But when the orderlies wheeled me toward that bank of elevators and we pa.s.sed Christy Bruter's room, I saw her propped up slightly in her bed, staring out at me. I saw her parents standing by her bedside, and another, younger woman who was holding a little boy in her arms.

"I didn't do it... I didn't..." I was saying, crying.

Her parents stared out at me with weary eyes. And Christy looked on with just the slightest wry smile. It was the same smile I'd seen so many times on the bus. Completely unchanged.

The orderlies turned the corner and I couldn't see in Christy's room anymore. "I'm sorry," I whispered. But I don't think she heard me.

Still, I wondered if somehow Stacey did.

11.

There would be many times in my life that I would wonder how I survived those ten days in the hospital psychiatric wing. How I got from my bed to the toilet. How I got from the toilet to group sessions. How I lived through listening to high squealy voices shouting ridiculous things through the night. How I felt like my life had been taken down to a disgusting level when a tech came into my room one morning and whispered that if I needed "a hit" we could "probably work something out," tugging at the front of his scrubs while he said it.

I couldn't even succ.u.mb to my silent place again-my comfortable s.p.a.ce. Dr. Dentley would surely consider silence a regression and suggest to my parents that I needed to stay longer.

Dr. Dentley made me sick to my stomach. His tartar-caked teeth and his dandruff-flaked gla.s.ses and his psychology-textbook way of talking. All the while, his eyes wandering to something more important while I answered his Super-Shrink questions.

I didn't feel like I belonged there. Most of the time I felt like everyone else was crazy-even Dr. Dentley-and I was the only sane one.

There was Emmitt, a mountain of a boy, who continually trolled the hallways asking everyone for pennies. Morris, who talked to the walls as if there were someone there talking back to him. Adelle, whose mouth was so foul they wouldn't even let her be in group with us half the time. Francie, the girl who liked to burn herself and constantly bragged about having an affair with her forty-five-year old stepfather.

And there was Brandee, the one who knew what I was there for and who regarded me with her sad, dark eyes and questions at every turn.

"What did it feel like?" she'd ask in the TV room. "You know, to kill people."

"I didn't kill people."

"My mom says you did."

"What does she know about it? She's wrong."

In the hallways, in group, there would be Brandee with her questions. "What did it feel like to get shot? Did he shoot you on purpose? Did he think you'd turn him in? Did any of your friends get shot or was it all people you hated? Do you wish you hadn't done it? What do your parents think? My parents would totally freak out. Did your parents freak out? Do they hate you now?"

It was enough to make me crazy, but I worked really hard to not let it get to me. Most of the time I would just ignore her. Shrug my shoulders noncommittally or pretend I didn't hear her. But occasionally I'd answer, thinking it would shut her up. I was wrong. Answering her would just bring on a new wave of questions and I'd regret that I'd ever said anything.

The only good thing that happened during those days in the psych wing was that Detective Panzella stopped coming in to grill me. Whether that meant Dr. Dentley was keeping him away or he'd decided I was telling the truth or he was working up a case against me, I didn't know. All I knew was it was good that he wasn't around.

I moved from place to place like I was supposed to. Changed out of my pajamas and hospital-issued robe like a good girl. Sat on the couch in the common room, watching approved TV, looking out the window at the highway below, pretending I didn't see the dried boogers smeared on the walls next to me. Pretending my heart wasn't breaking. Pretending I wasn't angry, confused, scared.

I wanted to sleep my time away there. Wanted to take painkillers, curl up in bed, and not wake up again until I was home. But I knew that would be seen as a sign of depression and would only serve to keep me there longer. I had to pretend. Pretend I was getting better. Pretend my "thoughts of suicide" had changed.

"I totally see that Nick was wrong for me now," I intoned. "I want to start over now. I think college will be good. Yeah, college."

I hid the anger that was welling up inside me. Anger at my parents for not being there for me. Anger at Nick for being dead. Anger at the people in the school who tormented Nick. Anger at myself for not seeing this coming. I learned to tamp down the anger, to force it to the back of my mind, hoping that it would just fizzle out, go away. I learned to pretend it was already gone.

I said the things that would get me out. I mouthed the words they needed to hear and somehow got myself to those group sessions and said nothing when one of the other patients would lash out at me with insults. I took my meals and tests and cooperated in every way possible. I just wanted out.

Finally, on a Friday, Dr. Dentley came into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. I didn't cringe, but curled my toes inside my socks, trying to distance myself from him.

"We're going to release you," he said, so matter-of-factly I almost missed it.

"Really?"

"Yes. We're very pleased with your progress. But you're a long way from healed, Valerie. We're releasing you to intensive outpatient care."

"Here?" I asked, trying not to sound panicky. For some reason, even though it would be outpatient, the thought of coming back to the hospital every day scared me-like if I said or did something wrong, Chester and Jock would pin me down and shove a needle in my b.u.t.t again.

"No. You'll be seeing..." he trailed off, flipping through pages on the clipboard he was holding. He nodded in approval. "Yes. You'll be seeing Rex Hieler." He looked up at me. "You'll like Dr. Hieler. He's perfect for this case."

I left the hospital, a "case," but a free one.

A nurse wheeled me down to the front door of the hospital in a wheelchair. I was aware of every eye in the building staring at me as I went past. Probably they weren't really staring at me, but it felt like it. Like everyone in the world knew who I was and why I was there. Like everyone in the world stared at me, wondering if what they'd heard was true. Wondering if G.o.d was a cruel G.o.d for letting me live.

Mom had the car pulled up outside and was coming toward me, a pair of crutches in her hand. I took them and hobbled to the car, piling myself inside it, not saying anything to Mom or to the nurse, who was giving Mom instructions just inside the hospital door.

We drove home in silence. Mom turned the radio to an easy listening station. I opened the window a crack, then closed my eyes and smelled the air. It smelled different somehow, like something was missing from it. I wondered what I would do when I got home.

When I opened the front door of the house, the first thing I saw was Frankie sprawled on the floor watching TV.

"Hey, Val," he said, sitting up. "You're home."

"Hey. Like your hair. Maximum height on those spikes today."

He grinned, ran his hand over his head. "That's what Tina said," he said. Like nothing had ever happened. Like I didn't still smell like the hospital. Like I wasn't a suicidal freak come home to make his life miserable.

At that moment, Frankie was the best brother anyone could have asked for.

12.

Dr. Hieler's office was cozy and academic-an oasis of books and soft rock music in a sea of inst.i.tutionalism. His secretary, a relaxed girl with brown skin and long fingernails, was curt and professional, ushering me and Mom in from the waiting room to the inner sanctum as if we were there to buy rare diamonds. She bustled around a mini-fridge, bringing me a c.o.ke and Mom a bottled water, and then waved with her arm toward an open office door. We stepped through.

Dr. Hieler unfolded himself out from behind a desk, taking off his gla.s.ses and unveiling a closed-mouthed smile that made his eyes look sad. Or maybe his eyes were always sad. I suppose if I had to listen to tales of pain and misery all day my eyes would look sad, too.

"Hi," he said, stretching his hand out to Mom. "I'm Rex."

Mom extended her arm, looking too formal and rigid to be in this office. "h.e.l.lo, Dr. Hieler," she said. "Jenny Leftman. This is my daughter, Valerie." She reached behind her and touched my shoulder lightly, pushing me just slightly forward. "You were referred by Bill Dentley at Garvin General."

Dr. Hieler nodded; he knew this already, as he also already knew what was next to come out of her mouth. "Valerie goes to Garvin High School. Went Went," she amended. Past tense.

Dr. Hieler settled into an overstuffed chair and motioned with his hand for us to take a seat on the couch directly opposite. I flopped on the couch, watching Mom as she stiffly backed up and sat on the very edge of it, as if it would soil her. Suddenly everything Mom said or did was embarra.s.sing, annoying, frustrating. I wanted to push her out of the room. I wanted to push myself out of there more.

"As I was saying," Mom said, "Valerie was there at the school the day of the shooting."

Dr. Hieler's eyes moved to me, but he didn't say anything.

"She, uh, knew the young man involved," Mom finished. It was more than I could take, this fake act of hers.

"Knew," I seethed. "He was my boyfriend, Mom. G.o.d!"

There was a brief silence as Mom visibly tried to gather herself up (maybe a little too visibly, I thought, and I figured this, too, was primarily for Dr. Hieler's benefit-for him to see just what a horrible child she was cursed with).

"I'm sorry," Dr. Hieler said, very quietly, and at first I thought he was talking to Mom. But when I looked up he was looking directly at me, taking me in.

There was a long period of silence, during which Mom sniveled into a tissue and I looked at my shoes, feeling Dr. Hieler's gaze on the top of my head.

Finally, Mom broke the silence, her voice sounding shrill in the close air. "Well, obviously her father and I are concerned about her. She has a lot to work through, and we just want her to get on with her life."

I shook my head. Mom still thought I had a life to get on with.

Dr. Hieler took a deep breath in and shifted forward in his seat. He finally took his eyes off of me and focused on Mom again. "Well," he said in this soft voice that felt like a lullaby, "getting on with her life is important. But right now it may be more important to put the feelings out there, deal with them, and find a way to be okay with all that's happened."

"She won't talk about it," Mom argued. "Ever since she got out of the hospital..."

But Dr. Hieler shushed her with an outstretched hand, his eyes once again taking me in.

"Look, I'm not going to tell you that I know what you're feeling. I wouldn't invalidate all you've been through by telling you that I have any idea of what it's like," he said to me. I said nothing. He shifted in his chair again. "Maybe if we just start off this way. How about if we kick your mom out and you and I talk for awhile? Are you comfortable with that?"

I didn't respond.

But Mom looked relieved. She stood up. Dr. Hieler stood up, too, and stepped toward the door with her.

"I work a lot with kids Valerie's age," he said in a low voice. "I tend to be really wide open and direct. Not harsh, just direct. If there's something that needs to be put on the table we put it on the table so we can work on it to see if we can find our way through it and make things better. I tend to initially listen and try to offer support." He turned and looked at me, talking to both of us-me on the couch and Mom with her hand on the doork.n.o.b. "Down the road, we may or may not think there's something that you need to change. If we do we'll talk about it. More than likely at that point, we'll talk more about your thoughts and your behaviors. Any questions?"

I said nothing.

Mom dropped her hand from the doork.n.o.b. "Have you ever dealt with anything like this before?"

Dr. Hieler glanced away. "I've dealt with violence. But I've never dealt with anything like this. I think I can help, but I don't want to lie to you and act like I think I know everything about this." He looked directly at me again and I could swear I saw real pain in his sad eyes this time. "What you've been through really sucks."

Still, I said nothing. It was easier to be silent with Dr. Hieler. Dr. Dentley would've locked me up for it; Dr. Hieler looked like he expected it.

I concentrated on my shoes as Mom left the room. "I'll be right outside," I heard her say. I heard Dr. Hieler close the door and it was suddenly so silent I could hear his clock ticking. I heard the cushions of his chair let out air as he sat down again.

"This is one of those times where there's probably not a right thing to say," he said, very softly. "I would have to imagine that this thing is awful and just keeps on being awful."

I shrugged my shoulders. I still couldn't bring myself to look up.

He cleared his throat and said, a little more loudly, "First, you went through this, you got shot, you lost somebody you loved. It's pretty well screwed up school, family, friendships, and now you're stuck in an office with a fat shrink who wants to get inside your head."

I looked up with my eyes only, keeping my head bent, so he wouldn't see me grin. But he must have because he grinned very slightly back at me. I liked him already.

"Look," he said. "Not only do I think this whole thing is terrible for you, but I'm also aware that you've probably had very little control over any of this. I'd like to do things differently here. I'd like to give you a lot of control. We'll move only as quickly as you want. If I bring up a subject that you don't want to talk about or push too hard on a topic, just tell me and I'll change the topic to something easy and safe."

I lifted my chin a little.

"The next time we get together why don't we start by just learning about you, what you've been interested in, how life was before this happened, getting to know one another a bit, and we'll move forward from there. Sound good?"

"Okay," I said. My voice was tiny, but I was surprised to hear any voice there at all.

13.

When I got up the next morning, Detective Panzella was sitting in my kitchen, at the table, across from Mom, a cup of coffee in front of him. Mom was smiling, her face lighter than I'd seen it in forever. The detective was grim-looking, like always, but there was a looseness about his shoulders that suggested he might have been smiling, had he not been who he is and I not been who I am.

I limped into the kitchen, the rubber stops on the bottoms of my crutches sliding slightly under my weight on the linoleum. I fought the feeling of the world going out from under me, as it had done countless times since my surgery. I was still hopped up on a good amount of drugs, both painkillers and psychotropics, and was still a little loopy over my freedom.

"Valerie," Mom said. "The detective has good news."

I considered sitting at the table, but thought better of it and instead propped myself against the far end of the island, putting distance between Detective Panzella and myself that I had yearned for in the hospital and had been able to do nothing about at the time.

I studied him. He was in a brown suit like always, and he looked recently cleaned up, like he'd just gotten out of the shower before coming to our house. In fact, I thought I could smell soap on him and it smelled like the same kind of soap we used in our house. I could smell his aftershave, too, and it immediately sent my stomach into nauseating loops. I felt tears involuntarily spring to my eyes and, had I had the ability to use both legs, I might have sprinted out of the house screaming just to get away from him.

"h.e.l.lo," he said. He turned in his seat to face me, dragging the coffee cup in a small arc on the table as he did so. Later I would scrub away the sticky trail and feel as if I were physically removing him from my life forever.

"Hi," I answered.

"Valerie," Mom said again, "Detective Panzella has come over to tell us that you're no longer a suspect in the shooting."

I said nothing. Suddenly I wasn't entirely sure I was even awake. Maybe still in the hospital, asleep, on the psych ward. I would wake in a few minutes and wheel myself to group and tell them all about this freaky dream I'd just had and Nan the schizophrenic would start yelling something about terrorists and Daisy would cry and pick at the bandages around her wrists and Andy would probably tell me to f.u.c.k off. The idiot therapist would just sit there and nod and let everyone act like that and then send us off to breakfast and meds.

"Isn't that great news?" Mom prompted.

"Okay," I said. What else could I say? Thank G.o.d? I told you so? Why? Thank G.o.d? I told you so? Why? None of it seemed exactly right for the moment. So I stuck with, "Okay," and added, "Um, thanks." Which seemed like such a stupid thing to say. None of it seemed exactly right for the moment. So I stuck with, "Okay," and added, "Um, thanks." Which seemed like such a stupid thing to say.

"We've had some witnesses come forward," the detective explained. He took a sip of his coffee. "One in particular. She demanded a meeting with me and the district attorney. She was very detailed and persuasive. You won't be charged."

I felt foggy. I wanted to wake up because I was starting to feel relieved and giddy and didn't want to feel that good. It would make waking up later and finding out that I was still facing jail time feel all the worse.

"Stacey?" I croaked, shocked that she was still willing to stick up for me, even though it was obvious that she didn't trust me and that we weren't friends anymore.

The detective shook his head. "Blond. Tall. A junior. Kept repeating, 'Valerie didn't shoot anybody.'"