Chapter 19: Imran
IT'S MY IDEA TO SNEAK AWAY. While Asad is busy hitting on Zoya—and Ayaan and Humaira are busy hitting a homer— I suggest to Tanveer that we grab our bags, tell Asad we're heading off to the bathroom, and then sneak away for a little urban exploration. What's surprising to me is that she doesn't object. But even more surprising is how cool the girl is. I mean, take away all the black clothes—and wouldn't I love to—Tanveer is completely down-to-earth.
Oddly enough, the hardest part of sneaking off is resisting the urge to burst out laughing. But we manage, first moving slowly down the hallway, and then booting our asses well past the bathroom, toward the cafeteria. At one point, I reach out to feel for Tanveer's hand, sensing her close by my side. Without even having to say anything— to tell her that my hand is extended out to her—she takes it, curling her fingers into my grip. And squeezing ever so slightly.
"Asad's going to have a fit," Tanveer whispers, holding in her laugh.
"That's fine," I say. "Because I brought along my straitjacket."
Still holding hands, we race across the cafeteria and open the door at the back of the kitchen. It leads to a back hallway, and straight ahead appears to be another tunnel.
"Let's go this way," I say, taking a left into a side room.
That's when things start to heat up.
Tanveer closes the door so no one can hear us. Her back up against it, I'm standing there just facing her—one hand on the door panel, the other still cradled up in hers. And we're laughing like two little punks, like we just t-papered the principal's office or spread some computer virus through the school's administration records.
And then something really weird happens. Tanveer looks at me for just a second—her emerald eyes. She tucks a strand of her kinky black hair behind her ear, and I notice how pretty she is— how her cheeks are sort of angular and her lips are the color of fire. I'm tempted to touch her—to glide my fingers down the side of her face and gently stroke her bottom lip. But then the corners of her mouth turn downward, like she knows how intense the moment is—like she wants the moment to end.
"So let's look around," she says, dropping my hand, just leaving me hanging.
"Yeah," I say, trying to mentally shower myself down.
The room is huge. There's a chalkboard at the front, and benches and tables overturned on the floor. I take a step, feeling something hard beneath my feet. I squat down to look. It's a dried-up tube of paint. And there are brushes, crayons, and bottles of glue littered about the floor. "It looks like this was an art room," I say, noticing the mildew-stained sketchpads piled high in the corner of the room. There are also works in progress set up on easels, and finished pieces displayed along walls.
"So what are we looking for?" I ask, thinking about all the booty these art supplies could get me on eBay.
"Files," Tanveer says.
"Don't you think you have enough files by now?"
"I'm looking for a particular file," Tanveer says.
"Whose?" I ask.
But she doesn't answer.
"Hellooo?" I sing, trying to get her attention.
"I'm busy," she says, at the back of the room now. She opens a closet door and discovers a couple of boxes, both filled with what appears to be old files.
"What are files doing in an art room?" I ask.
Tanveer shrugs. "In case you haven't noticed, this place isn't exactly what you'd call organized."
"But at least this stuff can get us some booty."
"You and your freakin' booty."
"Like it?" I point my butt in her direction.
I think I catch a glimpse of a smile, but then she looks down at the files.
"Let me help you," I say, squatting beside her. "What's the girl's name?"
"What girl?"
"The one with the journal. Isn't that whose file you're looking for?"
"Here," Tanveer says. "Check it out for yourself." She pulls the journal from her bag and tosses it in my direction.
Instead of arguing, I flip it open and read one of the entries:
December 3, 1981
I got sent to packs yesterday. It was the first time, but Vicky tells me there will be plenty more. I'm tempted to tell on her. The other night she came to work drunk. She just sat at the nurses' station the entire time, slurring her words as she talked on the phone, calling all her old boyfriends and yelling at them for breaking up with her.
It made me laugh.
The thing is, she caught me laughing and ordered me to go to packs. It was beyond horrible. I wasn't allowed to eat in the morning—not that that's a huge sacrifice. They've been serving leftovers lately, just tossing the slop on tables, making us paw for it like animals. I think some of the cooks are as screwed up as the patients. There's this one cook who used to be a patient here. He likes to show us the scar on his head. He says it's from a lobotomy. The guy's about thirty at most, so I know he's lying. They stopped doing lobotomies here more than forty years ago—at least that's what Vicky tells us. She also tells us that it's too bad they stopped, that some of us could really use one.
Anyway, back to packs. They put me on a table, held me down, and wrapped me up in ice-cold sheets. I couldn't move. I was all bound up like in a casket, and the smell—this strong soap—made me gag. The chill punctured right through my bones and made me want to die. I could hear patients screaming all the way down the hall, making me scream too. They normally only send really disturbed patients to packs, but they also do it as punishment.
I hate Vicky. I'm tempted to tell on her, but I'm scared no one will believe me. I'm also scared she'll make me sleep next to Martha again, that woman who murdered her husband. You have to count your blessings in this place.
Becky's a blessing. We've gotten to be like sisters. She lets me hold her doll, the one she named Nicki, after me. I never thought I'd be playing dolls again, but sometimes it helps to pass the time.
The other day Becky's dad brought her a big box of chocolates, and she shared some with me. I think her dad wants her out of here soon, so I'm not sure how much longer she'll stay. I wish she'd stay as long as me.
But I just feel like I'm getting worse, like I might never leave. I met with Doctor Naslar again, and he upped my medication.
More medication.
I didn't tell him, but yesterday I could hear my grandfather talking to me in my head. He was warning me not to trust Doctor Naslar that Naslar is out to get me—even more than Vicky.
Tonight's another full moon. Everyone is wailing.
Including me.
More tomorrow.
"Freaky, huh?" Tanveer says as soon as I close up the journal. It appears as that she's done picking through the boxes of files. She's just sitting there, back on her heels, watching me read—waiting for my response.
"Everything in this place is freaky," I say.
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"I never used to, but who knows?"
"I know," she says. "And they do exist . . . because this place is full of them."
"How do you know for sure?"
"It's hard to explain," she says, her eyes extra wide. "I mean, I've always just sort of believed in them. But now it's different. It's more than just a belief. Something really weird happened after the whole hydrotherapy room thing. I mean, I don't know if it was the room itself. Maybe it's the more I get into Nikhat Khan's journal. But it's like, I can feel it . . . I can feel them."
"Sounds kinky."
"I'm serious," she bites.
"I know," I whisper, suddenly feeling as though there's somebody else in the room, listening in. "So did you have any luck?" I gesture to the files.
Tanveer shakes her head and lets out a sigh. "The file I'm looking for isn't here."
"Whose is it?" I ask again.
"My grandmother's," she says finally. "She was a patient here."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously." She nods. "She wasn't crazy or anything like that. She was an alcoholic, and my mother and uncle couldn't take it anymore. Apparently my grandmother would get the shakes all the time. She couldn't hold a job, couldn't take care of herself. She could barely get out of bed sober. I guess it totally took over her life."
I nod, thinking about my dad, about how he shakes a lot, too.
"I mean, I'm not making excuses for them," Tanveer continues. "They never should have left her here. Or, since they did, they never should have forgotten about her."
"Did she get better, at least?"
"I don't know," Tanveer says. "Because she died here. That's why I was hoping I could find her file. I thought that maybe I could get to know her a little since she died before I was born. I was thinking that maybe I could find her grave marker number—the one they used to bury her . . . since they didn't use names."
"And what if you don't find this stuff?"
"Honestly?" Tanveer shrugs. "I don't know. I went to Town Hall and got a copy of her death certificate. But all it said was that she died and was buried here. It didn't say where, exactly. And the lady at the desk told me the hospital didn't keep good records of where people were buried."
"Does your family know you've been doing all this?"
Tanveer shrugs. "I've made hints. But it's like they don't want to talk about it too much, not even my older sister, Nuzhat."
"Wow," I say, just taking it in.
"What?"
I suck in my lips, half tempted to tell her about my dad, about how he's an alcoholic, too. I want to tell her that he's the one who gave me my black eye, but instead I grab a folder, suddenly eager for something to laugh about.
"What are you doing?" Tanveer asks.
A grin wiggles up my face, just imagining what might be inside—tales of some guy who ingested checkers or something. I open up the folder, and a necklace drops out—this big gold-plated medallion on a chain. "Was Elvis here?" I ask, checking the thing out. The medallion is light in weight, with a pyramid engraved on one side and a monkey on the other, almost like a fake gold coin. "What's a necklace doing in a folder?" Tanveer asks.
I shake my head and slip it on around my neck. "Thank you. Thank you very much," I say, doing my best Elvis impersonation, lip snarl and all.
"Why do you do that?" she asks. "Why do you always have to make everything funny?"
"What do you mean?" I say, holding myself back from playing the air guitar.
"I mean, we should probably get back to the others."
I nod, wishing I could take the moment back. But it's definitely too late. Tanveer mutters something about not feeling too well and then gets up and heads for the door.
"Wait." I stand up too.
She lets out a sigh and turns back to face me. "What?"
"I know something that can make you feel a whole lot better."
"I doubt it."
"Actually," I continue, "I know something that can make us both feel pretty good."
At first I think she's going to sock me one —give a shiner to my other eye—but then the corners of her lips turn slightly upward, like she wants to know more.
"Come on," I say, holding out my hand. "What have you got to lose?"
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