to tell you that then. But I'm here now. And I'll tell you every day until you believe it."

"Why?" I breathe, not even knowing the real question I'm asking.

Dream-Chastain knows, though. "Because we're only as sick as our secrets. It's time for you to let someone else take care of them for you."

I close my eyes against a swell of tears. "I don't trust you," I mumble.

I can hear the smile in his next words.

"Yes, you do."