by Ann Aguirre
No need to wake Nathan.
There are no forms to fill out, but I wait another ten minutes before the nurse shows up. The doctor comes fifteen minutes after that. Eventually Jeanette leads me to the exam room where the nurse checks everything and writes on my file, then Dr. Jackson makes his way in to look me over.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I decide to test the waters. “Okay. But … I was reading this book about a girl who thinks she’s someone else. Does that … ever happen?”
Dr. Jackson tilts his head. “Is it a book about mental illness? That’s a standard delusion, though root causes may vary.”
“What do you mean?”
“It could be schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or psychotic depression. I’m guessing you haven’t gotten far enough in the story for the writer to explain?” He’s smiling at me, chart in hand, and I make my face respond. “It’s also possible there could be a physiological problem.”
“Like what?”
“Some brain diseases result in psychosis. Parkinson’s, dementia, or even a tumor might create the same issue.”
“Interesting,” I say. But I had an MRI before I left the hospital, so that’s not it.
“Let me know how the story turns out.”
“I wish I had a clue,” I mutter.
“Enough procrastinating,” he adds, like this whole conversation was a red herring to keep him from removing my stitches. “Lie down and turn onto your side.”
If Morgan wasn’t Randall Frost’s daughter, I suspect the nurse might handle this, but instead Dr. Jackson does the honors. It doesn’t hurt at all, more of a tickle-tug. I close my eyes through it, and five minutes later, Dr. Jackson finishes up.
“That’s it, you’re good to go. Give my regards to your father.”
“Will do.” Funny, how the human body can heal trauma in a matter of weeks whereas scars on the heart and mind can last for years. I straighten my shirt. “By the way, I need an official copy of all my allergies for travel reasons, can—”
“Ask the receptionist to print it for you on our letterhead. Are you going away to camp or something?”
“Or something,” I agree.
At the front desk, I repeat the request and it takes all of five minutes for Ms. King to supply the information I need. It’s good to know that I could choose to stop being a vegetarian as most proteins seem to be fine. Top of the list, Morgan needs to be gluten-free due to celiac disease. The strongest allergy is shellfish, though apparently fish is all right. I’m also lactose intolerant and sensitive to strawberries. Surprisingly, I seem to be okay on peanuts.
Nathan is still asleep when I hop in the car.
He starts as I slam the door. “What time is it?”
“Just past nine.”
I ignore his mumbled curse as I back out of the parking space and head for his place. Clay will be there, which means Nathan will start bitching as soon as he figures out what I have in mind. Sure enough, as I turn down Magnolia, he fixes a death stare on me.
“Stop the car,” he demands.
“You can’t go to school like that.” I ignore his objection, driving down the alley and parking behind his house.
Once I cut the car engine off, I can almost hear his teeth grinding, and I have to drag him out by the arm.
Nathan resists until I get him up on the porch, then his irritation melts into a nasty little smirk. “Are you going to scrub me down if I resist?”
“No, I will.” Clay steps onto the back porch wearing a ferocious frown. “And I’ll use the toilet brush. Jesus Christ, you reek.”
He shoves his brother up the stairs and into the bathroom. I follow, mostly because Nathan needs a ride to school or he’ll just skip today entirely. I’m wondering if Clay will be pissed at me for showing up with Nathan, like it’s somehow shady—though this time it really isn’t—but his expression is just … weary at the moment.
He steps up to me and rests his forehead against mine. It’s early so his skin is deliciously warm, not sweaty, and I put my arms around his waist without thinking about it. He reacts a little slower, drawing me in with an inexorable sweetness that makes me feel like he has my heart on a line, only I don’t resist being caught. Clay can pin me to the wall if he wants, though unhurried and tender is good, too.
“Wrangling that jackass is a full-time job,” he mutters. “Where’d you find him?”
“Liv’s grave. I got some food and coffee in him. Figured a shower might finish the job.”
He sighs softly. “Thanks. I keep saying that, but I’m starting to feel like it’s not enough.”
“More than,” I say.
Clay’s big hands move on my back, skimming up until they’re in my hair. In that moment I can’t remember what his first name is. I mean, he’s just been Clay forever. But now that I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty damn sure he wasn’t named Clay Claymore. Clayton Claymore? No way. He’s not a Clayton. Smirking, I rub my cheek a little against the soft cotton of his white T-shirt. With my fingertips I test the muscles of his back and he jerks as if it tickles.
“Cut it out.”
But making him squirm is fun, so I don’t quit, and then he whirls me, pinning me up against the kitchen counter. Hips against mine, his eyes are melting gold. Through the dirty window panes, the kitchen is gilded with light, crowning him, so it’s all butter and cream and bright, bright lemon, like falling into the sun. My heart does a funny skip-hop, and I hate myself because I can’t pull away. It’s terrible and lovely, longing for someone you know will only break your heart.
Not Clay’s fault. Mine. Morgan’s? Mine.
“What’s your name anyway?”
His thick brows shoot up. “That’s what you’re asking? Right now.”
“Seems like something I should know. I’ll have you fill out a survey later to be sure I can hold up my end as an informed girlfriend.” The words come out with no hesitation at all.
I’m Clay’s girl now. Not Nathan’s. And it’s a different kind of death, but for a second, that same pain flashes over me, flash flooding me, and I’m alone under a starry sky. I have grit under my fingernails. One of them is torn clean off and I taste the blood pooling in my throat. My pulse sounds in my ears, drumming until—
And I’m back, not dying, but hurting, because each step I take down Morgan’s road is a step I never will as Liv.
27
Reaction sets in, and I can’t breathe. I can’t.
My chest is tight, my heart pounding so hard that it’s an ocean in my ears. The pain climbs upward, my arms, my shoulders, until it feels like someone is choking me, and there’s a sharp throbbing in my head. Everything is white, roaring, and I’m about to pass out.
“Please.” I’m reaching for Clay, but I can’t find him. My knees give.
The world swirls around me, so far away, but I can feel Clay’s hands. Somehow, I’m on his lap in the middle of the kitchen floor. He’s holding me and rubbing my back as that awful floodwater recedes. I’ve read about panic attacks. Studied them. Never understood how much like death it would feel, like a heart attack that might kill me. No wonder people who have never taken psych classes go to the ER.
“It’s okay.” He’s stroking my hair without asking any awkward questions. “Better now?”
I manage a nod.
“Noah,” he tells me eventually.
Breathing is easier, thank God, but my muscles feel quivery and I’m so dizzy. “Two by two, building a boat Noah?”
“Cute. Nobody but my dad ever called me that anyway.”
“Clay sounds like a sports nickname.” I’ll shake this off, one heartbeat at a time.
He nods. “It stuck in peewee football.”
“But you didn’t play when you got older.” It’s strange how I could live my whole life in the same town with him and yet know so little. I love him for being so casual with this conversation; he’s not freaked at all by what just happened.
“Nah. I was doing odd jobs
by the time I was eleven to help pay the bills.”
“Seriously?” I’m embarrassed that I’ve never even had a part-time job. I always told myself Morgan was the lucky one, but as Liv, I was privileged, too.
Breathing gets easier. I’m still unsteady, but the worst has passed.
“I mowed lawns, cleaned out garages and attics, walked dogs. Pretty much anything I could manage on my own.”
“That’s amazing,” I say.
He rests his cheek on top of my head so I can’t see his expression, but he must be feeling shy. On the surface, Clay is a badass with a serious reputation but I wonder now what’s true and what’s been told about him, telephone-style, until the truth is unrecognizable.
“Not really. At fifteen, I stopped contributing and decided work was for suckers.”
Oh.
“But you’d been helping out for, like, four years by then. Anyone would be sick of it.” I can only imagine how much I’d have bitched. I used to whine over having to watch Jason.
“Are you determined to defend me?” Clay asks, tipping my face up.
“Maybe.”
“Don’t bother. I was a dick, right up until my mom split. Then I had to man up.”
“You really were a delinquent, just like they say?”
“The worst shit I did was never reported. I never got caught. And since I turned eighteen, my juvenile file was supposed to be wiped. Do you care?”
Morgan wouldn’t, and I don’t anymore. The truth is in the warmth of his arms, sheltering me. “Are you tough on Nathan because you don’t want him to repeat your mistakes?”
“Basically. Not that he appreciates it. I hear that I’m a hypocritical asshole five times a day and ‘you’re not my father’ twice that often.”
“He just doesn’t appreciate you,” I say. “Sometimes you don’t realize how important someone is until they’re gone.”
The words echo in my head, reminding me of Morgan. I’m just recovering from the panic attack, not braced for the wave of sadness that drenches me, pushing tears to my eyes.
“Hey.” Clay drops a light kiss onto my mouth. He tastes like morning coffee and cream. “Don’t look like that. My heart can’t take it.”
But my missing-Morgan train of thought is a Japanese bullet. Now that I’m on board, I can’t get off early. Longing spirals through me, but there won’t be any more late nights, no more texts, no more anything. I miss her. She must have been so lonely—the white room of doom, the housekeeper she pays for silence, the father who’s never home, and the scary asshole who loved her mother. Neon flashing, the facts of her life excavate my skull like needles, scratching the meat from the bone. There was no one she could trust. Not even me. The realization dissects me until it feels as if my insides have been butterflied, neat fillets of my heart.
My expression must give away what I’m feeling because he cups my face in his hands. “Neither of us would be okay without you, Morgan.”
The name breaks the bond between us as if it was made of the spun sugar they put on top of fancy desserts, so pretty but fragile. Like my new life.
I extricate myself with a forced smile. “Now you’re making me feel weird. I just happened to stop by the cemetery. Instead of letting him wallow, I made him go with me to the clinic and here we are.”
That sounds heartless but I’m allowed to be, surely, about my own death. I step away as Nathan stumbles out of the bathroom. His hair is a mess but he’s got on clean clothes and he doesn’t look nearly so cranky. Guess this was a good move.
“Enjoy your day off,” I say.
Clay kisses me good-bye and I head out the back door with his brother. Who says nothing until we’re almost to school. Finally he mutters, “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Not giving up on me.”
That makes it sound like I’m on a personal save Nathan crusade. Maybe I am. If I can’t be with him anymore, then that’s the least of what I owe him. He has to survive this shit and get out of Renton. Once he makes it to college, what we had will fade.
Damn. Enough.
“You’re worth a little trouble.” As I get out of the car, I toss the response, casual, and then I hurry into school without waiting for a reply.
I hand in my doctor’s note at the office. Nathan comes in a few minutes later, probably so it doesn’t look like we were ditching together. He takes the unexcused tardy. But Kendra Sanchez is in the hall with a pass as we come out together, ruining his careful effort. By her narrowed eyes, she disapproves of me spending time with my dead bestie’s man.
The rumors I expect about me and Nathan are full-blown by the end of the day. Some people whisper that I spent the night with Clay and gave Nathan a ride to school after. Others are saying it was a threesome, and a third report has me cheating on both of them.
Morgan must’ve been used to this. For me, it kind of stings, when I’m trying so hard not to hurt anyone.
* * *
The next night, I have no idea what to expect. The art people are coming over in half an hour, so Mrs. Rhodes has made a boatload of snacks and I’ve got the lights on in the TV room, which is more of a VIP cinema with couches and lounge chairs, and the most massive screen imaginable. The stereo is top-notch, surround sound, all kinds of specs that make Oscar lose his mind as soon as he steps in.
“Wow, this place is the shit!” He’s circling, admiring all the expensive gear while we wait for everyone else. “Do you mind if I move in?”
“Your parents might.”
“Eh, it’s a big family. They can spare me. Sorry about my sister, by the way.”
“Whatever. She’s trying to make her mark.”
“By dragging you down? I don’t approve.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Before he can reply, the bell rings, and the rest of the group arrives in twos and threes. Mostly I’m quiet, letting them choose the movie. They opt to rent a movie online, a foreign film with subtitles. It’s a Hungarian thing, indie, with lots of blurred shots and rainy windows. Morgan might have loved it, but I’m pretty bored.
Not by the company, they’re nice enough. Maybe if I could be myself without worrying that they’ll start asking awkward questions, we might even become real friends. But under current constraints, that’s impossible. Like Nathan, I just have to hang on and wait for college. Once I’m accepted, I can go undecided for a while and then switch majors. If I need to, I can even transfer schools and claim that time has changed my interests.
For now, however, I laugh when Ben Patel makes a joke that I only half understand. The night seems endless. My phone pings four times. I don’t check. It seems rude to have guests and then spend the time texting someone else. The food is a huge hit, so there’re only empty plates by the time the movie ends.
“I really think the dead cat was symbolic,” Sarah says.
Oscar shakes his head. “You’re reaching. It was just gross.”
“Urban decay?” Ben offers.
“You’re all missing the point,” Tish cuts in. “Didn’t you notice how it was foggy in all emotionally significant scenes? The whole movie is an allegory about life and death.”
Actually that sounds right, though I was only half paying attention. Emma taps a nail, thoughtful, while Eric launches a counterargument for nihilism. That goes on for half an hour.
But finally, they start making departure noises, and I walk them to the front door. Their cars are parked by the fountain, and they’re all pumped, thrilled that they finally got an invite to hang at Morgan Frost’s place. I caught Sarah taking pictures of the downstairs bathroom; I expect them to be online in an hour.
“It was awesome, thanks for having us!” Ben calls.
I nod. In silence I watch my new friends get into their cars and drive away. When they hit the bottom of the hill, I open the gate for them via remote and close it behind them. With a house this size, I’m kind of surprised that there isn’t a guard outpost at the halfway point or something.
&
nbsp; “That was … different,” Mrs. Rhodes says.
Shit. I didn’t even hear her creep up on me. Her expression is weird in the artificial light, sort of scornful and knowing. But that’s bizarre when she depends on Morgan supplementing her income. I can understand why a grown woman would resent waiting on a teenager, but … she’s worked here for ten years.
On impulse, I ask, “What do you know about my mother and Mr. Patterson?”
It’s a shot in the dark, so when she staggers, catching herself on the wall, I can only stare. Her face is pale when she manages to whisper, “Nothing.”
She’s off to the TV room like a hunted rabbit, like I’m the hound baying at her heels. Whatever happened ten years ago, the housekeeper knows something about it.
I owe it to Morgan to find out what Mrs. Rhodes is hiding. I just hope that finishing my friend’s secret business doesn’t mean the end of me.
28
Up in my room, I check messages.
The first one is from Nathan, confirming we’re still on for dinner with my family. For a few seconds I close my eyes. This won’t be easy. Then I send back, Yep. See you after school.
Next up, Emma has sent me a funny gif, and it’s sort of hilarious that she did this while she was at my house. I find one of a dog dancing in a bow tie and send it back.
I’m happy to find a text from Clay. He’s probably home by now, though I’m not sure how long it takes for him to finish cleaning. What’re you doing? I’ve gotten this kind of text before, and usually it means your guy’s thinking of you, but he doesn’t want to be cheesy.
Not much, I send back. Just getting my stuff together for tomorrow.
Remember it’s cool for you to come by if you need to.
With a half smile, I remember asking if it’s okay to visit him at work. Maybe the dinner with Mom, Dad, and Jason won’t be as bad as I think. But deep down I know it’ll be worse because I can’t let on.
Every moment is a struggle not to get in the car and tell them everything. If I could be sure they’d recognize me, I’d go. Right now. But I’m really scared of the aftermath, of the pitying looks, and the reasonable reaction that what I need is not to go home, but a mental health assessment. I’m afraid they won’t hug me and say, “Welcome home.” Instead they’ll tell me I can get better with time and treatment.
