I forced one eye open. Then the other.
My head had been caught in a vise. My mouth was lined with cotton. The light in the room was low, but enough for me to make out the ridge of my legs and feet underneath the covers of a bed and the dark alcove around the corner, where the door would be. A white-noise machine hummed in the corner, and a sterile smell crept up on me.
I was in the hospital. Bed. Bathroom. Machines hanging from the ceiling. Red-eyed camera by the door. No hallucinations here.
My body was still asleep. I flexed my fingers and toes to make sure I could, then looked around.
The curtains were pulled back from my bed. The bed next to mine was empty. On the other side of me, a figure swaddled in a blanket slept soundly in a chair that looked like it had been designed by a torture expert.
My mother.
I coughed to clear my throat. She jerked awake, stared at me blankly until she seemed to realize I was staring back at her. Then she was right in front of me, brushing my hair from my face.
“Oh, Alex.” Her eyes had already glazed over with tears. She held me carefully, like I’d break.
“What happened?”
“That scoreboard fell on you,” she said, sniffling. “Don’t you remember?”
“Sort of.” I did. I remembered running, then pain, then the light closing off around me like I was being smashed between pages of a book.
“They said . . . they weren’t sure if you were going to wake up.” A sob escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Where is Miles? Is he okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, honey, he’s fine.”
“Is he here?”
“Not right now, no.”
I had to figure out where he was. I had to make sure he was safe. “How long was I asleep?”
“Three days.”
“Mom.” I said it mostly from surprise. The tears were spilling down her face.
“I was so scared,” she said. “When your dad told me you went to school, I wanted to bring you home, but he said you’d be okay. . . .”
“This wasn’t his fault.”
“I know it wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t my fault either.”
“I know, I know.” She wiped her eyes with the collar of her shirt. “I don’t blame you; of course I don’t blame you. I just want to keep you safe, and I . . . I don’t think I know how to do that anymore.”
Carefully, making sure nothing hurt too badly, I propped myself up on my elbows. She took the hint and put her arms around me, hugging me to her.
Why had she waited so long to tell me about Charlie? Was it because she couldn’t bring herself to think about it? Or because I was happier when Charlie was around?
And was this why she wanted me to go to the mental hospital? Not to get me out of her hair, but to save me from myself, because she couldn’t do it anymore?
“I bought you . . . some Yoo-hoos. . . .” she said when she finally pulled away, sniffing. “I put them in the fridge, because I know you like them cold. . . .”
And I thought she poisoned my food.
So apparently crying did hurt. My tears stung. I felt the pulse in my head as my face heated up.
“Love you, Mom,” I said.
She leaned over and kissed my forehead.
Chapter Fifty-four
The next day, while Mom went for lunch, I got an unexpected visitor.
Celia. She stood at the edge of the room, looking a little more like her old self—blond hair, too-short skirt, layer of makeup topped by a coat of strawberry-colored lip gloss.
“You know,” I began, finishing off a drink of water from my sippy cup, “everyone says history repeats itself, but I did not expect it to be so literal.”
Her jaw tightened, her hands fisting in the hem of her shirt. Tough crowd. She stood there, staring, like I was going to whip a couple of throwing knives out from under the covers and use her for target practice.
Finally, she said, “How did you know?”
“I’m crazy, didn’t you hear?” I said. “The real question is, why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Celia shrugged. “I . . . I don’t know. I didn’t think anyone would care. They’d say I was just trying to get attention. Or that it was my fault. Or . . . I don’t know.”
She suddenly looked very, very old. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of the way people look at me and the things they say. And I’m tired of trying to deal with it on my own.”
“So don’t,” I said. “You’re allowed to ask for help.”
“Why doesn’t anyone tell us that?”
“Because . . . maybe no one told them.”
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Celia asked quietly.
“No,” I replied. “I don’t think you’re crazy, either.”
She smiled.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that the nurse came in and said, “We’re all so surprised you haven’t had any visitors yet!”
Chapter Fifty-five