Page 8 of Distortion
2
DAISY
In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. My breathing hitches as I think over the conversation I just had with my stepfather with that fucking metronome clicking in the background. He must have known that, even now, Doctor Stoke uses them in his sessions with the younger patients to ‘calmthem’ and ‘help them with anxiety’. Ever since my first sessions with him at The Heath, when I hear something that even reminds me of that incessant noise, my heart rate ratchets up, I break into a cold sweat, and my knees feel like they’re going to give out. I’m not sure how John could know that, but he didn’t have it in his office to put me at ease, that’s for sure.
But something did come out of that meeting that I didn’t expect. I might hate John – Idohate John – but he’s giving me a chance not to be taken back to The Heath. I can go to university in person ... as a real student.
I just need to follow the rules ... and live with some boys. The Heath had both male and female residents, plus many of the blanks were men. That aspect probably won’t be much different. I can do it.
‘I can do this,’ I whisper to the woman staring back at me.
I look so different in real clothes instead of the light gray scrubs we all wore at The Heath, with the sunglasses on my head that I found on the table in the airport lounge while I was waiting to board John’s jet, and the light makeup I applied on the plane that one of the nicer receptionists showed me how to do properly the morning I was told I was coming here.
I can do this. I can be out here and have a life. I just have to keep my head down and do what John wants for a while.
I wash my hands with cold water, and I make the harsh breaths recede. I clench my fists to stop my fingers wriggling, the only remnant of the full-arm movements I couldn’t control as a child.
You can do this.
With a final glance at myself, I leave the bathroom and go looking for Jack. I don’t think he’s very happy that dear old dad has made him responsible for me.
As I think the words, said stepbrother comes out of nowhere, and I find myself pushed up roughly against the wall under the grandiose staircase where no one can see. I wince at the impact and let out a small cry as he jabs me in the chest with his finger, an echo of his father’s movements in the office a few moments ago, I realize, oddly proud of myself for noticing something I normally wouldn’t.
Also oddly, his close proximity doesn’t upset me. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me, and I didn’t feel the urge to balk, run, hit them, or do all three. I don’tdoany of those things, of course. I keep the impulses under wraps these days. But this ... I like the smell of him, I realize. Sandalwood. Leather. I don’t know why it calms me, but it does, and it’s a veritable balm after the flight, the funeral, the meeting with John – basically the past few days since Ilearned my world would be upturned. I find myself leaning toward him a little, trying to get closer.
‘You’re going to regret leaving that clinic,’ he snarls at me.
Hmm. Jack seems angry, but the rest of him is so calming that I don’t focus on that.
I look into his eyes for five seconds. No more. And then I stare at the spot between his eyebrows. He has very little idea of what The Heath is; if he was aware, he’d never say something so stupid.
‘I doubt that,’ I say softly.
I’m almost glad he doesn’t know. I always liked him more than Andrew when we were kids. Andrew could be cruel, and not just to me. Jack would stand with me at school when some of the other kids called me names. I think he even threw a couple of punches for me, though, at the time, I hadn’t realized it. He might have gotten in a bit of trouble for me before I was taken to England. too. I didn’t understand that until a few years later when I’d mulled over it probably a thousand times. He’d tried to help me then. I think I’d hate it if he knew the specifics about The Heath, but I’m not sure why.
He takes a step back with a sneer, and I immediately miss the warmth of his body, the smell of him.
That’s new.
‘We’ll see, Marguerite,’ he hisses.
‘It’s Daisy now, actually,’ I tell him.
I decided on the plane that I’d like a fresh start and that a new name would be a good idea. Daisy makes sense. It’s what my real name means in French and it’s what my mom called me when I was little.
When I meant something to her.
Without warning, I find tears filling my eyes, and I rapidly blink them back. I’ll cry when I’m alone, I promisemyself. But not here in this house andnotin front of any of the Novelles.
‘Daisy?’ he spits, not seeming to notice my glassy eyes, thankfully. ‘Whatever. Come on.’
He pushes away from me and turns, walking quickly to the front door and tearing it open. As I walk by, I notice my duffel bag by the entrance, and I pick it up. This is all my luggage. Everything I own is in this one bag.
I follow Jack out to a sleek, black Jag. I don’t know enough to discern the model. He throws open the boot ...trunkand motions for me to put my bag inside, almost catching my fingers as he snaps it back down.
I scowl at him, letting my real feelings out for a moment and I notice it takes him aback. I see it in his face. I scoff at him inwardly. He probably thought, as many of the blanks and even some of the doctors at The Heath did, that ‘a lack of tonal inflection is indicative of no emotional response’ ... at least inpatients like me. But nothing could be further from the truth. I feel everything a person can feel, the full range of emotions. KnowingwhyI feel the way I do and then expressing them at the right time is just difficult and, frankly, more trouble than it’s worth.
He opens his door, and I’m a little amused when he simply gets in on his side and starts the engine. No more chivalrous door-holding and helping me in and out of cars, I guess.
