“Consuming large quantities of alcohol?” I suggest.
Daniel screws up his face in a You’re a comedian, Aud look. “Of course it was alcohol, but I blacked out. I’ve never blacked out,” he says with irritation. “But the last thing I remember, I was walking out of that party, Catherine telling me not to leave, and then bam! I woke up feeling like this. I swear it’s like my head is split in two.” He turns to point where it hurts.
The ground drops out from under me. I gasp a scream and jump up from my chair, knocking it to the floor with a clatter. “Daniel,” I yell, grabbing my starched white napkin. On my brother’s left temple, sliding into his hairline, is a huge crack; brain matter is exposed. Blood runs down his cheek and pools at the collar of his shirt.
Tears stream from my eyes, my heart rate soaring as I fight with shaky legs around the table toward him. I look at my dad, expecting the same horrified reaction, but instead he’s staring at me, wide-eyed.
“Audrey,” he says in a harsh whisper, glancing around at the other tables like he’s embarrassed. “What are you doing?”
I can’t even respond, instead I grip my brother’s shoulder and press the napkin to his seeping wound. “Stop it,” Daniel says, swatting my hand. “Audrey!” He finally succeeds in pushing me back, but I’m hysterical. I can’t lose my brother, too. I’ll die without Daniel. I’ll die.
I rush toward him again, but he puts up his hands defensively. “Stop it,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrists. The napkin falls into his lap, and I look down at it, surprised it’s still white with all that blood. Oh, God. Why isn’t anyone helping us?
“Aud,” Daniel begs, his voice cracked with worry. It draws me out of my hysterics, and when I focus on Daniel again . . . the blood is gone. The wound, too, as if it were never there. I sob out a relieved sound and take a step back, bumping into the empty table behind me.
I open my mouth to speak, but the words don’t find their way past my lips. While Daniel’s head is perfectly fine, his expression, and my father’s, is one of extraordinary concern. As if I’m the problem here.
You were bleeding to death, I think, but can’t say. Your brains were falling out, and yet you were still talking to me. How is that possible? My face is wet with tears, and I dart my eyes around the room at the people who are staring at me. The moment grows heavy, expectant. But I have no explanation for what I just saw.
I reach a trembling finger to run it over Daniel’s forehead, checking to make sure it’s really still intact, but he shifts his head away. I’ve never seen my brother more scared than he is in this moment.
“Jesus, Audrey,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I respond hoarsely. “I don’t think I am.” Yesterday I saw blood on Tanya, and today I imagined my brother’s skull was split open. What sort of person does that? What the hell is wrong with me? “I’m going to the bathroom,” I mumble, leaving for the back of the dining room.
My body shakes, my jaw quivers, as I try to catch my breath. My left leg is suddenly stiff, and my gait shifts to a limp. I could be having a stroke. Like my mother, my mind whispers. I choke back a cry, pushing away the thought—terrified of it like it’s a curse.
No. This is probably a reaction from the pill Lourdes gave me last night. It’s causing hallucinations.
I push the swinging bathroom door, grateful to find the room empty. There’s a wrought-iron bench in the corner, and I go to sit, bending forward with my head lowered in crash position.
What is happening to me?
The door flies open, the handle smacking the white tiles on the wall. I nearly jump out of my skin, and clutch my shirt over my heart. Lourdes stands there in her housekeeping uniform, her hands on her hips. She runs her dark gaze over me, gauging the situation. Then without a word she walks to the mirror and examines her reflection.
“I heard you scream, and your brother said you ran off.” She swipes her fingers over her eyelashes to unclump her mascara. “He was worried about you.” Lourdes glances back at me. “Should I be worried too?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a quick shake of my head. Now that I’ve left the dining room, the image of a bleeding Daniel seems utterly ridiculous. “Did my brother . . .” I pause, not sure how much I should share about my current mental state. “Did he look all right to you?”
Lourdes turns back to the mirror with a devilish smile. “He’s hot—even with a hangover.” She pulls a compact of foundation and a tube of lipstick out of her apron. “Why?” Lourdes pops the top off her lipstick and rings her lips in red. After smoothing them together, she runs her finger along the lower line.