“See? He hates me. And his ear is fine—it’s not even the same shape. The real Fuller’s flops over a little bit at the end. I’m telling you, someone did something to him. Why would he suddenly not have a scar? Those spots on his chest didn’t just disappear—this isn’t—”
That was it. My mom stood, brushing off her jeans. She was a tiny person, with ropey biceps and high, full cheekbones. People said we looked alike, but I couldn’t see it. She was prettier, thinner, and more elegant than I was. She was blond and never did anything to her eyebrows, but they somehow always managed to look perfect. Now she was studying my face like it was something strange and ugly.
“I don’t know, okay, Jess? I don’t know,” she said. “But maybe you could be a bit more sensitive. Today has been one of the worst days of my life and you know what? It may only get worse from here. So I don’t know why his ear is different, but I don’t really care.”
“I wasn’t being insensitive.” My eyes were suddenly burning, and I could feel the weight of the day behind them. How empty the house was when I came home. The inside of the car, still and silent, as my dad drove the seven minutes to the hospital. Sara in that bed. I ran my hand over the couch cushion, counting the tiny black stitches along the seam. I’d gotten to eight before she said anything.
“I can’t do this,” my mom said. She gestured at me, at the couch.
“You can’t do what? You can’t…talk to me? You can’t be my mother?”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” she snapped. Then she turned back toward the kitchen. “I’m just tired, Jess. I’m beyond tired…I’m running on empty.”
When I got to the doorway she was at the fridge again, examining one of Sara’s medicine bottles. She read and reread the label, then opened it and counted the pills inside.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. She looked miserable as she checked another bottle and then held one of the saline bags up to the light. She was doing what I’d done. She was trying to figure out where things went wrong.
“I really can’t handle any more stress. Just…please don’t bring it up again.”
She stared at me, and there was nothing behind her eyes. If she had even said just a little more, or explained what she thought had happened, maybe I wouldn’t have felt the bottomless, horrible feeling I felt then. Please don’t bring it up again?
She was lying. I knew she was lying to me.
I climbed the stairs like a ghost, unable to focus on anything in front of me. I found myself in Sara’s room, and then I was turning on the light beside her bed. The sheets were a tangled mess. A plastic cup and tissue box had fallen on the floor, probably when the paramedics had gotten her. My bare foot sucked against the thin, sticky layer of apple juice.
The collage was almost exactly as it had been that morning. Pressed flowers, the Annie playbill, that photo strip of me and Sara from the Swickley carnival, two years ago. My eyes went to the blank space on the right. Someone had adjusted the pictures around it so it wasn’t as noticeable, but there was no way I’d miss it. There was no way I wouldn’t have realized it was gone.
The most perfect, photogenic picture of Fuller had disappeared. I bent down to check the floor, but it was clear. It wasn’t stuck behind the postcard below it, either.
I peered into the hall, but Mom wasn’t there. The light in the kitchen was on and I could hear the sink running. I moved my hand to the black-and-white photo strip of Sara and me, as though that was what I’d always come here for—as if it was the only thing I’d wanted. I peeled it off the wall, then picked the rolled tape off the back, making sure I didn’t crease it. I couldn’t risk this memory disappearing, or being stolen, or whatever the hell had happened to the photo of Fuller.
It was the only thing tethering me to reality.
13
I’d finally fallen asleep when I heard the car horn. With everything that had happened yesterday, I’d forgotten to tell Kristen not to pick me up.
My dad peeked his head into my room. He had on a collared shirt and his hair was combed in place. He looked like he’d been awake for hours. “You don’t have to go to school if you don’t want to. Mom’s at the hospital. I was going to head over in a few.”
Kristen beeped again, and I wanted to throw something out the window at her. Why didn’t she realize that beeping incessantly was rude? It hadn’t been more than, like, thirty seconds.
“Or you could come meet us this afternoon,” my dad said. “Your call.”
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My hair was a little tangled in the back, but all it would take was a quick change and I’d be ready. I’d still have to explain to Ms. Chen why I hadn’t written any of the Cold War responses in my History workbook.
“I guess I could use the distraction…” I wiped the sleep from my eyes and grabbed my striped turtleneck from my closet. My dad was waiting in the doorway, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious. “Will you tell them I’m coming?”
* * *
The backseat was piled with Kristen’s field hockey stuff, the beat-up stick threaded through the handles of the bag. I slid it over and buckled in. Everything smelled like wet grass.
“You look like butt.” Amber twisted in her seat to get a better view of me. They’d already stopped at Walter’s for her extra-large coffee, and she held it with both hands, sipping it like hot cocoa.
“Your alarm didn’t go off?” Kristen asked. I met her gaze in the rearview mirror.
I raked the back of my hair with my fingers, trying to get the knots out. It wasn’t until we were halfway down the street that I realized I’d forgotten to brush my teeth. I was certain my breath smelled.
“Sorry. I slept three hours last night. Not even.” It was only a half-second pause, but I hesitated before I said the rest. There was no way to have the conversation without it changing everything. “It’s Sara.”
“Oh no, Jess, I’m sorry,” Amber said. “And I didn’t mean—you look—”
“I do look like butt,” I laughed. “I know I do.”
“What happened? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Kristen was watching me so intensely in the rearview she didn’t notice the stop sign. She had to slam on her brakes to make it.
That’s the thing, though. Talking always made me feel better, like handing off bricks one by one until the weight of everything isn’t just on me. I’d never turned down the chance to tell Kristen and Amber what I was thinking. About Sara, about anything.