The Evolution of Mara Dyer md-2 Read online

  “Thank you,” my father said to the captain. “We’ll be back soon.” We disembarked, my parents quietly toting the luggage I didn’t even get to pack myself as we left the ferry.

  I didn’t get to see Noah before we left, either. It would be twelve weeks before I saw him again.

  The thought turned my stomach. I pushed it away.

  It was then that I noticed a golf cart idling near the dock. The Horizons admissions counselor, Sam Robins, nodded condescendingly at me. “Well, Mara, I wish I were seeing you again under different circumstances.”

  Under no circumstances.

  “Come on,” he said to my parents. “Hop in.”

  We did. The golf cart whizzed around a paved path surrounded by tall reeds and grass. We stopped in front of a cluster of whitewashed buildings with bright orange Spanish roof tiles. There was lovely, wild landscaping in the courtyard, evoking my mom’s issues of Cottage Living. Purple hibiscus and white lilies edged a small pond filled with goldfish that drifted lazily near the surface. There were neat hedgerows lined with some kind of pink wildflowers and yellow daisies everywhere. It felt inappropriately cheerful and I hated it.

  The four of us walked into the pristine building—the main one, I guessed, since it was in the front. The walls were white stucco and the floor was white tile. Pedestals with a statue or figurine on top dotted the occasional corner, and terra cotta pots filled with manicured topiaries flanked the doorways. But other than that, the space and decor echoed Horizon’s outpatient counterpart almost exactly.

  “Hermencia will check your suitcases and your clothes, Mara. And lucky you, it’s the retreat weekend, so all of your friends are here.”

  The retreat. I ended up on it after all.

  At least Jamie would be here to launch me into my mandatory sentence before he got to go home. That was something.

  My parents went off to sign paperwork and I was ushered into a room by a woman who wore a neutral expression beneath a thick, short mop of dark hair.

  The woman nodded curtly. “I need to check for anything dangerous.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you wearing any jewelry?”

  I shook my head.

  “I need you to take off your clothes.”

  I blinked stupidly.

  “Okay?” she asked me.

  I just stood there.

  “I need you to take off your clothes,” she repeated.

  My chin trembled. “Okay.”

  She stared at me, waiting. I unzipped my hoodie and shrugged it off of my shoulders. I handed it to her. She put her arms through it and placed it on a table. I looked down at the floor and lifted my tank over my head. It landed softly on the tile.

  I stood there, breathing hard in just my bra and my jeans. My spine was bent and my arms had unconsciously wandered over my chest.

  “Your pants, too,” the woman said.

  I nodded but didn’t move for one minute. Two.

  “Do you need help?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Do you need me to help you?”

  I shook my head. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes and inhaled. Just clothes. They were just clothes.

  I unzipped my jeans and they fell around my ankles. I stood still, exposed to the air as the room began to slowly spin. She inspected my clothes with her hands and my body with her eyes and asked if I had any piercings she couldn’t see. I didn’t. Finally, she placed my clothes back into my hands. I clutched them against me and then almost tripped as I rushed to put them back on.

  When we were done, my parents had signed the paperwork and then I had to sign more paperwork, acknowledging the rules and regulations that hemmed me into my new life. Three months with no outside contact. Phone calls to family were allowed, but only after thirty days. I signed, and felt like I was bleeding on the page.

  Then it was time to say good-bye. My mother squeezed me so tightly. “It’s temporary,” she said, trying to reassure me. Or reassure herself.

  “I know,” I whispered as she pulled me even closer. I wanted to hold on to her and push her away.

  She smoothed my hair down my back. “I love you.”

  My throat burned with the tears I wanted to cry but wouldn’t. I knew she loved me. She just didn’t believe me. I understood why, but it hurt like hell just the same.

  56

  AFTER MY PARENTS LEFT, I WAS GIVEN A TOUR of the compound; four buildings that connected with a Zen garden in the center. I wandered through the rooms without paying much attention; the layout didn’t matter, and I didn’t really care. I was here. Noah and my family were out there. Jude was out there. He could do whatever he wanted.

  I prayed he already had.

  Because my family was at his mercy. I had no idea what happened to John; how Jude was able to take me without him knowing. But I had to believe that somehow, Noah would make sure my family was safe. The alternative—

  I couldn’t think it.

  I was scheduled for intensive therapy immediately, and answered all of the new counselor’s questions by rote. Between my cognitive behavioral therapy sessions and a meeting with the Horizons nutritionist, I thumbed through the small self-help library in the common room while the rest of the Horizons “students”—the permanents, with sentences of three months or longer, like me—and the temporaries, like Jamie, Stella, and Phoebe, unfortunately—went about their indoor team-building activities or whatever. I was excused from most of them, thanks to my “suicide attempt.” Sweat and stitches don’t mix. Lucky me.

  Barney, one of the residential staff counselors, watched me from a short distance away. He was big, like most of the male staff—easier to restrain us, perhaps?—but seemed friendly when he tried to engage me in conversation. He wasn’t condescending, like Robins, or inappropriately enthusiastic like Brooke. He was nice; I just didn’t want to talk.

  I idly turned the pages of a bizarre book entitled What’s Normal? when my compatriots filtered in. They had come from some sort of game, it looked like, because they were split into three groups wearing differently colored T-shirts: white, black, and red. Megan was in red. Her pale cheeks were flushed, and wisps of blond hair curled up around her face, creating a messy halo. She begged for the bathroom and was sent with a buddy. Adam entered next and he was also wearing red. His bulging forearms were crossed over his puffed-out chest, looking like he’d just lost whatever game it was, and sorely.

  Then Jamie waltzed in, dressed in black. He saw me and made a beeline.

  “This is your fault.”

  I closed the book. “Hi, Jamie. Nice to see you too.”

  He shot me a glare. “It’s not nice to see you, actually, considering why you’re here.”

  “Thanks for not sugarcoating anything. I’ve been really sick of everyone treating me with kid gloves.”

  “The sarcasm, it burns!”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Jamie shrugged and said, “Look.” He leaned forward. “I refuse to acknowledge your suicide attempt because it screws with all of my preconceived notions about you, okay? Though I am happy to see that you still have your sense of humor, at least.”

  I grinned—couldn’t help it. “There is that. So,” I said, glad to not have to talk about my fraudulent reason for being here, “what did I do this time?”

  “Interesting choice of words,” Jamie said, and looked over his shoulder at the doorway. I followed the line of his gaze, and saw—

  Noah.

  Here.

  He stood about twelve feet away, his gray T-shirt damp and clinging to his lean, muscular frame, droplets of rain falling from his guitar case onto the pristine tile floor.

  When Noah met my eyes, I was without words.

  He turned away. “Where should I put this?” he asked Barney, lifting the case slightly.

  “This way,” Barney said. “I’ll show you your room.”

  And then Noah walked right past me. Like I wasn’t even there.

  I sat catatonically in
the lounge. Seats filled up and good old Brooke sat down opposite me, her bangles jingling with every gesture. She straightened her head wrap and said, “We’ll be starting in five minutes, guys. If you want to get a drink of water or make a quick bathroom run, now’s the time.” Then she leaned forward to say a gentle hello to me and patted my arm with a pitying look before leaving to fetch some water herself.

  Then Noah walked in. He ran his fingers through his still-wet hair and sat nowhere near me, his long legs languidly stretched out in front of him as he slouched in a too-small plastic chair. He didn’t say a word—to me, or anyone else. He seemed—different.

  I studied him, trying to figure out why. He looked perfectly imperfect in destroyed jeans and a vintage T-shirt, his hair a beautiful mess above his unreadable face. Everything about him was the same, except—

  His necklace. It was gone.

  I rubbed my eyes. Noah was still there when I opened them.

  Jamie acknowledged him. Barney did too. That normally would have been enough to convince me that he was real.

  But when everyone tells you you’re crazy and no one believes you when you swear you aren’t, a small part of you will always wonder if they’re right.

  So when Stella stood to get a drink, I stood with her. “Hey,” I said.

  She brushed the hair back from her olive skin as she pulled the tap on the water cooler. “Hi.”

  What is the appropriate way to ask someone if you’re hallucinating the appearance of your boyfriend in your glorified mental hospital?

  “Do you see that guy over there?” I asked, nodding slightly at Noah, who had now crossed his arms behind his head.

  Stella wound a curl around her finger as she looked back and forth, from him to me. “The hot one?”

  That would be him, yes. “Yeah,” I said.

  Her full lips split into a smile. “The really, really hot one?”

  Indeed. I looked over at him, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “Yes.”

  Stella looked, too. “Tall, with dark brown, perfect hair.” Someone said something to Noah, provoking an arrogant grin. “Unbelievable smile,” Stella said as he looked in our direction. “Blue eyes?”

  “Yes,” I said, still staring at the inexpressibly gorgeous boy who told me he loved me a few days ago, and who didn’t acknowledge me now.

  “Yeah, I see him,” Stella said, and took a sip of water. “I’m not sure I’d mind seeing more of him. Wait,” she said, cocking her head at me. “Do you know him?”

  I considered my answer. Can you ever really know someone? “I don’t know,” I said.

  She peered at me, then sat back down. I did too, still dazed. Jamie dropped down in the chair next to me and poked me in the arm.

  “Ow,” I said, rubbing it.

  “Oh, good, you’re alive. I was afraid I’d have to do CPR.” He cut his eyes at me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were surprised by this development.”

  It took a monumental effort to answer Jamie when I still couldn’t take my eyes off of Noah. I thought I wouldn’t see him for months. That I’d have to wait to tell him what Jude did and about Lukumi in my hospital room and about the footage from Claire’s camera that Jude had left for me.

  But now Noah was here. I wouldn’t have to wait at all, and I could have cried with relief.

  “Surprised,” I finally said. “Yes.”

  “As if you didn’t know he was joining us on the island of misfit children?”

  “What?” I tore my eyes from Noah and met Jamie’s. “I didn’t.”

  “Right,” Jamie said. “They’re making me room with him, Mara. I hate you.”

  “You think I did this?”

  “Please.” Jamie shot me a withering look. “As if he could resist a damsel in distress.”

  “I didn’t tell him to come,” I said, but I had never been happier to see him in my life. “And before you complain about your roommate, I was informed by Mr. Robins that I have to sleep in the same room as Phoebe.”

  Jamie looked appropriately horrified.

  “Yeah,” I said. I complained about it immediately, of course, but was told I’d have to take it up with Dr. Kells. And she wasn’t at the retreat today—she only came a few times a week, they told me, to supervise the residential staff. So until I saw her again, I was stuck.

  Brooke clapped her hands. “All right, everyone back? Great! Well, it looks like we have another new member of the Horizons family, everybody! Let’s give a big welcome to Noah Shaw.”

  “Hi, Noah,” everyone said in chorus.

  “Noah’s here for the retreat this weekend, to see if it suits. Why don’t you tell everyone about yourself, Noah?”

  “I was born in London,” he said with complete disinterest. “My parents moved here from England two years ago.”

  My mouth parted.

  “I don’t have a favorite color, though I strongly dislike yellow.”

  Unbelievable.

  “I play the guitar, love dogs, and hate Florida.”

  And then Noah finally met my eyes. I was expecting a trademark half-smile, but when he looked at me his eyes were empty. My heart cracked.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Noah. Would you feel comfortable telling us why you’re here?”

  He grinned, but there was no warmth in it. “I’ve been told that I have an anger management problem.”

  Everyone shared their fake feelings for an hour, and then we broke for lunch. Noah caught up with me in the hallway. He looked down at me.

  He looked broken.

  “You’re a hard girl to get a hold of,” he said quietly.

  I barked out a laugh, but Noah covered my mouth with a gentle hand.

  My lids dropped at his touch. I could feel him. He was real.

  All I wanted in the world was to hold him and be held. But when I lifted my hands to his waist he said, “Don’t.”

  I blinked, and then I thought I might cry, and Noah must have seen it because he rushed to speak. “They don’t know we’re together. If they find out, they’ll take care to separate us and I won’t be able to bear that.”

  I nodded beneath his hand and he lifted it, looking over his shoulder. The hallway was clear, but who knew for how long?

  “How did you get in?” I asked.

  The ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “It’s a long story that involves copious quantities of alcohol and Lolita.”

  My brows knitted in confusion. “The book?”

  “The whale.”

  He made me smile, despite everything. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Probably not,” he said tonelessly. He avoided my eyes.

  Something was wrong. I wanted to ask what it was, but I was nervous so I asked where his necklace was instead.

  Noah sighed. “I had to take it off during that delightful near-strip search they offer here. Hermencia quite enjoyed it, I think. I’ll be sending her a bill.”

  I smiled again, but Noah didn’t. I didn’t know what had changed or why, but I needed to. Even if I might not like the answer. “What happened?” I asked him.

  He lifted my hand, my wrist, and held it out in answer.

  “They think I tried to kill myself,” I said.

  Noah closed his eyes. For the first time ever, he looked like he was in pain.

  “Do you?” I asked him.

  The muscles in his throat worked. “No,” he said. “I saw—I saw everything. I saw Jude.”

  When he opened his eyes, his expression was vacant again. A smooth, unreadable mask. I was reminded of a different conversation we shared under very different circumstances:

  “And what if something happens and you’re not there?” I had asked him, miserable and guilty and horrified after we returned from the zoo.

  “I’ll be there,” Noah had said, his voice clear and sure.

  “But what if you’re not?”

  “Then it would be my fault.”

  Was that what this was? I looked up at him now and shook my head. “
It’s not your fault.”

  “Actually,” he said with unparalleled bitterness, “it is.”

  But before Noah could say anything else, a counselor interrupted us, and we were ushered away.

  57

  WE HAD NO TIME ALONE THE rest of the day. Noah was shuttled from pointless thing to pointless thing with Adam, Stella, Megan and the other temporaries as I was left to endure more talk therapy and generally languish in solitude. I met a few permanents, who didn’t seem obviously disturbed. Not as bad as Phoebe, anyway, by a long shot.

  When we finally sat down for dinner, I dropped down into a seat across from Noah. A few boys I didn’t know well shared the table, but they weren’t too close.

  I was desperate to talk to him. I had so much I wanted to say.

  He was so close, but too far away to touch. My fingertips ached with the need to feel him, solid and warm and real under my hands.

  I said his name, but Noah gave a single shake of his head. I bit my lip. I could scream from frustration and I wanted to. I felt like I was drifting and needed him to tether me to the earth.

  But then he scribbled something on a napkin with a crayon—he must have stolen it from the art studio they had here—and handed it to me.

  I glanced up, then around, then down at the message as discreetly as I could.

  Music studio. 1 a.m.

  “But—” I whispered.

  Trust me, Noah mouthed.

  I did.

  I wished the sunlight away as I finished dinner that evening across from a silent, unusually sullen Stella. She picked at her food and every now and then, her eyes would sweep the room. When I asked her what was wrong she excused herself, leaving me alone.

  I couldn’t wait for night to fall and I gazed out the thick, distorted windows at every opportunity. The darkness nipped at the heels of the sunset, waiting to swallow it.

  The sounds of silverware clinking against ceramic dishes died away as the sun sank below the horizon. Counselor Wayne came around with everyone’s evening meds in tiny little paper cups, just like in Miami.

  Stella swallowed hers in front of me, her white T-shirt riding up slightly with the movement. I glanced up and saw Jamie, who downed the contents of his makeshift shot glass too. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and Wayne moved on.