Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

Outside Dr. Ferguson’s office, Felicity and Barb are waiting to escort me back to my room. On the way, they stop at some kind of nurse’s station, chattering nonstop in their thick Midwestern brogues. Barb gets a note out of her pocket, and I notice it has Dr. Ferguson’s letterhead printed at the top.

“Ooh, what’s on the docket there?” Felicity asks.

“Quite a prescription,” says Barb. “Hefty.”

I remember Albus and my plan to stay away from the meds. How will I finagle this?

Felicity shakes three different-colored capsules into a tiny paper cup and hands it to me. “Swallow, pumpkin,” she commands.

My mind races with ways to get out of swallowing the pills—I mean, I’ve seen this part in movies all the time—mental patients trying to avoid taking their meds—and I’ve always thought about how I’d get around it: pretend to swallow, keep the stuff under my tongue. But it’s a hard thing to get away with when you’ve only got so much room in your mouth, and there’s two gigantic women staring at you. If I resist they’ll just stick me with needles again. I don’t know what to do—so I smile as sweetly as possible and scramble for a question.

“May I please have a glass of water?” I ask quietly.

Felicity playfully smacks herself in the head and Barb chuckles.

“Oh boy, we’re getting old,” she says. “Of course you can.”

“Forgot the water—geeze Louise!” adds Felicity.

They lead me down the hall to a bubbler. But when I try the nozzle, no water comes out.

“Gosh darn this building!” Barb complains bitterly—her tone suddenly frazzled.

“Oh Barb!” says Felicity, rubbing tiny circles on Barb’s back. I think maybe I’m going to get out of it—but then Barb pipes up again.

“We’ll take you to the ladies room,” she assures me.

My hands are sweating as we enter the bathroom because they’re watching my every move. As I scoop water from the faucet, they stand so close to me our hips are touching. The pills are huge, and I manage to swallow them only a little bit, so they’re basically lodged in my throat. You’d think this would be more obvious. I mean, my throat feels like it is bulging and jumping around.

“Say ah ,” Barb says.

“Aghgh.” Tears spring from my eyes and I’m sure I’ll choke and barf all over the nurses. But somehow I manage to pass the test.

“Good,” Felicity says.

I close my mouth, about to suffocate, and point to the bathroom stall—grabbing my crotch like a child, trying to look embarrassed.

Barb nods. “You go ahead and tinkle.”

They wait outside, which makes it tricky—but I manage to choke silently and quickly pee a little—and then, while the toilet is flushing, making this huge, industrial, end-of-the-world storm noise, I reached into my throat and gag up the pills. Only two come out, though. The other one must have slipped through.

“Nice work,” says Felicity when I emerge. She and Barb whisk me out the door, back to my room, where Albus is drawing with crayons.

“How was Fergatron’s?” she asks once they’ve left. “By the way, this is the best night of my life, like ever. Last time I did something this helpful and cool, it was me and the old cap’n, rescuing ladies from Scottish terrorists.” She fans out her drawings. “These are maps. For your escape.”

“One sec,” I tell her gently. “They gave me something.” I’m trying to focus—plan my route into Dr. Ferguson’s office before whatever kind of pill I swallowed kicks in all the way and makes me dumb again.

“Was it the blue one? Because if it was purple or yellow or red or orange, you’re probably okay,” Albus offers.

“Sir Albus, please, I can’t think.” I get down on my knees beside her and draw my own map to Ferguson’s office, just in case things get hazy and I need a reminder.

“If you’re planning to go to the Fergatron’s office again, you’ve got to be back in an hour,” she says, glancing at my map. “That’s when the nurses come around for tuck-in and if you’re not here they’ll sound the alarm, which sort of explodes all of our big plans.”

“Gotcha.” I shove the map into my underwear. Mostly I’m distracted by the childlike crayon drawings above my bed of what must be Diane Sawyer—it’s a blond woman holding a microphone, with what look like rays of sun coming off her teeth. I must have done them when I was on my drug binge.

“Oof,” I say. “I guess I am a little bit obsessed.”

Albus cocks her head. “I don’t know, I think they’re pretty great. Some of the blokes I work with would probably love a calendar of her!”

All of a sudden, one of the drawings kind of shudders and breathes against the lavender wallpaper. That pill must be kicking in. I look up at the ceiling. There’s a vent surrounded by removable panels. There was a vent in Fergatron’s office, too. Maybe if I could just get up there . . .

“Albus, I need you to give me a boost.”

“That’s sir to you, Corporal,” she warns, crouching under me like a stool. “And remember: be back in an hour, or else!”

You’d be amazed at how many wrong turns you can take in a ventilation system when you’re on drugs. I’m clomping along on my hands and knees, trying to make as little noise as possible, but it’s like being in a pie tin. Luckily no one seems to hear; below me, through the vents, I can see other roommates going about their business: two girls on one bed, drawing masks around each other’s eyes with a Sharpie marker; another pair making out (Is this the future for me and Albus/Adele?); I even pass the nurses’ station, where Barb and Felicity are racing each other in swivel chairs.

Then finally I am looking down at Fergatron’s desk, that same pen mug. The lights are on, for some reason, even though he’s absent. Do they waste energy simply to make the place look creepier from the outside? There’s also the eight-by-ten photo, which I can now see is of a very hideous woman, her face broad and pale, with multiple moles and a snaggletooth protruding over one lip.

I lift the vent and lower myself through. At one point my feet are still way above the table—three feet or thirty, I can’t really be sure because there’s something wrong with my depth perception—and all of a sudden there’s a loud thud and I realize it’s me, crashing down against the desk.

“Ow,” I mutter. But nothing hurts. My muscles feel like they’re laughing, actually. My mind feels fine, I think. I look over the edge of the desk and see shards of mug and glass, that awful woman’s picture half-slipped out of its frame against the carpet, pens and pencils everywhere. I hold still and listen for footsteps, expecting Barb and Felicity to barge in any moment. But it’s eerily quiet. So I get up and check to make sure the door is locked, and then crawl under the desk, looking for Fergatron’s key, which must have gotten tossed when the mug shattered. The pattern on the carpet—some kind of speckled blue—is starting to shimmer, making me nauseous, so I close my eyes and fan my hands.

“Eureka,” I say softly, and grip the key in my fingers.

I open the drawer, thumbing for my file and the plastic bag with Ruth’s diary in it. Inside the Ziploc, there’s another key, and I stare at it a while before realizing it probably opens one of the other locked drawers. I find the drawer with my initials on the label and open it. My possessions! Inside is my backpack, complete with original contents: bear spray, cell phone, SAT vocab cards, my watch, my utility belt. I can’t believe the police station returned the Ursidae gas. I cradle the whole lot happily before stumbling back to Fergatron’s desk for my file.

It’s only got a couple pages in it, and based on the date of today’s session and the date I got checked in, I’ve been here a week. I have to read quickly because I’m starting to realize that if I stare at anything too long, it moves.