“I don’t expect you to forgive me, after everything that’s happened, but…I kind of need your help.” She says the words like she knows just how ridiculous they sound coming out of her mouth.
She needs my help? I misheard her. There’s no fucking way she just told me that she needs my help.
“What could you possibly need from me, Halliday? Seems like Raleigh life’s been working out for you pretty well since Kacey was banished to Seattle.” I see everything, and I hear everything, two skills I picked up quickly once I became Public Enemy Number One at my own high school. Being hyper aware of my surroundings helped me stay ahead of the curveball when Jake and his idiotic buddies on the football team were plotting new and interesting ways to embarrass or humiliate me. When Alex arrived at Raleigh, I began to let things slip, though. I have no idea how Halliday is faring at school now that, for better or worse, there’s a Kacey Winters shaped hole in all of our lives. She could be the new Silver 2.0 for all I know, spit on and laughed at in the hallways, abandoned by anyone and everyone who ever called her a friend. But I doubt it. Halliday’s way too likeable for any of that.
She makes a distressed, choking sound that would have made me jump to my feet and hug her once upon a time. “You can tell me to go to hell if you want to, but I was hoping you’d come with me to the hospital after school today. If you’re not busy,” she hastily adds.
I’m intrigued. Against my better judgement, I look up again. “The hospital? Why?”
“Because Zen...” Again, she makes the distressed sound, pulling a face at Leah Prescott, who is studiously pretending not to listen to our conversation. Halliday tucks her long curls behind her ears, stoops down, and cups her hand to shield the words that come tumbling out of her mouth. “Zen tried to kill herself. She’s not right, um, mentally. And I figured…I hoped you might be able to help her.”
“And why would I be able to do that?”
Halliday’s eyes shine like wet glass, like she’s hating the fact that I’m actually making her say this. “Because she went through what you went through. And you were strong enough to endure it.”
16
SILVER
The smell always hits me hardest—the burn of bleach and hand sanitizer, coupled with the sickly-sweet fragrance of flowers that have begun to decay in vases of stale water. I stopper up the back of my nose, careful to breathe through my mouth as I follow behind Halliday, our sneakers squeaking cheerfully against the linoleum. As always, the strip lights overhead are slightly too bright. As always, their inaudible hum buzzes irritatingly against my eardrums, unheard but definitely felt.
Nurses pass us as we make our way through the hospital corridors. I know many of their names. Tracey, fresh out of nursing school, whose fifteen-year-old brother stole her car and drove it to Tacoma, where he sold it to buy heroin. Lindsay, who loves birds and hates winter because all of the Ospreys, Caspian terns, and tufted puffins migrate to weather the cold elsewhere. Mitch, who sounds like Michael Bublé when he sings but can’t dance to save his life. Phillipa, the sternest RN on staff, who strikes fear into the hearts of her subordinates, but who also makes sure to swipe extra pudding cups from the cafeteria for the sick kids on the cancer ward.
My face is healed now, the bruising faded and gone, and the nurses’ eyes skate over me as if they don’t even recognize me, which is a relief. I hated my time here, confined to my uncomfortable hospital bed, unable to go anywhere or do anything. I hated their pity the most, though. I despised being Poor Silver Parisi, the weak, vulnerable girl who nearly died at the hands of a mad, spoiled rich boy.
Halliday slows as she nears a set of double doors at the end of the hallway, wringing her hands anxiously. “The woman on the desk never lets me through,” she says. “Zen’s mom’s put a block on visitors. She told me I couldn’t see Zen until she comes home…but then I heard the doctor saying it was going to be weeks before they’d consider releasing her. And she shouldn’t be alone in there, Silver. She just shouldn’t. This place…it’s too surgical and cold. It's—”
“Hell,” I finish for her. I’m lower on sympathy than I ought to be, but I know all-too-well what it feels like to stare at the tile of a hospital room ceiling and feel like time has ground to a halt. If my parents hadn’t come to see me with Max, I would have lost my ever-loving mind. Setting my jaw, I push my way through the double doors, holding my head high. “Just follow me. Don’t look at the nurse on the desk. Just keep close and loosen up, for fuck’s sake. You look guilty as fuck and we haven’t even broken any rules yet.”
“I’m not good at breaking rules,” Halliday mumbles behind me.
This isn’t true. I doubt her mom signed off on her stripping at the Rock for one thing, but I keep my mouth shut. Now isn’t the time to bring that up. Once we’re through the double doors, I beeline for the secure-access door that leads to the ward where Zen’s room is located.
Holy shit. I hesitate when I read the sign taped to the wall.
PSYCHIATRIC ICU WARD
Sharp Objects Restricted Beyond This Point. Med Carts Must Be Locked And Keys Kept With The Duty Nurse On Call.
I knew Zen tried to kill herself, but she’s being kept on the psych ward? On the same ward as potentially dangerous patients and people who still pose a risk to themselves or others? I think I’ve grossly underestimated just how bad Zen’s situation is.
“The door doesn’t just open,” Halliday whispers. “They have to hit the big green button on the wall by the desk to let you through.”
“Shhh. Come on.” I recover myself, pressing forward toward the door, knowing how this kind of thing works. The nurse at the psych ward desk is harried, drowning in paperwork, and she’s hungry. She won’t have had a chance to stop for lunch, which was five hours ago now. She’s also tired because the department is massively understaffed and she’s doing the job of three people. If we walk right up to her and try to appeal to her humanity, we’re going to be met with short shrift. If we waltz right up to the secured-access door and punch in the code—a code that could very well be wrong for this part of the building or might have changed since I was discharged before Christmas, then she isn’t going to bat an eyelid. During my time here, I learned fast that if you looked like you were supposed to be somewhere, no one really questioned it.
My hand shakes as I punch the five digit code Mitch, the nurse who could sing but couldn’t dance, gave me when he told me to go and fetch my own damn blanket from the supply counter on the third floor; I’d refused to walk for a long time after I was admitted, and his tough love, coupled with the freezing ass temperatures in my room at night, were the only things that got me moving.
Seven…three…eight…zero…zero…
I’m so close to fist pumping in the air when the small green light at the top of the keypad flicks on and a whirring, mechanical sounds buzzes out of the lock. That really shouldn’t have worked. The hospital’s security protocols should be way tighter than this. Access codes should be changed regularly, or at least vary from one section of the building to another. Not complaining, though.