B. Johnson - Deadgirl

Ms. Veers nodded at that, but the look on her face spoke disbelieving volumes.

“Lucy’s no dummy,” Mom said, and unbelievably, her voice rang with pride. “If she ran away she’d take clothes, food, maybe some money. Definitely her computer.”

I tried not to laugh at that. Watching my mom, drawn up, defending my ability to break her heart in a smart way, I’d never felt more love from another and more loathing for myself.

“Are you hungry?” Ms. Veers asked.

Mom hissed a restrained laugh, and I didn’t realize until that moment that it was a sound I missed, “Are you taking care of me?”

Mama Veers chuckled at that. “Taking care of each other, honey. Plus, I’m hungry.”

My mom looked like she was about to say something, but then she began to shake, and her lips clamped tight. I lunged a little—it looked like she was having some kind of attack. But before I could burst out of my stall, Ms. Veers wrapped her arms around Mom and tugged her tight to her chest. My mom didn’t sob, I don’t think she’s the type, but she did just sort of tremble, her eyes squeezed shut, rigid in Morgan’s mom’s arms.

Then, something buzzed, and both Mama Veers and my mom looked up. I barely choked off a chirp of panic before I grabbed my pocket with both hands, trying to stifle the minuscule sound of my vibrating phone. Three terror-filled gropes of my pockets, and the phone’s buzzing died.

“What the hell—?” my mom began, but a braying electronic ring sounded from her own purse. Mom glanced down and tugged her cell phone out of her purse.

Within seconds, they forget about the strange noise that had almost revealed my location. She pressed her phone tighter to her ear, mumbling affirmatives. It sort of looked like her plan was to shove the entire phone into her brain. Her knuckles were white.

“What?” she said, finally, louder. “It’s on?”

Mama Veers held her out at arm’s length, her face asking a hundred questions. Mom held up the one sec finger, her head cocked into her phone. I felt a thrill of panic and relief and surprise, second-hand emotions wafting off of my mother like dumpster fumes. It made me feel a little heady, actually, like paint thinner.

“Jesus…okay. Okay. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

My mom snapped her cell phone shut and clutched it one handed like a life preserver.

“What?” Mama Veers said when an agonizing moment had passed and Mom still stared blankly at the wall. “What?”

“Lucy’s phone is finally on…that was the p-police,” she said. I sucked in a sharp breath, and had the two of them been less distracted, they definitely would have heard it. I clamped a hand over my mouth.

“Yeah?”

“The phone company can track her phone with it on—did, track her phone.”

Mama Veers put a hand over her mouth.

“She’s here. At least…the officer said St. Elias Hospital. Or within a hundred yards.”

“Jesus,” Mama Veers said.

My mind echoed that sentiment. I felt caged, suddenly, filling with overwhelming panic. My cell phone? They could do that, outside of government conspiracy movies? Why the hell hadn’t anyone told me they could do that?

Mom began to glow with excitement. Years sloughed off of her haggard, worn face, and I could swear the dark circles under her eyes brightened a little. She was a woman transformed—not even Mama Veers’ skeptical expression could slow her down. Me…well, I felt my plan unfolding into chaos before my very eyes.

“The police are on their way,” Mom said, vindicating my fears. “In case…I guess in case it’s actually her attacker or something.”

She said the last part quickly, and with an air of denial. She might as well have said, “In case it turns out to be Big Foot.”

“You think it’s her?” Mama Veers said.

Mom grabbed her purse from the sink in a white-knuckled grip and bolted for the door.

“Let’s see,” Mom said, and was out the door. Morgan’s mom raced after her.

The cops were on their way…Mom would be looking for me. Abraham would be getting just as desperate as I was, which meant trouble. Desperate, dangerous people were unpredictable.

I counted to ten—with the Mother-May-I’s in between—then left the stall. When I’d first tore into the bathroom, I hadn’t taken much time to review my surroundings before diving headfirst into a stall. This time, as I walked out, I noticed my reflection. It couldn’t have been further from the wan, drowned girl with the raccoon eyes and the thin, blue lips. My skin, pink and flush, glowed with health and, not ashamed to say, very little acne. My hair had that Pantene-commercial volume and sheen, and it framed my face rather than choking it. Lips fuller and pinker than I’d ever seen them.

I let out a long breath.

Was I a vampire? Just a monster, draining the living to become a mockery of it? Suddenly, I didn’t want to look at that reflection anymore. I wanted nothing to do with it. It was more of a perversion than a reflection—if I didn’t think stealth and my survival weren’t, at the moment, synonymous, I would have smashed that stupid mirror to bits. I settled on turning away and sneaking out of the bathroom.

No one in the hallway, but I did hear the unmistakable sound of elevator doors clunking together. Two moms heading downstairs, I guessed, one of them in a frantic cloud of elation. I took a deep breath, made a point to turn my phone off, and followed my nose.

The bête-noire trickled in, and despite the urges of my body and the jelly-like strength of my legs, I went toward the source. I used it like a bloodhound, or a really twisted game of Hot and Cold. There were three more doors left in the hallway, before it swung to the left. All three were patient rooms.

I peeked in the little glass-and-wire window of the first room, and my heart flip-flopped. Morgan. Lying in bed, wearing a flimsy white paper gown, with a string of tubes draping down from an IV and into her wrist. Still, her skin was rosy, and the way her long golden hair splayed draped across her pillow, I couldn’t help but feel the smallest stab of jealousy. She looked more like Sleeping Beauty than a coma patient. Ugh .

I shook off the badly-timed envy moment and peeked around the room. Abraham wasn’t in there—in fact, nobody was . Empty.

I opened the door slowly and pulled the stun gun out of my pocket. I groped for its little metal teeth to make sure I was pointing it the right way, then I crossed the threshold. One of the fluorescents on the ceiling flickered, and I jumped and almost tased myself in the leg.

“Morgan?” I whispered, fruitlessly. She didn’t move or stir.

I crossed the room and took an eyeful of her IV, trying to sort English words out of the technical hieroglyphics. I did manage to make out “Thiopental” on one of the bags, which I was eighty-percent sure was one of the drugs Ophelia had mentioned. One of the ones they don’t use much anymore. Abraham had been out of the game for a while, was my guess.

But it was pretty simple from there. The IV computer required an access code—but I had a more elegant solution in mind. As gently as I could, I picked up Morgan’s hand and examined it. The IV tube disappeared into a large squarish Band-Aid looking thing with a hole cut in the center. Ophelia called the needle a cannula , and I peered at it closely. It wouldn’t feel good, and there might be some bruising later, but I could just take the IV out without causing too much damage. It took me a while to work the Band-Aid off—you could tape a desk to the ceiling with that stuff. Finally I managed to scrape it off enough to free the cannula .

I eased it out of her arm, trying my best to quiet the squeamish protests of my girly brain. It came up, and blood with it, dripping down her arm and flecking her white hospital gown with a Rorschach pattern of blood. I held my hand tight to the wound until it calmed down, and put the Band-Aid back in place as a stop-gap bandage.