She pulls the keys from the ignition and opens her door, then sticks her head back inside.
“And, Lauren, when we get back to Vail, you have to tell Jasper.”
“He’ll never forgive me.”
“You should have thought about that before you decided to base your entire life with him on a lie.” Juliet slams the door hard enough to rock the truck and stalks into the restaurant.
20
The sun is bright on the fresh powder, shimmering off the frozen lake twenty yards from the truck. Lauren pulls a fresh tissue from her purse, dabs at her arm, then applies a new Band-Aid. She didn’t realize she’d pulled the other one off, finds it crumpled under her left heel.
The bones in her wrist are sharp; buff-colored skeleton’s hands on her wasted, skinny thighs. Juliet is right, there’s not much of her left. She has shrunk over the past month.
The well of fear threatens to drown her. Juliet isn’t kidding. She is going to force Lauren’s hand. Another wave of panic hits.
Lauren can feel the edges of her world unraveling. Images she forced away long ago come back to her—Kyle’s hateful, sneering face, the wrenching pain in her abdomen, the blood on her hands. The small ball of warmth with wisps of black hair and translucent skin, silent, so silent, so still. The healthy cries from Mindy’s crib, the sleepless few weeks before she’d met Jasper, when she thought she might die of exhaustion and frustration.
That familiar tug of desperation fills her now, the sense of being out of control, of not having any recourse, of the world spinning too fast for her feet to move on the earth.
What is she willing to lose to save Mindy’s life? What cost will the truth bring?
Juliet is right, damn her. She is going to have to talk about this with Jasper. She is going to have to admit the truth, that Mindy isn’t hers. And suffer the consequences.
She has to do it now, get out ahead of this. She can’t let Juliet be the one to tell him. Jasper will never forgive Lauren, but maybe, for Mindy’s sake, he can learn to live with her deception. She alone can frame the situation. Make him understand.
She marches inside where Juliet has already taken a table by the window that looks out onto the lake. There are two glasses of iced tea on the table. Lauren assiduously avoids her sister’s gaze when she sits down, as if she can see right through her sister’s body. Like she’s a ghost. Like she doesn’t exist.
“Juliet.”
At last, Juliet’s head turns, and Lauren is shocked to see her sister’s red-rimmed eyes, her nose rabbit-pink. Juliet Ryder doesn’t cry at anything. She didn’t cry when she broke her wrist in fifth grade, when her steady boyfriend broke it off the weekend before they left for college, when she missed the astronaut program by a fraction of a point. Juliet Ryder doesn’t cry, ever, period, yet here she is, struggling for control, in public, no less.
Lauren covers her sister’s hand in hers. “I’ll tell him tonight. Then I’ll go back through my files and see if I can find the doctor’s name. I don’t remember her name, only that she was Hispanic, that’s all I recall. You’re right, we need to find Mindy’s birth mother and try to find a match among her family.”
“Thank you,” Juliet manages, but Lauren grips her hand harder until she feels a knuckle pop under the pressure, and Juliet’s eyes grow wary at the pain.
“But I will handle this, Juliet. This is my family, my mistake, and it’s my responsibility. Not yours. You stay out of it from now on, you hear me? I will take care of things.”
Juliet simply nods.
“Good. Now, do you still want onion rings?”
21
UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
1993
VIVIAN
Liesel has been a silent member of the ward for two weeks. She won’t participate in group, she won’t participate in one-on-one, she certainly won’t participate with me more than the perfunctory. She seems to like art, though, paints with abandon during arts and crafts, but as for the rest, she is mute.
After art, when we’re cleaning our brushes—me extra thoroughly—I finally decide to go for it.
“You were crying in your sleep last night. Again. Want to talk about it?”
There is a long, pungent silence, before a small, quiet “Maybe.”
“We could go smoke.”
“I don’t smoke anymore.”
“Then our room.”
“Fine. I guess.”
Twenty minutes later, after I smuggle us in sodas and the sandwich crackers with sour cream and chive cheese I know she likes, I shut the door almost all the way and we have a small party, sitting on the floor in between the beds, our blankets as a combo picnic blanket and cushion.
Munching her crackers, she finally tosses an opening salvo. “Do I say anything, in my sleep?”
“You keep saying ‘no.’ Over and over. And punching the sky.”
She nods, calmly, as if she was expecting this. “That’s all?”
“Yes. But you seem...upset. Scared. It’s freaky.”
“Why do you sneak out at night? What are you doing?”
A test. I decide I have nothing to lose. “One of the night guys lets me smoke in the lounge.”
“What’s he want in return?”
“For smokes, nothing. But for information—everything has its price.” I shrug. “I haven’t paid it.”
“Would you?”
“Fuck an orderly for information? If I had to. If it was important enough.”
I sound braver than I feel.
“You’d do that to find out about me?”
“He offered. I said no. I would much rather hear it from you.”
“Don’t ever trade yourself for information. You’re better than that. Swear to me you’ll never do it.”
“I swear. Okay? I swear. Now, what’s the story?”
“I tried to kill myself. That’s why I’m here.” She pushes up her left sleeve, and I have to admire the vertical slice that starts at her palm and heads toward her elbow. It is straight, uniform, still red against her pale skin, but clean and healing well. In the light, I can also see multiple scars, two inches long, straight across the soft flesh of her inner forearm. Only two of the horizontal lines intersect the newer slice. They are much older, a perpendicular railway built over a long time.
“That’s pretty work.”
She slides the sleeve down. “Thank you. Precision is important to me.”
“When did you start cutting?”
“A few years ago.” She shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”
“I tried it once. It freaked me out.”
“It makes me feel good. Dr. Freakazoid says I’m looking for an unhealthy release for my psychic pain, but really, it just feels good.”
“I have a tattoo. I liked how that felt. The needle going in and out—it hurt, but there was something good in the pain, too.”
“Serotonin rush. It’s addictive. Let me see.”
I slide down the shoulder of my shirt. The tattoo is small, a butterfly, on my shoulder blade. It is yellow with blue spots. I dig it.
“I had to use a fake ID, and the tattoo guy didn’t buy it for a second, but he was an anarchist and loved the idea of sticking it to the man, so he did it anyway, for half price.”
“It’s very pretty. Maybe I’ll get one. See how it feels.”
I pull up my shirt. “I have my belly button pierced, too. Obviously, my nose, too. They won’t let me have my jewelry, think I’m going to use it to stab out my eyes or something.”
She touches the hole in my stomach. Her fingers are soft, her nails chewed down, and it feels good. Strange, but good. I realize no one has voluntarily touched me without anger in months.
I yank down my shirt. “You said you killed someone.”
Her face shutters. She shifts on the blanket, staring over my shoulder now, at nothing. “I did.”
“Liesel, tell me. You’ll feel better. I swear I’ll never say a word.”
With a deep, racking sigh, a girl old beyond her years, she begins to speak.
“I told the police what I’m telling you.”
“Which means it’s the truth, or it’s the story your lawyer told you to stick to?”
“Is there a difference?”