TOUCHING INDIGO
 by R.J. Anderson


One (is silver)


Dear God:
What have I done?
Desperately yours,
Alison

My first glimpse of Pine Hills came through a latticework of evergreen boughs and the orange haze of migraine. The van bumped along the forest road, loose stones crackling like popcorn beneath its tires, while I leaned my forehead against the barred window and prayed that I wouldn't throw up. Then something pale flashed among the trees, and I pulled myself upright for a better look.

The whiteness turned out to be letters on a painted sign, which shifted into rainbow hues as I squinted at them: PINE HILLS PSYCHIATRIC TREATMENT CENTER. A line of complacently looped script beneath it read Bringing Hope to Troubled Youth.

In the distance beyond the sign, a cluster of institutional buildings sidled into view. At first they seemed separate, a peak-roofed longhouse surrounded by smaller cabins: but as we drove closer I saw that they were all connected, like a hydra in the process of budding. In front of the hospital the trees gave way to grass and asphalt, and behind it the forest recoiled from a clearing enclosed in chain-link fence. As the van edged past I could just make out a girl sitting on one of the benches, all skinny limbs and hair like a splatter of ink, sucking on a cigarette.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, swallowing bile as my handcuffs clinked and gold starbursts filled my vision. I'm going to close my eyes now, I promised myself, and when I open them, I'll be home. Just one blink and I'd be back in my own bedroom, surrounded by walls the smoky purple of evening, a cabinet plump with books and my electronic keyboard humming gently to itself in the corner. I would crawl into bed, bury my face in the feathery coolness of my pillow, and my migraine -- and all the misery of the past few months -- would fade away.

I'd been telling myself this for weeks now. It never worked.

The van slowed to a stop, and the side door rumbled open. Warm, pine-flavored air washed over me, to the tune of droning cicadas and the liquid trill of a chickadee. Blinking in the sunlight, I stepped out into the grip of my police escort, who marched me across the asphalt to a door at the side of the building. It growled open at our approach, and closed behind us with a steely click.

As the officer took out his key and fumbled with the cuffs on my wrists I looked around, shivering a little in the air-conditioned chill. At first glance the room reminded me of a dentist's office, with plaque-colored walls and wintergreen furniture. But the sofa bled stuffing from a gash in its side, the chairs and table looked as though they had been flung across the room at least once before anyone thought to bolt them to the floor, and the wall beside the reception desk was noticeably cracked, with a dent in it the shape of a size twelve shoe. No wonder the two nurses sitting behind the glass looked harried.

My handcuffs snapped apart. The constable pocketed them, signed a clipboard handed to him by one of the nurses, then shouldered his way back out the door. I was left alone with the nurses, who sized me up as though I were a time bomb. At last the smaller one said, in a cheerful voice soured by insincerity, "Alison Jeffries, right?"

I nodded gingerly. The scintillating patterns behind my eyes were shifting from peach to tangerine, and my head felt as though it had been clamped in a vise.

"Okay. I've got some forms here we'll need to fill out..."

Over the next few minutes they took from me my name, my history, and everything I owned except, unfortunately, my headache. I was searched with clinical thoroughness, and my clothing and shoes locked away. Even the scent of the world outside vanished from my skin as I showered and changed into the shapeless pajamas they'd given me.

Feeling like a damp scarecrow, I shuffled out of the bathroom to be met by the nurse, who escorted me down the hallway to an examination room. There a lanky physician looked me over from crown to soles and several humiliating places in between, took my blood pressure, and looked grave when I told him I had a migraine. He gave me two blue pills and a seat in a darkened corner, and I was still sitting there when the door opened and another white-coat came in. I looked up, into the muddy hazel eyes of the nicest man I would ever learn to hate.

"Hello, Alison," he said heartily. "I'm Dr. Minta."

*     *     *

It turned out that this little, balding, square-spectacled man was the psychiatrist assigned to my case. For the next half hour he showed me around Pine Hills, pointing out its various features with all the enthusiasm of my mother showing real estate, while I stumbled unhappily in his wake. The pills had muted my headache enough to keep me from fainting or vomiting on my slippers, but I still felt as though someone had shoved a raw carrot into my eye socket. My only hope was that Dr. Minta would wrap up the tour quickly so I could lie down.

The hallways echoed silence, like the corridors of a high school during class. I saw staff members striding here and there with grim purpose, but hardly any patients. As Dr. Minta prattled on about the gym, the recreation room and other leisure activities, I mustered the mental energy to wonder why he hadn't left this task to one of the nurses. Especially since a beefy male one appeared to be shadowing us anyway.

"This is our Education Room," Dr. Minta continued, opening a door. "And there is the back of Kirk's head, which is the only part anyone gets to see of Kirk when he is on the computer. Say hello, Kirk."

"Hey," said Kirk, without turning. His hair was the color of wet sand, feathering around his ears and over the nape of his neck. On the monitor before him a movie clip played frame by frame, while a glowing arrow darted ceaselessly about the screen. I looked away, feeling queasier than ever.

"We provide our patients with all the resources they need to continue their schooling," said Dr. Minta, leading me through the room. Several other students looked up from around the table, their stares ranging from vacant to hostile. One of them was the girl I'd seen smoking in the courtyard, her hair hanging lank over one side of her face and her exposed ear bristling with piercings. She mouthed an obscenity at me -- or possibly Dr. Minta -- and slumped over her textbook again.

"And next door we have Arts Therapy," Dr. Minta continued, oblivious to the girl's behavior. "We offer sculpture, painting, drama and music --"

Music. It was the first good news I'd heard all day. "I have a keyboard at home," I said, struggling to raise my voice above the sound of the construction workers in my head. "Could I bring it here?"

Dr. Minta turned and looked at me with renewed interest. "So you're a pianist, are you?"

I had a sudden and dreadful mental image of being forced to play in front of my fellow patients -- or worse, accompany them. "Sort of," I said hastily. "I'm out of practice."

"Privileges are earned here," said Dr. Minta, "so I can't make any guarantees. But if you show respect for our guidelines and your fellow patients, we'll see what we can do."

That sounded promising, I thought with a flutter of hope. After all, the judge had declared me Not Criminally Responsible on my assault charge --

(because they couldn't prove you killed her, even if you know you did)

-- so technically I wasn't a prisoner here, only a patient. True, unlike most of the other patients I’d come through the court system, and so couldn’t leave without a formal hearing. But even the Ontario Review Board couldn’t keep me here forever, so long as I kept my head down and acted meek and polite at all times. And I’d had plenty of practice at that: I'd been doing it most of my life.

Or at least until Victoria Beaugrand came along.

Her eyes wide with horror, blood running over her lips as she opened her mouth to scream
and scream
and --

Of all the assets that had turned into liabilities since Tori's death, my flawless memory was the worst. I stopped still, screwing my eyes shut as her last moments (my fault, I killed her, there was no one else to blame) seared themselves across my mind. Panic swelled inside me, and my body trembled with the urge to flee --

It was a painting, of all things, that saved me. As Dr. Minta led me out of the Arts Therapy room I saw it hanging on the opposite wall, an image of a teenaged boy and girl sharing a picnic in the forest. The subject matter was ordinary enough, and the technique wasn’t bad -- but the colors were just wrong. Did the artist seriously think that a maple tree's leaves were the same hue as the vinyl on a chain-link fence, or that there was no difference in shade between a ripe apple and a stop sign?

The irritation might be petty, but it was all the distraction I needed. My galloping pulse slowed to a canter, and my tensed muscles began to relax. In another moment I felt calm enough to turn my attention back to Dr. Minta, who was attempting to show me the visitors' lounge. My ears focused just in time to hear him say that my family and friends could meet with me here on weeknights from six-thirty to eight p.m., or on weekends between ten and two, after they cleared security of course, and now would I like to see my room?

I could have collapsed with relief, but I managed to restrain myself to a quiet "Yes, please," and pad after him, my too-large hospital slippers slapping the tiled floor. We passed a conference room and a series of offices, turned left down a short hallway, and stopped at a pair of putty-colored doors connected by a heavy lock.

"This is our maximum security unit," said Dr. Minta pleasantly, as though welcoming me to Fantasy Island. He swiped a keycard through a box on the wall, and the lock opened with a steely ka-chunk that weighed on my chest like a cinder block. I had to take three deep breaths before I felt light enough to move again.

A combination lock and another set of doors later we passed through into a narrow corridor, where Dr. Minta shepherded me past a series of locked rooms toward the nurses' station. I could hear muffled shouts and thumps from the far end of the hall, which resolved themselves into a string of snarled profanities as we walked closer. But the nurses scarcely glanced at the monitor before greeting Dr. Minta with bright but weary-looking smiles.

"This is Alison," he told them. "Would you like to show her where she'll be staying?"

A key was produced, a door opened, and I stood looking in at a cell with concrete walls, a barred window, and a single narrow bed. "I apologize for the cramped quarters," said Dr. Minta, "but because you came to us by court order, we have to keep you here in the Red Ward for a few days to monitor your behavior. If you seem to be doing well, then we can move you into the Yellow Ward and you can join some of our medium-security programs."

"This ward," I said, mustering my voice again. "Is it co-ed?" I'd heard stories of what could happen in these places, when the nurses were busy or distracted. Not that women couldn't hurt each other, as I of all people should know, but I was particularly keen on not getting raped.

"The men's unit is on the other side of the nurses' station," said Dr. Minta, "and like this one, it's fully secure. We try to give our patients as much freedom as their diagnoses and circumstances allow, but we don't take risks with their security...?" He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me, as though wondering whether he'd guessed right that I was afraid, or whether I was about to throw a tantrum and demand to see my tattooed, sociopathic boyfriend. I resisted the impulse to scowl at him, and turned back to look at my new room instead.

The desk built into the corner was dismally small, and the shelves in the closet stood naked to the prying air. But at least it had a window, and a bed for me to lie on. And I wouldn't have to share it with someone who might strangle me in my sleep. "Okay," I said at last. "Can I stay here now? Because I really need to lie down."

Dr. Minta and the nurse exchanged glances. "If you like," he said. "But the nurses will look in on you every now and then, and you'll have to get up at five-thirty to pick up your medication and your supper tray. Okay?"

I nodded.

"Nice to meet you, Alison. We'll talk more tomorrow." And with that and a last kindly smile, he was gone. The nurse gave me a look that said I'm watching you and shut the door, leaving me to struggle unsuccessfully with the louvers on the window before giving up and clambering onto the thin mattress. I pulled the single blanket over my head -- summer weight, too thin to block the light completely, but it helped -- and closed my eyes.

*     *     *

I didn't dream. I don't think I even slept. But as I lay there in the sallow semidarkness, I found my thoughts drifting back, as they inevitably did, to Tori Beaugrand.

The first few days after I was arrested, I'd replayed her death a hundred times in my mind, trying to make sense of what had happened (didn't know I could do that to another human being, didn't know anyone could). My memories told me one thing, my reason told me another, and the effort of trying to reconcile them had nearly driven me insane. After a succession of sleepless nights and nightmare days, I'd realized that the only way to cope was to push the incident to the back of my mind and move on.

But even then, my conscience wouldn't let me banish Tori's ghost completely. No matter how many distractions I might find during the day, all it took was one quiet moment to bring her striding back to the front of my mental stage. And when that happened, there was no getting rid of her: the only way to keep myself from obsessing about her death was to focus on some other memory of her instead.

Fortunately -- if you could call anything about my relationship with Tori fortunate -- I'd known her for four years before I killed her, so there were a fair number of memories to choose from. Especially if I went right back to the beginning…

"Welcome to Grade Seven. As you can see on the board, I'm Ms. Pocalujko -- it's a tricky name, I know, and I won't blame you if you get it wrong at first." My new teacher was young and pretty, with cropped auburn hair and a smile made up of equal parts enthusiasm and nerves. "Most of you probably know each other already..."

Most of us did, having gone to Diefenbaker Public since kindergarten, but as she rambled on I glanced around the room and noticed a few newcomers. At the front of the room sat a round-faced Japanese boy who kept pushing his glasses up his nose, near the back a girl with a tight ponytail and a slack chin, and right in the middle of the class --

I stared. I couldn't help it. I'd never seen hair so luxuriantly golden except in shampoo ads, and her eyes weren't just blue, they were turquoise. Her skin was flawless, with a glow that owed nothing to makeup, and her clothes were stylish enough for Toronto, or possibly even New York. She caught me looking at her and gave a little smile with a hint of smugness in it, like an actress on the red carpet. Then she turned back toward the teacher.

I looked away, blood scalding my cheeks. My hair hung flat, the color of cream-of-tomato soup made with too much milk, and my eyes were dull as rainwater. As for my skin -- well, I might have spent the summer under a rock, if it weren’t for all the freckles. And where the new girl had curves, I had only angles and despair. It was going to be an effort not to hate her.

Eventually the teacher wrapped up her introduction, and the morning began with my least favorite subject, math. Until now the new girl had seemed only mildly interested, but now she sat up straighter, and when the first problems went up on the board she was among the few who raised their hands. Her arm lifted in a graceful motion, her loose sleeve fluttering back -- and I saw the sun-shaped mark upon her skin.
It was only a half-shade darker than her tan, too subtle for a tattoo and too pink for henna. A birthmark? Or even – weird as it seemed -- a brand?

She must have sensed my stare, because she glanced back at me again, her look no longer friendly. And at that same moment, I heard the Noise: a high-pitched drone, faint but persistent, as though a mosquito were hovering just outside my ear. My vision filled with rust-colored dots, and a bitter taste coated my tongue. I swallowed, blinked, shook my head, but it refused to go away.

For the next hour my math exercises went untouched as I fidgeted and gnawed my pencil, unable to concentrate. I looked around, but no one else seemed bothered by the Noise, or even able to hear it.  Even once we'd moved on to geography I found it impossible to focus on what the teacher was saying, and when at last the lunch bell rang I practically catapulted out of my seat in my eagerness to escape. But my classmates moved just as quickly, jostling and chattering and crowding the doorway, and one confused moment later I found myself shoved up against the new girl, who was now looking at me as though she had found me stuck to the bottom of her desk.

"Why were you staring at me?" she demanded.

"Sorry," I said, but the word came out all prickly, like a baby porcupine. The buzzing in my ears was louder than ever. I backed away, and bumped hard into the desk behind me. Orange bloomed across my vision, but through it I could still see the angry puzzlement on the other girl's face. She whirled and stalked out of the room.

"Is there a problem?" asked Ms. Pocalujko.

The Noise was fading -- no, it was gone. I let out my breath in relief. "That girl," I said. "Who is she? Where did she come from?"

I'd asked too bluntly, and from my teacher's frown I could see that she was not impressed. "Her name is Victoria Beaugrand," she said. "And if you want to know more about her, then perhaps you ought to try being a bit more friendly."

Her coolness stung, but I knew better than to try and explain. "Sorry," I said again, and then, "I'll try."

But I never did.

*     *     *

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