“All the more for me,” said Marci, and she turned to the woman. “Thank you, that’s incredibly kind.”
“It’s the least I can do for a fellow child of God,” said the woman, putting out her hand. “Sara Glassman, it’s nice to meet you.”
“She’s the librarian,” said Ingrid. “Used to run the bookstore, but nobody in this town buys books, so they closed it five years ago.”
“That was when the new highway bypassed us,” said Beth. “We used to be right on—”
“That was fifty years, not five,” said Ingrid. “She gets lost in the past sometimes.”
“I know how she feels,” said Marci, and she looked at me with wide, helpless eyes. She looked scared, and I knew in an instant that she had flipped again—Marci had gone and a new personality had taken over, completely unaware of where we were or what we were doing.
Marci was gone.
I’d lost her again.
8
Marci was gone.
I struggled for words, sad and broken, furious that I had to go through this again and feeling more guilty than I could stand over the fact that I would even dare to think about myself instead of the girl standing in front me. She was lost and scared and she needed a friend, she needed some kind of stability, and here I was too gutted by a surge of emotions to even figure out who she was. I hated emotions so much—all they ever did was get in the way—and now look at me, thinking about myself again. I had to help her.
She was someone who recognized me, that much seemed clear. Was it Brooke? I almost said her name, but stopped. The people in the church knew her as Marci, and I didn’t want to make them suspicious.
“Marci, dear,” said Ingrid, “are you all right?”
“Marci,” said Brooke, and her eyes never left me, melting slowly from confusion to pity. “Oh, John, I’m so sorry.”
So much for quelling suspicion, but at least now I knew it was Brooke—she was the only other personality who knew about Marci.
“Who’s John?” asked Ingrid. I shook my head.
“She needs medicine,” I said, grabbing Brooke’s arm. Medicine was a great excuse because nobody wanted to argue with it and few people knew enough about medicine to ask probing questions. It would explain her confusion, I hoped, but mostly it would get us out of there—and I had to get out of there fast. “Thank you for letting us sit with you,” I mumbled. “Have a good day.” I didn’t want to make a scene but I couldn’t stay there for another minute. I needed air. Brooke followed without argument.
“Is something wrong?” asked the pastor.
“She just needs her medicine,” I said again. “We’re fine, thank you.”
“Number 42 Beck Street,” Ms. Glassman called out after us. “Lunch’ll be ready at noon.”
I picked up my pace once we got outside, turning away from the main road to try to lose myself in the side streets, to get as far away from everyone as I could. Paul was in the parking lot, leaning against a car. He stared at us in shock as we walked past.
“Hey, Marci,” he managed, just as we rounded the fence and hurried out of sight.
“How long was I gone?” asked Brooke. “Does the whole town know us?”
“Yes,” I growled. “It was stupid to go in there, it was stupid to meet everyone, it was stupid to…” I walked faster, nervous and scared and angry all at once. “Everything is stupid. Everything is wrong and I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m—” I stopped, closing my eyes, freezing in place on the sidewalk. I couldn’t talk like this; I was talking like Brooke did before a suicide attempt. I had to help her, not set her off.
I took a deep breath and turned, finding her standing behind me with deep concern etched into her face.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “everything’s fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m just a little frazzled, but we’re okay. You’re okay.”
“How long was I Marci?”
“Just last night and this morning,” I said, trying to slow my breathing. My hands were shaking, and I clenched them into fists. “We’ve only been in town for thirteen hours at the most. You’re fine.”
“But you’re not,” she said again, and she stepped toward me, reaching for my face. “I’ve always known Marci might come out and I knew that it would be hard for you—”
“Don’t touch me,” I said, shying away from her hand. “Why do you all keep trying to touch me?”
“Because that’s what humans do when we’re sad,” said Brooke. “We comfort each other.”
I folded my arms tightly across my chest. “Just stop … touching me, I can’t handle this right now, okay?”
“You hold me when I need it,” she said softly, stepping toward me again. “You know that it helps with my episodes to have a hug or a touch or some kind of physical contact.” She put her hand on my arm. “Let me do the same for you—”
“I’m not having an episode,” I said, wrenching away from her, “I’m just trying to—I don’t know!”
“What do you think an episode is if not this?”