by Meli Raine
“What’s wrong?” Jane’s eyes are the size of planets. “Do you need a nurse?”
Careful breathing brings me back to baseline. “Fine.” After my speech is all back and I can talk like I used to, I’m never using that word again.
“Did I upset you? Do you want me to leave? Because I c-completely understand if-f-f-f you d-d-do.” Jane is sniffling, then stuttering, her hand dropping the gift bag, body folding in half as she breaks down before my astonished eyes.
I stare at her.
I’m the one who’s supposed to cry.
Reaching behind her, she finds the arm of a visitor chair, the fake wood scarred and darkened by too many worried, sweaty hands gripping it. Head down, hair now hanging in her eyes, she just sobs and sobs. I can’t move. Can’t comfort her. Can’t even say a platitude. All I can do is lie in bed and watch her fall apart as I stare at her and marvel that of all the people in the world I could be almost twins with, it had to be the Jane Borokov.
And she had to be on someone’s hit list.
Why couldn’t I be Taylor Swift’s doppelgänger? At least that would have some benefits.
“I–I’m so sorry, Lily,” she chokes out. “I’m making it worse, barging in here and falling apart before I can even apologize.”
Apologize?
“I don’t even know how to apologize. The words ‘I’m sorry’ don’t really cut it here. I’m sorry someone mistook you for me and shot you in the head? There’s no get-well card for that.”
I snort. It comes out sounding like a baby elephant farted. I laugh, which makes me snort again, and then suddenly I sound like an asthmatic on laughing gas, complete with tears and snot bubbles as I cry and giggle at the same time. The emotions are so jumbled inside my body that it can’t tell what I’m feeling, so it just does everything.
“Jane. Oh. Kay. You. Did. Not. Shoot. Me.”
“Oh, God, Lily. You are unbelievable. You woke up, what–like, not even three months ago? And you’re in your hospital bed and you–” Stopping, she pulls back from saying the obvious about my bedridden condition. “–and you’re comforting me?”
Mom told me all about what Jane’s done since I was shot. According to Mom, Jane inherited a ton of money from Alice Mogrett, a famous old lady who painted and was the daughter of some Supreme Court justice and vice president back when my great-grandparents were alive. Jane’s paid for all my medical expenses not covered by insurance. I owe her.
But then again, I took a bullet for her. Kind of. Right?
“What can I do? How can I–I’m so happy you’re awake!”
“Me. Too.”
“I’ll bet! We were watching election returns when my fath– er, when Bosworth was elected. And I got a text that you had woken up!”
I nod. And now the guy’s being sworn in as president. Why did it take her so long to visit?
“Your mom told me you weren’t ready for me to come, and then your poor dad...”
Nod.
“Also,” she says, looking uncomfortable. “Your parents aren’t exactly fans of mine.”
No kidding.
“In fact, I’m not sure your mom knows I’m here. But I had to come.” She reaches down and picks up the gift bag. “I brought you something.” Pulling it out, she holds the present aloft.
“It’s an adapted audio player. You can play audiobooks with it, and use voice commands to make the whole thing work. And I set up an account with all the audiobooks you want paid for. You must be bored out of your mind in here.” She leans in. “And you can listen to whatever you want, Lily. Romance, mystery, thriller.”
“Unh unh. No. Thriller. Life. Thriller. Enough.” I lift my hand and point. “Help. Put. On.”
“You like it?” Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Finally. Listen. To. Fifty.”
“Fifty?”
“Shades.”
More laughter. “Whatever floats your boat!” As Jane finds the device and puts the control in my hand, she starts to program it, explaining how it works.
Just then, Romeo walks in. Bent over me, Jane doesn’t see him, so the first time she’s aware he’s here is when he says, “Hello, Jane. Didn’t know you were scheduled to visit.”
Both of our bodies tense at exactly the same time. Before I can cover my emotions, Jane looks into my eyes and sees it. I see her reaction, too. Feel it. Tracking people’s emotions means they feel like electrical fields, and right now, Jane’s are off the charts, even as he backs away and stands by the door.
She doesn’t like Romeo.
Why?
“You don’t like him, either?” she murmurs in my ear, just as another voice interrupts. Blood drums against my temples like someone has mallets on the inside of me, banging away. What does she know?
Hope blooms in my chest for the very first time.
“Jane? Jane Borokov? What are you doing to Lily?”
It’s Mom. She’s angry, clearing her throat to cover it, but Jane can tell, her lids closing just once, opening with a firm resolve in her eyes and a cheery smile plastered across her lips.
“Hi, Bee,” she says, turning.
Mom’s eyes flit from Jane to me. “You two never looked one whit alike,” she says, contradicting herself from Before.
Before.
“We. Don’. Now,” I say, giving Mom as pointed a look as I’m capable of giving.
“That’s not your fault.” The tiniest emphasis on the word your doesn’t go unnoticed, Jane’s shoulders hunching slightly.
“I think you look great,” Jane says, giving me a pat on the arm. “It’s good to see you awake and talking.”
“What are you doing here?” Mom challenges her, looking at the audiobook player, frowning like Jane’s wrapping an octopus around my head.
“I wanted to pop in, to tell Lily how sorry I am and to give her a present.”
“Well? Did you?” Mom’s voice goes soft in a creepy way. “Did you?”
“Mom,” I say, my throat dry, the tension too much. Romeo’s still in the room, standing sentry in the corner, face impassive. If I looked hard enough, though, I’m sure there’s a smirk right underneath the curl of his lips.
“What, Lily?”
“Jane. Is. Fine.”
Mom nods. “I do appreciate all you’ve done for Lily,” she says quietly to Jane, who looks stricken.
“It’s the least I could do after what he–after the gunman thought Lily was me.”
Mom just blinks. So do I.
Because I have to do something to stop myself from looking at the gunman. Eye muscles I have complete control over are jerking to the right, trying so hard to look at him, as if a piece of me is sabotaging my whole existence. I don’t understand why it’s such an effort not to look at him. Impulses I didn’t know existed are pulling, pulling, pulling and if I give in, I give him all the power.
I have to hang onto my shred of control.
Closing my eyes is safe.
So I do.
“You’ve tired her out,” Mom says, ignoring Jane's words about the gunman, using my nonverbal cues as an excuse to move on and get rid of my friend. Friend. Jane is still my friend. She didn’t do this to me.
He did.
And whatever her weird reaction to Romeo was, it means something.
It might even mean a way out for me.
“Czaky.” Silas Gentian pokes his head in. He nods towards the hallway. Reluctantly, Romeo leaves, looking at we three women for as long as he can before the door closes. Deep male voices go back and forth in murmurs too indistinct to understand.
Jane shoots the door a very strange look. Mom picks up on it.
“Something wrong?”
Jane looks at me, her gaze lingering. “No. Not at all. Just... it’s... thank you, Lily. Thanks for letting me visit.”
“Wel. Come.” Even Mom relaxes at that, smiling.
“Manners even when you’re in a hospital bed, Lily. That’s my girl.”
I roll my eyes.
; “Even better,” Mom chortles.
Jane smiles at me with questions in her eyes, ones I want to answer with screams and pleas. Take me away, I want to beg. Don’t let Romeo near me, I want to implore. He tried to kill you and he got me instead, so you might still be at risk, I want to warn her.
And then I stop.
Wait.
She’s alive.
Romeo’s on my security detail.
If he shot me thinking I was her, then why is she still alive? Why isn’t he still trying to kill her?
Jane leans over my right side and gives me a super-soft hug. “We’ll talk later,” she whispers.
I shiver.
I’m not sure I want to know what she has to say.
Suddenly, Jane isn’t my best hope.
She might be my worst nightmare.
Chapter 14
Six months later
* * *
I hate physical therapy.
I hate the pain.
I hate the metallic taste in my mouth.
I hate how sweat runs down my neck.
I hate disappointing my physical therapists.
I hate being stared at by people pretending they aren’t.
But most of all, I hate having these scars on my head. No amount of PT will make them go away.
And that means I hate everyone right here, right now, more than they deserve.
An explosive flash of light behind the big window between the open exercise room and the staff offices blinds me. Someone behind the window shouts. The glass muffles it. Footsteps pound in the hallway, then men in black uniforms appear.
Another flash.
Photographers.
They’re taking pictures of me. They call me Lily the Lion in the press. Alliteration is cute, isn’t it? They think they’re being funny. Witty.
Bright.
Being shot because someone mistook me for the infamous Jane Borokov makes my picture valuable. Pictures of me drive website clicks. Eyeballs mean money in today’s media. The more eyes these photographers can get on their website photos of me, the more money they make.
A hundred years ago, I’d be in a circus, paraded around as part of the freak show. Like that guy in the 1800s who got an iron spike through his head and survived, and we still study him in psychology classes.
Now I’m just retweeted and shared on Facebook for people to shake their heads and tap their screens, looking for the next freak to read about.
“When are they going to get tired of you?” my physical therapist, Rhonda, asks, glaring, her lips pursed, both hands on her hips in a gesture of defiance. She’s staring through the window as two security guards wrestle the photographer out of the hallway.
I try to imitate her. It’s habit.
Only one palm lands on one hip, though.
What looks like being kickass on her makes me mimic a teapot.
Here is my handle.
And my spout only lifts halfway.
“I’m pretty boring,” I reply, moving my arm down to my side, controlling my breath. “You’d think they had never seen a woman like this.” I speak in full sentences, even if my mouth feels like it’s being moved by a tongue made of terrycloth. I touch the scar behind my ear. Fuzz greets me, the hair grown back about an inch and a half. Even my hair moves slower than it did Before.
Rhonda whips around and gives me an arched-eyebrow look. “Is that sarcasm or are you playing stupid on purpose?”
“You’ve been my PT for how many months, Rhonda, and you still don’t know?”
The skin between her eyes crinkles. “You keep me on my toes.”
Someone behind Rhonda groans. We turn and look.
It’s a guy missing a foot.
“Sorry, Clem!” Rhonda shouts, wincing at me. I shrug. Doesn’t bother me.
“Like I haven’t heard it all before, Rhonda,” he says, then lets out a series of rat-a-tat-tat coughs. Clem is an old Vietnam vet who’s been injured forever. He’s here because his good leg is getting weak as Parkinson’s takes over his body.
Yep. This is my life now. I used to work at the flower shop arranging gladiolas and making little-girl princess bouquets.
Now? Now I sweat it out in a bleach-smelling hospital PT room with other people missing parts of themselves. No one is whole.
But most of us have the luxury of hiding that fact on the inside.
“Yer boyfriend’s here!” Clem shouts. He looks at me. My face feels red. I hate that he calls Duff my boyfriend.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Yer fuckbuddy?”
“Clem!” I shout, hoping Duff didn’t hear that. I see him through the big glass window, walking into the gym dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes with a bright green stripe on the side. His hair is messy, like he rustled it when he changed out of his suit, and his eyes are serious, face set to neutral.
For someone so calm and steady, he makes my heart do jumping jacks in my chest.
One-handed jumping jacks, of course. The other arm is useless, hanging there like it’s waiting for an invitation.
The sight of Duff always makes me feel like I have two different selves inside me reacting in completely opposite ways. Not love/hate.
Admiration/irritation.
Rhonda’s face lights up like a thousand-watt bulb. “Duff!”
“You only like him because he works me to death.”
“Makes my job easier.”
“Makes my life harder.”
“He’s determined, isn’t he? Goes the whole distance with you for your exercises.”
“I guess pity cases are the new community service. Instead of helping build houses for Habitat for Humanity, Duff’s helping me turn my useless appendage into something less useless.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a bitter young woman, Lily?”
“Only since I woke up from the coma.”
Clem waves a nasty old workout towel that harbors more bacteria than a lab at the CDC. “Duff! Nice guns!”
Patting his waistline briefly, Duff frowns. “I took it off.”
“Meant yer arms, dumbass. Back when I was in my prime, I had arms like Popeye.”
Duff touches his scarred eye. “I look the part more than you do, Clem.”
Old Clem cackles. Rhonda lets out a wolf whistle. I nudge her with my bad arm, the reflex for a good shove there, but the muscles unwilling.
“Is that what it takes to get that arm moving? Whistling at your–” she lowers her voice, “–boyfriend?”
I thump her with my elbow again, this time with more power.
“Insults and teasing work on you? I’ll note that in your chart.”
“I hate you.”
“I love it when patients say that.”
“Why?”
“Because it means I’m doing my job right.”
“The guys got the photographer, Lily,” Duff tells me. “Romeo’s taking care of it.”
“Romeo?” I choke out, unable to catch my own surprise before I reveal it. Unreality takes over so fast. It makes me breathless, my limbs going limp. Romeo’s been off my case ever since that day Jane visited me in the hospital, back in January. I haven’t seen him in six months.
Thank God.
“Yeah. He’s back from the assignment Gentian had him on.”
“What assignment?”
He makes a face that says I should know better than to ask.
Although Romeo’s stayed away for six months, I hear about him nonstop from my mother. Yes, my mother. Apparently, he calls her weekly to “check in.” He’s such a “nice bodyguard” who “really cares.”
Over and over, she’s suggested I request him back on my detail.
Over and over, I go silent. Mom’s learned not to push me when I go silent.
Knowing Romeo is back makes my silence even more important.
Chapter 15
Limping over to the therapy balls, I grab two five-pound weights in my good hand and settle on the ball. It’s bouncy e
nough that I have to firmly plant the soles of my feet on the floor and get my thighs to cooperate. The left side of my body is weaker than the right. Being unbalanced leaves me dizzy half the time, feeling like the world lurches to the right without my permission.
Many parts of my life happen without my permission, though. I’ve gotten used to some of it.
But not all.
“Your smile’s almost symmetrical,” Rhonda says to me, studying my face as I grimace.
“This isn’t a smile.”
“It is here. Closest anyone ever gets.”
That makes me laugh.
“See? A smile. It’s good to see,” she adds. Rhonda’s been my physical therapist from the start, when I was unable to walk. She’s moved me through all the layers of recovery like she choreographed it herself, like it’s an art. Maybe it is.
I like my art with less sweat and pain, though.
“The physiotherapist says your functioning is off the charts, Lily. Only a handful of documented cases in medical literature where someone goes from a Glasgow Coma Scale score like yours to this level of ability.”
“Where’s my gold medal?”
“You get a fucking gold medal for showing up like you do, girl, and being able to joke.” All trace of joking is gone. Duff tenses, watching, listening. He’s always here, always aware.
He has to be.
It’s his job.
I’m his job.
Jane used to come to the shop to get a break from the media scrutiny, the public shaming, the constant surveillance. I just plain liked her as a person and tried to empathize.
Now I don’t have to try.
There’s a huge difference between us, and not just the fact that she wasn’t shot and I was.
The press treats us very differently.
The public loves victims. They especially love recovery stories.
And there’s nothing juicier than a young woman wrongly shot when the killer was trying to take down a reviled figure.
My recovery is a feel-good story about super-human strength. I’m a walking miracle.
Don’t you want to know more about me?
Everyone else does.
To the point where I’m followed. Tracked. Hounded. Offered huge sums of money to be interviewed, like some inspirational hard-luck case.