Fracture

by Megan Miranda

  Pain until I couldn’t feel my fingertips and the old car rumbled back beside me. My eyes stayed closed so I wouldn’t have to face him. But I felt my face grow colder as his shadow blocked the sun. I opened my eyes and saw Troy’s outline, the darkness where the light used to be.

  He reached down for my hand and I took it. I took it. He pulled me to his body and I let him. He whispered in my ear and I listened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry about your friend.” He wiped the tears off my cheeks with his rough thumb and I leaned my face into his hand. He brushed the snow off my back, my arms, my hair—and held me until the shaking subsided. And when he whispered, “Let’s go,” I followed.

  I followed until he stepped in the imprint where Carson had been. Where Carson had lived. Where Carson had died. Where Troy had watched him die.

  I froze at the border of his body. “I’m not going with you.”

  He turned around and let out an aggravated sigh. “You can’t take that.” He pointed at Mom’s ruined car. But he was looking at me, trembling, incapable of driving. He pulled my bag from the driver’s side, turned off the ignition, and locked the doors. I walked to his car in a wide berth around the two body prints in the snow. Wingless and immobile.

  A tribute to death.

  I slid into the passenger side, my bag between us on the bench seat. I leaned against the door, far from Troy. The car was old. The door was old. Leaning against it was downright dangerous. I didn’t care. Maybe if I fell out I’d hit my head on the pavement and an ambulance would take me away and I’d sleep for days in the hospital, not quite existing, and when I’d wake nobody would care that I didn’t save Carson. And they’d run an MRI and see my brain was damaged beyond repair and they’d pump me full of painkillers, keeping me in a haze where the neurons in my brain couldn’t form connections to make memories. And Decker would sit by my bed and hold my hand and sometimes he’d kiss my forehead when he thought I wasn’t awake. And it wouldn’t matter whether I was valedictorian or a miracle or a complete waste of a life.

  I stared out the window at the trees passing by out of focus. Everything looked different. Like we had shifted dimensions. Like I’d been living in a flat, two-dimensional world, length and width alone, and now there was a sudden depth. Things looked too close and then too far, too large and too small. Everything the same, and yet completely disorienting.

  It was the same place I’d been my entire life, same trees, same people, same white coating over everything. I’d never noticed that everything was dead underneath the snow. We hit a pothole and everything lurched to the right. Trees spun. Carson’s face. His mouth. His mouth that was cold and tasted like—“Oh God, pull over.”

  I stumbled out the passenger door and fell to my knees in the untouched snow. I sucked in deep breath after deep breath but the churning wouldn’t stop. I tried to stand and had to steady myself with the car. Troy came around but I held my arm out to stop him.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I said. And then I was. I hurled the abysmal contents of my stomach into a ditch off the highway in the middle of nowhere, Maine.

  Troy was right. This was hell.

  I stayed bent over on shaky legs and felt Troy’s tentative hand rubbing my upper back. I turned my head sideways and looked up at him through the long hair hanging in my face. He was staring off into the woods. Without looking at me, he took my arms and pulled me upright, then wrapped his hands around my wrists. He pressed his thumbs just above my wrist joints, and the dizziness ebbed.

  “My sister used to get carsick,” he said. I pulled my arms back, even though he was helping. “I couldn’t help her,” he said. “But I can help you.”

  I let out a bark of laughter. I didn’t want his help. Not that kind of help. He turned abruptly and got back in the car. I kept my eyes closed the rest of the way home. And I didn’t cry. God, how I ached to cry. But I wouldn’t. Not in front of Troy. Not again.

  So I held it in. I held it in until we rolled to a stop and Mom threw the front door open and ran down the path in her slippers. She already knew. I started sobbing before I reached her. Mom opened her arms and I ran into them. Nothing else mattered. Not the pills or the words or the betrayal.

  Troy spoke to her as we walked up the front steps, but I couldn’t hear him over the sobs. And then he left and she pulled me onto the couch with her.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? For real, entirely dead?” I looked up at Mom’s tear-streaked face. She stared out the window and rocked me back and forth in her arms. “Shh,” she said. “Everything’s okay. Shh.”

  “Carson’s okay?” I asked.

  She stopped rocking and looked me in the eye. “No, baby,” she said. And then she rocked and shushed me some more.

  “Mom? There’s something wrong with me.” She held me tighter. I nestled into her, seeking the comfort of her soft arms, but all I felt were bones. Sharp collarbone. Jutting shoulder. Weak arms. She was disappearing. Death was everywhere. But Mom, I was killing her slowly. In painstakingly tiny increments.

  And later that night, still curled up on the couch, when she gave me the sleeping pill and the antidepressant, I willingly took them.

  There was this beautiful moment as I was waking up. Fleece was tucked up to my neck, cushions and warmth surrounded me, morning light slanted in through the curtains, the smell of batter baking in the waffle iron wafted in from the kitchen. One beautiful moment before the heaviness crashed down. The waffle batter sizzled and popped in accusation. My stomach rebelled from the memories.

  I went running for the bathroom in yesterday’s clothes, cold and stiff from dried snow. And I could still smell him. Taste him. I heaved over the toilet, rested my face on the cold porcelain, but nothing came out. There was nothing left. I was empty inside.

  The world had gone on without me while I slept. Mom’s car was back, and the inside was clean. I sat in the spot where Carson had been. I strapped the seat belt across my chest, where it had dug into Carson. I looked out the windows and squinted like he had done, trying to see what he saw. I leaned forward, trying to feel what he felt. But he was gone. Dad had scrubbed him out. I couldn’t even smell the leather anymore. Just acetone and pine. Sharp and overwhelming.

  I felt the tugging in the parking lot of Dr. Logan’s office. When I walked in, I didn’t keep my head down. I looked at them all. It wouldn’t make any difference. I couldn’t do anything for them. The receptionist kept sneaking peeks at me in the lulls between her typing. What had she heard about me? That I was a miracle? That I was damaged? That I was crazy? That I was something less than human?

  Dr. Logan himself stuck his head out and beckoned us toward the back. “Mrs. Maxwell,” he said, barring us from entering the hall. “Do you think I might talk to Delaney alone?” Mom shot me a look. “I can have a nurse in if it makes her more comfortable.” I nodded at the doctor and Mom.

  “I’ll be right out here if you need me.” Then she stood in the entrance, watching us go, as the door swung back in her face.

  I followed Dr. Logan down the hall. He stepped to the side to let a nurse pass, and she smiled up at him. Then she walked right into me, knocking me into the wall. She put a hand out in front of her, spun around, and continued down the hall like she never even saw me. Like I wasn’t even there. I bit down on the inside of my mouth until I tasted blood.

  I stumbled down the rest of the hall after the doctor, sinking into the visitor’s chair in his office. He hadn’t even taken me to an exam room. It was almost like he knew there was nothing he could really do for me. “There’s something seriously wrong with me,” I said before he had a chance to talk. “I’m not normal. I died. I freaking died. I’m not human.”

  Dr. Logan pulled his chair around his desk so he was sitting directly in front of me. His arms gripped my shoulders. “Okay, back up a little. What’s been going on in your life, Delaney? Your mother said you lost someone.”

  I grinned. Lost someone. Like I had misplaced Carson, dropped him on the way to s
chool, couldn’t find him in the crowded mall.

  “He died,” I corrected. “He had a seizure and I tried to save him and he died. I tried,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t be alive. He should be and I shouldn’t. It’s not fair.”

  He leaned back in his chair and exhaled loudly. “No, of course it’s not.”

  I started laughing. “Even my own doctor doesn’t think it’s fair. Even you don’t think I should be alive.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that. But these things don’t follow the rules of fair. Look, what you’re feeling is very common. It’s survivor guilt. Like in a plane crash when there’s a sole survivor. Everyone thinks that one person is a miracle, but that one person can’t live normally. They’re consumed with figuring out ‘Why me? What makes me special?’”

  I sucked in a breath and nodded vigorously. Dr. Logan placed his hands on my shoulders again. “Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for you. Just know that you’re not alone.”

  Yes, I was. Carson was dead. Mom was disappearing. Troy was delusional. Decker hadn’t even called. Nobody had called.

  “Have you been taking the medicine I prescribed?”

  “Not really. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not stressed. I’m not even me anymore.” I was a girl who died and miraculously came back, but I was also a girl who didn’t believe in miracles anymore. A Catch-22.

  “I’m not human,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  Dr. Logan reached for my hand and felt the bones underneath. “You feel plenty human,” he said.

  “So does a corpse,” I mumbled.

  “You sound plenty human.”

  I turned my head up. My amended answer for what makes us human was the brain. The undamaged brain. Maybe the doctor had a more scientific answer. “What makes me human, then?”

  He shrugged like it was no big deal that he might know the meaning of life. “We are the only species aware of our own mortality. We are the only ones who want to know why we live and why we die.” He chewed on the inside of his mouth like he was debating something. “And you care. You tried to help.”

  Except my caring was pointless. I cared and people died anyway. At least Troy was doing something with his caring. He was making a difference, even if I thought he was mad.

  And then the doctor did something stupid. Because when someone’s drowning, the instinct is to throw them a life preserver. “That boy,” Dr. Logan said, clearing his throat. “From last time you were here. You saved him. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you saved him.”

  “What?” I pictured the boy humming in the corner. “You listened to me?”

  “No, not me. But you scared his nurse. She demanded we take him to the hospital and run some tests. So we did.”

  Something fluttered in my chest. “And?”

  “And he had a stroke. But we were all right there. And we were able to save him.” He grabbed onto the hands that were resting in my lap and squeezed. “Do you believe in a higher power? That there aren’t coincidences? That you lived so you could save him?”

  Yes. No. I didn’t, but I wanted to. I needed to. I clung to the doctor’s words. I saved him. I saved him.

  I squeezed Dr. Logan’s hands back. “I need to see him.”

  Dr. Logan paused and pulled his hands back. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He stood and looked around the room for nothing in particular. “Let’s go talk to your mother.”

  I remained seated and leaned forward. “Is he still at the hospital?” I had to see him. I had to talk to him. I had to show Troy what I’d done. There was always a chance.

  “No, he’s been moved. I shouldn’t have said anything, Delaney. I’m not at liberty to discuss this further.”

  I clenched my fist and brought it down on his desk. A picture frame toppled over backward, and two freckle-faced children smiled up at me. “Moved where?”

  Dr. Logan desperately shuffled papers, reeling in the life preserver, but I had already caught hold. It was all I had. “He’s in a long-term care facility, Delaney. He still had the stroke. Even if we’d known he was going to have one, we couldn’t have stopped it. But he’s alive because of you.”

  I sunk backward. “Is he conscious?”

  “Look, I already broke doctor-patient confidentiality.” Which was his way of saying no.

  “Will he recover?”

  “I’m not the one to ask. I didn’t think you’d recover, and look at you now.” He smiled, but I didn’t. “There’s always hope, Delaney.”

  It was all so pointless. I hadn’t saved that boy. He lived, yes, but I hadn’t saved him. He was a vegetable. Like I was supposed to be. Frozen. I had trapped him in hell. The line Dr. Logan threw me wasn’t a life preserver. It was an anchor. And I was sinking fast.

  In the waiting room, Dr. Logan spoke to Mom. “The help she needs”—he handed her a business card—“is not from me.”

  Pills. Hands tied to the bed. Trapped. Like the last time I was underwater, all I could think was, No, no, no, no, no.

  Chapter 16

  Mom looked even smaller when we got back home. She stood in the entrance of the immaculate kitchen with her hands on her hips. She nodded to herself, took out a dishrag and disinfectant, and started scrubbing. She scrubbed vigorously, fist clenching the towel, other hand gripping the end of the counter. And then she shifted over and scrubbed the spot where her hand had left an imaginary print.

  “I’m going to see Decker,” I said. She didn’t stop scrubbing.

  His car was in the driveway, but nobody answered the door. I huddled against the door frame and glanced around. Then I jogged to the side of the house and brushed the snow off the base of the tallest evergreen. I dug out the gray-and-black speckled rock and pried the spare key from the hard-packed dirt.

  I let myself in the house and called, “Decker?” His name echoed back from the hardwood floors and bare walls. His room was the same as mine, up the stairs, second door on the left. I knocked but got no answer. His door creaked as I pushed it open. I stuck my face in and said, “Decker?”

  Nothing. I swung the door wide open until it banged against the blue wall, another echo shattering the quiet of an empty house. He wasn’t here. The curtains were open. His bed was made. Decker didn’t make his bed. So unless he got up before his mom left for work (which was highly unlikely), Decker hadn’t been home all night.

  I walked to his desk and looked at the papers on top. His grades, all Bs, probably his best semester yet. He hadn’t told me. His new class schedule. I wondered if mine had arrived. I didn’t even care. I slid the top drawer open, where he used to keep memorabilia, like old concert stubs and newspaper clippings from his races. It was all still there. And sitting on top of it all was my picture. Not just a picture of me. My picture. The one of me and Decker that I kept above my desk.

  He’d taken it from me, which might have been sweet except he stuck it in his drawer full of the past. He didn’t keep it out. I was hidden away with the things he could look through to remember fun things he used to do. I stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans, then thought better of it and slid it back into his drawer of memories.

  A sleek red car pulled into his driveway. The passenger door opened, and Decker came spilling out with the pulsating music. And then Tara Spano sped away in her godawful, desperate-for-attention car. I thought of leaving his room, but there was really no good place for him to find me. So I just stood there, next to the window, and listened to him fidget with the lock on the front door, chuck his boots across the floor, and trudge up the steps.

  He held on to the doorframe as he rounded the corner into his room, head down, hair falling into his eyes. He stopped in the entryway, looked at me, looked at the window behind me, and rested the side of his head against the wall.

  “I came to check on you,” I said, looking at his desk drawer, making sure I had left everything the way I found it.

  “I meant to call. I wanted to call. My mom said you were with him.�
� His voice cracked and he closed his eyes.

  “I tried to help.” I bit my bottom lip hard. Decker looked like crap. I wanted to take him in my arms and rock him back and forth like Mom did for me and shush him and tell him everything was going to be okay. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Kind of like how Decker said he wanted to call me, but didn’t. Besides, someone had probably already comforted him. I looked out the window, and when I looked back at him, he was watching me.

  “I was at Kevin’s,” he said. “All night. We all were.” I thought he was trying to say he wasn’t alone with Tara, but the only thing that registered was the “we all” part. They were all together, mourning. Everyone except me. He was with his other friends—our friends—where I hadn’t been invited.

  “Not my business.”

  “Yes it is,” he said, walking toward the window. Toward me. “I need to tell you something.”

  There wasn’t much more I could take hearing. But really, could it get any worse?

  “So the thing is, I’m kind of a mess about Carson.”

  I gave him my no shit look, mixed with you’re not the only one.

  He got it. “Yeah, but look at me now. Now imagine me before. With you.” He stared out the window again, in the direction of the lake.

  He was holding his breath beside me, and I remembered the Decker who sobbed over my bed, fingernails missing, face hollow. “I thought you were dead.”

  I was.

  “And I lost it. I slept at the hospital. Actually, I didn’t sleep at all. I couldn’t eat. I just waited. And I made all kinds of bargains with God. Anyone but you. Anyone at all.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Everyone but you.”