Chapter 7
7
When Amani and I burst into Diane’s office, talking over each other and waving our phones, she was reapplying her lipstick. She nodded, remaining composed as we explained our findings.
The only crack came when she muttered, “Good Lord” under her breath, studying the pictures of Catherine. There were just a few photos of her as an adult—from announcements that she’d been cast in a TV show before it had been canceled, as well as from a red-carpet event where she’d worn a shimmering silver dress. But even with her makeup, blown-out hair, and bright grin, you could tell. Jane Doe was Catherine O’Brien.
“We have to call the police, right?” I asked. Seeing Catherine all dolled up, her features rendered obscenely large by makeup, felt like I was looking at an Instagram-filtered version of myself. It also made her current state—blank, pale, unable to meet her basic needs—even more alarming. “Or her parents?”
“No.” Diane handed back my phone. “We talk to her.”
“But she won’t talk,” I protested. “Because of whatever horrific thing she’s been through.”
“Lots of our patients have been through horrific things.” Diane stood, smoothing down the front of her blouse. “We don’t breach their confidentiality or treat them differently just because they’re actors.”
So Diane thought I was asking for special treatment because Catherine was a celebrity.
But Catherine wasn’t just any celebrity. I wouldn’t feel this buzz of excitement coursing through my veins for just any famous person, would I? Catherine had unknowingly been a huge part of my life at thirteen, when everything had felt so intense, so momentous, so stormy. Of course her arrival in my workplace would give me a thrill.
Still, I had to act calm. Diane sent Amani off to her daily duties and we headed to Block D. The room was unexpectedly empty apart from the prone figure of Jane/Catherine in the last bed on the right. I wish I’d come here first, before telling Diane, so that I could fully take her in, watching her expressionless face meld into my memories of the beautiful, brash teenage Catherine.
Her glass-green eyes were wide open, staring at the wall. Diane leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder. As if mechanized, she pulled herself up to sit, her bare feet dangling over the side of the bed. I’d seen this a few days before; it was like the nurses had trained her—to sit up for food and medications. The blue socks with rubber treads on the bottom were set neatly on the tiny nightstand, to be slipped on before walking her to the bathroom.
I remembered suddenly that in Stargirl , her priestess character had been named Thuya—another cause for connection, the name so close to mine. It now seemed obvious that she was an actress, her features so sharp and defined. Sure, her eyebrows were overgrown and she had a smattering of acne on her chin. But I should’ve known immediately who she was.
Diane crouched in front of her. “So, we just received information that your name is Catherine O’Brien. You’re an actress from Los Angeles. Your parents are Killian and”—she checked her phone—“Lisette. Does any of that sound familiar?”
Catherine remained motionless. But she swallowed, her throat jumping. The movement made me clench the pen and paper I carried.
“You’re over eighteen, so we don’t have authority to call your parents or the police without your permission. But”—Diane motioned and I handed the items to her—“we want you to think about it and let us know how you’d like us to proceed. Okay?” Diane set the paper and pen in Catherine’s lap.
What now? Diane stood, her knees popping. “Why don’t you stay with her for a little bit.” I nodded, but Diane was already clack-clacking to the door. “Talk to her,” she threw over her shoulder.
It had always felt awkward to me, conversing one-sidedly with Catherine. But now, in the empty room, just the two of us, I couldn’t not talk.
“I—I hope this isn’t ridiculous to say, but I was a huge fan.” I perched on the bed next to her, the mattress shifting under my weight. “My best friend and I watched Stargirl so many times—she got the DVD at the mall and we would secretly watch it in her basement late at night during sleepovers. We had a such a big crush on—” It hit me that Catherine—catatonic or not—probably wouldn’t want to be reminded of her deceased costar and ex-boyfriend.
“Anyway,” I went on. “Some people thought I looked a little like you.” One person in particular. Catherine’s bottom lip dropped open; she was breathing through her mouth. Her shoulders were slightly slumped, her whole body, as usual, slack.
“That’s why you have the tattoo,” I said as it clicked into place. The symbol had looked familiar because it had been in the movie! I tried to remember what it had stood for, exactly. I wished I could pull out my phone and scan the red-carpet photos of her, see if I could spot the mark. But I’d refrain until later.
“I wonder what happened to you,” I went on. “I wish I could help you.” Catherine hadn’t moved, and maybe it was my own imagination, but it felt like there was something—some new awareness—in the room.
I could almost hear her responding words: Help me what?
“To wake up,” I said softly.
A rustling: Catherine’s hand was moving against the paper. My body went rigid as I watched her fingers close around the pen.
But she was holding it wrong—grasping it like a baton, the tip facing up.
I moved to correct the pen’s placement, my mouth forming words— Wait, let me —when the pen flew upwards at my throat.