thirty-eight

It’s strange, but sometimes I miss the cold.

I miss the bite of winter wind against my neck, the delicate spiderwebs of ice stretched across the windowpanes. But mostly I just miss the open, empty sky and the whir of bike tires as I ride through the cornfields.

But there are plenty of things to like about spring, too.

I stretch out on my blanket so the grass tickles the soles of my bare feet. People are watching me as they pass by—so many people, more people in this park than in all of Amble combined. Every once in a while, one of them will give me a strange look as they walk by, or mumble a string of syllables under their breath. But then someone in a white coat sweeps them away, toward a cluster of buildings at the back of the park and I’m alone again. I know these people think it’s weird that I’m already barefoot in April, when the air still nips at their skin. But they haven’t been to a place as cold as Amble.

I flip onto my stomach and check my cell phone: 11:31 a.m. I have an appointment with Dr. Barges in a half hour.

Now that I’m back in Manhattan, I see him three times a week instead of one. That was part of my plea agreement back in Ohio: regular, intensive therapy sessions, a structured program, and the right medication.

Even then, sometimes I still see them.

I’ll be on my way to Dr. Barges’ office and I’ll see a flash of gray tucked between the skyscrapers. Every once in a while, I’ll hear a howl.

But just as quickly as they try to take over my brain, the Clozapine washes them away and they disappear. Dr. Barges explained to me that Clozapine has a ridiculously high success rate in treating hallucinations. So far, it works.

Dad wasn’t as lucky.

Because his psychotic episodes started so many years ago, his body eventually became immune to the effects of Clozapine. He started to see their gem-colored eyes and smell their hot, sour breath again. He started to hear them howl.

But he didn’t tell anyone, not until he told me, and not until he was too late. So an innocent snow angel lost her life to wolves and Dad lost his to a guilty verdict and a lifetime of inpatient treatment at Havenwood.

I dip my toes in the grass and pull a notebook from my messenger bag. I open the cover and a slip of paper falls out. A note.

From Ella.

I unfold it, careful not to smear the colored ink inside. Her loopy handwriting sprawls across the paper, heart-dotted letters and all.

I’m coming.

My face breaks into the grin as I clutch the note to my chest. Ella sent this one to me, along with a copy of her train schedule, two weeks ago. My heart still throbs with happiness when I imagine greeting her at Grand Central Station, throwing my arms around her and breathing in her magic. I play it over and over in my mind, every day.

Three more days.

When Ella heard that Dad had been placed under psychiatric care in Havenwood after pulling the insanity card, and that I’d started treatment in New York, she took the first train back to Ohio to be with Mom. As it turns out, I’d missed the biggest clue of all in my search for Ella.

That postcard, pinned to the center of her corkboard: Welcome to Madison, Wisconsin!

Patrick’s cousins lived in Madison. Ella had met them at the bus stop in Marquette, and they took her the rest of the way to Wisconsin. Safe from wolves with knife teeth and free from a small town clotted with broken dreams.

The first time we talked on the phone, she told me she knew I’d find the diaries, that she left them behind to explain why she couldn’t stay. Then she apologized a million and a half times for the entries, especially the ones that bit at me with her anger. But I don’t even care about that anymore—I have her back.

Sometimes I think about asking her about the night of the attack, about the minutes before and the hours after. About what she really remembers. I tried to bring it up once, but Ella just quickly switched to the subject of Patrick’s new basset hound.

So we don’t talk about those kinds of things.

It’s probably for the best.

I turn to a fresh page in my notebook. A journal, actually. Dr. Barges gave it to me when I first arrived back in New York. It’s just a flimsy little thing, nothing special like the gold-eyed wolf journal that Grant gave me. There’s gold on this one too, but it’s in the form of a pressed-in seal with a tree in the center and the words Central Park Sanatorium wrapped around the branches. Dr. Barges suggested I start using it to keep track of any relapses. Sometimes I do that, but mostly I just write letters to Grant.

I like to imagine what it would be like if he were here with me, living in New York instead of back in Amble. I tap my pencil to my lip. Today, Grant would be reading the paper and shoveling wobbly eggs into his mouth at the diner next to my apartment. I’d be watching him from across the table, wondering when was the next time I could kiss him like I wanted to without getting weird looks from strangers.

I smile and write it down.

Of course, he’ll never read this.

The no-contact order that the Buchanans put on my family is in effect for at least another year. One phone call to Grant and I pretty much buy myself a one-way ticket to prison.

But last week, his name lit up on my phone, just for a millisecond before the screen went dark. He’d called me and hung up.

It happened again two days later, and another time just yesterday afternoon. I was leaving therapy when my phone rang, and I saw his name on the screen. I hurried to answer, and when I said hello, there was nothing on the line.

At least, I thought there was nothing. At first.

I stepped into a space between buildings and listened.

Breathing—shallow, hopeful—on the other end. “Grant, are you there?” I whispered. And then: “I miss you.”

There was no response other than a click.

I shove my journal back into my bag and stand up, brushing the grass off my jeans. It’s rain-washed and spongy, and it clings to my clothes like the grass in Amble never did. It’s impossible to get rid of.

I bend down to grab my blanket and bag, and when I look up, I see a head with dark, cropped hair across the park. I blink and it disappears.

I shake my head. Impossible.

I start to move toward the street when I see it again—a flash of dark hair. I stop and turn.

“Claire, where are you going? It’s time for your medicine.” A squat, caramel-skinned woman in a white coat stands behind me, shaking a paper cup. My pills rattle around inside it.

I wave her off. “Just a second, okay?”

Grant leans against an oak tree. His arms are crossed over his chest and he tips his head to look at me in the space between the crowds. Our eyes meet.

And everything in me cracks open and my heart thrums in my chest and I’m running, running, running.

The white-coat woman is yelling my name, but I don’t care. I don’t listen. I don’t need a paper cup full of pills right now. I just need Grant.

I drop my bag when I reach him. He looks down at me with his spring-colored eyes and smiles. The kind with teeth. Even though most of his star freckles have been replaced by a shiny, pink scar, he’s still Grant and I still love him.

“You came to see me,” I say, breathless.

His fingers brush my face and it feels just like a breeze. “Of course I did,” he says.

I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of him: peppermint Chapstick and earth and home. I stand on my tiptoes and touch my forehead to his.

He kisses me.

His lips are so gentle against mine that I can barely feel them, taste them. I want more of him. I reach up to wrap my hand around the nape of his neck, to thread my fingers through his hair, to pull him closer to me.

But my fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel anything like star-freckled skin or cropped hair, but feels everything like tree bark.

I open my eyes.

And he’s gone.

The End