by Melissa Marr
Soon.
I feel a ripple of excitement at the thought of our future. When we were kids, I didn’t appreciate what a gift she was. I see that now. No one understands me like she does. No one else can. Only Eva.
Slowly, I turn the pages, watching Eva grow older, seeing her skirts change to jeans. She smiles with more restraint in the newest pictures, as if she’s pained by something. It’s how I look in pictures too. I hate the rules of status we all have to live by in Jessup; rules ruin everything.
In one picture from a party at the start of this year, Eva looks free. She has her mouth open in a laugh, and her head is thrown back. Grace is at her side. That’s the secret in this one. Grace is someone the rules don’t understand. They don’t like her, but They don’t have a good reason to reject her—not if Eva Cooper-Tilling declares her worthy. Eva’s blessing would make the lowliest sinner worthy in Their eyes. Grace isn’t from here, isn’t even Southern, but she’s the one who walks at Eva’s side. Sometimes I think Grace is Eva’s Mary Magdalene, except that, unlike The Magdalene, Grace hides her impurity. I did one of those background checks they advertise online. I know enough about Grace Yeung to make friends with people on social media and check her out. I couldn’t let just anyone around Eva.
Grace isn’t as sweet as she acts. She’s redeemed now. Like the Magdalene, she’s stopped her whorish ways. She’s perfect to walk with Eva. She used to be a whore, but she’s been delivered from that; plus, she isn’t connected to any of Them. If the messages don’t help Eva see the truth, maybe Grace can help. I slide my fingertips over the picture of the two of them. I like the feel of the slick plastic of the picture album. It’s not the same as bare skin, but I can pretend for now.
I wonder if Grace would let me touch her the way Amy lets me. Abraham laid with more than one woman; he had two wives. My breath hitches at the thought, and I look at their picture again. Eva would be my first wife, but she’s too pure for some things. Grace isn’t. I get frightened sometimes when I think of my future with Eva. How can we have a happy home if I have to be so careful with her? Maybe Grace is the answer. I’ll pray on it. God’s plans are often complicated. I’ll wait for guidance.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I think the path would’ve been clearer if I hadn’t been impatient . . . and angry. I’ll admit it: I was angry with Eva when I hit her with the car. I want so badly to make her see, to help her understand. I felt desperate, and I acted out. There’s no way to know if she’s going to live or die, but I believe she might live now. It’ll hurt inside if I have to kill her.
But the thought of killing this one, the message, doesn’t hurt. I feel excited, happy, and nervous. It’s like a first date. I whisper a quick thank you to my Lord for giving me another chance, for trying to save Eva, and then I glance at the clock. I have time yet before the message.
My bedroom door is locked already. I wanted to wait until afterward, when the message was sent, but I can’t wait. I’ll have to atone later, but right now, I unbutton my trousers as I stare at Eva and Grace’s happy faces, and I let myself have a reward.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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DAY 9: “THE NEWS”
Eva
IT’S PROBABLY A LITTLE silly, but I have Kelli help me into a skirt the next day. She grins like she knows exactly why I want to wear something other than my pajamas. She’s right, but it makes me feel oddly embarrassed. Before the accident, I obviously didn’t have what it took to attract Nate, so I can’t imagine that I do now.
“I don’t want to look slouchy. It’s bad enough that I look like . . .” I gesture at my face. There really aren’t words that describe what I look like.
“You’re healing,” she says gently. “I know the cuts look bad, but it’ll get better.”
“Right. Scars all over my face are—” I stop myself and take a deep breath.
Kelli shakes her head. “Try to remember that you’re still healing.”
She stands beside the bed while I pull myself into the skirt. She’s there to steady me, but more and more I want to be independent. I need to if I’m going to go home, especially my home. Once I’m in she asks, “Do you need anything else?”
“No, just . . . leave the door partway open when you go.”
“Soon, you’ll be able to get to it yourself. You’re doing great, Eva,” she reassures me.
I feel a wash of happiness at her praise. I am doing well. I’ll be ready when I’m allowed to go home. My parents are to be here tomorrow, and they’ll see that I’m coping fine. I told them as much, and although I know I sounded convincing, they still suggested we hire a temporary companion for me. I know this is their way of trying to help, but I haven’t had a sitter since I was eleven. I’m almost eighteen now and very accustomed to being on my own. They’ve never quite known what to do with me. They work hard and succeed, and when they think of it, they stop to say hello to me.
When someone taps on my door, I sit a little straighter, but I don’t turn off the television. I pretend like I wasn’t waiting for him, like I didn’t get dressed a little nicer for him.
Nate walks in. He looks ridiculously good today. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, which seems odd this time of year, but inside the hospital it’s cold. Unlike me, he hasn’t dressed any differently to spend time together. I try to remind myself that he’s only ever going to be a friend, that he doesn’t date, that he didn’t look at me before the accident, that I’m just a girl he used to know. Then he smiles at me, and I’m grateful that I’m not still hooked up to the heart monitor.
“Hey.”
I nod and mute the television. “Hi.”
“Aaron’s with Nora, so I . . .” He looks around the room. “Can I stay for a little bit?”
I nod again. I’m not sure why it feels different now that he’s in my hospital room. Somehow the space seems smaller, and the fact that I’m sitting in my bed makes it all feel more. It’s not like this is my real room or my real bed, except that right now they are. Being in the room with a bed and a boy—especially one who seems as awkward as I feel—makes me nervous. Maybe he doesn’t know how to be with a girl he has no intention of sleeping with later. Maybe he’d be the same if he was here with another guy. Nate doesn’t have friends. He has girls he has sex with at parties, and that’s it.
“Classes ended. Only exams left,” he says, his words seeming too loud in the quiet.
I refuse to just keep nodding, so I say, “I’m taking them when I get out.”
“They’re making you take exams? Seriously? That’s fucked up.”
“No. They said I could skip, take the grades I had currently, but I want to take them.”
“Are your grades bad?”
“I’m holding all As, I think. I study with Grace now, so my grades went up.”
He slides the chair closer to my bed and sits before he says, “Your dad must love that. Do you remember when he had his ‘your duty’ motivational chart?”
I make my voice low like my father’s and say, “Verses inspire children.” I can’t keep a straight face as I repeat my father’s reply when Nate’s mother suggested that ice cream might be a good reward. He’d presented me with this awful laminated poster he’d made; the columns and rows listed my duties and reasons for doing them. It was one of the least effective parenting tools he’d tried.
“Not as much as sugar,” Nate says lightly, and just like that, my awkwardness vanishes. It may have been years since we were friends, but we still know each other. That makes all the difference.
It’s silent, but not awkwardly so, as he pulls an apple out of his bag. He holds it out to me, and I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks.”
He examines it as he says, “So poor Piper and the minions are beside themselves that you can’t have visitors.”
“Piper talked to you?”
“In public? Not likely. She watches
me—kind of like you do—at parties and when she doesn’t think anyone notices, but she hasn’t spoken to me in public in years. None of them do anymore.” He shrugs like it doesn’t hurt, but I know better. “I still hear people talking, and Piper’s never exactly been known for being quiet.”
Talking to Nate is different from talking to most people. Almost everyone keeps to the rules about Unspoken Things. It’s a longstanding tradition in the South. Unpleasantness is best not discussed; delicate matters are hinted at, but not spoken. Nate and Grace are the only people I know who ignore those rules.
“She’s a good person.”
“Who thinks that you can’t have visitors,” he reiterates.
“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“She has feelings? This is the same Piper I know, right? Gossipy, perfect Piper?”
I frown at him. “We’ve been friends my whole life. Unlike some people, she’s never turned her back on me.”
“You’re the rightful wearer of the crown she thinks sits on her obnoxious head. You don’t want her here when you need people. Why do you even hang out with her?”
“She’s my friend, Nate. I just didn’t want her to see . . . I’m not ready for people to know how much I . . .”
Nate shakes his head as he peels a sticker off his apple. “You’re still gorgeous, Eva.”
I stare at him, blinking away tears, and in as steady a voice as I can manage say, “Don’t lie.”
“Jesus, Eva, you think you stopped being gorgeous because of a few cuts? Are you mental?”
“It’s more than a few cuts, Nate.”
He shakes his head, stands, and leans close to me. The apple he’s holding drops onto the bed. “You’re gorgeous. Trust me: I’m not going to start lying to you. I never lied to you—not when we were kids and definitely not now.”
I’m looking at him, our faces inches apart, and I don’t see a single hint of deceit. I don’t get it. I’ve seen a mirror. I know that there are more than a “few cuts” on my face. “Are you kidding?”
“No. I think you’re beautiful. You always have been, even when you were sopping wet from falling into the creek.” He’s still face-to-face with me, and he leans in and kisses my forehead. “Sorry I upset you, but I’m not taking it back. You’re smart and beautiful, and only a fool wouldn’t notice that.”
“We may need to get you glasses,” I murmur after he straightens.
He snorts and picks his apple up again. “My vision’s just fine.”
“So you’re calling me a fool?”
“If the dunce hat fits . . .” He shrugs and sits back down.
I smile at him. Being complimented by Nate does good things for my mood.
It also makes me feel less crazy about what I’m about to do. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
I know the things I saw about him dying—that vision was just a hallucination, but I’ll still feel better if I say something. “Just promise me that you won’t drive on Old Salem without first checking that you have your phone.”
“Okay.” He drags the word out a little and looks at me like his agreement is also a question.
It’s silly, and I’m sure it’s a combination of my brain injury and the things the detective got me thinking. “The person that hit me that night might have seen me. It might not have been an accident.”
Nate stiffens. “So you think it was on purpose?”
“Maybe. The detective wasn’t sure, and I know it sounds crazy, but so does getting run over.” I try to shrug like I’m not obsessing on the whole thing. “I just want you to be careful too.”
He shrugs. “No problem. I’ll promise you not to go to Old Salem without checking for my phone if you promise me that you won’t walk home in the dark again.”
“I’m not going to be walking anywhere. I’m on crutches,” I point out.
“Not forever.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me your number. I’ll call you so you can add me to your contacts. Then, if you ever need a ride again, you can reach me.”
When I don’t reply, he adds, “I’ll always have my phone with me since I just promised you could call me.”
I grab my phone. “What’s your number?”
I tap it in as he tells me, and then send him a quick text that says only, “Hi.”
“Call or text if you need me,” he replies.
I nod, and maybe it’s silly, but I don’t want him to think I’m foolish. “I did call Robert, you know. I didn’t want to bother Grace, and my parents were away, but it wasn’t that I planned to walk home in the dark. It was still dusk.”
Nate goes so still that it’s unnerving. “Baucom stranded you?”
I wish I could retract my statement. “He was busy or forgot. It’s not like we’re connected at the hip.”
“Did he say that?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.” I shrug. “I haven’t really brought it up. He forgot or whatever, and I walked, and there was an accident, and . . .” I lift my hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. I know I’m ignoring the whole Robert situation, but I don’t want to deal with it.
Maybe he was going to dump me but now he can’t. Maybe he’s waiting to see what I say or what I look like or . . . I don’t know. It’ll work out though. We’ll stay together or go back to being friends. In a town this small, that’s just what happens. It’s all very civilized.
Nate just stares at me, and I can tell that there are a dozen thoughts he’s weighing and deciding not to say. I feel guilty. I get like that, guilty, when people look hurt or upset. I think it’s why my parents think I can handle everything myself: I simply don’t want to trouble anyone.
“It’s not his fault,” I say quietly. “I could have called someone else. I didn’t. Neither of us knew some lunatic was going to smash his car into me.”
The look on Nate’s face isn’t quite disdain, but it’s close. “I don’t want to argue with you. I just think you deserve to be treated . . . right.”
When Nate sits silently for several moments, I murmur, “Thank you.”
He smiles when my hand covers his.
I wait, fearing that I’ll have another hallucination. I don’t. Instead, I get Nate Bouchet looking at me with interest in his eyes. I remind myself that I have a boyfriend, but a little voice inside me also reminds me that Robert hasn’t even asked to visit.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Nate says. He frowns. “That sounds wrong. I mean, I’m not glad you’re here, just that it’s nice to see you.”
I almost laugh. I’ve looked in the mirror; I know what I look like now. I take my hand away from his and slide my fingertips over the blanket.
“Don’t.” He grabs my hand, and this time, everything is different.
The car swerves toward me, and I have to go off the road to avoid impact. I feel the truck dip and jerk as the front wheel hits the ditch. I’m braking, hoping the brakes don’t lock up, praying I don’t go into a spin, and regretting the lack of airbags. My brain is racing, rolling into thoughts that seem out of place. I wasn’t going fast enough that the accident will be fatal, but I don’t have time to be without wheels.
It’s dark out, and there are no street lights on Old Salem Road, but I know the area well enough after driving it every day the past year and a half. It’s wooded along the road, but not thick. The front of the truck clips a tree, but it’s only a sapling. I start to swerve farther only to jolt to a stop as I smash into a much larger tree.
After a moment, I unbuckle my belt, and shakily push open the door. I shiver as I stand outside my truck. My phone is in my hand, but before I can call anyone, a sharp pain in my stomach makes me bend over. The stomach cramps become bad enough that I stumble and clutch the door frame of my truck. I don’t feel blood, but that doesn’t mean I’m uninjured. Internal bleeding can be far worse.
My mouth feels like it’s filled with something hot and sour. I’m not throwing up.
Yet. My heart feels too fast.
A car pulls up in front of me, and I wonder if it’s the car that ran me off the road or someone who saw the accident. The headlights shine in my face so I can’t see who’s in the car. There aren’t a lot of people who drive along Old Salem Road, but there are a few houses and the reservoir.
The lights make the person getting out of the car look like a silhouette. He’s not a huge man. I can tell that. Although he could be a bigger woman. . . . I open my mouth to speak, but instead puke all over the seat of my truck. Something’s wrong.
“I’m hurt,” I force out of lips that feel oddly numb. It’s not that cold, but numb is the best word I know for this feeling. It’s kind of like that tingling when you drink too much but aren’t blacking out yet. I wasn’t drinking, haven’t in over a year. Hiding in a keg or bottle isn’t going to make anything better, and I need to be strong for Aaron.
The person from the car is beside me, but he—or she—isn’t speaking. I can see jeans and tennis shoes, but when I look up, I can’t see a face. It’s there, but I can’t focus on any details. It’s like a white fuzzy space where the features should be. My eyes can’t focus there.
I’m shaking, and I think that maybe it wasn’t the cold making me shiver when I got out of the truck. The person takes my phone, and I’m grateful that he or she is going to help me call for help.
“Call my mom,” I say.
My legs are shaking too, and I hit the ground. I’m sitting in a puddle of vomit. The person opens a bottle of what looks like Mad Dog 20/20, grabs my chin with a gloved hand, and tilts my head back. The alcohol pours into my mouth faster than I can swallow, and it spills down my shirt.
He takes my hand and wraps it around the bottle, and my muscles are too weak to put up much of a fight. I try, but it’s about as effective as a toddler resisting a parent. My phone hits the asphalt beside me hard enough that the screen cracks, and I watch a blurry shape come down on it to stomp on it.
“Eva?” His voice, Nate’s voice, draws me back into this moment. I am shaking all over, so cold that I can’t speak at first. I don’t know how or why I hallucinate like this, but I feel like my whole body is icy when it happens.
