What Doesn’t Kill Her Page 3

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re fuckin’ nuts.”

  Kara bubbled with laughter while Jordan just smiled as her mental-ward inmate pal punched her lightly on the arm.

  “Well, maybe so,” Kara managed through her laughter, “but you are fuckin’ nuts and a bitch.”

  That made Jordan laugh, too, though not as raucously as Kara. Around the sunroom, other patients were staring at them.

  Like the dayroom, the sunroom had chicken-wired windows. This smaller area, though, was as good as its name, streaming as it was with springtime rays, and serving as a literally sunny place for patients to meet with visitors.

  Jordan and Kara sat on a secondhand sofa against the wall, while a few other patients were scattered at the room’s far end, most sitting at tables with relatives who were often anxiously providing most of the talking. Jordan wore a blue T-shirt and jeans, while Kara remained in the scrubs she’d adopted.

  “I never thought of myself as a bitch,” Jordan said, still smiling a little. “I’m not sure I mind it.”

  “Hey, it’s a pretty good trick for a deaf-mute.”

  “Hey—I heard that. Who’s the bitchy one now?”

  When she was with Kara, Jordan allowed herself to cut loose, a little, and flash the occasional smile—but only with Kara.

  Of course, Jordan’s mom would have blanched at her language; but ten years in St. Dimpna’s, and making friends with Kara, had added more than a hint of salt to her vocabulary.

  Kara’s laughter trailed off into a thoughtful silence. “You mind answering a question?”

  “Try me.”

  “What’s it like out there?”

  Jordan thought about it. Yes, she was speaking again, but she still kept most everything to herself. Said no more than she had to, to anyone.

  Anyone but Kara.

  The therapy that had worked best for Jordan came not from any doctor, not even Donna Hurst. And it hadn’t been just the shock of that newscast that brought her out of her decade-long funk. Her return to the world, to herself, had begun when she had made a friend. Kara.

  Who was saying, “I mean, not living here, that’s gotta be great. But it’s also gotta be…”

  “Scary,” Jordan said.

  Kara nodded, and said, very tentatively, “Because of… what happened to your family?”

  “No. I’m not afraid of that son of a bitch.”

  “Not afraid?”

  “No. He can come back and have another shot at me anytime he likes.”

  Kara was just looking at her. “Uh… honey. You never said that to Dr. Hurst, did you?”

  “Hell no. You think I’d be living off campus if I did?”

  They laughed again, not so raucously.

  “Anyway,” Jordan said. “It hasn’t been so long since you were out there. You remember what it was like.”

  “I remember. And I remember winding up in here, too.”

  “Well, it’s not jail. You didn’t do anything.”

  “If… if that killer isn’t what you’re afraid of… what is scary about it?”

  Jordan shook her head. “Just being out there. Outside these walls.”

  “I hate these walls.”

  “Who doesn’t? But they do protect us.”

  “True that.”

  Jordan shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m smart enough to get by on my own.”

  Kara drew back, a skeptical smile tickling her lips. “And I’m fucking nuts?”

  This time Jordan didn’t laugh. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I!” Kara said. “You’re as smart as anyone in this dump. And I include the docs.”

  Giving her friend a sideways glance, Jordan arched a brow.

  “Them and the nurses and everybody. Come on, girlfriend. You’re smart and you know it.”

  “Yeah? I didn’t even finish high school.”

  “You got your GED in here, didn’t you?”

  “Whoopy do.”

  Kara met Jordan’s eyes and held them. “Don’t try those moves on me. I’m not Hurst. You left here for a reason, right?”

  Jordan managed a tiny nod.

  “You wanted something more than this… this medicated cave we all hide in.”

  “Fancy talk. Maybe you’re the smart one.”

  “Bullshit. Get off your ass, girl! Go out there and fucking get it. Whatever it is you’re after. College, the right guy, a fat job, whatever.”

  Her friend’s pep talk was actually working—Jordan could feel herself bucking up. She managed a tight smile, unusual for her without humor to prompt it. “Thanks, honey.”

  “You know who’s got your back, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And once you get your shit together, outside? There’s one more thing you need to do.”

  “What?” Jordan asked.

  “Bust my ass out of this hellhole,” Kara said.

  Jordan laughed, nodded, said, “Gonna happen,” and the two girls bumped knuckles.

  That was about as close as Jordan liked to get to touching another human. For these two, that simple gesture was the equivalent of a long embrace between dear friends who hadn’t seen each other for years.

  “First off,” Jordan said, “I’ll round up some Dimpna Dust and sprinkle it all over you.”

  Kara grinned at that, but sadness was in it.

  Dimpna Dust was the mythical magic powder Kara had invented, to sprinkle on the air on those rare occasions when someone got released.

  Jordan had gotten her dust—Kara was still waiting for hers.

  After walking Kara back to the dayroom, Jordan retreated down the stairs to the ground floor. For the last decade, Jordan had seen only the top floor of the three-story facility. Having the freedom to leave that floor behind was both exhilarating and—as she had admitted to Kara—terrifying. As the stairwell door clicked shut behind her, the real reason for her return to Dimpna’s hit her like a practical joker’s bucket of cold water dumped from overhead.

  All she had to do was go to the damned meeting, sit there for an hour, and keep her mouth shut. God knows, she had remained mute for a decade with no real problem. Now, just sitting in a room with people who were, presumably, in the same boat as her scared the living hell out of her.

  Why?

  She had no idea.

  The corridor before her stretched endlessly, doors on either side, and if she just kept going, down to the far end, she could walk right out. No one stopping her. But she couldn’t allow herself that luxury. And it was more than just that she’d promised Dr. Hurst—this was a condition of her release.

  Ignore it, and she could be back inside with Kara, not visiting.

  Two people, a man and a woman, both middle-aged, came through the door at the far end of the hall and hustled toward her, or at least that’s what it seemed like. She was wondering why the hell they would do that when the pair veered through an open door to her left.

  From within the room, she heard the man’s slightly echoing voice say, “Sorry—we didn’t mean to be late.”

  Jordan heard Dr. Hurst’s rather loud but friendly reply: “That’s all right—we’re just getting ready to start.”

  If group had already begun, it would be rude for her to interrupt. She would just slip by. Maybe next week. That should be fine. She couldn’t avoid the Victims of Violent Crime Support Group meetings forever, but skipping just one meeting couldn’t hurt.…

  Picking up speed, Jordan sneaked a glance as she reached the closing door. She smiled to herself. She’d ducked the bullet.

  Then standing right there, just inside the room, her hand on the knob, was Dr. Hurst, smiling out at her. “Well, Jordan. Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “I was hoping you’d make it today. You’re just in time. Come on in, come in.”

  Busted.

  Forcing a thin smile, Jordan said, “Lost track, visiting Kara. Sorry.”

  The doctor’s smile never wavered. “No problem. Come find a chair. How is Kar
a?”

  Don’t you know? You’re her doctor.

  “Fine,” Jordan said.

  The room was the size of a high-school classroom, but instead of desks, fifteen folding chairs were arranged in a circle.

  Across the room, a dozen or so people mingled around a small table with a coffee urn and three plates of cookies. The room had the aroma of coffee mixed with disinfectant and floor wax.

  Yum.

  “Help yourself,” Dr. Hurst said, pulling the door shut.

  “No thanks. Watching the sugar and caffeine.”

  “Not a bad plan.” Dr. Hurst moved toward the circle of chairs. Again she spoke loudly. “Okay—shall we get started?”

  Slowly, the attendees began taking seats, chairs scraping. Most seemed older than her, but two young women were close to her age. As the group took seats, Jordan managed to snag the only chair with an empty space on either side.

  She waited anxiously as the last few stragglers left the coffee table and joined the circle. The last thing she needed was somebody plopping down beside her, bringing along the sort of vapid small talk she so wanted to avoid.

  Finally, the man she’d seen rush in sat down across from her, and she let out a little sigh of relief.

  “All right,” Dr. Hurst said. “First off, we have a new member today.”

  The psychiatrist turned to Jordan with a nod, making her wish for invisibility as all eyes swung her way.

  “This is Jordan,” Dr. Hurst said.

  Most group members said, “Hi, Jordan,” in a mix of mumbles and confidence and everything in between. What was this, a kindergarten class welcoming a new student? A few just nodded in her direction, and Jordan summoned up a nod for all of them.

  “Now,” the doctor said, her expression pleasant yet businesslike, “who would like to start today?”

  Jordan sensed the doctor turning to her, the others following that example; but she sat stoically, eyes cast downward, as if the only acquaintance she hoped to meet was the polished tile floor.

  As the silence asserted itself, Jordan felt her cheeks flush, yet still could not bring herself to speak. This was in part a remnant of her silent decade, but there was more to it than that. Part of her wanted to talk. But she simply had no idea how to explain why she was here to a roomful of strangers.

  Because that would mean acknowledging, even sharing what had happened to her and her family in the only home she had ever known. St. Dimpna’s hadn’t been her home—it was just a stopover, like an airport between flights.

  Eyes pressed down on her.

  So did her own muteness, a burden she not only endured but embraced. Still, a part of her ached to let it out, all of it. But the promise she had made herself ten years ago was stronger than she was. Giving in, something inside her said, telling these people, means the intruder has finally won.

  So she would not tell his story. She would never tell his story. Her pulse slowed as she retreated to that place where she had spent the last ten years. The weight lifted, the silence sheltering now, not oppressive. Her parents’ house had been home. But now, this place within herself—this was home and here she could remain… as safe as in her mother’s womb.

  As her eyes came up to meet Dr. Hurst’s, the door flew open and Jordan nearly leapt from her chair into a combat stance.

  Everyone had turned from her to the sound, and she too stared at the dark-haired young man in the doorway, about her age, bangs brushing his eyes. Tall, skinny, wearing jeans and a faded Foo Fighters T-shirt, he reminded her slightly of her brother. Of course, Jimmy wouldn’t have been caught dead in the holey Chuck Taylors that the young man wore.

  Caught dead…

  “Sorry I’m late,” the latecomer said, shutting the door and turning to the group. “Stupid damn car croaked again. Had to get it jumped. Kindness of strangers kinda thing.”

  Dr. Hurst said, “That’s all right, Levi. Stuff happens.”

  “Doc, stuff doesn’t happen. Shit happens.”

  That got a few laughs. But just a few, and not loud.

  “Levi, please. Come, join us.”

  Jordan’s anxiety returned—the only place for the interloper to sit was in an empty chair on her either side. He was going to talk to her, she just knew it, and she wanted no part of talking to him or any other guy, any other human, for that matter.

  And if he hit on her…? She would hit on him, all right, and not in a way he would enjoy.

  As Levi pulled out the chair on her right, she looked up, and he gave her a nod and a quick smile. Was there a leer in it? Was he flirting with her?

  Asshole. If he so much as whispered in her direction.…

  As the new entry got settled in next to her, Jordan was dismayed to see the faces in the circle slowly turning back her way.

  She sent her eyes to Dr. Hurst, begging not to have to speak.

  Across from her, someone said, “Why don’t I take the plunge?”

  She looked up to see the middle-aged man who had come in ahead of her. The woman he had come in with sat half a dozen chairs to his left, approximately halfway around the circle from Jordan. Not a couple, evidently.

  “I’m David,” the man said.

  At least no one said, “Hi, David,” like it was an AA meeting or something. They just sat and waited.

  For the first time, Jordan really looked at him. Tall, slender, his dark hair showing some gray, David wore a three-button navy polo and jeans. His black New Balance sneakers looked like they had just come out of the box. With his prominent cheekbones and well-carved if sharp nose, he might have been handsome, but his hollowed-out cheeks made that a nonstarter. He wasn’t much older than Jordan’s dad had been when he died, though his dark blue eyes seemed about a hundred.

  Finally, looking up almost shyly, David said, “Jordan, welcome to group. These are nice people here. But we’re all messed up. Or Levi, if you prefer? Fucked up.”

  David smiled and so did Levi and some of the others. Some.

  “We’re none of us here for our amusement. We’re here for a reason. Mine happened six years ago.”

  The room, despite the circle of people and metal folding chairs, became so quiet, the sound of her own breathing made Jordan self-conscious.

  “I was still writing then,” David said. “Belle… my wife… was expecting, our second daughter on the way. We were home that night with Akina… our other daughter. We weren’t doing anything that special. It was like… a thousand other nights, with the possible exception that Belle, pregnant and all, was getting these cravings. Like, she would look up and announce suddenly that she simply had to have a sardine and peanut butter sandwich, or a grape Popsicle, or… or a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza, from Salvatore’s.”

  A few people nodded at the latter—indicating Salvatore’s pizza was worth craving, even if maybe that combo wasn’t. Why, Jordan wondered, did this white guy have a daughter with what sounded to be an African-American name?

  “Belle was having a difficult time with her pregnancy, and I was doing everything I could to make it go easier. Hey, if she wanted Salvatore’s, Salvatore’s it was.”

  Jordan’s eyes drifted to a dark-haired man seated halfway between Dr. Hurst and David. This group member had obviously undergone some serious plastic surgery. What was his story? she wondered. Was he a burn victim? Whatever the case, he was watching David raptly. Everyone else in the circle did likewise, if without that intensity.

  “Didn’t matter that Salvatore’s was clear across town,” David said, “and didn’t deliver. She wanted what she wanted, and I wanted her to have it. Called in the order and drove to pick it up.”

  He drew in a deep breath, let it out, and looked toward the doctor, the way a guy on the wrong side of a lifeboat views somebody with a spare life jacket. What he got was an encouraging nod.

  “When I got back…” David stopped.

  The group sat silently. A thirtyish brunette woman sitting next to David touched his elbow. When he turned to her, she patt
ed his arm.

  “When I got back, they were dead, Belle and Akina—shot. And… mutilated.”

  No one moved.

  “I still don’t know whether the killer had been waiting for me to leave, or whether he would have killed me too, if I had been there.”

  Silence.

  “I wish he had killed me.”

  Dr. Hurst said, “Do you, David?”

  “… No. Not really. What I wish is that I had been there, too, to defend them, to stop him or die trying.”

  The doctor nodded and smiled a little. Apparently arriving at this place had required a long journey for David.

  “But I wasn’t there,” he said. “I wasn’t there to defend them or to die. Except… he did kill me, in a way.” He let out something that might have been a laugh, but wasn’t. “And there hasn’t been a David Elkins novel since.”

  David Elkins. The thriller writer! Jordan had never read him, but his books had often rested on the nightstands of both her parents. And hadn’t there been movies?

  She knew nothing of the loss he’d suffered. Was it a famous crime, out in that world she’d withdrawn from? Certainly David had been famous. Or famous for a writer, anyway.

  And now Jordan spoke: “Did they catch who did it?”

  Every eye turned to her, and it knocked her back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Dr. Hurst said, “Jordan, that’s all right. Usually we don’t ask questions until we’re sure the group member is done speaking, but… I didn’t give you the protocol. My bad.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Jordan said again, weakly. “None of my business.”

  The doctor said, “We’re here to share.…”

  “It’s all right,” David said, looking at Jordan, but his smile died somewhere on its way to his lips. “No, they… the police… never did.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said yet again.

  “I’ve never been able to understand why he picked my family. Was it the nature of what I wrote? Was I spared? Or was my survival just a fluke?”

  I was spared, too, she thought. But didn’t say it.

  The brunette woman was squeezing David’s shoulder now. He had the expression of a crying man, but no moisture came.

  Too cried out, Jordan thought. She knew all about that.

  Dr. Hurst said, “David, I know how difficult that was. I would never have asked you to put yourself through that. Why did you?”