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“You should’ve stayed away.” The voice sounds almost familiar, but the person is whispering.
I’m shivering so hard that my face hurts from clenching my jaw.
My legs are shaking too, and I hit the ground. I’m sitting in a puddle of vomit. The person opens a bottle of what looks like Mad Dog 20/20, grabs my chin with a gloved hand, and tilts my head back. The alcohol pours into my mouth faster than I can swallow, and it spills down my shirt.
He takes my hand and wraps it around the bottle, and my muscles are too weak to put up much of a fight. I try, but it’s about as effective as a toddler resisting a parent. My phone hits the asphalt beside me hard enough that the screen cracks. The stranger had my missing phone.
I try to turn my head so I can throw up on the ground instead of on myself, and the person helps me this time, turning my head so I can try to get whatever I ate out of my body. As soon as I’m done though, he puts the bottle back in my mouth. He gives me a break when I start gagging, but as soon as I’ve caught my breath, the bottle is back.
I need to get away. I need to get home. Then it hits me: I’m not going to be able to walk anywhere. I blink blearily at the silhouette crouched in front of me.
Then he helps me to the ground and puts the bottle to my lips.
“Your blood alcohol should be high enough that they won’t ask a lot of questions,” he or she says.
I feel like the world is spinning. I try to turn my head as the bottle comes back, but the person holds my chin again. This time when the Mad Dog gags me and the vomit comes at the same time, there is no break. Tears fill my already blurry eyes as I try to shake my head to get away, but it doesn’t work.
I’m still shaking my head, suddenly aware of Nate saying my name over and over. He sounds panicky.
I stare at him, and my eyes tear up. He’s looking down at me; he’s not choking or vomiting. What just happened? I’m not sure if it was a seizure or hallucination or what. All I know is that he looks fine, but I’m suddenly freezing.
Then Kelli is there, stepping in front of him.
“Eva?” She squats down in front of me, and I look at her as she asks, “Can you hear me? Nod if you hear me.”
I can’t stop shivering. I’m so cold that my teeth are chattering. I nod.
My gaze drifts back to Nate. He looks worried, and I want to say something that will let him know it’s not his fault that I … what? Envisioned his murder? I don’t remember hallucinations being on the list of things Dr. Klosky discussed.
“I don’t know what happened,” he tells Kelli. “She just blanked out and started shaking. I didn’t know what to do. With my brother, I know—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head and turns to me. “I’m sorry if I did something.”
Kelli is taking my pulse. The feel of the latex gloves on my skin is still alien after over a week of it. I know now it’s for my safety and theirs—not all of my cuts are covered. It still makes me feel unsettled, like I’m in some bad movie about contagion. I’m sure I don’t have a zombie virus or bird flu or swine flu or whatever animal-named pandemic the next big outbreak will be.
“Is she okay?” Nate asks, drawing my gaze back to him. He’s somehow better-looking to me with that expression of concern on his face. The last time I saw him look at me that way was when I slid into second base in a game when we were in elementary school. I still have a small, faded scar on my knee from that day. It was stupid, but I’d watched a game with my granddad and it hadn’t looked painful when the players in the game did it.
“I’m fine,” I try to assure them both. I hope it reassures me too, but so far it’s not working. I feel incredibly unwell right now.
“Your pulse is good, and your pulse pressure is fine. Let’s get you back to the room to check your blood pressure and oximetry.” Kelli has that tone I’ve already come to identify as “something worries me but I won’t let the patient know.” Nate obviously recognizes it, too. He stares at Kelli a beat too long and then glances at me.
I sigh. There’s no way I can tell them what I thought I saw. I pictured Nate’s death. Clearly, my brain injury isn’t as healed as everyone thinks. My poor, battered brain caused me to hallucinate—and in a macabre way.
I pause when I realize I’ve started thinking of my brain as something separate from the rest of me and add that to the list of topics I’m not interested in pondering—or mentioning to anyone.
“What room?” Nate asks suddenly. He stares at me with the sort of intensity I’ve dreamed of seeing in his eyes—but for completely the wrong sort of reason.
I don’t answer.
Kelli looks between us before telling him, “Nurses can’t give that information out.”
I take the coward’s way out and stay silent. Right now I want to go to my nice, quiet room and try not to think of why I pictured him dying so vividly and awfully. I fake a yawn that turns into a real yawn, and Nate walks away without another word. That’s the Nate I’m used to these days, the one who abandons me, not the one who sounds like he cares.
Kelli is quiet as she pushes my wheelchair back to the room. She does the same things the nurses do every four hours: check my pupils’ reaction to light, my temperature, and my blood oxygen level. Everything is fine. She also checks my CSMs—color, sensation, and motility in my toes. Then, after she helps me up so I can use the toilet, she gets me settled back in my bed and piles several blankets on me since I’m still shivering. I think my quiet acceptance of her help makes her nervous, but I’m a little freaked out myself. In all of the things they’ve told me about TBI, there was nothing about horrible visions.
I was warned about less extreme issues like headaches, dizziness, ringing in the ears, and decreased sense of taste and smell. Then there are a whole slew of major worries, like issues with memory and speech, personality shifts, difficulty expressing and reading affect, and—one of my personal favorites—decreased coordination, because becoming clumsier is what every girl wants. Nowhere on the far too long list of things-that-can-go-wrong is vivid morbidity.
“Everything looks good, but I’m going to check in with the doctor on call to see what she wants to do.” She flashes me one of the fake smiles that are meant to be reassuring, and then she heads out to the desk.
I close my eyes. I’m afraid I’ll see Kelli dying, but thankfully, I don’t. In my mind, I play out the details of what happened with Nate, and it’s different remembering it. When it happened, I was more than picturing Nate dying. It was like I was Nate. I’ve never imagined being someone else, not like this and certainly not while they were dying. I feel embarrassed, but the more I think about it, the more I think I’m going to keep this to myself. I’m not up for being labeled crazy on top of “the Cooper-Tilling girl,” “the scarred girl,” and “the almost-murdered girl.”
DAY 6: “THE GIRL” (#ulink_daa0d422-9548-5d0b-841d-6b39d9d34af9)
Judge (#ulink_daa0d422-9548-5d0b-841d-6b39d9d34af9)
I PRAYED ON IT for several days before I found clarity. The Lord wants me to teach, to make an example of Them. It’s how I can save Eva. If she sees how fallible we all are, if she sees the truths that They want to hide, I can share all of my secrets with her. I understand now that the Lord spared her so she could learn. She’s like me. She simply needs to understand.
I study Their kind, trying to find a worthy sacrifice. I need someone near enough to Eva that she’ll care, but not so close that she’ll be so grief-stricken that she misses the message. It’s a difficult decision.
I need to do a better job this time too if I am to carry out my mission of change. If I’m to save Eva, I need to be able to do unpleasant things. She’s worth it.
The fear of failure is almost debilitating. Failures don’t deserve happiness. My grandmother explained that time and again, and my father told me I’d never amount to anything if I put on airs. I touch the scar on my stomach from the last time he tried to teach me the lessons.
Something like guilt fills me at the memory, but then I think about how happy Eva and I will be if she learns her lessons. The image of her cowering on my floor like I once did before my father makes me cringe. I don’t want to have to hurt her. Really, I don’t. I don’t want her to recoil from me. I want to save her so we can be together.
Dream Eva smiles and tells me, “I trust you.”
My body reacts to the thought of her appreciating the time I’m spending to save her. I touch the scar on my stomach as I realize that she’ll be grateful, not afraid. I push away my reaction to the thought of Eva looking up at me, accepting what I’ve done for her, understanding how it will be in the future. Later, I can close my eyes and think about it. I can picture her looking at me with that secret smile of hers. Right now, I need to concentrate on the work, not the reward. I look around the hallway at Jessup High, trying to decide which girl will be the best choice.
I don’t want her to look like Eva. That would send the wrong message. It’s not about looks.
I don’t want her to be too close to Eva either. That leaves me with pretty much everyone but Grace and Piper. I smile at Piper as I walk past her. She’s not the one; she’s not as special as she thinks. I slept with her a few times during our freshman year, but she wanted to do the whole dinner-with-the-family thing, and that would confuse the relationship too much. I don’t like to lie. I can when I have to, but I don’t like to do it.
Eva is the only one who will ever understand me.
Someone here is special enough for this message, and I’ll find her. She’s the one who will help Eva see that They are corrupt, that They aren’t better than us, and then she’ll reject Them. She’ll see the truth that I know, and she’ll choose to be with me and only me. I’ll leave the special girl with an amaryllis to help Eva see the message.
“Did you study?” Amy asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I shrug.
“I don’t know why I ask. You never do.” She pouts, and I shake my head at her. If I didn’t know that the stories she spread about Eva were true, I might choose her as my message, but those things Amy said were true.
It was good and right that Amy spoke up. It should have helped Eva to see that They don’t respect her; They only pretend to care about her.
I care.
“Hey!” Amy nudges me. She isn’t really one of Them, not anymore. She used to be, but she dated an Undesirable. They aren’t forgiving of that kind of thing. She thought she could ignore the rules, but her parents were already divorced and then she stepped out of line. Now, she’s a girl only worth “dating” in private. She gives it up to anyone she thinks able to redeem her, but it only lowers her further and further from where she wants to be. She wouldn’t be a good first message.
“Hey back,” I say after a long pause.
“I hate exams. They make me feel stupid,” she whines.
“You’re not stupid. Plus, you’re good at lots of other things,” I remind her. She is, too. She has qualities that a lot of people don’t appreciate. Amy isn’t one of Them, not now. With Them I pretend, but Amy is real. I don’t need to pretend with her.
She rewards me with a smile, ducks her head a little, and looks up through her lashes. It’s the sort of coquettish things that all girls do—except Eva, of course. She’s pure. Even though she’s not a virgin, she’s still pure.
“Can I borrow paper?” I pat my pockets and add, “And a pen?”
Amy shakes her head, but she still gives me what I asked for.
Without meaning to, I think of Dream Eva looking up at me much the way Amy is, accepting me even with my flaws, and my body reacts again. I know I can take care of that on my own later, but it’s nicer with a partner so I lower my voice a bit and ask, “Hey, are you free after school?”
There’s no doubt as to why I lowered my voice—this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation—but she doesn’t look at me like I’m dirty. She shakes her head. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe.” I shrug again. “I have a project I’m working on, but if I can’t find what I need for it, I’ll call you.”
The bell rings then, and we go into the classroom. I forget about Amy the moment she walks away. Maybe the one I need for the message is in this room. I slouch into my seat and look around, watching for her.
DAY 7: “THE BEST FRIEND” (#ulink_07330eff-272d-5d6c-8ae9-fc371d68f35b)
Eva (#ulink_07330eff-272d-5d6c-8ae9-fc371d68f35b)
THE NURSES ARE SUPER-ATTENTIVE the next day. The doctor on call the night of my episode saw no changes or alarming symptoms. Everything looks good. Admittedly, I haven’t mentioned my hallucinations, but I haven’t had any other hallucinations since then, so I opt not to bring it up.
The day nurse mentioned that Nate has stopped by the desk to ask about me. I keep my door closed in case he walks by. It makes me feel like a prisoner, but I’m not sure what to say to him. It feels like there are a lot of things between us right now that we could discuss, but I don’t know if I want to start any of those conversations. I don’t know why he’s in the hospital, and I don’t think I want to ask.
We were never anything other than friends, but he was my best friend for years. I learned to play baseball with him. Our fathers were friends, and we were together after church a lot. Nate was my first kiss. Sure, we were nine, and it was my bloody knee he kissed, but still, he was my first. Then his dad left, and his mom wasn’t big on church—a fact which made me jealous more than once—and then Nate changed. He stopped even looking my way when I saw him at school.
Until now.
By the time Grace arrives to visit that evening, I’m ready to pounce on her. Aside from the obvious—she’s my best friend and I’m bored out of my mind and oh yeah, I saw Nate—I’m excited that she’s here because she walks into my room all but hidden behind a big bag of clothes and snacks. Oreos stick out the top of the bag, and that alone would be reason enough.
“I love you,” I say as soon as I see her.
She laughs. “Me or the cookies?”
“Both.” I hold out a hand. “Gimme.”
“A few days in Pediatrics and you sound like a toddler.”
“Yep. Now gimme.” I wave my arm as if it’ll make the cookies come near.
Shaking her head and smiling at me, Grace relents. She lowers the big bag to the chair, opens the package of cookies, and holds them out to me. Better still, she also pulls out a small cooler from within the giant bag. “Mom thought it was criminal to have Oreos without milk.”
The cookie is halfway to my mouth when I hear her. “Milk? She sent milk for my cookies? I love the General.”
“More than me?” She holds on to the carton of milk.
I gesture to my leg with my cookie. “No taunting the injured!” When she hands me the milk, I add, “Maybe a little more, but it’s too close to call.”
She busies herself unpacking the clothes she brought while I eat Oreos and listen to her tell me how she’ll never get through exams without me to study with her. I know she feels guilty admitting it, but Grace isn’t a big fan of studying solo. My grades went up when I started spending more time with her, mainly because I felt like a loser just messing around online when she was working hard. So I studied instead. In exchange, she has my back when I’m dealing with the cattiness at school or tempted to have the entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Some friendships work because they have so much in common; we work because we have so many differences. We fill in each other’s gaps. That shouldn’t have to stop just because some jerk hit me with his car.
“So why don’t we study here,” I suggest.
“You don’t have to take the exams.”
I shrug. “I could though, and you have to, so why not study together?”
“I could hug you …”
“Rain check. My arms are still tender.”
She nods, and then goes over to the bag of treats. She pulls out a box of one of the sugar-filled, marshmallow-laden cereals that she finds disgusting and I love. She doesn’t even lecture me on just how much exercise I’ll have to do in order to counter the junk I like to eat. It hits me then: I’m going to be in a cast for weeks, possibly months. I can’t exercise.
“Gracie!”
My best friend pauses as she’s pulling out a bag of dried fruit and a box of some sort of sugar-free, preservative-free, flavor-free snack mix. “I’m not leaving you with just junk,” she starts, clearly thinking I was objecting to the healthier snacks she brought.
“You can’t.” I gaze longingly at the cereal, all wrapped up in a bright child-friendly package. “Take it with you. My marshmallow cereal. Take it.”
She tilts her head and gives me a suspicious look. “Take the junk away?”
I hold out my Oreos. “These, too.” I shake the package. “I can’t exercise.”
“Sweetie, you hate exercise.” She comes over to stand beside me. Her expression is clouded. “Remember?”
I feel a twinge of guilt. Personality changes are possible with TBI, and while Grace isn’t making a scene over worrying about me, she is still aware of the possibilities. It makes me glad I didn’t tell her about the hallucination thing.
“I remember. I just know I’ll get fat if you can’t make me run,” I explain.
Clarity dawns on her, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. She also takes my Oreos. We’re both quiet while she repacks some of the junk food she brought for me.
I break the silence by saying, “Thanks for bringing clothes.”
Grace pulls out the skirts she and her mother bought for me. The first one is the sort of loud pattern that makes me wince visibly. It’s the brightest piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. “Still think my mom is perfect? She picked this one.”
I tilt my head. “It’s not that bad. The General has fine taste.”
Grace rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. We’ve been having the same discussion over her mother for at least eighteen months. She thinks her mom is overbearing; I think she should be grateful for having an attentive mother. Mrs. Yeung is awesome, and I’d wear a sack if that’s what it took to back my stance.
“I picked this one.” She holds up a solid brown skirt with a subtle peacock feather line drawing that starts at the hem and stretches over the bottom quarter of the skirt. The lines are in the same sky blue as the first skirt, but here, they’re a burst of bright on a dark palate. It’s exactly what I’d pick for myself.
She pulls out two more skirts, both more like the one she’d selected for me, and I know that she was responsible for keeping Mrs. Yeung’s appreciation for bolder colors in check. “Thank you.”
At the bottom of the bag are five short-sleeved T-shirts in various colors: pink, blue, black, gray, and brown. Grace doesn’t unfold them, just puts them to the side. “These are pretty basic, but I figured you could use a few clean shirts so you aren’t living in pajamas. Mom said she’d wash everything you have here now.”
I hadn’t thought about the state of my laundry until now. I had wanted some skirts because of the cast, but as Grace mentions my clothes, I realize that I’d have had to re-wear things if not for them. My parents are due back soon, but as usual when they’re away, it’s Mrs. Yeung to the rescue.
After a quiet moment, I blurt, “I saw Nathaniel Bouchet yesterday.”
