She’s leaned forward and whispered this, like someone might overhear. “Did they tell you not to tell me?”
I think at first by “they” she means the doctors, but then I get it. She’s regurgitating rote from those case studies in her books again. She used to make me read them aloud to her so she could guess the right answer and prep for her exams. Because that’s the kind of question you’d ask a patient you’re trying to categorize, ticking off all her symptoms until the winning diagnosis dings and lights up the game board. If I tell her that the alien-vampires who’ve come down from the galactic heavens are telling me what to think and what to do and what to say, she’ll win the prize refrigerator.
I give a tiny shake of my head. That’s the only answer I can offer right now.
“Oh, Lauren,” she says, a hint of pity in her voice. Her mouth crumples, showing me how defeated this makes her feel. She asks if I need anything from home and I describe what she can bring me: my textbook, for the test Monday; some books to read, anything really; my gray notebook with the doodles on the front and I think I left it on my desk; my eyeliner and the rest of my makeup; more socks.
Then I make myself ask, “Did they call you yet? The police? About Abby?”
What I know from my last night at home—and my last visit to the house before Trina left me her knife—is that Abby
might
still
be
out
there
somewhere. It’s possible. I can’t give up hope on that.
She’s hesitating, so I really do begin to think it’s about to happen, the truth, the end of the story, the end. And will I be allowed to be sad about my friend while in here, will they let me have that emotion? Will they even let me call her my friend?
But my mom shakes her head. “No news,” is all she says.
“Do you want to call them and ask, maybe? For me?”
I think she might agree to it. Then she veers around and completely changes the subject. “So I called Jamie. I thought he should know.”
“About Abby?” I ask, confused.
“About you,” she says. “I called and told him you were here.”
My real mom would have called Jamie. That’s something she actually would do. This is her, isn’t it? This is my mother, and this crazy girl is me.
“He picked up your van from that party for you. He said he found your keys.”
“Please tell him thanks for me,” I say.
“He might visit. I hope that’s okay.”
I don’t want Jamie to see me like this; it’s bad enough he knows, and I don’t know how much my mom told him, so I can’t be sure how much he knows. It could be all; it could be every awful thing. He’s probably so relieved right now that we broke up; he’s probably eternally grateful to be able to stay out of this. Away from me.
— — —
Soon it’s time for good-byes. There’s the hug, never-ending so I feel like I can’t
breathe,
and
there’s
the
remembered scent of my mother’s hair, which brings me back to childhood, and I’m thinking randomly about the wasp sting and the frozen peas, and I feel worse again for doubting her. I don’t know what’s happened to me. To my head.
I let her go without standing up, as my legs weigh twice as much as they did just minutes before and my left arm feels too weak to lift. Only my right arm can be made to move, and I wave that at her until she disappears down the hall.
It isn’t until she’s gone that I think to raise my right hand to my throat. I feel the exposed skin at my collarbone, tracing my fingers around the base of my neck like I’m aiming a guillotine. I let my hand go lower, feeling for it. The pendant isn’t there.
I don’t remember seeing it here, in the hospital. I don’t remember feeling it, against my skin, all those days I spent in bed. Was it on me when they brought me in? It should have been around my neck, but what if something happened when they carried me out on the stretcher?
What if it fell off? What if it got caught on something and it broke? I have to go after my mom and get her to look for it at home.