I can’t have my last memory of Chris be the image of him crushed. I have to see him being okay. Moving on. Then maybe I can, too.
I make it to school just before shop class and am sitting against the wall outside, waiting for the bell, when Chris rounds the corner.
There’s a girl with him.
It isn’t Nicole, or Alexa, who I could hate, and intimidate. It’s Caitlin. A girl from my economics class. We’ve never spoken. But she’s nice. Like Chris is.
Panic flutters in my chest. Neither of them has looked up. They don’t notice that I’m here. They’re too busy with each other.
I file through everything I know about Caitlin. She’s small and lithe, pale. Her near-white hair is deadly straight and hangs halfway down her back. She always answers when the teacher calls on her. She has a high-pitched voice. Doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends. But no enemies that I’m aware of, either.
She smiles a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her swear.
The sound of her giggle punches across the air between us and I take a deep breath.
“Chris!” Her voice hugs his name. “You’re so funny!”
Everything in me jerks to a halt. Is he? I mean, he’s cute. Cheeky. He knows how to bait me. And how to be the occasional smartass. But is he funny? I wouldn’t have described him that way.
It’s at that moment that Chris looks up and sees me. I expect a shadow to fall over his face, but he looks at me with something more akin to concern.
I feel sick.
“Oh, hi, Tully,” Caitlin says. Her eyes ping-pong between us, like a kid trying to figure out if her parents are going to argue.
“Hi, Caitlin.” I force the words out. “I was waiting for class,” I add unnecessarily, scrambling to my feet. I sling my bag over my shoulder and turn to go.
“You don’t have to leave,” Chris says quickly.
I stop hard, then curse myself. I should have kept moving. But now it would be too obvious. I look over my shoulder. “It’s fine. I . . .” I lose my train of thought. There’s something liquid in his gaze. Something fearful but . . . warm.
“I just remembered,” Caitlin says hesitantly, “I left my folder for economics in my locker. I better run and get it before the bell.” We don’t have econ until this afternoon. After lunch. She’s being nice again.
Chris gives her an apologetic smile. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
She pats his arm. “Yeah. See you at lunch.”
The words pelt me. I’m roaring with jealousy that she can touch him so casually. Wherever she wants. She doesn’t have to worry about losing herself to him. And they’re having lunch? The thought burns a hole in me.
When she disappears around the corner, Chris looks down at the cement, then at me. He stares at me, studying me like he wants to see into my head and untangle the web of thoughts and feelings there. Good luck with that.
“Tully, I talked to Ms. Pine yesterday and I’ve been thinking—”
The bell jangles immediately over our heads. I want to tear it out with my bare hands.
What has he been thinking? I hold my breath and pray he’ll keep talking. But a couple of guys from our class run past, one of them clapping him on the shoulder. “C’mon, Chris!”
Chris watches them go, his lips clamped together as if to keep the words inside. His resolve has returned.
He shakes his head. “Never mind,” and strides past me, toward class.
Whatever was there, whatever he wondered, is gone.
~
An hour later I’m trying to ignore the fact that Chris is five feet away, working at a lathe behind me. The rumble and hum of the machine covers any need to say anything, and for that I’m grateful. But I notice every time he looks at me, then away. It’s as if the heat of sunlight shifts over me, then disappears behind a cloud.
We haven’t spoken. He hasn’t tried to, and neither have I. And it’s making my hands shake.
Not good when I’m still working on those stupid dovetail joints. I’m trying to measure the wood I’ve chosen—a gorgeous, rose-colored cherry. But my quivering fingers keep slipping. When the tab jumps off the end of my wood for the fourth time, I swear and throw it down.
When I’ve blown out as much of the pain as I can, I get back to work. Or rather, I mean to. But when I look up, Chris glances at me again, and our eyes latch. Everything comes rushing back. Pushes to the surface.
I stay locked on him for a few seconds, then turn away, heart pounding.
I’m still debating whether to risk another glance at him when there’s a bang and a shout and instantly I’m searching for Chris, trying to figure out what happened. He’s sinking to the floor behind the lathe, his face twisted into a grimace, his hands pressed to his head. Pain is painted in every line of his body.
I curse and duck around the workbench to hit the emergency shutoff button on his lathe. Sure enough, the chair leg he was working on has slipped in the lathe’s holders and almost flown free. There’s a chisel on the floor next to Chris’s heel.
Lathes are dangerous. They’re nothing more than a piece of wood pressed between two circulating plates. The wood turns at a remarkable speed. The application of a chisel, or various tools, to the surface peels the wood away. But every so often the wood has a surprise for you—a knot or a blemish, something that catches the edge of the chisel for the fraction of a second it takes to put the tool spinning out of your grip.
“Mr. Garrison!” I yell over the cacophony of the room, and the echoing noises immediately break. I kick the chisel toward the wall so no one else will stand on it, then kneel next to Chris where he’s hunched with his back to the next machine, bent over his knees. Grimly I search him for traces of blood. But there’s nothing. Except the way he’s holding his head.
“Let me see,” I say, my lips closer to his ear than is strictly necessary.
Chris groans and keeps his hands pressed to his head. He’s not breathing right.
Mr. Garrison appears, brisk with concern. “What happened?”
“Chris!” I say urgently when he remains silent. “What happened?”
“Tully?” He looks up and his hand slips, revealing a red mark on his temple, right at his hairline. For a moment I’m frozen as realization sinks in.
“I think the chisel caught. He wasn’t paying attention. It must have ricocheted into his head.” A split second. A half-turn. If it had been the blade it would have buried itself in his skull.
I rein in the cry that wants to come at that thought and return to Chris. He’s gripping his head again and he’s white as a sheet.
Mr. Garrison checks Chris’s eyes and pulse.
“Chris? Chris, look at me.”
He groans and winces again. We’re surrounded by classmates now, leaning over me and asking Chris questions, but he only lets out a low, wordless moan. Frantic, I pry at his hands and immediately feel myself pouring out of my skin and into his. But now I can feel him, too.
Pain that screams over everything else. Confusion. Sick with grief, but can’t get away from this pain. Need to sleep, let it all go . . .
There’s a darkness under all of it that I’ve never felt in him before.
Then Chris drops to the floor and rolls onto his side in the fetal position. He’s making terrible noises, garbled words I can’t understand. Blinking and blinking and blinking.
“Someone call 911!” I shriek. “Now!”
The guys gathered in a circle around us all freeze. One of them fumbles at his phone. “I’ll do it.” A second later he’s saying “Ambulance” in a shaky voice.
I turn back to Chris, ask him questions, try to keep him still, but his stare is blank and glazed.
Mr. Garrison pales. “Chris? Chris? Can you tell me what day it is today?”
Chris mumbles something, but it isn’t a real answer.
>
The nurse arrives, and she and Mr. Garrison ask me more questions.
But none of it matters.
By the time the ambulance gets there Chris has thrown up twice. And he isn’t responding to any of us anymore.
Not even me.
Chapter 38
To get to the hospital I have to take the bus, then walk a couple of blocks to the main entrance. I half jog through the glass doors and tell the receptionist why I’m there. She calls someone to direct me and I’m shown to a tiny waiting room three floors away.
There are a dozen chairs lining the walls, a couple of plants, a television on the wall tuned to CNN, a free coffee machine in the corner, and a lone figure in a chair. Mr. Douglas, tall and pale, sits in a row of six seats, head in his hands. He jerks to attention when the orderly walks in ahead of me, then sees it’s me and sags.
I haven’t seen him since that awful dinner. My neck itches, knowing what he must think of me.
My hands are shaking and there’s a lump in my chest that won’t go away. The orderly excuses herself and I’m at a loss.
Coffee is the last thing I need, but I cross the room to get a cup from the little machine for something to do.
“Do you mind getting me a cup?” Mr. Douglas’s voice is soft, husky. He doesn’t look up from his phone, clutched in both hands in his lap.
“Sure,” I say hesitantly, and pull out a second cup. “How do you like it?”
“Cream and a sugar. Please.”
I press the appropriate buttons, waiting while the little machine gurgles and sends a splattering stream into the cups, filling them almost perfectly to the top. I have to walk carefully over to Mr. Douglas so I don’t spill.
He doesn’t notice immediately when I hold it in front of him. But after a couple of seconds he blinks and reaches for it. “Thank you,” he says.
It feels weird to choose the chair right next to him. Like we’re there together. Which, I guess we are. But I also guess he’d rather that we weren’t. So I stand in front of the chairs for a couple of seconds, considering whether it would be rude to move a few seats over.
“Sit, please,” he says, and finally looks at me. He opens a hand toward the chair right next to him.
I catch his eye to see if he means it, and for a second I’m seeing an older, wiser Chris. This is the man he’ll become, years from now. When he’s had a wife and kids and the world has seen what he can do.
I drop into the seat with my weak coffee, wishing it could tell me what to do.
“Daphne’s on her way,” he says hoarsely, still staring at the phone.
“That’s good,” I say hesitantly. Will she let me stay?
“I’m just . . . They took him away to scan his head. They’re worried about his brain swelling—” He breaks off and swallows hard.
“Chris is strong,” I say more forcefully than I should. “He’ll be okay.” He has to be. It’s my fault if he isn’t. I distracted him. I am the reason his hand slipped.
Mr. Douglas’s expression doesn’t change. “Tully, would you . . . Can you pray with me?” He turns his head. His eyes are red-rimmed and the hand that holds the phone is visibly shaking. I have torn this man’s life apart, and he’s pleading with me like I’m some kind of lifeline.
“S-sure.”
Mr. Douglas looks relieved. Not knowing what else to do, I close my eyes and tip my head down, waiting for him to speak. Silently, I find myself pleading with whoever these people believe in.
If you’re there, if you hear this . . . no one deserves your help more than Chris. Help him. Please . . .
Without warning, a large, slightly clammy hand suddenly appears in mine, fingers tightening on mine even as I try to pull away. But it’s too late—
Love him. Love him so much. So much fear. He has to be okay. I’d change places in a heartbeat. Come back, Chris. Please—
Mr. Douglas rears back in the same moment I yank my hand out of his grip and jump out of the chair. I take two faltering steps back.
“Tully?” His voice is hushed and he sounds so much like Chris my heart leaps. “Tully, what . . .” The chair creaks as he stands, dazed.
I grimace. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, but his posture is stiff. “That was you.”
“Yes.”
“Dear Lord . . .” He sounds awed.
“I doubt it.” It comes out harder than I meant it to, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“How? I mean, how are you able to do that?”
“I don’t know. Just forget about it, okay? It isn’t a big deal.”
Mr. Douglas’s eyes widen. He takes a step forward, reaching for me and I stumble back, keep my hands clasped so there can be no mistakes.
“Please, don’t,” I say through my teeth.
He pulls up. I’m staring at his feet, but I can feel him watching me.
“You love him,” he says. There’s no question in his tone.
My face crumples until I catch it, smooth it. For a moment I can’t make words. I’m preparing a lie, searching for a way to marginalize this when he steps forward, looks me straight in the eye, and for the first time I see the steel in him.
“Tully, I don’t know what’s happened to you—and I won’t ask you to tell me—but I want you to know something.” He pauses, inhales deep. “I didn’t believe Chris about you, and I should have,” he says softly.
I blink at my coffee. “Which part?” It comes out sounding more defensive than I intended. But I’m afraid of what he’s about to say. Afraid of what he’ll reveal about Chris that might hurt even more than I already do.
“He told me you had a huge heart. That you were . . . struggling. And that you were the strongest person he knows.” He frowns. “I thought you were hard.”
I’m not sure what to do with that, so I blow on the coffee I almost dropped, though it’s lukewarm already.
There’s a little part of me, the corner where hope lives, that woke and stretched at his words. Because they are something I wish to be. And if Chris saw that in me . . .
Then Mr. Douglas steps forward and, before I can protest, puts a hand on my shoulder, and ducks his head. Then he begins to pray. “Keep my son safe, Father,” he murmurs. “Keep him safe. Keep Tully safe. Hold on to all of us, Father. Please.”
He grimaces and I can tell he’s trying not to cry. I stand there, at a complete loss, heartbroken for both of us. I hope that whoever he’s talking to is listening. Because it’s easy to see I’m not the only one who couldn’t survive a world without Chris.
Eventually we find our way back to our seats, but we don’t talk again.
Ten minutes later, a door opens and a doctor walks into the room.
“Mr. Douglas?” The doctor’s voice is strong, but careful. Both of us whirl toward the door.
“How is he?” Mr. Douglas wrings his hands.
“We think he’ll be okay,” the doctor says.
Those words aren’t entirely reassuring. Apparently. Mr. Douglas thinks so, too, because he rubs a hand over his face, then puts his hands on his hips. “How bad is it?”
“He does have some swelling. He must have been hit hard. But we’re giving him some medication that should help ease it. He should be okay . . .” The doctor trails off with a significant glance at me. I’m suddenly too aware of my dirty jeans and the hole in my sleeve.
“Try finishing that sentence, please,” Mr. Douglas says. “You’re talking about my son.”
The doctor shifts uneasily. “Perhaps you’d like to come to my office where we can speak privately?”
Mr. Douglas folds his arms. “Tully is Chris’s girlfriend. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a part of this family. You can speak freely in front of her.”
I’m simultaneously grateful to Mr. Douglas and pained. I’m not Chris’s girlfriend anymore.<
br />
The doctor nods and continues. “In all likelihood, Chris has a severe concussion, but we won’t know more until he wakes up. For now we’ve sedated him and are monitoring him closely. He’ll have a headache for a while but assuming the swelling goes down overnight, he’ll be released in a couple of days.”
Relief floods me, washing from my hair to my toes.
Chris will be okay.
He will be fine.
Mr. Douglas puts a hand over his heart. “Thank goodness. Can I see him now?”
“At this point you can come to his room, sir. But family only, I’m afraid.” The doctor glances at me once more.
“I’ll go.” I toss my untouched coffee in the trash and start for the door. But Mr. Douglas catches my arm.
“We’ll call you when we know more, okay?”
“Thanks.” He doesn’t let go. So I wait.
He clears his throat. “I want you to know . . . Chris loves you in a way I’ve never seen him care before. And you love him, too. I know that. I . . . I felt it,” he says haltingly. “I’ll let him know you were here. He’ll like that.”
He finally lets go and I jerk my chin up, suddenly fighting tears. The doctor ushers him down the hall, talking about the details of the scan and what they can expect, his voice fading as they disappear around a corner.
I don’t know who heard Mr. Douglas’s prayers, but I’m grateful. They are a family the way families are meant to be. They shouldn’t have to go through something like this.
I say my own silent thank you, then turn to go.
Chapter 39
Back at home, I yank off my shoes, my jeans, my sanity, throwing the clothes that now stink of hospital in the corner. Then I duck into the shower, stand under the water, let the heat wash over my rigid muscles. Something deep shivers, something I can’t figure out yet.
I’m dressed in my only clean jeans and the hoodie Chris loaned me, sitting on the bed and trying to tie my boot laces with shaking hands when I hear the footsteps.
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