When I could breathe normal—well, semi-normal—I scrambled out of my chair and ran downstairs, desperate to talk to Mom before she left—even thinking maybe I’d go with her and Craig to the office, though bleck.
The thing was though, I didn’t want to be alone. I definitely needed a mom. My mom. Only when I found her, she was in the kitchen with her back to me. She looked stiff and mad. She was organizing her briefcase, angry-like, waiting for Craig to find his “important” fax in the den so they could go. She kept looking at her watch. She hates waiting, hates being late, which made me think about turning around and going back upstairs. She was already in a bad mood—and I never seemed to put her in a good one.
Still.
I made a noise, just a small sound in my throat. But I wanted her to turn around. I wanted her to look at me—really look at me, and see I’d been crying and that something was wrong. I wanted her to hug me. Like when I was little, and I was hurt. I wanted her to help me feel better.
But she didn’t turn around. Maybe she didn’t hear me or maybe she was too mad. But it made it so I had to start the conversation and I didn’t want to. I didn’t know how or what to say. I mean, I couldn’t just blurt it out: “Hey, Mom you know how we were talking about grief the other day? Well I found this interesting new way to deal with it.” Then tell her I’d come-to in the arms of a total stranger and that I’d blocked out the entire day. I mean, how do you tell your already strung-too-tight mom something like that? That you woke up someplace you didn’t remember going, with a boy that you didn’t remember meeting? That you were at the mall and then suddenly you were on his bed, making out with him? How do you ease into something like that? Especially when your mom already thinks you’re trouble?
I cleared my throat, not knowing where to start, knowing any place would be awkward and wrong. Still, I stumbled into a sentence, my voice catching.
“So, when your sister died …”
I saw Mom tense up, get all rigid, like a board. She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s stressed. It makes her edgy and grit her teeth. She probably thought I wanted to talk about Dad again—about what he did. She always got squirmy whenever I brought it up, so she probably thought I was just trying a different tactic. But really, I’d given up on that—Mom talking about Dad’s death. It wasn’t going to happen. I got that. Now I just wanted to hear about the grief process—her take on it. Again. What was “normal.”
I mean, I knew it was normal to be spacey. Like that lady on The Grief Forum said. Mom had said the same thing—that she lived on autopilot after her sister died. She kept saying, “It’s normal,” even when I tried to explain about my time lapses. She had told me not to worry. She kept saying that—don’t worry. “It’s all normal, sweetie. You’re just grieving.”
So … I wanted to hear that now. I needed to hear it. That somehow, this was normal, too, what happened today—part of grieving. I needed to talk about it or I was going to start ripping out my hair.
But just then, Craig burst out of the den, wiggling his precious, important fax at Mom. She sighed with relief and started stuffing her papers back into her briefcase, talking to me as she got her essentials situated.
“Sweetie, we’ll talk when I get home, okay? We won’t be gone long—I promise. I want to hear all about the job hunt.”
Then she was gone, out the door with Craig. She didn’t even look at me. Not once.
I had an overwhelming urge to scream. She wanted to hear about my job hunt? So did I.
***
After Mom and Craig left, I stayed where I was, frozen in the kitchen. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, tight, tight, then counted to ten, breathing slowly, like they show you for women in labor—breathe in, breathe out, breathe in and out. I focused on that—just breathing, ‘cause otherwise I was going to start crying again. Or do that screaming thing. The thing I wanted to do sort of bad. But it would make me feel even more crazy.
I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, all the while thinking sad, bitter thoughts. I wasn’t going to do it anymore—try to talk to Mom. Seriously. It hurt. Like, killed. And I had enough pain to deal with right now. Too much. I could barely deal as it was. Face it, I wasn’t even dealing (hello—stranger’s arms). Screw Mom and her crap about her wanting us to make a “new start.” Screw everything she said when I first came back.
She didn’t want a new start. She wanted to be left alone. Except when she had a random moment to spare, then she’d pry into my life—dig into it—like she was trying to make up for all of her neglect. She’d dig and dig and dig. And be a spaz. But she was looking for the wrong things. Untrue things. They weren’t even close to true, but she’d already convicted me of them and there was no changing her mind.
Fine. I was going to stop trying. Seriously, screw her.
Actually … working up anger made me feel a little better. Stronger. I ran up to my room, figuring I needed to find out about grief symptoms on my own. That’s what the Internet was for, right? Who needed a mom when you had Wikipedia?
Only, it turned out my brain was too plagued with scattered thoughts: Mom, Dad’s death … coming-to on a stranger’s bed. I couldn’t concentrate. I needed my iPod. Bad. No way could I do research without my music. I needed something to quiet my worries. Keep me sane—so to speak.
But my iPod was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere. It wasn’t in my sweater pocket, though I knew that’s where I put it this morning when I left for the mall today. Still, I looked everywhere; tore my room apart. Just ‘cause. But I knew it should be in my sweater. I bit my lip, thinking. It must have fallen out at Sawyer’s while we were macking on his bed.
My stomach turned. Sawyer.
Ugh! I didn’t want to think about him.… Not that he hadn’t been nice. He had, I guess. Under the circumstances. My face burned as I remembered his hands on me, all over me. My heart did a weird acrobat thing.
Whoa, no. No way. I pushed my thoughts of him away and opened my laptop again. I didn’t want to think about Sawyer, about his lips on me. Although, they had felt nice. Really nice. But he had gone further than I’d ever allowed anyone, ever. It’s just … I hadn’t thought it was real.
I lay my head against my desk, haunted, remembering his kisses had made me think of Jeremy. Not at the beginning—in the beginning I had thought it was Grey. Because Grey was recent. Logical. But later, I started to let myself think … hope …
I clutched my stomach.
... Jeremy.
I never allowed myself to think of him. Ever. I traced my lips now, for a moment filled with warmth, remembering how giddy and happy I’d felt starting to think it was him kissing me.
“Stupid!” I scolded myself aloud, trying to get a grip. “Wake up Jodi!” It was crazy to think of Jeremy. Pathetic.
I didn’t want to think about him. I’d rather think about Sawyer than Jeremy. Sawyer who I woke up kissing. Sawyer who I’d vowed I never wanted to see again. Even thoughts of him were preferable and made more sense than dwelling on Jeremy. I shot up from my desk chair so fast I almost knocked it over.
I couldn’t do research without my iPod. So, suddenly, that was my new plan. I was going to go get my iPod. Now, tonight. Which meant I would have to face Sawyer—again. Which was scary and humiliating. But the thing was, I needed to. I had to. I mean, it was going to happen anyway, sometime. No doubt he went to Roosevelt High. As soon as summer break was over, I’d have to face him anyway. Better to get it over with now, when there wasn’t a big school crowd around us. Maybe I could smooth things over—somehow—so word of my freak out wouldn’t get back to Jeremy. I’d die if Jeremy found out I’d acted like a kook.
I grabbed my house key from off my desk and headed out the front door.
As I walked to Sawyer’s house, I formed a plan—I’d talk to Sawyer and apologize for being a spaz and maybe we could end up being friends. Now that I was back in town, I needed a friend. Desperately. When I lived here before I went
to an all-girl school for the first year, forty-five minutes away from the house, then the following year I’d talked Mom into letting me go to school with Jeremy. It was only for a few months. During that time I didn’t make any friends, not really. I didn’t want to; didn’t even try. I’d had Jeremy and that was all I wanted. But now I didn’t have Jeremy; now I was alone. Completely alone.
I took a deep breath.
Sawyer seemed nice, though. And anyway, if nothing else, I needed my iPod back. There was definitely that. So, I didn’t let myself chicken out. I kept walking.
But when I got to Sawyer’s I started to rethink my plan. It was getting late and he already thought I was crazy. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to knock on his door in the middle of the night—even if I had a good excuse, like my iPod. Maybe I should have waited until morning like a normal person.
My hands were getting sweaty as I stood on his doorstep, not sure if I should ring his doorbell or run away. Instead, I did neither. I stood frozen, my stomach all twisty. It might be awkward seeing his hands again, remembering them roaming around my body all hungry-like. Yeah, it would be awkward—and hard to explain. One minute kissing him, the next pushing him away.
My face started to burn as I reflected. Sawyer must think I was nuts. What was I doing here? I shouldn’t have come. I had the right idea earlier, when I vowed never to see him again. I should avoid him at all costs.
I turned and started to walk away but then I heard Sawyer’s front door creak open. I winced, and froze, for a moment still considering running. I mean, he already thought I was a freak, what could it hurt if I just kept with that and took off? But finally, I swung around. I tried to look friendly. And sane. Doubt it worked.
Sawyer leaned against the open threshold and raised an eyebrow, his lips creeping into a smile.
“I thought that was you.” His eyebrows quirked. “You wanna come in?”
***
Inside, it was awkward. I explained that I thought I left my iPod in his room, but then when he offered to let me go in and look for it, I couldn’t bring myself to go in. I mean, it just seemed like it would be too weird—looking through his messy bed. And what if we didn’t find it? Maybe he’d think I just invented it as an excuse to get back into his room so we could pick up where we’d left off. Maybe he’d think I’d just run off when I did to go get a sandwich or something and now I was back, full of energy and ready to go at it.
Okay, he probably wouldn’t think anything like that, but I still didn’t want to go back into his room and see where my nightmare started. Too, too creepy.
A small bewildered smile played on Sawyer’s lips as he watched me hesitate, but he didn’t say, “You’re the most bizarre girl I ever met, get out of my house.” Instead he said, “You want me to go look for it?”
I tried to smile. “That would be great.”
When I grimaced up at him, he said, “Have a seat,” gesturing to his couch and he said it really nice, though slightly amused and I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or more embarrassed.
I sat on the edge of his couch, and at first figuratively and then literally, crossed my fingers. He came back only a minute later, holding my iPod up and rotating it side to side, like, “Looky, Looney-Girl. Found it.”
“Score.” I tried to smile again, act like this was all normal, but inside I screamed relief!
Sawyer sat beside me on the couch. “Okay, I was going to do something mean,” he said, sitting really, really close. “I was going to keep this until you told me what was going on today—hold it ransom. But here.” He handed me my iPod. “I’m not that kind of guy. Well, I’m trying not to be that kind of guy.” He got even closer and rested the crook of his arm on the back of the couch, looking and acting incredibly relaxed, like he was used to having strange girls over to his house, like it happened all the time. Yet, he also looked intrigued. He chewed on the inside of his lip a moment, studying me. “Was it an acting assignment or something? Is that it? Are you an actress?”
“An actress?” I let out a nervous laugh. “No. Why would you think that?”
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his chin, kind of like, duh. “Well, one minute you seemed totally into me, the next it was like you didn’t know me.” His eyes flicked from my face to my body, then back to my eyes. “And you kind of look like an actress.”
I could feel my face redden. That was kind of sweet. And I wished it was true, with all of my heart, I wished that—that I’d only been acting. That it was all one big happy act and really I had my life totally together and was just doing an assignment. Just ‘cause. For fun.
I was tempted to go with that. So tempted. Just say, “Yeah, you got me. I was acting.” Then I could leave his house and see him in school and not worry that he was going to tell everyone I’d had a grief-stricken blackout. That I had strange moments when I could fall prey to random pick up lines in the mall. But thinking about that, what actually happened today, made me shudder.
And Sawyer noticed. He eyed me. “Okay, so then, what happened? Why’d you suddenly freak out and act like you didn’t know me? Why the big change, Kenzie?”
The unexpected name gave my heart a jolt. “Kenzie?”
“Yeah, that’s your name isn’t it?” He gave a bitter laugh. “Well, that’s what you told me it was. I guess it’s not, huh?”
“No,” I said slowly. Why would I have told him my name was Kenzie? Weird. He must have misheard. Or got me confused with someone else. Maybe he picked up girls at the mall all the time. Maybe he couldn’t keep us all straight. Sheesh, how many girls did he pick up just today? Ew. “My name’s Jodi. Look, I have no idea how we met.”
He blinked, then swept his blond hair out of his eyes, for a moment saying nothing. “Are you messing with me?”
“No. I wish I was, but I’m not. Seriously. The last thing I remember was being at the mall. I was trying to get a job.”
Sawyer slowly nodded. “Yeah. I know. Your applications are still out in my car.”
“So, Sawyer,” I said, attempting to sound conversational, like my next question wasn’t going to make me sound like a screwed up loon in need of a place called SunnyBrook Farms or Port Haven Mental Institute, “how did we end up kissing on your bed?”
“I don’t know,” he said dryly. “I thought it was because we were mutually attracted to each other.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Are you playing a game with me or what?”
I shook my head. “It’s not a game.” I totally understood his disbelief. I couldn’t believe what had happened myself. Grief makes people do weird things, apparently.
“Figures,” Sawyer muttered. “I meet the nymphomaniac of my dreams and she ends up being split personalities.”
My stomach dropped. Whoa. What? I swallowed, my heart spazzing. “You think I have a split personality?”
“You called yourself Kenzie—like, multiple times. And you were all over me. You even sounded different when you talked, like you weren’t as well educated or something. No way was the girl I started kissing the same girl who left my bedroom.” He watched me a moment, noticed my shaking hands, then flicked his gaze back to my face. “And you said you can’t remember anything after being at the mall.”
He said all this like he was putting together a puzzle—like it was a theory, but it was based on facts—facts I told him.
… Split personalities.
The thought never crossed my mind. Never. I was just suffering from grief, right? I’d just blacked out for a bit. Selective amnesia or something … right?
Right?
I wanted to believe I was right. Of course. I wanted to believe it so bad. Go on believing what I had been, that I have tiny time lapses—now and then. Annoying, yeah, but not that big of a deal.
At least I didn’t think the lapses were a big deal—until today.
But learning I called myself by another name kind of shed a new, horrifying light on my lapses. Suddenly, I had to consider what Sawyer said as more than ju
st a possibility. It was as though someone else—this Kenzie—had been using my body for the day and just now grew tired of it and decided to give it back.
I felt sick, like I might throw up. The grief counselor hadn’t warned about becoming someone different while experiencing the grief process. I definitely would have remembered something like that.
“I don’t know.” Sawyer rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not a psychiatrist—obviously—but what else explains it? You were totally different this afternoon. Totally.”
I buried my face in my hands. “I was? What was Kenzie like?”
“I don’t know. Different. She was fun. Kind of wild.”
I glanced up at him, remembering something he said earlier, about meeting the nymphomaniac of his dreams. Suddenly the statement made me sweat. “What’d we do today?”
Sawyer flicked me a look, mischief in his eyes. “We had the most incredible sex—all day. We did it all day.” He smiled, raising his eyebrows. “You were great.”
I just stared at him.
He grinned. “What? You don’t believe me?” His grin grew, letting me know he was only teasing. He cocked his head. “You have no recollection of what we did? None at all?”
I shook my head, wanting to groan, instead I whispered, “No, nothing.” I hated admitting that. It left me wide open, vulnerable, but my mind wasn’t up for games. “I remember being at the mall—that’s it.”
Sawyer drew in a breath. “Man, this is weird.”
“Yeah.” I buried my face back in my hands. “No kidding.”
Sawyer watched me a moment, silent, then shook his head. “Weird.”
He was a decent guy. At least there was that. I mean this Kenzie—wild, fun Kenzie—could have picked up a maniac just as easily. The thought made me shudder.
I couldn’t take any more of this—talking about it. Not tonight anyway. I felt sweaty and dizzy and like I was going to barf any minute. I told Sawyer I had to get back home, and he offered to give me a ride. This time I accepted, and he gave a small smile about it, like, progress.
The Stranger Inside Page 2
