The Guardian (3 page)

“I was really worried about you, Gee. When they said they put you in a coma. . . . I just, you know, remembered that some people who are in comas don’t wake up, and then I was so scared that you wouldn’t come out of it, and if
that happened . . . knowing it’s all my fault . . . And you have to know that I could never live with myself. . . .” He chokes on the words, struggling to get each one out. “I’m really sorry about the other night, Genesis.
About everything.
I don’t want to
fight with you.”

“I know,” I say. “I really just . . . I don’t know. I need some time. You know, to think.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, nodding. “We’ll take it slow. Start over.”

I study his hopeful expression, and I don’t have the heart to tell him tha
t I’m not even sure I’m ready to take it slow.

“About that night,” I begin, changing the subject.
“The guy?
In the road with us?
Who was he? I mean, I was barely out of the car and he was like, right there.”

“What guy?” Carter
asks, his brows pulling together.

“There was a guy. He held my hand. Told me everything was going to be okay. That help was on the way. Didn’t you see him?”

“There was no one else. Not until the cops came. But I was there—with you, I mean.”

It wasn’t you
,
I want to tell him, but this doesn’t make any sense.
Someone
was there with me, and it wasn’t Carter. I’ve never heard this voice before. His hand wrapped around mine, and that didn’t feel like Carter’
s, either. This was warmer, stronger. But even now the memories are dimmed, slipping away, like it was all a dream.

“I know someone was there. I felt him,” I mumble, half to myself.

“Okay,” Carter says, moving closer. He brushes his fingers across my hand
then grasps it with his. He squeezes it softly—a subtle “I care about you”; “I’m thinking about you”; “I missed you”; “I love you,” even. I stare at it for a few moments, feeling nothing, even as I try to force . . .
something
. Before, just his presence—be
ing near him—sent bursts of tingles racing up my spine.
Now. . . .
I pull my hand away under the pretense of swiping my bangs from my eyes,
then
force a yawn, feigning drowsiness.

Within minutes, he’s gone.

T
HREE

My “going home” clothes consist o
f my only other good pair of jeans and the black BAD ATTITUDE shirt I picked up from Wings last season when it hit the 70% off rack. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrors as the nurse wheels me down the cold, sterile hallway. The girl staring b
ack at me is small and broken and looks like she has anything
but
a bad attitude. She is Rolling Irony.

Outside the sun shines brightly, warming my skin so that it’s left tingling, burning away the memories of that tiny room and those stiff sheets and the
metallic twist of stainless steel everything.

Mom is waiting for me, leaning against the passenger side door of our car, Moose, sunglasses perched on her nose and her blonde hair swept back in a short ponytail, looking more like my sister than my mom. I w
onder how many people passing by have thought this very same thing, if she would’ve been a better sister.

“Ready?” she asks, moving aside and opening the door for me. As much as I hate Moose, I’m glad he’s here.

The car has hundreds of thousands of miles o
n it, from city to country and back again.
State after state after endless state.
It squeals, and coughs, and groans, and sputters, and just when I think it’s going to succumb to the great junkyard in the sky, it finds a new lease on life. It’s at least th
irty years old. It’s embarrassingly rusted. And yet, it’s still chugging, pushing on. 

Moose earned the nickname because he’s brown and beefy. He’s actually more like a massive pile of
poo
than a moose, but Mom claims that “The
Turd
” is insulting, and not
an appropriate nickname for a classic automobile. Personally, I think the name is fitting, and have, on a hundred occasions, explained to her that just because a car is ancient, doesn’t make it a classic. Sixty-nine Mustangs and sixty-seven
Camaros
are cl
assic cars. Moose is a freaking bomb shelter.

“I swear to God, after the zombie apocalypse the only thing left on this planet will be cockroaches and Moose,” I told Mom one night after she managed to back into a light pole at the restaurant and drive away
with not even a dent in the bumper.

Mom shushed me at the time. “He’ll hear you!”

I hate Moose.

I am happy he’s taking me home.

Everything feels strange.
Brighter.
Busier.
It’s sobering,
really, knowing that while I was holed up in that barren hospital room the entire world continued spinning. I’m not needed. Not really, anyway. I am replaceable, easily forgotten.

The house smells funny when I walk inside—old and stale and musty. I rememb
er now: this is exactly how it smelled when we first moved in. Somehow, I’ve grown accustomed to it. It’s become part of me. My nose wrinkles.

In the kitchen, dirty dishes overflow the sink, waiting for someone to pay attention to them. McDonald’s bags are
strewn across the counters. Apparently we’re doing well enough to omit ramen from our diet. While I was recovering, we graduated to Dollar Menu.

Mom’s pillow and comforter are bundled up, piled on the couch in the living room.

My bedroom door is slightl
y ajar. I push it open and walk inside. The four walls and everything in between feel so unfamiliar to me, though it remains untouched—exactly as I left it the night I got ready for dinner with the Flemings. That, itself, seems like a thousand years ago.

E
verything’s changed.

I place Carter’s flowers on my dresser—the dresser my mom found by the restaurant dumpster one night—then rip open the plastic hospital bag. I dump out my clothes: jeans and the pink shirt Kitty Fleming said I wore too much. They’ve be
en washed, but the shirt is spotted with brown stains—blood from the cut on my head. Instinctively, I touch the stitches keeping the skin pulled taut.

I sit down on the edge of my bed and examine the pink shirt. It was my favorite shirt. My jaw tightens,
teeth grinding against one other, angry. I ball it up and throw it in the hallway, barely mourning its loss. The jeans are slightly stained as well. Throwing them out means only one pair—the ones I’m wearing. One pair of jeans for work and school and anywh
ere else I need to go.

There’s no way I’ll have the cash to spring for a new pair until I return to work. Even then, the bills come first. I accept this sobering reality,
then
stuff my good hand into each pocket, checking them out of habit. When I reach t
he front, right pocket, I feel a cool, tiny piece of metal. I pull it out, inspecting it closely as I cradle it in my palm.

My eyebrow ring.
I remember: I removed it at Carter’s—before dinner—and never put it back in. I move toward the mirror and work to f
ind the hole above my right eye.
The physical manifestation of my misery.
I unscrew the end and push. And push.

A sharp pain jolts my forehead. “Shit!” I cry, rubbing the affected area.

I try again.
Nothing.
And again.

The hole is closed.

“Awesome,” I mut
ter. I try one more time, but there’s no way that little bar is going back through my eyebrow without doing some major damage.

I toss it out the door. It pings off the wall and vanishes in the carpet. I pick up my jeans and fling them out the door.
The pa
ck of cigarettes on my dresser?
I haven’t smoked since the accident. And I don’t care. I obviously don’t need them as much as I thought I did.
Gone.

I exile the flowers and Carter’s bear to the hallway, too. The picture of Carter stuck between the mirror
and its frame: gone. For the next ten minutes, anything that reminds me of Carter or my life with him finds itself on the hallway floor. The pile is small, but only because I lack the abundance of possessions.
Involuntary Minimalist.

I scan my room for an
ything I’ve missed, anything that reminds me of him, or the way things were. When I finally land on myself, staring back at me in the mirror, I take a step forward. I pause for a moment before moving to my plastic makeup bag, where I dig around until I fin
d a small pair of silver grooming scissors. I grab a fistful of hair, and, with my left hand, carefully cut just above the black. I toss the ebony locks onto the floor,
then
grasp another handful. I cut the black out all the way around my head. When I’m fi
nished, I’m left with the shortest haircut I’ve ever sported—an uneven, chin-length bob. And I’ll have to go even shorter if I expect the sides to match.

A good two and a half inches at my scalp is dirty blonde before it suddenly and dramatically turns bl
each. I need help that only Clairol can provide. But then I remember the cut on my head, and decide that it probably isn’t a good idea to color my hair until it heals. Maybe then I’ll become a redhead. Or go all black. Anything other than what I am.

For th
e next twenty minutes, I painstakingly trim and layer until I have what society might identify as a reasonable haircut. I’m used to cutting my own hair, and my mom’s, sometimes, during our down times. I’m not half bad at it, actually, and there’s nothing m
ore satisfying than taking control and solving a legitimate problem—whether it’s bangs in the eyes or split ends. Cutting hair with my left hand, however, poses a new and more interesting challenge.  

I’m just finishing up when my mom appears. She hovers
in the doorway, pausing long enough to survey the pile of junk I’ve tossed in the hall.

“Looks good,” she says, folding her arms and leaning into the doorframe.

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Nope.”

She eyes me warily. “Do you need an
ything?”

“A broom and the vacuum cleaner for the hair.
A trash bag for the crap.
And a bath.”
I pull open the top drawer of my dresser and grab a tank top and flannel pants. “A long, hot bath,” I reiterate.

She stands straight, cemented in the doorway. “So
. . . this stuff in the hallway?” she asks.

“It’s all trash,” I confirm.

“Just checking.
Do you want me to take it out for you?”

I nod. “Please.”

When I reach the bathroom, I cram my pajamas between the towel rack and the wall. I’
ve missed having my own toilet and bathtub. Hospital bathing is not conducive to relaxing.
Soaking.
Shaving.
I’m not sure I was ever clean during my stay there. I push the stopper into the drain and turn on the water.

In moments I’m kicked back, hot water
rushing over my feet, filling the tub. I rest my right arm against the side to keep the cast dry, then lean back, sinking all the way to my neck. Already my skin tingles. I lift my foot out of the water. It’s bright pink, blood rushing to the surface. 

I
settle in and close my eyes, but all I can see is that black shadow, crossing the road in front of us. My brow furrows. I can still hear the glass and metal, breaking and bending around me. And the voice:

You’re going to be fine, Genesis. I promise.

You’
re going to be fine.

Who was with me that night? And how did he know my name? Why did I feel so calm?
Fearless.
Just the voice, promising that everything was going to be okay, and me, believing every word.

I open my eyes in time to watch a roach crawl acr
oss the tile floor, skittering next to the baseboard. It disappears beneath the crack between the door and the floor, entering the hallway. I shudder, a chill flashing down my spine. I descend deeper into the tub, my broken wrist lifted high in the air as
my head sinks completely underwater. My scalp stings where the gash is stitched. When I resurface, hundreds of tiny pieces of blonde hair are floating on top of the water. I skim my fingers across the top; the splashes of moving water echo off the still wa
lls, shattering the silence.

“Genesis?”

I sigh. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m not drowning myself, if that’s what you mean,” I say, a note of exasperation filling my voice.