The Evolution of Mara Dyer

11

I WAS JACKED UP ON ADRENALINE THAT GRAY MORNING and couldn’t stop moving, afraid that if I did, I’d crack. I washed away the blood on my mirror. I forced myself to eat breakfast, to smile at my parents as they got ready to drive me to the program. The air was oppressive; it had poured again overnight. Before we left, I checked outside to see if I left any footprints on the patio, leading from the cat back to the house.

The cat was gone.

The car seemed to contract around me and even though I managed to stay engaged in their conversation, I couldn’t remember what my parents said. Nausea gnawed on the remains of whatever was left in my stomach and I was drenched in sweat.

I willed myself to hold it together as my mother wrestled with snarls of traffic, and by the time she pulled into a nondescript strip mall in South Miami, I succeeded. The three of us headed toward a storefront sandwiched between a Weight Watchers and a Petco, and my mother squeezed my arm in what I assumed was meant to be a reassuring gesture. As long as they thought I was nothing worse than nervous, I’d be okay.

A man who looked oddly like Santa Claus was waiting for us just inside the door. “Marcus Dyer?” he said to my father as we stepped in.

Dad nodded. “Sam Robins?

The man gave a wan smile and extended his arm, stretching the fabric of his red polo shirt tight across his belly. “Welcome to Horizons,” he said cheerfully. Then he spoke to me. “I’m the admissions counselor. How was I-95?”

“Not too bad,” my mother said. She looked past the man and into the space behind him. “Is Dr. Kells here?”

“Oh, she’ll be along for the intake evaluation,” he said with a smile. “I’m just here to get you all acquainted. Come on in.” He waved us inside.

The interior was much brighter than I expected, and modern, from what I could see of it. Horizons was all white walls and sleek furniture, dotted with a few calming pops of blue-hued abstract art. And even though I couldn’t see much of it from where we stood, I could tell it was huge. It might’ve been a gym in its former life.

Mr. Robins pointed out several walled-off areas and named them as we passed: the common room, the art studio, the music studio, the dining room, et cetera. He seemed proud of the fact that it mirrored the structure of their inpatient place, complete with a little meditative Zen garden in the center. Something about “familiarity” and “consistency” but I didn’t pay much attention because I didn’t care. I was already counting down the seconds until I could see Noah, until I could tell him what happened. What I found.

What Jude had left.

But the adults looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something. So I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Where is everyone?” I hadn’t seen any other teenagers since we walked in.

“They’re in Group,” Mr. Robins said. “You probably didn’t get much of a chance to read over our materials, did you?”

Between my involuntary commitment and finding the mutilated cat? “No.”

“Well, it’s not a problem, not a problem at all. We’ll get you up to speed in no time. Just follow me, and I’ll get you all set up.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re a psychologist, Dr. Dyer?”

“Yes,” she said as we followed him down the strangely claustrophobic hall. The ceiling yawned over us, but the spaces we walked through felt tight.

“What’s your specialty?”

“I work with couples, mostly.”

“That’s wonderful!” He skipped right over asking my father the same question. I imagined he already knew—anyone who watched the news probably did.

Mr. Robins finally ushered my parents into an office in the back, which clearly wasn’t his. A stack of papers towered precariously on the glass desk.

He indicated a bench just outside the door. “All right, Mara, you can have a seat out here while I talk some things over with your parents, okay?” He winked.

If I hadn’t been freaked out, I would have rolled my eyes at the condescension. Maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with him much, after today. A girl could hope.

The door to the office closed with my parents inside then, and I sat on the horribly uncomfortable plank of wood across from it. There wasn’t much to see, and I found myself idly staring at the ductwork in the exposed ceiling when something soft hit me in the shoulder, then bounced to the floor.

I flinched—it was that sort of morning—but it was just a crumbled piece of paper. I opened it to find a crudely drawn picture of an owl, with a speech bubble that said:

!!!

I whipped around.

“Well, schmear my bagel, if it isn’t Mara Dyer.”