by Melissa Marr
“I’m fine,” I assure her as she straightens. “I told you that.”
“Right.” She nods, steps farther back, and folds her hands together. She’s clenching them so tightly that her knuckles whiten. “I’ll go to the nurses’ station and tell them we’re ready. I’m sure there are forms to sign.”
Once the door closes behind her, my father lowers himself to the chair by the bed. He reaches out to touch me, and I don’t think anything of it until his hand brushes against my cheek, and I fall.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared. No, that’s not true. When Lizzy told me she was pregnant, I was petrified. Her father didn’t even know we were dating, and here we were with this to tell him. He could send her away, give my baby away. If he had suggested that, I’m not sure what Lizzy would have done. I smile thinking of her shock when I told her we should get married. I’m not sure how she could’ve thought I’d say anything else.
That was different though. That was the sort of fear that came from not being ready. I’m ready for this. I have been for months. Being ready doesn’t mean death stops being scary, just that the fear isn’t crippling.
The machines beside me beep and hiss. I wish I wasn’t alone right now. I could let go then. I can’t yet. Not until they get here. Lizzy and Eva will be hurt if they’re not here to say good-bye.
A nurse comes in to check on me, but I keep my eyes closed. I wonder what it was like for Eva when she was in here after the accident. I should’ve been there. Lizzy wanted to go, but we couldn’t get a flight.
The door opens again, and I realize that I was drifting again.
“Lizzy?”
“I’m right here, Daniel.”
She’s walking toward me. Eva is behind her, but her little ones aren’t with her. I suspect they’re in the hall with their father. Even though I’m still sure he’s not good enough for my baby girl, he seems to make her happy.
I smile, and then I let go.
I waited, but I’m so tired. So very tired.
I gasp, and my father jerks his hand away.
“Eva!”
“Cold,” I say, trying to minimize my shivering. “Sorry.” I smile, a nothing-to-worry-about smile. This hallucination thing has happened frequently enough that I feel like I should tell someone, but . . . not today. My parents are here to take me home. They’ve pulled some sort of strings to get me at-home examinations, and I’m afraid that if I tell anyone, I’ll be staying right where I am instead.
“Did I hurt you?” my father asks, and I stare at him, reminding myself that he is not dying, but here at my bedside. My heart still hurts. We aren’t as close as I want, but he’s still my daddy. He’s the one who taught me to ride a bike—and the one who helped me hide my very bloody knees when I thought I was more capable than I really was.
Tears are once more racing down my face. I really need to get a handle on this crying problem, too. I force myself to keep from chattering my teeth. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone without sounding like I’m crazy, sick, or having weird side effects. None of those things would get me home and back to a normal life—or at least as normal as possible now that I look like a failed science experiment.
“I was going to hug you and made the mistake of moving my arm wrong,” I lie. This is what we do now: we take turns lying to avoid hurting each other. I add a sort of truth to ease my guilt: “My ribs are still sore.”
I slowly reach out to touch his arm.
“I’m glad you’re home,” I tell him, and this isn’t a lie at all.
“We should’ve been here sooner. Your mother was ready to charter a boat, but that wouldn’t have been any faster. I think the people at the airport were starting to draw straws to see who had to talk to us; we were there constantly.”
“I told you I was fine. The Yeungs were here, and I’m in a hospital with great nurses. Honestly, I have some headaches and crutches.” I shake my head, and then I lie horribly. “This is not a big deal.”
My father nods, and I think that he means that he hears me, not that he agrees with me. Instead of pointing out my lie, he says, “I should check and see if your mother needs help. She’s not always great with paperwork.”
I nod, and I wonder if he realizes that I mean the same thing when I nod: I hear you, not I agree with you. I have a sudden almost crippling need to keep him here a little longer. “Dad? Wait, please.”
“Do you need a nurse or—”
“No,” I interrupt him, something I would never do typically, but this isn’t an average day. “Thanks for keeping some of the theories from Mom. I know you did, and I’m glad. I didn’t want to upset her.”
He nods. “She’ll hear the rest soon enough now that we’re back. She’ll hear about the Adams girl, and . . .” His words fade, and I know we’re both thinking about the rest of that sentence, about the possibility that my accident wasn’t an accident.
I mock-sigh to try to make things lighter and tell him, “Luckily, she still buys into that ‘watching the news isn’t ladylike’ story that Grandfather Cooper fed her.”
He smiles a little, and I feel a wash of relief that the hurt in his eyes is gone. “Are you okay while I go check on her?”
“Go ahead.”
I think about my hallucinations, briefly considering the idea that they’re real. I’m not sure if it would be a gift or a curse.
It’s certainly not something I want to tell people about, but I also—for the first time—want to convince people to touch me, to test it, to see how it works. There seems to be a pattern to it. If there is a pattern, maybe I can control it.
I also wonder why I can’t recognize any faces in the visions. I don’t understand why all the faces are blurry to me—or why I feel like I’m actually inside another body.
Maybe the episodes are a combination of drug side effects and my own fears. After all, there might be a lunatic in Jessup who killed Micki and tried to kill me. That makes far more sense than the other thought, annoying, like an itch in the back of my mind. It makes far more sense than the idea that what I’m seeing is real.
That thought makes me feel sick, like I want to vomit, and I start to shiver.
I’m still queasy when my parents and Kelli come into the room. I’m glad she’s my nurse today. Seeing her somehow makes me feel a little better. As a nurse, she deals with some pretty awful stuff, but she handles it and isn’t falling apart like I want to right now. I want to be like her.
“Ready to get out of here?” She wheels the chair up to the bed and puts the brakes on so it doesn’t slide when I go to get in it. “I know you’re getting good with the crutches, but discharge requires the chariot.”
“No problem.” I return her smile.
Both of my parents step forward as I start to slide myself to the edge of the bed. My father reaches a hand out to rest on my mother’s back without even looking at her. She steadies at his touch, but she still looks like she’s strung too tightly and the slightest thing will cause her to snap.
“Can you pack up the last of my things, Mom?”
She seems to relax a little at having a task to focus on instead of watching me. I don’t have a lot to collect, but there are a few odds and ends that need to be shoved in the box against the wall.
My father picks up the bag of clothes. His attention flits between us, but he says nothing as he watches me lower my foot, take my crutches, and move to the wheelchair. He accepts the first crutch as I release it to lower myself into the wheelchair, and then takes the second now that I’m in the chair. Kelli arranges my skirt over my cast, and I tuck the rest under my unbroken leg.
“Doing okay?” Kelli asks.
“So far, so good.”
She nods. “You’re going to hurt after the ride home. I know you don’t like the pain medication, but if you need it, don’t refuse it this time. There’s a prescription for it in your papers and some pills in the bag for tonight.”
“I won’t take them.”
“What med
ication?” My mother’s voice is a little higher than normal. “You’re refusing medication? The doctors have good reasons to prescribe the things they do.” She folds her arms and looks at Kelli. “What is she to take?”
Soothingly, Kelli assures my mother, “The pain pills are PRN—so they are only administered when she requests them. She only needs them if the pain is unmanageable. The details are all in her discharge papers.”
“I take everything that’s required. It’s the other stuff I skip; it makes my head feel fuzzy.”
“Are you allergic to it? Why don’t they prescribe something else then?” She’s glaring at Kelli now. The odds and ends are already in the box at my mother’s feet. She’s quicker than I expected.
“No,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not allergic. Narcotics have that side effect. They make you sleepy and slow, and I don’t like it.”
My father intervenes before she gets more upset. “It’s fine, Elizabeth. We’ll fill the prescription, and if she needs it, we have it. If she doesn’t, we can throw it out.” He catches my eye, and I know not to argue about picking the pills up. I’m fairly sure he also knows not to try to make me take them.
That’s my father: the king of not making waves.
They walk quietly through the hall as Kelli wheels me to the elevator. Quietly, she tells me, “The shift supervisor told her about your friend’s sleepover.”
I wince, and Kelli gives me a sympathetic look. I’m not sure whether it’s worse for my mother to know that Nate slept in my bed or that he did so because Micki died, and I was afraid. I’m not bringing it up either way.
We stop in the lobby, just inside the main door, while my father goes to get the car. It’s a tense silence as my mother and Kelli both watch me—and each other. I let out a sigh of relief when my father drives up in front of the lobby doors.
Unfortunately, getting into the car is more challenging than I’d like. My parents debate whether it’s better for me to be in the front seat or the back. The front reclines, but if I sit sideways in the back, I can stretch my leg out and keep it from hanging down. Kelli suggests that the latter is a better plan, and adds in a low voice, “I know you hate the pills, Eva, but you ought to take one today. No matter how carefully he drives, you’ll hurt.”
About ninety minutes into the drive, I decide she might have had a point. I haven’t hurt all over like this in days. It sucks, but it’s done now. Once I get home, I’ll be more comfortable, and the food is certainly better.
Every bump and dip in the road brings tears of pain to my eyes. I feel every bruise, the throbbing in my leg, and the tenderness in my ribs. My head aches too, and that seems worse than all the rest.
By the time we get home, I hurt so much that my father carries me up to my room. I hadn’t thought about stairs, and I’m in no shape to think about them right now. I wrap my arms around my father and hope that I’m not going to throw up from pain. Right now, I’m beyond willing to take one of those stupid brain-blurring pills. If I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep. My leg feels like it has a pulse of its own, and my head hurts to the point that vomiting seems like a distinct possibility.
Once I’m settled with the medicine in hand, I realize how much softer my bed is. I’d adjusted to the hospital bed, but now that I’m home, I’m grateful to be on my absurdly soft mattress with my down comforter and stack of pillows.
My mother fusses around me until my father convinces her that what I need most is a nap. It’s a little disconcerting seeing them like this, but between the pills and general exhaustion, I’m not going to be able to stay awake to ponder it. “I’m okay,” I assure them. “Really. I’m fine.”
My father says nothing, but my mother tucks the covers around me like I’m a small child and says, “We’ll be downstairs. Text if you need us for anything.”
And that’s all there is before I’m asleep.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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DAY 10: “THE STALKER”
Judge
I DRIVE PAST HER house as I have for months, not so often that anyone would notice, but frequently enough to keep myself calm. Seeing a glimpse of her has always filled me with a sort of peace that is too hard to find. These past days while she was in the hospital, I had to pretend that she was inside, that there was a chance she could come to the window. Sometimes, though, I had to drive to the hospital in Durham. Being so far away from her for this many days has been more difficult than I could’ve imagined. I’m glad she didn’t die. I’m not sure how I’ll cope if she still has to die. The fear of her loss cripples me briefly, and I know that I have to do a good job. She has to understand the messages, and she has to obey them. Anything less will mean I have to finish killing her. I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that. She’s made for me, my perfect match.
“And I was made for you,” I tell her as I glance at the window of her room.
The curtains are pulled, and she’s on crutches now, so I know she’s not going to see me, but surely she feels my presence out here. Surely, she feels calmed by my closeness even if she doesn’t know why. I imagine it, picturing her face turning toward the window in awe.
I do this for both of us. No one will ever know her the way I do.
They talk about her at school, repeating every detail as if They know her. I listen. It’s all I can do right now. Eventually, They’ll all find out about us, and They’ll remember me listening quietly while They guessed and pretended to know things. They’ll be ashamed at how They discussed the night I almost sacrificed her. They know nothing. No one does.
Someday when we are together as we were meant to be, I’ll tell her about that night. I’ll hold her in my arms, and she’ll look at me rapturously as I tell how hard it was that night, how my heart hurt thinking I’d lost her forever, how my chest tightened when her body fell against the hood of the car. I’ll tell her how grateful we should be that the Lord chose to save her. I don’t know if she’ll remember anything, but I’ll tell her. She’ll rest her head against my chest, and I’ll kiss her hair when I tell her that she was spared so we can be as we were meant to be.
All of my fears are quieted as I picture the future. This is what I feel when we are together. Her proximity saves me.
The intersection near her house is empty, so I pause a little longer. Seeing her house in my rearview mirror is like a closing prayer. I can pause and exhale, and the grace of the moment will carry me through the day ahead. Everything is right in this moment.
The past week has been harder because I didn’t have those rare flashes of togetherness at school. There, we talk in the corridors. Sometimes, it’s only a smile, but I can tell by the way she smiles at me that she feels the special connection we share. The first time I was shocked, but over the past year, I’ve felt our love grow. She knows me, knows things that no one else would understand. Someday They will know about how far I’ve gone to protect and cherish Eva.
“Soon,” I whisper.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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DAY 11: “THE EX-BOYFRIEND”
Eva
I WAKE AT HOME, in my own bed, and it makes me feel closer to normal. I’m still in bed trying to decide if I’m ready to face the world when Nate texts to ask if I want company later. I do, but I’m not sure how much time I can spend with him before there’s trouble with Robert.
Instead of replying to Nate, I text Robert: “I need to talk to you. Come see me.”
“Exam this afternoon.”
“I know. Need to talk. Now or tonight?”
After a few minutes, he replies, “Video?”
I sigh. It’s better than texting, but it’s not how I want to have this conversation. I want him to want to see me, to want to hold me, to hand me a tissue if I cry. Non
e of that seems to matter to him. I don’t want him to see my scars, but I need to see him.
“No,” I text. “Come over. Am home.”
After a few minutes, Robert replies, “k.”
Now that he’s coming, I feel a burst of panic. I wish that my face was healed enough to use cover-up. My face is still a mess of bruises and cuts, and I feel nervous about my appearance.
Now that I have a plan to talk to Robert, I reply to Nate. “I’m home. Mom knows you were at hospital with me. Sure you want to come here?”
His reply is instant: “Yes.”
I can’t stop the smile that his reply evokes. Nate is coming to my house. We sort out the details, and I start the laborious process of getting out of bed and downstairs. I’m only as far as returning from my bathroom when my parents walk into my room.
“Eva Elizabeth Tilling!” My mother has both hands on her hips. “What on God’s green earth are you doing?”
“Umm . . . going downstairs?” I don’t mean it to sound like a question, but it does.
“You’re on crutches!”
My father smothers a bark of laughter at my expression or maybe at my mother’s posture. “Why don’t I carry you down?” He turns to Mom. “We’ll be right down, Lizzy.”
Once she’s gone, I convince him—after few minutes of debate—to let me try the stairs. He only agrees under the condition that he walk backward down the steps in front of me. It’s a slow process, and I suspect that he’s using all of his patience to do it my way instead of carrying me.
My mother scurries into the kitchen to set out breakfast, and once we are all seated, she pours fresh-squeezed juice. It’s odd. We aren’t the sort to have breakfasts like this. Grabbing fruit or cold cereal before I leave for school is my usual routine. Sometimes on weekends we all sit down together, but even then, Dad is typically lost in the paper or a magazine and Mom is often working on one of her to-do lists. We have a “no tech at the table” rule—so my iPod and my mother’s tablet are banned—but old-fashioned pen and paper are fine. Today, there are no newspapers, magazines, or lists in sight. We sit awkwardly exchanging glances.