Two days later, I’m discharged from the hospital. My mom informs me that the goal is to get me back to school as soon as possible. I’d rather finish out the rest of the semester at home while I continue to heal, but once Mom has made a decision about something, arguing is pointless.
After a weekend of watching me like a hawk, she hires a nurse named Connie to look after me while she’s at work. Connie is an older lady who changes the dressing on my leg and forces me to get out of bed every few hours. My leg still aches and every time I pass something remotely shiny I see my scarred and bruised reflection staring back at me, my hair hanging unevenly where some of it was cut away.
But honestly, that stuff doesn’t even bother me. I don’t care that I’m ugly. I don’t care that I’ve run three miles a day, five times a week, for the past five years and now I can barely walk. I just want them to let me stay in bed. I never knew how exhausting grief could be. I haven’t even cried that much since I left the hospital. The numbness has worn off and the pain has definitely found me, but it’s like my body can’t find the energy to produce actual tears.
So I just lie in bed, hour after hour, day after day, trying to make sense of what happened. I keep coming back to how unfair it is that Dallas died and the other driver and I both got to live. Brad Freeman must feel horrible. I can’t imagine what it would be like to kill someone drinking and driving. My mom sat me down before I even got a learner’s permit and told me that she realized kids drink sometimes, and that if I was ever anywhere and needed a ride home she would come get me, no questions asked. I know that must have been hard for her—she’s not a no-questions-asked kind of person. If only Freeman had called someone.
I still haven’t been able to bring myself to hate him, though. Part of me wishes I could—that I could just blame him for everything and stop caring about filling in the blanks from that night. But a bigger part of me needs answers.
And that means more pain. Just thinking about things leaves my muscles weak, my head throbbing with the endless ache that comes from concentrating too hard. I pull my covers up over my head, blocking out the light, blocking out the world. Pressing my fingertips to my temples, I once again replay each individual second of that night that I remember. I was looking for Dallas outside on Tyrell’s deck. And later, flashing lights, firefighters, and blood. But in the middle? Still nothing.
Dallas’s parents come to visit me the Thursday after I arrive home. It’s eleven a.m. and I’m tucked safely beneath the patchwork quilt my grandmother made me for my thirteenth birthday. It’s a mix of tan and turquoise squares, with images of different breeds of horses sewn between them.
Connie knocks sharply on my door. “Genevieve. You need to get up.”
I pull the quilt up over my head and hide between an Appaloosa and a quarter horse. I pretend like I’m still sleeping, even though I’ve been awake for hours. She opens the door and claps her hands so loudly that I flinch.
“Get up,” she says again. “The Kades are here.” Connie steps inside my room and closes the door behind her. “Come on. I’ll help you look presentable.”
Mom said the Kades stopped by my ICU room a couple of times before I woke up, but this will be the first time I’ve spoken to them since the accident. “I don’t need to look presentable,” I mutter. “Just stall them for a few minutes so I can brush my teeth.”
“Will do. Tyrell James called earlier too, by the way. He said to let you know he’s thinking of you.”
“Thanks.” Tyrell came to see me the day before I left the hospital. We took turns exchanging awkward condolences and then he showed me some video clips he had of Dallas from their recording sessions. I should call him back because I know he’s hurting too, but it’s hard. I’m barely keeping it together myself. I’m not sure I have much to give to another person right now.
“Call me if you need help,” Connie adds. She heads for the hallway. After she’s gone I pull a hooded sweatshirt over my pajama top and trade my bottoms for a pair of track pants. I brush my teeth and splash a little water on my face, pausing for a second to consider whether my appearance will upset Dallas’s mom. I’m still wrapping my craniotomy incision in gauze even though I don’t need to, because I don’t want to look at that big bald spot. I decide I can’t look any worse now than I did in the ICU.
I try my hardest not to limp as I make my way into the living room, where Glen and Nora Kade are sitting on our white leather sofa. I can’t remember the last time anyone sat on that. Mom and I do our limited lounging in our family room at the other end of the house.
“Oh, Genevieve.” Dallas’s mom starts to cry the second she sees me, which makes me start to cry. Connie produces a box of tissues from somewhere and Nora and I each take one. Nora slouches over as she enfolds me in a gentle hug, patting me awkwardly on the back. “I’m so sorry,” we whisper at the same time. I sob into the collar of her shirt, thinking about how different she feels—smells, even—than my mom. My mom is not a sloucher. She’s also not a hugger, but if she were I’d end up with my face against the sharpness of her collarbone. I’d smell the clean scent of her fabric softener and maybe a hint of the surgical hand scrub that she uses at the hospital. Dallas’s mom smells like a mix of lavender and vanilla.
I cling to her for a few seconds as she pets the ends of my hair.
Connie sets the tissues onto our pristine glass coffee table. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she says softly.
Pulling away from Nora, I take a seat on the chaise lounge across from the sofa, another piece of furniture that’s always been more for show than actual use. The living room curtains are pulled completely closed, but I can see the occasional shadow of someone moving on the other side of them.
“Did the vultures harass you?” I ask.
When I came home from the hospital, Mom shielded me from the reporters the best she could, but I wasn’t prepared for the microphones thrust under my nose, for the barrage of questions. I shudder just thinking about it.
Dallas’s dad looks toward the closed curtains for a moment. “We’ve gotten pretty good at saying ‘No comment,’ so they weren’t too bad.” He looks back to me and clears his throat. “Look. Genevieve. We wanted to apologize for going ahead with the services for Dallas without you.”
It turns out that Dallas’s parents held his funeral the day before I woke up from my coma. Mom didn’t mention it at the hospital because she thought I’d be upset, but after I got home, Shannon sent me a YouTube link where someone recorded the whole thing. The church was packed and hundreds of people waited outside to be part of the graveside ceremony.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You didn’t know if I was even going to live.” I look down at my hands, my trembling fingers making tiny tears in the Kleenex I’m clutching. “Plus, I kind of want to remember Dallas the way he was, you know?”
Nora nods rapidly, her eyes filling with tears again. She grabs for a second tissue.
“Dallas didn’t have a will, of course,” Glen says. “Not for his earnings or his personal effects, but we know how close the two of you were.”
My eyes widen. “Oh. I don’t need or expect stuff from him. We weren’t, like, getting engaged or anything.”
Nora smiles through her tears. “I could tell that he loved you, even though he didn’t talk about that kind of stuff with me. But wow, when I listen to the album, I realize just how deep things ran between the two of you.”
I’ve heard the whole album, of course. Dallas tried to tell me that all the songs about romance were inspired by me, but I could tell which of them actually were and which were just cool ideas that he and his producer dreamed up together.
Nora swallows back a lump in her throat. “Is there anything you would like . . . his laptop, his clothing, perhaps photographs of you two?”
I blink hard and then look down at my lap. The Kleenex I’ve been holding is a mess of torn fragments. I hadn’t thought about everything Dallas left behind. Not just people and an album sure to go platinum—or whatever successful albums go—but little things like his collection of pop culture T-shirts, his notebook of partially written songs, and our junior prom picture wedged in his dresser mirror.
“Pictures would be good,” I whisper. “I’m not sure if I can—”
“We don’t need to do this now,” Glen says. “We just wanted to come see you and wish you well, and make sure there wasn’t anything specific that you wanted.”
I want Dallas to be alive, I think. But I don’t say it, because his mom has finally stopped crying, and I don’t want to be the reason she starts again.
After Dallas’s parents leave, I head back to my room, but Connie follows me. “Good news,” she says, just as I’m about to crawl back into bed. “Most of the reporters followed the Kades when they left, which means that for the time being your paparazzi have dwindled down to just two. How about a walk around the block? I’m sure you could use some fresh air.”
“I’m not really feeling up to it,” I mumble.
“You know, not exercising is going to delay your recovery. Aren’t you anxious to get back into your running shoes?”
Yes. So I can run away from all this.
My new phone chirps with a text, a sadistic reminder of how I’ll never be able to escape completely. I swipe at the screen. It’s Shannon.
Her: When are you coming back to school? I am dying without you.
Me: I am just plain dying :P
Her: Oh, G. I wish I were there to give you a hug :(
Me: It’s okay. I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed.
Her: It’s okay if you’re not fine, you know?
Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s like they missed the actual accident, so they want me to crash and burn a second time so they can witness the wreckage.
Me: I gotta run. Evil Nurse is forcing me to exercise.
Her: Yay! If you can exercise, you can sit through all your boring classes.
Me: Ha. Maybe.
Her: All the hugs.
Me: All the <333
I turn back to Connie. I could refuse her, but if I do, my mom will end up making me go for a walk later. At least now there’re no kids from school outside. I think of the unread emails in my inbox. I don’t want to hear about how sorry they are. It won’t change anything. It won’t fix anything. “Get rid of the remaining vultures, and I’m all yours.”
“I’ll do my best.” Connie disappears and returns about ten minutes later. “I told them their presence was hindering your recovery and suggested they take a lunch break.”
“And they agreed to that?”
“No, but I called your mother and she said to let them choose between a small payout to leave you alone or dealing with her lawyer.”
“How small is small?”
“Two hundred bucks each.”
“Good to know I’m such a cash cow,” I mutter. “All right, let’s do this.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to . . . freshen up a bit first?”
I glance in the mirror and debate trying to fix myself up, but there’s no point in putting lipstick on a pig, like my dad used to say. I look like crap, and no amount of foundation or mascara is going to hide it. “Nah, let’s just get it over with.”
The two of us head for the front door. Connie helps me down the porch steps and I blink rapidly in the bright sun. It makes me think of a line from a movie I saw with Dallas: Why do my eyes hurt? You’ve never used them before. I feel sort of like that, as if I’m seeing everything differently now.
Connie walks next to me on the side with my injured leg. I step with my good leg and pull the other one behind me. I’m lucky that it’s just pain I’m wrestling with, that there wasn’t any nerve damage. Eventually my leg will return to its pre-accident state, even if the rest of me won’t.
The smell of fresh-cut grass wafts over from the neighbor’s lawn. A flag mounted above the mailbox snaps in the breeze. A face peers out from living room window. Mrs. Ernst. I used to see her power-walking in the early mornings while I was running. We exchanged waves and smiles, but that’s all, because I always had my headphones in. Dallas used to make me playlists. At first he named them for the days of the week, but later he got more creative. Now my iPod is full of lists like “Feelin’ Good Mix,” “Running Sucks So Why Do I Keep Going?” and “Songs for Genna.” That last one was a mix of stuff he wrote for me and other songs he said made him think of me.
Mrs. Ernst lifts her hand in recognition. I force a smile. My cheek muscles feel stiff, like it’s the first time I’ve used them too.
Connie and I make our way slowly around the block. Very slowly, like “lapped by an old lady with tennis balls on the bottom of her walker” speed. Okay, not really—we only have to pass one person on our walk—Mrs. Henderson, whose daughter ran cross-country with me back when I was in middle school. But if an old lady with a walker had been out with us, I guarantee she would’ve kicked my ass.
“It’s good to see you, Genevieve.” Mrs. Henderson beams like I’m one of those internet videos of a baby sloth getting a bath or something.
“You too.” I manage a second smile in return.
“Looks like you’ll be back running in no time!” she chirps.
“Hope so,” I say, limping off at a speed that might just rival that of a baby sloth.
When my mom gets home, I stand outside her study and eavesdrop on Connie giving her a progress report.
“She’s moving around just fine. A bit slow, but her endurance is good. Didn’t want help getting dressed. Even made lunch for the two of us.”
“Excellent. Thank you so much for taking such good care of her.” Mom sounds pleased.
I have a feeling I know what’s coming next, and I want no part of it. Before either Mom or Connie can catch me eavesdropping, I head back to my room. I hide away until it’s time for dinner.
Later, when I’m setting the table, Mom sneaks up behind me. She rests a hand on my shoulder and I flinch, dropping a fork onto the clean kitchen floor.
Mom reaches down and snatches up the fork in her nimble surgeon hands before I can even say I’m sorry. She goes to the dishwasher and deposits the dirty utensil into one of the plastic baskets. Then she turns back to me. “Connie says you’re moving around without needing help, doing basic things for yourself. That’s great. I think you should try going back to school on Monday.”
“But Mom.” I retrieve a new fork from the top drawer of our kitchen island. “There are only two weeks left in the semester. Do I have to?”
“Dr. Chao told me the best thing for you would be to get back to a normal routine as soon as possible.”
“Get back to normal?” I grip the fork tightly. The world might have flipped some terrible switch and stolen away my boyfriend, but I don’t have a switch I can flick to be okay with it. “Dallas is dead. That is never going to feel normal.”
“I know, honey. But wallowing in your grief isn’t going to help. If you want, I can bring you by the grave site. The stone won’t be up for a couple of months, but all the things his fans have left are lovely. Maybe it would help you find closure.”
“I don’t need closure,” I tell her. “It’s not like we broke up.”
She plucks a piece of lint from the front of her blouse. “Is this about how you look?”
“What? No!” Okay, the giant creepy scars and big bald stripe across my head don’t exactly increase my desire to spend all day in public, but it’s not like I have anyone I need to look good for. And it’s not like everyone at school won’t be staring at me already.
“What then?”
“I just don’t want to deal with any of it—the sympathy, the staring, the inappropriate questions.”
“Maybe you should give your friends more credit,” Mom says. “I don’t think they’re going to pump you for gory details.”
“It’s not my friends I’m worried about,” I mutter, thinking back to the random emails from people who didn’t even know Dallas.
“Genevieve, you have to try.” Mom glances at the black marble wall clock and then back to me. “Can you do that for me? At least try?”
A surge of guilt moves through me. I talk a lot of crap about my mom being a dictator, but the reality is that she works her ass off to take care of both of us. Yeah, I wish she cut me more slack, but maybe maintaining a household without much support from anyone requires ruling with an iron fist. I should try, for her. Maybe school won’t be as bad as I think. Maybe I can just zone out—pretend I’m hiding in my bed all day and then come home and do my assignments in the quiet safety of my room.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” Mom checks the time again. “The food was supposed to be here five minutes ago. I’m going to give them a call.” She swipes at her phone and turns away to look at something in the backyard, tapping one foot while she waits for the call to connect.
I head back to my room and start mentally preparing for going back to school. I grab my phone to text Shannon but then decide it might be fun to surprise her. Peering at my reflection in the mirror, I try to cover the scar on my cheekbone with some concealer, but it just makes it look more obvious. At least I got the stitches out the other day.
There is, however, still an extremely creepy line of staples in my skull. I don’t want to show up with my head bandaged, but I’m not allowed to wear hats in the classroom, so covering it up will require a bit of creativity. I scan my room for ideas. My eyes fall on a rack of patterned scarves I wear mostly in the fall and winter. I pull a pink one from the rack and fold it into thirds and tie it around my head.
Not terrible. I look like I should be reading someone’s fortune at a carnival, but at least I don’t look like a Halloween monster. I shrug at my reflection. It’s all just pretend anyway. Making myself look normal on the outside isn’t going to change the way I feel inside. Hollow. Empty. About as far away from normal as I can get.