Made for You

by Melissa Marr

  When my mother goes downstairs to wait for Nate, I debate telling someone about my hallucinations. Despite only being back in touch with Nate for a little over a week, I’m tempted to tell him. The problem there is telling him that I imagined his murder. I’m not sure how I feel about that. It isn’t the sort of thing that sounds sane or like a reason to become closer friends. I don’t want to tell my parents or the doctors though. They’d overreact, and I’d end up with a bunch of tests or back at Mercy Hospital. I’m still thinking about what to do when I hear his voice downstairs.

  I smile as I listen to him and my mother talk. I feel a little like a creeper, but luckily, Grace arrives while Nate is still going over my mother’s undoubtedly copious notes on taking care of me. Unlike Nate, she doesn’t stay downstairs with my parents.

  When she walks into my room, she gasps, “What are you wearing?”

  “A dress.”

  “On your head, Eva.” She walks closer, gently closing the door behind her.

  I flip the veil up to bare my face. “I like it. I’m not ready for the stares.”

  She reaches out to brush my cheek, and that’s all it takes. I fall into what looks like a continuation of the same hallucination of Grace I had before.

  The streetlight I parked under is out, but there are no other cars nearby so I feel comfortable walking across the parking lot. All of these articles I’ve been skimming have made me jumpy. No one knows what I’m here researching, but too much time with my thoughts makes me nervous.

  I pop the trunk to toss my bag in. Quickly, I drop it in there and reach up for the trunk to close it.

  That’s when it happens. I feel a thump on the back of my head. I open my mouth to scream, but a hand comes over it. I bite down so hard my jaw hurts, but the person holding on to me doesn’t let go.

  I try dropping my weight like they tell you in street defense class. A hand on my back shoves, and I fall into my own trunk. My legs scrape against the car, and I feel like I can’t breathe from the force of the fall.

  Blinking against the pain and trying to push myself out, I look up and see someone standing there. Then the trunk closes, and it’s all dark.

  I’m shaking so hard that I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  “Eva?”

  “I saw you get shoved in a trunk,” I whisper. “I saw Nate die, and my dad, and you.”

  “What? Eva, what are you talking about? You’re scaring me.” She looks over her shoulder, and I realize she’s going to call for someone.

  “No!” I grab her arm. “Please . . . just take my hand. I need to know.”

  My best friend is looking at me like I’ve taken a leap into the land of needing massive meds, but she doesn’t question me yet. She simply does as I ask.

  I’m braced for it, ready to fall back into her death, prepared to stare at the face of the person who shoved her into a trunk. Grace’s hand touches mine—and nothing happens.

  “Again,” I say desperately.

  Silently, she pulls her hand away and then after a moment I reach out to touch her again. It doesn’t work. I’m still here in my own skin, not in the middle of her death. I don’t know whether to be grateful or not. The hallucinations are starting to feel too realistic and fit too much of a pattern for me to keep thinking that they’re medical or simply my fears at work in an overactive imagination.

  “It’s not working,” I mutter.

  “What’s not working?”

  And in that moment, I make the decision. There’s no one I trust more than her. “Since the accident, when people touch me, I see their deaths,” I say.

  Her mouth gapes open as I quickly fill her in on what I just saw.

  She says nothing.

  I stare at her face as she squats down in front of me, but despite the pain I see in her eyes, I have to keep going. “I think they may be right—the police, the newspaper. I think there’s a killer, Gracie. First me, then Micki, and then he’s going to go after you or Nate. I couldn’t see his face when he struck me. The killer, I mean. I couldn’t see it when I saw him attack you or Nate either. If I can’t see who it is, how do I stop him?”

  I realize I probably sound crazier than I’d like, but right now, I can’t keep telling myself that this is a side effect or something. It feels real. If it is and I ignore it and they . . .

  I don’t even finish the thought. It would destroy me.

  Grace crouches down in front of me. “Are you dizzy? Headache?”

  “Every day,” I admit.

  Mutely, she continues studying me from where she is crouched in front of me. I know the sort of thoughts she’s probably having because I’ve had them since this started. She’s likely thinking my TBI has lingering symptoms that the doctors ought to hear. She might even be right. I am willing to admit as much, saying, “I know I had a head injury. Maybe it’s some sort of symptom. I want it to be, but . . . Tell me you’ll be careful, that you won’t walk out of the library alone, and that you’ll help me try to figure this out.”

  “Of course I will,” she says. “Whatever it is, I’m here. You know that.”

  I do. I can count on Grace, and she can count on me. If I’m wrong and these are hallucinations, we’ll deal with it, but if they’re not—if I’m seeing deaths before they happen—I’m going to figure it out. No one is going to hurt Grace or Nate if there’s anything I can do to save them. That alone is reason for me to see where these visions lead me.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  DAY 13: “THE ADMISSION”

  Grace

  I REALIZE MY FACE is readable to Eva. Sometimes, I find it helpful. Right now isn’t one of those times. Eva is the closest friend I’ve ever had, and I’ll let her see my supposed death if she wants, but I don’t think it’s real. Carefully, I say, “Everything I’ve read on TBIs says that there are a lot of weird symptoms, that different patients can have widely different responses. My guess is that you have some injury to a part of your brain that’s making you think you’re seeing these things.”

  “I’m not crazy, Gracie. I thought I was at first, but I think this is real.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” I correct her.

  “But you don’t believe me,” she adds. It’s hard to see the hurt in Eva’s face, but we don’t lie to each other. It’s a rule between us. No matter how weird or cruel the truth is, lies are banned.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy or lying. I just think there’s probably another explanation. When you say you see our deaths, does it look like we rot or fall or something? Maybe it’s an optical problem,” I suggest. “Maybe when you look at us, what you’re seeing is a distorted image from optical damage.”

  Eva laughs in a way that sounds like tears are just as likely as laughter right now. “No. Not at all. It’s like I fall into someone else’s body. I feel things, and I hear them, and I know things as if I am that person, as if I’m inside of them.” She goes on to summarize experiencing a heart attack, alcohol overdose, and some sort of chronic health issue, and then adds, “It only happens if it’s skin-to-skin contact and the other person initiates it. At least that’s what I think so far. I thought I was hallucinating, but . . . it keeps happening, and it feels so real.”

  It’s hard to believe that she’s developed some sort of precognition powers from her accident. I don’t believe in those sorts of things. It simply doesn’t make sense.

  “I couldn’t see his face,” Eva says. “The killer, I mean. I couldn’t see it when I was in Nate’s death or yours. I can’t see anyone’s faces when I’m in people’s deaths. If I can’t see who it is, how do I stop him?”

  My closest friend is staring at me, waiting for some sort of answer, trusting me to know how to help her make sense of something that doesn’t make sense, so I say the only thing I can. “I don’t think that’s your job, stopping him. If there is some homicidal
maniac, if you’re really seeing deaths, I don’t know . . . we find a way to tell the police what you know.”

  “I can’t see his face. How do I tell them who he is if I can’t see him?”

  “If it is real, we’ll figure it out. I’ll start researching anything that could be related. We can take it to the police as evidence.”

  “You can’t!”

  I raise my hand and continue, “I’ll only research from home—because even though I’m not sure I believe that you’re really having some sort of precognition in seeing deaths, I promise I won’t go to the library alone. I can use the remote log-in at the Jessup library.”

  For a moment, Eva is quiet. She folds her arms over her chest. “Maybe, we start to test it. I’ll try with you and Nate, and then once we figure some of it out, we can try on other people.” She shivers so slightly that I could almost think I’m imaging it until she says, “I don’t want to see you die, but someone killed Micki. Someone tried to kill me. I have to do something.”

  “So what? We convince people to touch you? That shouldn’t be too hard.” I’m mostly joking, but she’s not.

  “Yes!” Eva smiles at me and says, “Just small groups. Piper, Jess, Laurel, and CeCe for starters. I can come up with excuses to have them touch me without being weird.” She pauses and swallows. “I get cold when it happens, like I’m out in freezing weather with no coat, so I can’t do too much. I shake all over.”

  “Eva, sweetie, maybe that’s because it’s a seizure or something.” I reach out for her hand, but she jerks away. “Doesn’t it make more sense that it’s medical?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we’re testing it.” She has a resolved look on her face, and I’m not sure there’s a lot of room for discussion. This is one of those cases where Eva will get her way, and the rest of us will cooperate. I don’t think she realizes how spoiled she sometimes is, but if she pitched this idea to everyone at school, they’d line up to obey.

  “Fine,” I say. “We’ll try your plan. If it doesn’t prove anything, we’re talking to the doctor. Promise?”

  Eva nods, relief apparent in the way her body seems to relax. She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Thank you.”

  I squeeze back, and we sit listening to the hum of voices downstairs for a moment. Then I prompt, “What was the other secret you wanted to tell me?”

  “Two others, actually.” She blushes faintly and has trouble meeting my eyes. “Mom hired Nate to be my caretaker, and in her mad desire to implement a Be a Better Mother mission she’s going to arrange mother-daughter days for us.”

  She’s not going to distract me from the news about Nate by telling me about her mother. That tactic might work on the Piper-ettes, but I’m not one of them. Nate is the only boy to leave her flustered, and I hope he’s finally going to admit that whatever he’s trying to work out in his life would be easier with her by his side. I know the class thing is an issue in Jessup, but it shouldn’t mean they can’t at least date.

  I laugh. “Isn’t there some ‘fox guarding the hens’ saying around here that fits this?”

  Eva shakes her head. “Nate doesn’t see me that way . . . and did you miss the part about General Yeung and Ms. Southern Decorum teaming up?”

  For a moment, we lock eyes, and then I say, “Immovable object, meet unstoppable force.”

  “They could take over a small country if they join forces,” Eva says with a hint of awe in her voice. “My mother wants to learn how to be a better mom, and she’s decided that your mom is the one to teach her.”

  For the first time I can recall, I’m genuinely impressed with Mrs. Tilling. It’s hard to admit when you’re not doing a great job at something. It’s probably harder still to admit it when the entire town seems to think your family can do no wrong. “Good,” I say. “Maybe it’ll be what you two need. I know you make excuses, but I also know that you’ve wished you had the General for a mom. You confessed it after you killed that bottle of wine at Piper’s party last year.”

  Eva blushes, and then promptly flips her veil down as she mutters, “Drunken admissions shouldn’t be used against friends.”

  With an eye roll, I reply, “Wrong. If they were used in front of the subject of the admission, that would be different.” I lower my voice and tease, “For example, mentioning you leering at man-slut while he was—”

  “Shhh!” Eva’s gaze darts to the closed door, and she whispers, “He could be outside the door for all you know.”

  We exchange another look and start laughing. Somehow, everything feels a little ridiculous right now, and I suspect that it’s because everything is all so serious. Micki is dead; Eva was hit by a car. Now, after broken bones, lacerations, and a brain injury, she thinks she can experience other people’s deaths. Focusing on her crush and our mothers’ frightening efficiency is easier.

  I check the time. “We need to go soon. How do we get you downstairs?”

  “Carefully.” Eva flips her veil back up and motions to the door. “Open that, grab my crutches, and let’s go.”

  I comply, and once we reach the top of the stairs, Eva looks at the bannister for a moment.

  “Put the wheelchair brakes on for me, and hand me one of my crutches,” she says.

  Once she has a crutch in hand, she hoists herself out of the chair and leans on the crutch. “Now I just need to—”

  “Eva, we discussed this!” Mrs. Tilling is standing at the foot of the stairs now. Her hands are on her hips, and the look on her face is fierce. “And having Grace help you no less.”

  “Let me guess: you’re not to do this on your own?” I whisper.

  Eva offers me a sheepish look. “I am perfectly capable of it.”

  Nate is already halfway up the stairs looking at the two of us with an expression of irritation that rivals Mrs. Tilling’s. “Are you trying to get me fired?”

  “I can do this,” Eva insists.

  He puts an arm around her. “Give the crutch to Grace.”

  I expect her to argue, but after a moment, Eva sighs and hands me the crutch. Nate lifts her into his arms like she’s a bride, and Eva loops her arms around his neck. With no visible effort he carries her downstairs. At the landing, Mrs. Tilling stands with her arms now folded over her chest and an assessing look on her face. She walks over to the front door and opens it, and Nate carries Eva out to her car.

  Miss I-can-do-everything accepted his help with far more tolerance than I would expect. I follow them with the crutches in hand. Mrs. Tilling fusses over Eva, who’s in the backseat, and Nate stares at Eva with an intensity that is near embarrassing to witness. At least, he does until he catches me watching him. Then, his face becomes blank.

  “I’ll grab her chair,” he says flatly as he walks past me.

  I slide into the front seat and turn around to smile at Eva. “Between Nate and me, you’ll be well guarded from curious onlookers today.”

  Mrs. Tilling shoots a grateful smile at me before she turns to Nate, who has returned with the wheelchair. “Do you know how to fold it down or should I get my husband?”

  “I’ve done this before,” he says with what sounds like sadness in his voice.

  A few minutes later, he’s in the driver’s seat adjusting mirrors and the seat. We’re all silent as he drives toward the cemetery for Micki’s graveside service, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am: this could’ve been Eva. We could’ve lost her. The thought makes me reach back for Eva.

  Eva reaches up and takes my outstretched hand, and we stay that way until we reach the cemetery.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  DAY 13: “THE FUNERAL”

  Eva

  WHEN NATE PARKS AND cuts off the engine, I release Grace’s hand and flip my veil down. My heartbeat feels erratic in my chest, and I have the sudden urge to beg them to keep driving, to not stop here, to escape the stares
and questions and grief that wait beside Micki’s still-open grave.

  “Are you ready for this?” Grace asks when Nate goes to the trunk to get out my wheelchair.

  “No.”

  The trunk closes, shaking the car with the force of it.

  “Do you want to go back?” Grace twists in her seat to face me.

  “Yes, but I’m not going to.”

  Nate opens the back door on the passenger’s side. I sat with my back to the driver’s side door so my broken leg could stretch across the backseat, but I can’t get out that side. Once the door is open, I use my hands on the seat and my left leg to slide myself to the door. I pause at the edge of the seat when Nate asks, “Would it be okay for me to lift you?”

  “I can do this. Just make sure the chair brakes are on.”

  “They are.”

  Grace is standing behind the chair, and Nate is at the open car door. When I start to stand, his hands go to my hips. He steadies me, and I gasp.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You startled me.” It’s not really a lie. He did startle me, but that wasn’t why I gasped.

  “Sorry. I’ll warn you next time,” he says.

  He helps me into the chair, and I pull the veil down over my face again.

  “You don’t need that,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful, Eva. Remember that.”

  He’s so at ease that it’s frustrating. I want him to feel the same adrenaline rush as I do, but he seems completely unmoved by touching me.

  I tug at the black gauze, making sure it covers as much as possible, and then put my hands on the arms of the wheelchair. It still feels a little unnerving to be in the chair, as if it could topple and spill me out. I’m sure Nate is careful, but we’re outside and there are rocks and things.