Page 24 of Good Half Gone

I shake my head vigorously. “I’m fine. I just…”Panicked?

“I didn’t eat this morning. I’m a little lightheaded.”

“Here, take this…” She grabs my hand and presses something into my palm.My fingers close around it automatically. “You’re through that way.” She points, and my eyes follow the direction of her finger. I’m too breathless to do anything but nod. I try to display how grateful I am with my eyes. I’m cognizant enough to be embarrassed; the worst has passed. I look down at what she passed to me—the little treasure in my palm is peach-colored; we’ve met before.

“Go on, take it,” she says, glancing around like someone might see us. Not people taking pills in a mental health facility, I think dryly. And then I don’t think; I place the pill on my tongue and let it ride the wave to the back of my throat—down, down, down.

“Good girl,” she says, looking impressed. She offers me her water bottle again. I shake my head.

“You’re going to ask for Jordyn. Have you met Leo?”

“Dr. Leo Grayson?” My voice cracks. Her smile twitches, then grows stiff.

“Whoops! Dr. Grayson,” she corrects herself. She lifts her eyes to the ceiling in asilly megesture. Accidentally on purpose, I think. It isn’t unusual for people to give the new hire a hard time, but she is clearly fishing after what I think of him. I hide my enthusiasm and shrug.

“No, I haven’t met him. I’ve heard a lot about him though, I heard he’s great…”

A lie. I know everything about him; the plan doesn’t work without Dr. Grayson. He is the literal bridge to Piper.

A decade ago, Dr. Grayson was the most renowned psychotherapist on the West Coast. He was camera-shy, but the internet loved him nevertheless—his career was a conversation in the blogosphere. Not one, but two doctorates. He is the author of half a dozen books (none of which were stocked in Barnes & Noble). Back in the early two thousands, before he took the position on Shoal Island, he’d been a celebrity in the community, taking a lot of speaking gigs from what I saw online.Described as smart, handsome, charming, and a bit shy by one journalist. The same three photos accompanied his name, but then…nothing. There was nothing written about him for years until someone asked, “Whatever happened to that famous psychologist?” on Reddit. Why he took the job out here is anyone’s guess. My guess is solitude. Some people are good at the spotlight but not made for it. He’s probably in his midforties now; the last photograph taken of him and posted online was seven years ago.

I shake my head, and she nods slowly. “You’re pretty.” She says it like it’s more of an observation than a compliment, and before I can respond, she turns on her heel and walks away.

“Thanks,” I call after her, but she’s already waving at someone and jogging to catch up. I didn’t even get the chance to ask what she does here. She certainly knows who I am though—in a place this size, everyone probably knows. However, no one looks my way. No one seems to care in the slightest that I am here. I feel a sense of relief as I stand. Maybe no one noticed. I walk in the direction she pointed me, my spine a little more curved than it had been five minutes ago.

The email Jordyn Whyte sent had said to be at her office at nine fifteen.

I see the sign for the restroom, and beyond that is a gold plaque that says Offices/Registrar. As I approach the window, the door next to it opens.

“New girl…” A man who looks to be in his late twenties holds the door open with his hip. He glances down at a notepad. “Iris?”

I nod. He has one of those baby/man faces like George O’Malley fromGrey’s Anatomy—benignly boring, but handsome.

“Jordyn is waiting for you.” His face says nice, but his tone says impatient.

I follow him through the door and down a long corridor that smells like fresh paint.The ceilings are low, and the lights are the cheap office kind—buzzing insistently above us.

The man is speed-walking, and I get the sense that I’m late for something. But looking at my watch, I confirm I’m right on time. He stops suddenly, and I collide into his back.

He doesn’t acknowledge the collision; instead, he raps twice on the door and swings it open without waiting for an answer. No one is inside—not that I can tell. The office is a mess—Gran would call it trashed. It looks like the place old files go to die, except in the middle of the stacks is a desk with a computer.

“Jordyn will be right in.” My guide closes the door without telling me his name.

I look around the claustrophobic space. To my relief, a tiny window is cracked open, letting the fresh, cold air in. The window isn’t large enough for an adult to crawl through, but it’s something to look at other than the files.

I’d read online that the hospital had been renovated a dozen times since its opening in 1944 to accommodate its various uses over the years. Originally built as an army outpost, it was a no-nonsense cinderblock building that sat on a cliff and had an incredible view. Ten years later, it was converted into a prison. The cinderblock was razed, and an even uglier building was put in its place: Shoal Island Prison. The prisoners only got to enjoy the view for five years because in 1960 it closed due to supply shortages and funding. Another three years passed before a wealthy widow bought the island. She painted the prison pink and turned it into a home for unwed women to have their babies—aka, a place for embarrassed parents to send their knocked-up daughters. The widow built her own house—a Victorian shingle—in front of the prison so that when visitors crested the hill they’d see her mansion, which was breathtaking. It might have been a comfort to the parents of those girls to leave them in such a stunning place—where they could be forgotten about for six months until they returned slim and infant-less to their parents.Except the girls didn’t sleep in the main house. They were marched off to their real home—a converted cell facing the sound. The home was shut down in the seventies after Roe vs Wade, and the free love movement put an end to the era of the sent-away pregnant woman.

And now here we are: the former barracks/prison/girls’ home made into a facility that houses the criminally insane. I’d bet the five dollars in my pocket this office used to be a cell. It’s optimistically scented with apple cinnamon.

The door opens behind me, and a woman I presume is Jordyn comes in carrying yet more files. She wears a harried expression, and her eyebrows appear windblown, growing every which way. When she speaks, she has a tiny accent. Maybe Boston, I can’t be sure.

“That was Crede, in case he didn’t introduce himself…he’s a nurse, best one I have, actually.” She winds her way to the desk and collapses in her chair with a sigh, motioning for me to do the same. I’m on the short side, but she is over six feet tall.

I am obsessed with tall women; I want to wear their skin quite literally. Sometime after Cal was born, I’d read an interesting article in a forgettable magazine: “Why Men Are Afraid of Tall Women.” You could tell that the author wanted the article to be more intellectual than it was, and for two single-spaced pages she set out to answer the big question. I don’t remember the statistics or argument presented, only that the most important part of the article had boiled down to the very last sentence: “They just don’t know what to do with them.” I liked that. No, I loved it—a stature of intimidation.

Jordyn opens a drawer in the desk, slams it shut, frowns, opens another one. “Aha!” she says, triumphant; a granola bar appears in her hand. She shreds the packaging with her teeth and eats it in two bites. Her hair is mousy brown threaded with gray, and she wears it parted down the middle and tied at the nape of her neck. It’s still wet like she just got out of the shower.And she probably has—I saw the sign for the dorms on my way in. She smacks her lips like she just ate a hot meal.

“I’m Jordyn Whyte. You’ll hear some people around here refer to me as Y2K because of the twoy’s in my name and I’m old—real brainiacs, this group.”

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