Kelley Armstrong: The Summoning

Aunt Lauren sat beside me, holding my hand. My eyes went to the nurses gliding past in the corridor. She followed my gaze, rose, and shut the door. Through a glaze of tears, I watched her and pictured Mom instead. Something inside me crumpled, and I was six years old, huddled on the bed, crying for my mother.

I rubbed my hands over the covers, stiff and scratchy, catching at my dry skin. The room was so hot every breath made my parched throat tighten. Aunt Lauren handed me my water, and I wrapped my hands around the cool glass. The water had a metallic taste, but I gulped it down.

"A group home," I said. The walls seemed to suck the words from my mouth, like a sound stage, absorbing them and leaving only dead air.

"Oh God, Chloe." She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. "Do you know how many times I've had to tell a patient he's dying? And somehow, this seems harder."

She shifted to face me. "I know how badly you want to go to UCLA for college. This is the only way we're going to get you there, hon."

"Is it Dad?"

She paused, and I knew she'd like to blame him. She'd wanted to raise me after my mom passed away, spare me a life of housekeepers and empty apartments. She'd never forgiven my father for refusing. Just like she'd never forgiven him for that night my mother died. It didn't matter that they'd been sideswiped in a hit-and-run —he'd been driving, so she held him responsible.

"No," she said finally. "It's the school. Unless you spend two weeks undergoing evaluation in a group home, it will go on your permanent record."

"What will go on my record?"

Her fist clenched around the tissue. "It's that da —" She caught herself. "It's the zero-tolerance policy." She spit the words with more venom than the curse.

"Zero tolerance? You mean violence? B-b-but I didn't —"

"I know you didn't. But to them, it's simple. You struggled with a teacher. You need help." In a home. For crazy kids.

I awoke several times that night. The second time, my father was in the doorway, watching me. The third, he was sitting beside my bed. Seeing my eyes open, he reached over and awkwardly patted my hand.

"It's going to be all right," he murmured. "Everything will be all right."

I fell back to sleep.

My father was still there the next morning. His eyes were bleary, the wrinkles around his mouth deeper than I remembered. He'd been up all night, flying back from Berlin.

I don't think Dad ever wanted kids. But he'd never tell me that, even in anger. Whatever Aunt Lauren thinks of him, he does his best. He just doesn't seem to know what to make of me. I'm like a puppy left to him by someone he loved very much, and he struggles to do right by it even if he isn't much of a dog person.

"You changed your hair," he said as I sat up.

I braced myself. When you run screaming through the school halls after dying your hair in the girls' bathroom, the first thing people say —well, after they get past the screaming-through-the-halls part—is "you were doing what?" Coloring your hair in a school bathroom isn't normal. Not for girls like me. And bright red streaks? While skipping class? It screams mental breakdown.

"Do you like it?" my father asked after a moment.

I nodded.

He paused, then let out a strained chuckle. "Well, it's not exactly what I would have chosen, but it looks all right. If you like it, that's what counts." He scratched his throat, peppered with beard shadow. "I guess your aunt Lauren told you about this group home business. She's found one she thinks will be okay. Small, private. Can't say I'm thrilled with the idea, but it's only for a couple of weeks. . . ."

No one would say what was wrong with me. They had me talk to a bunch of doctors and they ran some tests, and I could tell they had a good idea what was wrong and just wouldn't say it. That meant it was bad.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen people who weren't really there. That's what Aunt Lauren had wanted to talk to me about after school. When I'd mentioned the dream, she'd remembered how I used to talk about people in our old basement. My parents figured it was my creative version of make-believe friends, inventing a whole cast of characters. Then those friends started terrifying me, so much that we'd moved.

Even after that, I'd sometimes "seen" people, so my mom bought me my ruby necklace and said it would protect me. Dad said it was all about psychology. I'd believed it worked, so it had. But now, it was happening again. And this time, no one was chalking it up to an overactive imagination.

They were sending me to a home for crazy kids. They thought I was crazy. I wasn't. I was fifteen and had finally gotten my period and that had to count for something. It couldn't just be coincidence that I'd started seeing things the same day. All those stockpiled hormones had exploded and my brain misfired, plucking images from forgotten movies and tricking me into thinking they were real.

If I was crazy, I'd be doing more than seeing and hearing people who weren't there. I'd be acting crazy, and I wasn't.

Was I?

The more I thought about it, the more I wasn't sure. I felt normal. I couldn't remember doing anything weird. Except for dying my hair in the bathroom. And skipping class. And breaking into the napkin dispenser. And fighting with a teacher.

That last one didn't count. I'd been freaked out from seeing that burned guy and I'd been struggling to get away from him, not trying to hurt anyone. Before that, I'd been fine. My friends had thought I was fine. Mr. Petrie thought I was fine when he put me on the director short list. Nate Bozian obviously thought I was fine. You wouldn't be happy that a crazy girl was going to a dance.

He had been happy, hadn't he?

When I thought back, it all seemed fuzzy, like some distant memory that maybe I only dreamed.

What if none of that happened? I'd wanted the director spot. I'd wanted Nate to be interested in me. Maybe I'd imagined it all. Hallucinated it, like the boy on the street and the crying girl and the burned janitor.

If I was crazy, would I know it? That's what being crazy was, wasn't it? You thought you were fine. Everyone else knew better.

Maybe I was crazy.

My father and Aunt Lauren drove me to Lyle House on Sunday afternoon. They'd given me some medicine before I left the hospital and it made me sleepy. Our arrival was a montage of still shots and clips.

A huge white Victorian house perched on an oversized lot. Yellow trim. A swing on the wraparound porch.

Two women. The first, gray haired and wide hipped, coming forward to greet me. The younger one's dour eyes following me, her arms crossed, braced for trouble.

Walking up a long narrow flight of stairs. The older woman —a nurse, who introduced herself as Mrs. Talbot— chirping a guided tour that my fuzzy brain couldn't follow.

A bedroom, white and yellow, decorated with daisies, smelling of hair gel.

On the far side of the room, a twin bed with a quilt yanked over the bunched-up sheets. The walls over the bed decorated with pages ripped from teen magazines. The dresser covered with makeup tubes and bottles. Only the tiny desk bare.

My side of the room was a sterile mirror image —same bed, same dresser, same tiny desk, all wiped clean of personality.

Time for Dad and Aunt Lauren to go. Mrs. Talbot explained I wouldn't see them for a couple of days because I needed time to "acclimate" to my new "environment." Like a pet in a new home.

Hugging Aunt Lauren. Pretending I didn't see the tears in her eyes.

An awkward embrace from Dad. He mumbled that he'd stay in town, and he would come to visit as soon as they let him. Then he pressed a roll of twenties into my hand as he kissed the top of my head.