Adaptation

by Malinda Lo

  Reese pulled back, wiping a hand over her damp eyes. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Welcome home, honey. Come on inside. Nanna made a pot of soup for you.” Her mom put an arm around her shoulders and they stepped through the doorway into the cool, dim front hall.

  Everything looked the same. There was the Victorian hall tree with its speckled mirror and burnished oak surface; there was her favorite blue scarf hanging on one of the hooks next to her mom’s purse. It was as if nothing had changed at all, and the familiarity of it made Reese feel as if she had stepped into a parallel universe. Her mom dropped Agent Forrestal’s card on the hall tree table and ushered Reese down the hall past the living and dining rooms into the kitchen. “Sit,” her mom said, nudging Reese into one of the chairs around the wooden table. Dazed, Reese sat, the chair creaking beneath her. “How are you feeling?” her mom asked. “Are you hungry?”

  Reese hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had only been a bowl of tasteless oatmeal and some orange juice. She looked at the clock on the wall; it was 2:40 in the afternoon. “I feel all right, but I could eat,” Reese said. The house smelled of chicken soup, that rich scent of onions and celery cooked into a meaty broth, and Reese knew, suddenly, that her grandmother hadn’t just dropped off the soup. She had come over and made it here, probably keeping her mom company while they waited for Reese. “Where’s Nanna? Is she here?”

  Her mom ladled soup into a bowl. “She was, but she didn’t want to overwhelm you on your first day back. She and your grandpa will be over tomorrow night when you’re more settled.” Her mom set the bowl on the table and handed Reese a spoon. “Dr. Brand said you need to eat bland food for a few days.” The fragrance of the soup pulled a growl out of Reese’s stomach so loud that her mom laughed. “I guess you are hungry.”

  The spoon in Reese’s hand trembled as she took her first sip. The flavors exploded over her tongue: salt and fat and the delicate sweetness of carrots over the rich, round taste of chicken. She had never eaten anything so good; it was as if she had acquired an entire new set of taste buds, and she couldn’t drink the soup fast enough.

  “Nanna must have really hit it out of the park with her chicken soup this time,” her mom said wryly, sitting beside Reese. “Or else they weren’t feeding you properly at that fancy military hospital.”

  “I was being fed through an IV,” Reese said between spoonfuls. “So, not really.”

  Her mom frowned. “Well, I’m glad to have you home. They didn’t call me until three days after you disappeared; your father and I were frantic.”

  Reese’s father lived in Seattle, and Reese didn’t see him too often. She liked it that way. She noticed her mom eyeing the expression on her face.

  “He really was worried, honey,” her mom said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “You have to give him some credit. He’s been trying.”

  “I know.” Her dad had sent her a bunch of gifts for her seventeenth birthday in April. A shiny new laptop loaded with every conceivable app she might need, gift cards for music and books and movie tickets, a video picture frame that played a message in which he declared how much he missed her. It was so over the top that it felt like he was trying to buy her affections.

  “When you’re settled in, I think you should give him a call. He was very supportive while you were gone, and I would have gone crazy if I had to deal with it by myself. I know he would love to hear from you.” Her mom sat back in her chair. “Do you have any pain anywhere? Dr. Brand said you were pretty seriously injured.”

  “I’m okay,” Reese said as her mom scrutinized her, although she felt the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes.

  Her mom’s eyes narrowed. “I think that we should get you checked out by your doctor.”

  “You mean Dr. Wong?” Reese said, referring to the family doctor she usually went to.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Didn’t Dr. Brand tell you what happened?”

  “Yes, but she said she can’t release your medical records because the treatment is classified. I just want to get you checked out so that we have some record of this. I’ll call to make an appointment.” Her mom was quiet as Reese finished her soup, but as she scraped up the last bits of broth, her mom said, “I also heard from the school. They told me about Mr. Chapman.”

  Reese paused with the spoon midway to her mouth. “They did? What did they say?”

  “They said he was shot outside Las Vegas.”

  The headache began to push more firmly at the insides of Reese’s skull. “Yeah.”

  “There’s going to be a memorial tomorrow. Do you want to go?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “They wanted to wait until you and David were back, in case you wanted to go. It will be at two o’clock in the afternoon at Cypress Lawn cemetery in Colma.”

  Reese dropped the spoon into the empty soup bowl. Her head was really beginning to pound now.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? This is a lot to deal with. Is there anything you want to talk about?” Her mom reached out and rubbed Reese’s neck, her fingers pressing against the tense muscles. But instead of making her feel better, it made Reese’s head spin, and the pounding in her head began to sound like cymbals banging over and over again. “Reese?”

  She pushed herself away from the table. “I’m sorry, I think—I have to go to the bathroom.” She sprinted out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bathroom, stomach heaving. She flicked on the light and slammed the door shut, bending over the toilet, but nothing came up. Her stomach made bizarre gurgling noises, and she heard her mother outside, asking her if she was sick. “I’m fine,” she said, but she stayed on the floor for another few minutes until her stomach had calmed down. Maybe the rich soup had been too much for her after the tasteless liquid diet.

  When she stood, she saw herself in the mirror, her face pale and drawn. It was the first time she had seen herself since Phoenix, and the sight shocked her.

  She had known that she had lost weight, but seeing it written on her face in hollowed-out cheeks and dry lips was disturbing. Now her hazel eyes looked too big for her face, and deep purple shadows stained the skin beneath them. Her hair was longer too. It fell almost to the middle of her back now, in tangled, dark brown strands. She looked like she had been caught in a windstorm, and she wondered why her mom hadn’t commented on her disheveled appearance.

  She hadn’t showered in the bathroom at the hospital, but now the urge to take a shower was overpowering. She felt the accumulated dirt of the last month crawling over her like a second skin that needed to be scrubbed off. She pulled off her shirt, fumbling with her bra and jeans, dropping everything on the floor. She reached out to turn on the water and caught a glimpse of her body in the mirror.

  She turned back. There was a long, pink scar running down the left side of her torso from her armpit all the way to her bellybutton, and another one mirroring it on her right side. It was like she had been cut open and sewn back together. Her heart pounded. She looked down at her legs, searching for the scar over her thigh, but it had thinned to an almost invisible white line. She spun around and peered over her shoulder at her back. Gray-blue bruises bloomed over her shoulder blades. She tried to touch them, but she couldn’t quite reach. Suddenly she saw something near her hairline, and she stepped closer to the mirror, pulling her hair away from her face. She could barely make it out because her scalp was white too, and the scar faded almost completely into it, but it was there: a pale line that skirted the edge of her forehead, around her temples, and disappeared behind her ears.

  Reese couldn’t breathe. She gripped the edge of the counter as steam from the shower filled the bathroom. Dr. Brand had told her she had broken her leg and ruptured her spleen, but why did she have so many scars? Goose bumps prickled over her skin. She couldn’t remember anything from the time between the accident and the day she woke up. It was all one giant blank spot, and when she tried to think about it, pain pierced her head.

 
; Slowly, the mirror fogged up with steam. Her sharp reflection began to blur behind a cloud of mist, until she was only an indistinct human shape, her features erased.

  She took a deep breath. She pulled back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub, flinching as the hot water stung her skin. She forced herself to stand under the spray until she adjusted to the temperature. She closed her eyes and ducked her head beneath it too, feeling the hot water streaming down the length of her hair, her back, her legs. She tried to forget about the blank spot in her memory that suddenly seemed so overwhelmingly huge, but she couldn’t. She was certain, somehow, that there was something there that she needed to recall.

  She remembered the bird in the headlights, and she remembered waking up twenty-seven days later. But the more she tried to focus in on that thing that had happened between those events, the more it slid away from her, slippery as an eel.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cypress Lawn was one of Colma’s bigger cemeteries, but Reese’s mom almost missed the entrance to the parking lot. The tires squealed as she abruptly turned into the second entrance off El Camino Real. “Sorry,” her mom muttered. She followed the road uphill, passing a planting of annuals that spelled out CYPRESS LAWN on the way to a sprawling, concrete building on the hilltop.

  All around them, the hills of Colma were blanketed with headstones. The dead of San Francisco—five million of them and counting—were buried here, just a few miles south of the city. Hardly anyone had been buried in San Francisco itself since the 1940s.

  “There’s the sign,” Reese said, pointing toward a placard that read CHAPMAN MEMORIAL.

  Her mom parked the Prius on the side of the road behind a line of other cars. Reese was about to get out when her mom put a hand on her arm. “How are you doing, honey?”

  Reese knew she was supposed to be somber and saddened by the fact that she was going to a funeral—and she was—but she also felt uncomfortably exposed. As if she were about to walk into a packed auditorium wearing nothing but her underwear. How was she supposed to act at the funeral of her debate coach, who had been shot only a few feet away from her? She didn’t want to inadvertently do something wrong. “I’m fine, I guess,” she said, but she knew it was unconvincing.

  “If you start feeling sick or anything, we can go at any time.”

  “Okay.”

  Her mom turned off the car. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Reese got out. It was clear but windy, and she was glad she had worn long sleeves and pants. As they headed toward the mausoleum, she saw a tall figure leaning against the hood of a blue car parked up the road. David. She was relieved to see him; she wouldn’t have to face this alone.

  “Can I meet you inside?” she said to her mom, pausing before they reached the iron gates to the courtyard. “David’s over there.”

  “All right. I’ll save you a seat,” her mom said.

  Reese walked toward David, her arms crossed against the wind. He was dressed almost identically to her—black trousers and a black button-down shirt—and as she approached he lifted his head to look at her, his face solemn. “Hi,” she said. “What are you doing out here?” The wind gusted over the hill, making the American flag hanging near the mausoleum flap like birds’ wings.

  “Hey,” David said. “I just needed a minute.” He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to her. “I brought this.”

  She reached out and took it. It was a photo of the two of them with Mr. Chapman, taken in Phoenix right before the semifinal round. Mr. Chapman was standing between them, his arms around their shoulders. Both she and David had strained smiles on their faces. She had forgotten about the photo. The morning it had been taken, she had wanted to crawl into a hole rather than be anywhere near David. But now she was grateful that Mr. C had corralled them into posing together. Seeing the photo nudged something inside herself, and sadness welled up thick and dark. The photo shook in her fingers.

  “I thought we could give it to Mr. Chapman’s wife or something,” David said.

  “That’s a great idea.” Tears pricked at her eyes.

  “Hey,” David said softly. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. His hand seemed to linger on her, and her breath caught in her throat. She looked up at him. His eyebrows drew together in concern. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked. When he let go of her, she was leaning toward him, slightly off-balance.

  She choked on a laugh. “My mom asks me that every five minutes.”

  He smiled slightly. “Mine too.”

  The tension of the last few minutes dissipated somewhat, and she handed the photo back to him. He was going through the same thing she was. Maybe she should tell him about the scars. “David…”

  “Yeah?”

  She hesitated, pulling her hair over one shoulder as the wind buffeted her. “I saw something in the mirror when I got home. There were scars all over me. Did you—do you have scars from the accident?”

  He studied her face. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Do you have scars all around your head?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Where?”

  She ran a finger along the edge of her face. “Here.”

  He came closer, raising a hand to her head. Her scalp tingled from his touch.

  “Do you see it?” she whispered, her pulse speeding up as his fingers traced her hairline.

  “Just barely.”

  She felt his breath on her ear, and the rush of the wind over the hills of tombstones seemed to echo the buzzing sensation that lit through her body.

  David went very still. “Reese…”

  All of her senses seemed to zero in on that moment: the brisk wind on her face, the throb of blood in her veins, the thrill that traveled directly from David’s fingertips into her body. “What?” she said, the word hanging in the air between them like a bubble of hope.

  His hand fell away from her and he stepped back. His expression was slightly apologetic. “We should go in. I think the service is going to start soon.”

  The bubble burst. She had forgotten already: After her behavior at nationals, he was obviously not going to be interested in her. The fact that they’d had this crazy accident together didn’t change a thing. They were just friends. Friends.

  Disappointment settled over her thickly, but she swallowed it like a bitter pill. “Of course. Let’s go.”

  Just through the iron gates was a courtyard with memorial plaques mounted on the walls, each one bearing a person’s name and dates of birth and death. Several rows of chairs had been set up in the courtyard, all facing a podium that was hung with a wreath of lilies. There were already about a dozen people there, and Reese saw the high school principal along with a few teachers she recognized. David went to sit with his parents in the third row, and Reese saw her mom waiting a couple of rows back. Reese sat down beside her, feeling worn out even though the service hadn’t even begun yet. Her mom squeezed her knee and whispered, “That’s Mr. Chapman’s wife up there.” She indicated a woman in a black dress who was standing near the podium. She didn’t look sad; she looked empty. Reese clutched the edges of her seat as a wave of something desperate and lonely swept against her. She hadn’t expected the funeral to affect her so strongly. Her mom put an arm around her shoulders, and Reese leaned against her gratefully.

  Other students from the debate team were scattered throughout the audience, and some of them twisted around to look at her, unable to hide their curiosity. The feeling of being exposed came back, and Reese shrank into her seat. She slumped in relief when the service began because that meant her classmates could no longer stare at her. But when Mrs. Chapman went to the podium to speak, Reese had to lower her gaze to the ground so that she didn’t become overwhelmed by the grief on Mrs. Chapman’s face. Reese couldn’t remember her emotions ever being so volatile before. It was as if a storm were brewing inside her: the wind swirling dark clouds in an accelerating spiral. She managed to hold it together through the entire service, and she even went with David
to deliver the photo to Mrs. Chapman, who embraced her in thanks. The woman’s body felt brittle as a bird’s. Reese had to excuse herself afterward, muttering that she was looking for the ladies’ room. Someone directed her toward the mausoleum entrance and she went inside on shaking legs, worried that she was going to throw up.

  She hurried down a broad corridor lined with memorial plaques up to the twenty-foot-high ceiling. She caught sight of the RESTROOM sign at the end of the hall, and she quickened her pace until she was practically running, her sneakers slapping dully on the marble floor. She turned the corner and saw the ladies’ room to her right. She ducked inside. There were two stalls and she slipped into the empty one, slamming the door shut. She bent over, her breath wheezing in her lungs. A droplet of sweat trickled off her temple and plunged into the toilet. Someone flushed in the next stall, and as water stormed through the pipes, she began to calm down.

  Out there, she had been afraid she would fly apart, as if she were a rag doll being fought over by children, the seams stretching to their breaking point. It was better in here, alone. There was no one to see her, and no one for her to see. She felt herself knitting back together again.

  She waited until the bathroom had emptied and then came out, turning on the sink to splash water over her face. Over the sink a sign had been affixed that read DANGER: DO NOT DRINK THIS WATER. Ugh. Not a good thing to see in a mausoleum bathroom. She straightened, pulling some paper towels from the dispenser to dry off her dripping face and hands. Some strands of her hair had gotten wet, and she ran her fingers through it in an attempt to straighten out the windblown mess. She heard footsteps approaching, and a woman she recognized from the memorial service entered the bathroom. Reese gave up on finger combing her hair and left as the woman went into one of the stalls.

  She wasn’t eager to go back to the memorial, though, and as she stepped out into the hallway she glanced to the right.

  A man in a black suit was framed briefly in the archway to the next corridor.