Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter One | Part 1

|photo by Tyler Donaghy from Unsplash|

The nurse calls my name again, her voice closer this time—inside my room—and it has an edge. Like stifled irritation. She probably thinks I'm hiding from her, but that's not true. Not really. I'm avoiding the clock.

Penny's sturdy form moves in front of the distorted glass, blocking an over-achieving beam of sunlight. She flips a switch and the exhaust fan sputters to a hum. She flips another and my Clorox-scented refuge floods with yellow light.

"You're late for your appointment," she says. I don't have a clear view of her face, but I'm familiar with the disappointment in her tone. So. I'm pretty sure she's exaggerating a frown.

I empty my lungs. Quietly, so it doesn't sound like a protest. Then I cap my pen and clutch the journal against my chest as I push to my feet. The shower door opens with a metallic grunt. "I'm sorry," I say. Not for being late, obviously. But I am sorry I've inconvenienced her.

She gives me a curt nod and steps back, allowing me to lead the way out of the bathroom. I make a quick scan of my small private room as we pass through, hoping for inspiration—a reason to stall, to waste a little more time—but no. There's nothing.

The hallway is empty. Silent, except for Penny's leather clogs clacking along behind me. "I can get there on my own," I say over my shoulder.

"I know you can, Allyson."

My stomach sours. Because of the determined glint in her eyes. She's using her you-can-do-this tone—which means she's not talking about the walk to my neurologist's office. She thinks I'm ready to leave Faircrest. Everyone does. 

"I mean I will," I say, pretending her implied message went over my head. "I'll go straight to Dr. Dabney's office. I promise."

"He's not there," she says—and yeah, there's that exaggerated frown. "I was asked to escort you to the patio."

The ornately carved door at the end of my stark white hallway is like a gateway into another century. It was designed to match the ancient mansion on the other side. I've explored every accessible inch of this place; I know it would be shorter to cut through the cafeteria. But Penny let me take the lead, so. I take the first right, down a shadowy corridor lined with elaborately framed paintings of dead people in fancy clothes. The scenic route ends in my favorite room—an airy solarium that houses sixteen different varieties of orchids—and has the added bonus of subtracting an additional minute from my half-hour appointment.

She punches a four-digit code into a keypad and gives me the after-you swipe of her hand, but she doesn't follow me onto the patio. She remains in the open door, clearing her throat to get Dr. Dabney's attention before she rushes off to torment her next victim.

My neurologist points to his ear. Or. I guess, he's pointing at the wireless phone...thing that's wedged inside. He waves me over to a cluster of outdoor furniture: four metal tables, each surrounded by four chairs. But there's no way I can sit. I'm too aware of my chest—that constant force concentrated around one life-sustaining organ. But I know there's nothing wrong with my heart. It's a "physical manifestation" of a kind of generalized anxiety because nothing in my life is the way it's supposed to be.

I turn my body toward the sun, to a perfectly squared patch of lush grass. The rose-scented air is overwhelming. Sweet, but not in a good way. The perfume makes my eyes itch. I press my thumb and pointer finger into the corners of my eye sockets, slip out of my flip-flops and step into the cool damp grass. Bits of green cling to my feet as I shuffle away from the shade.

Faircrest was a private residence before it was donated. The slate patio is original to the mansion, but now—because new wings were built to accommodate the needs of a rehabilitation center—the patio is part of a courtyard with an elaborate garden: roses to honor the memory of a girl named Rose. She was even younger than me when she traumatized her brain, according to the brochure I found in the lobby.

"I'm afraid I have to cut our session a bit shorter, Allyson. I'm needed elsewhere. So let's get right to the point. Have you made your decision—are you ready to go home?"

My anxiety inflates. It fills up my lungs in an instant. Like an airbag exploding on impact—except it doesn't immediately collapse the way an airbag would. The pressure remains: constant and throbbing.

Of course I want to go home. If that was really an option—if I could go back to the home I remember—then everything else would be fine. 

"I've never had a more cooperative or determined patient," he says, with a satisfied smile. "Your test scores are extremely encouraging."

Dr. Dabney is immensely proud of my brain. He could talk for hours about how the healthy parts have stepped in to compensate for the part that was injured. It's all very medical and excruciatingly boring but I paid attention; I know there's no "physiological" reason that I can't "pick up where I left off." 

"Dr. Greene has expressed concerns," he says. "She's not convinced that you're emotionally prepared to leave the facility. She thinks you're holding something back."

"I'm not," I say. Maybe a little too defensive. "I mean, we talked about Lindsay again yesterday. I understand that the changes are...they're..."

I close my eyes. Take a breath. And start over. "Lindsay is fourteen. And it's normal for a teenager to be..." I'm not sure if moody is the right word, but I know there's nothing normal about the way my little sister acts around me now.

The physical changes have been hard to get used to, but they make sense—a girl's body can change a lot in three years. But her entire personality can't just be gone.

"Children react to stress differently than adults," Dr. Dabney says. "I'm sure your sister is concerned about you."

The Lindsay I remember would be frantic. Clingy. She would've cried every time she had to leave me in this place—she would've begged Mom to let her stay with me. 

"You should consider..."

Dr. Dabney's phone chirps. He wrestles it out of his pants pocket and gives it an extra stern glare. "I have to go, but we need to continue this discussion. I'll have Penny schedule an appointment." He opens the door leading into the solarium and stops there, half-in and half-out. "I'll be especially eager to chat with you after today's visit with your mother."

What? "Why?"

"She has something special planned for you—a bit of an experiment."

"Another test? But you said we were finished. You said—"

"It's nothing like the others," he says, eyes bright now. "There's only one question this time. One very intriguing question."