by Meli Raine
She makes a whimpering sound. Shuffles echo in my ears. Mom pleads with Bowie, who is practically dragging her out of the room. Bowie whispers words I can’t hear because cotton has filled my head again, electricity running through it, lips turning numb and eyes burning like coals.
Romeo turned me into a monster.
He shot me in the back of the head and like Humpty Dumpty, they put me back together again. Mom assembled all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and all the king’s doctors and got her Lily to stay alive underneath.
But the surface is nothing but a useless, shattered shell that will never function again. Never protect or insulate. Never be smooth and whole. It has no purpose. It’s just there.
Just there.
Chapter 11
Darkness. When I open my eyes again, the moon shines in the window, tricking me into thinking there are ghosts on the ceiling, staring down at me in judgment.
Ugly.
Broken.
Lumpy.
Scarred.
Monster.
A million miles away, on a tray that is three feet from me, the mirror is as dangerous as a poisonous spider. Innocently resting there as if it bears no responsibility, its very existence torments me. One flick of someone else’s wrist and I can see myself.
One look in the mirror and I’m always seeing myself.
Faces shouldn’t have seams.
The shaved head was bad enough. The scars on my neck and jaw were to be expected. The hairline makes no sense until you realize my face had to be stretched–my actual face, pulled off the layers of fascia that keep it in place on the bones. The force of the gunshot set off a ripple effect inside my skin that led to this.
He took my face.
We have all these ways of talking about our faces. We “save face” when we’re trying not to be embarrassed. We “face the consequences” when we do something wrong and get caught. All of these phrases are based on one assumption:
That you have a face at all.
The one staring back at me in the mirror is a joke. A farce. A facsimile. It’s like someone took a Mr. Potato Head toy and steamrolled the pieces, then put them back together and stitched them up.
I don’t care about being ugly.
I don’t care about being scarred.
I don’t care about being damaged.
But I damn well do care about what Romeo has stolen from me.
He stole my whole. The whole me.
And now I have to fragment my insides, all because of him. This is what killers do. They steal your body piece by piece, breath by breath, pint by pint of blood as it flows out of you. Sloppy killers leave live victims, half-dead souls who don’t know where they fit. I was dead, then I was alive, then I was suspended for fourteen months.
How much can a thief actually steal from a single person? Isn’t there a limit? There ought to be a limit. Our bodies can’t be drained of more than four pints of blood.
Why can my heart and soul be drained to infinity?
Why doesn’t pain have a limit?
Someone needs to have a come-to-Jesus moment with God about this.
The door opens slowly, which means it isn’t medical staff. Quickly, I close my eyes, the click of hard-soled shoes on the floor telling me it’s not Mom, either.
Lemon. Wood. Coffee.
It’s Duff.
“Lily.” He touches me, the connection through the sheet brief but filled with meaning. The spot on my arm buzzes.
I play dead.
“I know you’re awake. Your machines tell me so.”
I still play dead.
“I heard you saw yourself for the first time today.”
I really don’t want to cry in front of him.
The scrape of a chair makes me open my eyes, hoping the right glare will make him stop and leave. Being comforted by a guy who is working with Romeo seems ridiculous. Isn’t he here to finish what his co-worker started? I’m too tired to care. Go ahead, Duff. Get it over with.
But then Romeo would win.
And that’s all I have left to fight.
Suicide isn’t an option when at most, you can press a nurse-call button. Besides, I don’t want that. Not one bit. I just want my real life back.
“You’re healing. That’s why your mom gave in and showed you.”
“Bad.”
“What’s bad?”
I roll my eyes.
“Face.”
He moves, the angle of the light changing, and pulls back his hair on the side of his face where his scar is. I know what he’s trying to do, and I hate him for it. Mitigate my self-pity by showing me his own twisted scars. Good for him. Nice gesture. He should get a humanitarian award.
“This face?”
“Fuh you.” The k sound is still hard for me.
The soft laugh through his nose isn’t pleasant. “Your face? It’s bad.”
I stare into his eyes. Honesty. Finally, someone’s being honest.
“It’s really bad, Lily. It’ll improve. You're still healing. Muscles that haven't moved because of the coma are getting to move now. What you see now isn't going to be what you see in the future. You’ll find ways to make it better. Incorporate it into your life.” He taps the corner of his eye in silent recognition of his own battle wounds. Except that’s probably an actual battle wound.
Not a sucker punch with a gun, like mine.
“Cir. Cus,” I say, staring at him.
His mouth goes up in a half smile. “I think you’ve got a job already waiting for you at your parents’ shop.”
At the thought of going back to work, of standing at the counter where my flowers made me so happy, I really do burst into tears. Feelings flip through me like a machine gun firing. The shooting, Jane’s unicorn arrangement, the throngs of prom kids getting corsages, funeral wreaths, how flowers are the best reflection of emotion.
A million times better than some stupid mirror.
The slide of a tissue along the opening of a cardboard box rasps in my ear. Duff hands me a tissue. “Need help with the tears?”
In defiance, I rub my face on the bed sheet.
“You’re going to be just fine, Lily,” he says, sitting down, watching me with a steady presence that intensifies.
“How?”
“How are you going to be fine?”
“How. Do. You. Know?”
If I look at him, he’ll show me a part of him I can’t handle. So I don’t.
A few beats pass. I’m right. He’s waiting for me to look. Why is he here? Why is he being kind? What purpose does this serve? Am I being played for a fool? What kind of man torments a woman trapped in a hospital bed with a traumatic brain injury from a gunshot wound?
Worse–what kind of man comes in here like this, working with my shooter, and comforts me?
“Go. Way. Duff. Too. Much.”
“No problem. I’m leaving. But one more thing.”
I don’t look at him.
“One day, it won’t be too much. I know it is now, but it won’t always be.”
And with that, he stays true to his word and leaves.
Leaves me with too much.
Too much I don’t believe.
Chapter 12
One month later
* * *
“We’ve waited long enough, Mrs. Thornton.” The man outside my room has a familiar voice. I can’t place it. He’s firm but not an asshole. Sounds young-ish. Younger than my dad, but not as young as my little brother.
That narrows it down to a few hundred men I know.
“This could set back her recovery,” Mom insists.
They’re either talking about some kind of therapy or being interviewed about the shooting.
“Lily’s the only one with any clue.”
Mystery solved.
“Bee.” Panic floods me at a new voice. “She’s ready. You’ve made her ready.” Romeo’s slimy voice floats up near the ceiling, crawling along the edges of the wall like a monster
coming after me. “We need to know who did this to her.”
YOU DID!
“It’s the only way to put an end to everything.”
YOU WANT TO PUT AN END TO ME!
“Interviewing her now will let us know what she knows.”
I KNOW YOU TRIED TO KILL ME.
“She’s told all of the doctors that the last thing she remembers is Jane disappearing behind the curtain to the back of the store. Her next memory is from a few weeks ago, waking up here. Multiple medical professionals have interviewed her. Lily’s case is causing quite a stir in the medical community.” At the end, Mom’s voice goes up with something close to pride.
“Silas just needs some information, Bee,” Romeo says. That must be Silas’s voice I can’t identify, sounding like all those newscasters on television. Mid-American accent, like a football quarterback or a baseball pitcher, non-threatening but no-nonsense, too.
Jane’s in love with him.
If Jane likes him, he must be okay.
But if he works with Romeo, is he part of all this, too?
Dusty boxes, buried deep in the storage spaces of my memory, suddenly appear, begging to be brushed off and opened, catalogued and analyzed. Jane. Jane is my friend. She hasn’t come to visit yet, but I think that’s because Mom and Dad don’t like her.
Or because she knows Romeo is the one who shot me, trying to kill her.
If she knows that, then why is the guy she loves here with Romeo, working with him?
My head hurts.
And not just because of post-gunshot trauma.
“What information do you need? You have it all!” Mom hisses.
“Sometimes victims remember more. It’s as much science as art when it comes to interviewing,” Silas says.
A long pause.
An even longer pause.
My dad’s voice surprises me next. “Two minutes. You get two minutes to ask whatever you need. Stress isn’t going to take my daughter down.”
“That should do it,” Silas replies. “It’ll just be me and Romeo in the room.”
NO!
“He was the agent coming on shift at the time of the shooting, and he’s already given us a perspective that is helping,” Silas continues.
HE IS LYING!
“He might be able to ask questions that get us new information.”
“Two minutes,” Dad says gruffly, and then the shuffling begins.
When you’re stuck in a hospital bed and mostly immobile, you use your senses to map the world. Every scrape tells me which direction they’re moving in, which is obviously towards me. A muffled sound is the connection of two bodies, arms and elbows bumping. The sounds of breathing are low, which means no one’s exerted.
And the click of shoes on linoleum means the men are wearing suits. This is all business.
Lethal business.
My eyes are closed. I know that when I open them, the first person who will lock gaze with me is Romeo. I know this like I know my name, the silent one inside me that no one else knows. The one I keep to myself, not because I must hide it, but because I relish it. The me without name is untethered, uncollared, unmoored and free.
“Lily.” The sound of my name from his mouth is a death rattle. My death rattle.
Bravery comes in so many forms. Just opening your eyes can be a form of it.
I do.
He stares.
I smile.
He wavers. The lopsided grin–the only grin I’m capable of, thanks to him–catches him off guard, a split-second reward that fuels me. He’s not impervious. He’s not infallible. He can hiccup.
My actions can make him hiccup.
I do have power.
Now the question is: how to use it?
“Lily.” This time he’s unfazed. “How are you feeling?”
“’Kay.” I shorten the word. Blunt it. Make it seem like I’m dimmer than I am.
“Can we ask you some questions, Lily?”
I nod.
“What do you remember about that day at the flower shop, Lily?” Romeo is using my name over and over. It’s unnerving. Why? What purpose does it serve? I know who I am.
I know who he is, too.
“If this is too much...” someone murmurs from behind him, the words rolling into my ears like buckshot, cold and metallic, spheres rolling down the spiral into my brain where they roll roll roll in endless circles. I look up.
The voice comes from Duff, who is glaring at Romeo fiercely. When a guy with a scarred eye side-eyes you, you know it’s bad. That kind of look takes effort.
Ask me how I know.
“Fine.” My single-word answers are all I can manage. “Fine.”
Nodding, Romeo blinks fast, the flutter of his eyelashes making me nervous. Every mechanical part of me is on digital display for him. Heartbeat, blood pressure, pulse oxygen–you name it. My body is vulnerable before him, limbs stretched out, muscles atrophied. Pressure cuffs cover my calves. Lines run in and out of my body, delivering substances and removing them, a seemingly endless loop. Laid out before my killer, I am an open book.
Except for my mind.
His job is to open it. Inspect it. Shine a flashlight on it. Lift up a corner with the tip of a pen and see what’s underneath.
What he learns right now determines whether I live or die.
I haven’t gotten this far only to die because I couldn’t pretend well enough.
“I know your verbal abilities are limited, Lily,” Romeo begins, eyes darting to my dad. Why Dad? “So let me walk you through this. You were working on boutonnieres with Jane that day?”
Nod.
Black pupils spread like someone’s pouring hot licorice. Pinned in place by his look, I can’t escape. His back is to everyone except Mom, and she’s on the other side of the bed. His head is tipped down and he looks up at me through long lashes.
“And she needed to use the bathroom?”
Nod.
“You stayed at the counter.”
Nod.
“Which way were you facing?”
I shake my head. “Don’ remember.” I can’t quite get the T at the end of “don’t.”
“Don’t remember which way?”
“Don’ remember. After Jane. All gone.” I add the last two words on purpose, like I’m a toddler. Like I’m an infant not even worthy of the chase.
Like I’m harmless.
His lip curls in disgust. Success.
“Let me try,” Duff says, changing the plan, making me forget to breathe. Duff’s not supposed to interrogate me. Shifting to reading a new person’s signals is going to be too hard.
Especially Duff.
Because I know down deep in my soul that Romeo is evil.
Duff? I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure.
“You have exactly one more minute,” Daddy says.
That was only a minute? Felt like a year.
“Lily, when Jane went through the curtain, did any sort of movement catch your eye? Or an emotion–do you remember a feeling?”
“Happy.”
“You were happy?”
“Happy. Then. Sad. Now.” I burst into tears.
“We’re done,” Dad growls. “Get out.”
“Tom, I understand,” Romeo begins, giving me a strangely annoyed look, like I forgot and gave him strawberry jam instead of grape with his morning toast. “But we have a few more ques–”
“We’re done,” Duff says, interrupting. “Lily’s tired. She did a great job.”
“That’s my good girl,” Dad says.
“Woof. Woof. Gimme treat. Good girl.”
Everyone stares at me. Damn it. I overplayed my hand.
Mom starts laughing. Dad joins in. Avoiding Romeo’s eyes is impossible, but I try my best while laughing along, pretending my crooked mouth can twist into a smile, pretending my killer isn’t in the same room, pretending everything’s going to be just fine.
As long as I can pretend to have amnesia.
And as long as Romeo doesn’t know it’s pretend.
Chapter 13
Inauguration Day
* * *
Red, white, and blue threw up all over the television today.
When you’re stuck in bed and the only real action you can take is to change the channel with a remote, Inauguration Day is a particularly brutal one. Add in the fact that President Harwell Bosworth was somehow involved in my shooting–even if it was his crazy dead wife who was behind it all, according to Dad–and I am pretty close to picking the Shopping Channel and watching washed-up actresses talk about face creams and essential oils.
I wonder what miracle oil I could rub on my skull to make it heal.
Tap tap tap. My door. I jolt, dropping the remote, unable to react fast enough. It slides down the side of the bed, but my fingers catch the cord in time.
Progress.
“Lily? May I come in?”
Having someone ask permission to enter my room is a new one. I’m a nonentity, right? So people just barge in.
“Who?” I call out, realizing I sound like an owl, but Who is it? is still too hard.
“Jane. Jane Borokov.”
“Oh!” That comes out much louder than it should.
Laughter bubbles up from behind the door. “You do remember me!”
Girl, how the hell could I forget? You’re the one who’s supposed to be here. Not me.
As if she heard that, Jane’s face freezes into a guilt-ridden expression, her body half in the room. “Maybe this isn’t a good time?”
“Oh. Kay.”
Her whole body responds to the way I talk. It’s not the words that matter. I’ve seen new staffers as they hear me, the instantaneous realization that my fractured syllables are the best I can do. Pity doesn’t have a body, but if it did, it would look an awful lot like the way people position themselves when they realize this is how I speak.
“Okay?”
I nod.
Holding a gift bag with unicorns all over it, Jane Borokov enters the room. She’s wearing an outfit so close to something I would wear that for a moment, my stomach kicks into nausea overdrive and I start to gag. We really are twins.
