Chapter One: Ghost Town
The town wasn't new, just the people in it.
Right side: ice cream. barber. bookstore.
Left side: deli, bank, hardware store, and a turnoff to a gravel road that lead to The red bridge. Below the red bridge was the end of the world. Maykigo River ran through the canyon two hundred feet below. Winds tended to blow strongly through the canyon, so maintenance was done on the bridge weekly.
As I drove down Evergreen street, the two blocks that made up the Maykigo central business district, I didn't even have to look to know what storefronts I was passing. But as I did look, the people were unfamiliar. I didn't recognize the children playing by the statues at the library steps. I didn't recognize the men sitting in the window at Daniels' Bar. The car's air conditioning was drying out my throat and lungs, so I pulled into the 24 hour drug store at the end of the road. Mine was the only car parked there, except for a cluster of three cars at the far end of the gravely lot. There was a group of kids who looked to be around my age leaning on and sitting in the cars, talking and blasting music through one of the radios. This was the first moment of seeing familiar faces. There was Lauren, there was Dave, and Matt, and Ryan, and Jessica. I stood on my toes and waved.
"Jess!"
The entire group all turned at once to look at me. There was silence. I bounced on my toes and waved still, looking like an idiot.
"Jessica! Lauren! Hey!" I called again. They all looked at each other, then back at me, then slowly retreated into their cars. I could feel my smile disappear. Was I wrong? That WAS Jessica...we were friends, before I left. Did she not recognize me? Did I mistake someone else for her? The kids had disappeared, but none of the cars left the lot.
What do I need? Deodorant...new toothbrush...tampons...hairbrush...some eyeliner...all the things that either I didn't need or were provided for me in sterile plastic wrap for single use at Saint Martin's. Saint Martin's Teen Psychiatric Hospital: where I spent the last year or so of my life. I wish I knew why. For the first month, I spent two hours a day with a therapist trying to get me to talk about my life and my "demons". He told me that the demons were all I used to talk about. He told me that the demons were the reason I was in Saint Martin's instead of somewhere worse. The only problem was that I had no idea what he was talking about. When I told him this, Doctor Bailey brought in Doctor Westbrooke. For two months, they berated me for four hours a day, trying to make me see these demons that I allegedly had created. They tried to get me to remember a boy named Jake Rollins. If I wasn't crazy when I was placed in Saint Martin's, I was crazy by the time they started pumping me full of drugs during month three. Every morning I was given four pills. Every morning I demanded to know what I was taking. Every morning they wouldn't answer me. I could ask the nurses in white almost anything and they would answer, but they weren't allowed to tell me what I was taking.
During therapy, Doctor Bailey and Doctor Westbrooke gave me more drugs, but these were injected. I was on an IV drip for every other session. The drugs made it hard to see and hard to talk. I couldn't feel the chair I was sitting in. My vision was dark around the edges. Whatever they were giving me, it caused me to say things that I'm still not aware of. But whatever I said, it caused the court to let me out on my eighteenth birthday. Something hit the floor. There was gasp, then a swear. I looked up to lock eyes with a boy standing at the end of the aisle. He was bent over, picking up the bag of pink razors that he'd knocked off of the shelf. He looked scared, nervous. He didn't move. I put the stick of deodorant I'd been holding into my basket.
"Hi," I said. He pressed his lips together and didn't take his eyes off of mine. He still hadn't even stood all the way back up. Looking at this boy, I was confused by the feeling that came over me. It was wonderful. My stomach was full of butterflies and I wanted to smile at him. Maybe walk over and take his hand. But by the look on his face, if I'd taken a step towards him he probably would have had a heart attack. He straightened himself out, standing up to his full height. He was very tall. I'm five foot-nine, and he was at least five or six inches taller than me. I could tell from halfway down the aisle. He was skinny as a rail, but with noticeably broad shoulders. Why did I want to wrap my arms around those shoulders?
"Are you okay?" I asked. He looked at me. He was confused, and just a little scared. It was obvious.
"Katherine?" His voice was quiet but he had undoubtedly spoken my name.
"Yeah, do I know you?" My question seemed to bite him. Something changed in his eyes.
"You...um. I...sorry. I'm sorry." And he ran. I'm not even kidding you. He took off like a bullet from a gun right out of the store. Suddenly I was back to being the only customer in the store. I acknowledged how bizarre what had just happened was, but for some reason I couldn't shake the feeling of euphoria running through me. My arms were tingling, my fingers were numb. My face felt hot and my lips were tilted up in a smile. I couldn't remember the last time I had smiled.