Finding Alice by Melody Carlson Read Free Book Online Page B

toward the big beige building, I hear Amelia whispering from the backseat. It’s the first time she’s made an appearance since my mom showed up and whisked me away.
    I glance over my shoulder and see Amelia sitting there with one leg crossed over her knee, swinging a cowboy boot in a cocky sort of way. She’s not wearing her seat belt, and this amuses me.
    Amelia leans forward and points through her palm at my mother. “She slipped something into your cream of wheat, Alice,” she whispers into my ear. “Some sort of mind-controlling substance. I think Pastor John must’ve given it to her yesterday. Or perhaps Mrs. Knoll.”
    I slump down into my seat and clutch my backpack to my chest. How do you fight something like this? Where do you turn when it seems even your own mother has betrayed you? How do you resist this sort of thing? Why not just give up and give in to it? Well, I try to console myself, at least Amelia is back.

chapter SIX
    The Golden Scissors
    A t some point, I imagined God with a pair of golden scissors, neatly snipping my life into two separate sections. One life I call “BC” (before crazy); the other one is simply “now.” But it’s not until I hear Dr. Thornton say that hideous word that I begin to differentiate between the two separate lifetimes. Even then I am not entirely convinced. The convincing will take time.
    “Do you know what schizophrenia is?” he asks me in a voice that reminds me of a grade-school teacher. We are seated in his woodpaneled office, dimly lit and somber, as if the room itself is warning me that all is not well in here. The sun sinks low into the sky, and I am terribly worried that my mother isn’t coming back to get me. I fidget with the stack of papers that I have promised to read.
    “Schizophrenia.” I pronounce the word as if it’s my turn in a spelling bee, as if I’m about to articulate each letter correctly, although I doubt I can. Still, I don’t want to appear stupid. It seems I’ve spent the entire day trying hard not to appear stupid or crazy. “Doesn’t it mean you have a split mind?” I venture carefully. “Or is that like a multiple personality disorder?”
    “I can see you’re a smart young woman, Alice, and I want to speak candidly with you now.” He leans forward, and the bald spot on the top of his head glimmers from his desk lamp. He is a small man but intense and, I suspect, powerful. At least in this God-forsaken place where everyone seems to jump whenever he walks by.
    I nod in agreement, as if I’m his colleague and not some crazy misfit that he’d just as soon lock up.
    “The word schizophrenia does mean ‘split-mind’ in Greek, but that’s not what this illness is about. This is an illness of the brain. You might call it an impairment or chemical imbalance, but for whatever reason the brain is unable to differentiate between what is real and what is not. It experiences hallucinations that can be very deceptive. These hallucinations can come in audible or visual forms. Some people even experience what seems like an assault on their entire sensory system. They smell aromas that don’t exist. Like smoke for instance. It’s as if the brain’s ability to send messages is completely scrambled. Does this make any sense to you?”
    I press my lips together and nod without speaking. As much as I hate to admit it, some of what he’s saying does make sense. But then how would I know since I’m the one who’s supposedly crazy here? Besides, I am fairly tired and discouraged right now. It’s been a long day filled with all sorts of tests. I’ve been poked and prodded and quizzed and examined. During my “questionings,” I lied again and again. Particularly in response to the inquiries about hearing voices or seeing faces that don’t exist. I mean how would I know if they exist or not? I’m the one who’s supposed to be bonkers. How can I be expected to discern what’s real and what’s not? If I’m nuts, that is. I’m