Chapter Twenty-Three
Hannah meets me in the third floor waiting room after school. Like the gash on Ayo’s forehead, the bruises on her face have sunk beneath the surface again, out of sight. There are still bags beneath her eyes, and she’s thinner than she should be, but otherwise she looks fine. If I didn’t know better, I might believe that she was.
But I do know better.
I know there’s more to Hannah’s story than what’s on the surface. Just like there’s more to mine. I could never tell by looking at her that Hannah is amazing at piano or that most of the time she feels invisible or that she’s the very best kind of friend. I would have to get to know her to see these things, to see who she really is. And even then, I wouldn’t see everything. The soul doesn’t put itself on display, which is kind of the magic in it. People aren’t flat like canvases, that’s the whole point. They’re so much deeper than that.
“You ready?” Hannah asks me.
I shake my head. “No.” Then I get to my feet and follow her down the hospital hallway to Marshall’s room.
“How does he look?” I ask in a low voice.
“Not awesome,” she admits. “He’s in a lot of pain.”
I stop walking. “Should I wait then? I don’t want to crowd him if he feels crappy.”
“Don’t be a wimp,” Hannah says.
“I’m not being a wimp! I don’t want to barge in there if he needs space.”
“When was the last time my brother needed space?” She grabs my elbow and tugs me down the hall.
When we get to his room, Hannah steps back, gestures for me to go in. “Aren’t you coming?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “My parents are waiting for me in the cafeteria. I told them, last night— about everything. We’re gonna talk now about treatment.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah. Except they’re totally overreacting. My mom was looking online at inpatient programs this morning. Like, actual rehabs. I mean, I want to stop, obviously, but it’s not like I’m a full-on addict or anything.”
“Han. You’ve been taking sixteen Adderalls a day, for weeks. It’s not gonna be that easy to stop.”
She looks away. In my head I see an image of a door slamming shut. “Hey,” I say, touching her arm. “It’s okay to need help. You don’t have to do everything on your own.” And the thought remember that shoots through my head.
“What if you’re right?” she asks quietly. “What if it’s really hard and I can’t stop?”
“You can,” I say firmly. “You’ve got this. You can play freaking eighth note triplets. You can kick Adderall in the butt.”
She smiles a little.
“And if you need backup,” I deadpan. “I know Tae-Bo.”
This gets a laugh. The heaviness lifts.
“What are you gonna do about your thing?” she asks, lowering her voice. “The bruises and stuff.”
“I don’t see them anymore,” I tell her. “I talked to someone about it, like you suggested. He helped me figure some stuff out.” I want to tell her the rest of it, but I don’t have the words for it yet. “I think I’m gonna try therapy again,” I say instead. “Like, a regular thing, after school.”
“I’m proud of you,” she says. “For getting help.”
“Right back at ya, lady,” I say. She smiles.
“Now get in there,” she says, nudging me with her hip. Then she turns, heads off toward the elevator, while I stare at Marshall’s door and will myself to go inside.
Down the hall, the elevator dings. A whoosh as doors open, another whoosh as they close. I haven’t moved. The butterflies in my stomach have tripled in number.
just walk in
“I hear you out there,” Marshall calls.
I smile and go in.
“You just had to have one, didn’t you?” I say as I come through the curtain. My breath catches when I see him lying there in a hospital gown, his face almost as pale as the sheets, a dorky red wool beanie on his head. I keep talking so he won’t hear it, so he won’t know how weak he looks and how scared seeing him like this is making me feel. “You couldn’t let me be the only one with a Frankenstein scar. Um, nice hat.”
“Correction,” he says. “I couldn’t let you belittle Frankenstein’s struggle by comparing those tiny scratches of yours with his.”
“Ah.”
“I’d shame you right now by showing you a real scar,” he goes on. “But that would involve exposing my butt, and we’re not there yet. I’m not even sure we’re at the bad hair day level yet, thus the hat.” He smiles his Marshall smile and for a second all I feel is a giddy sort of relief.
But then he shifts in his bed and he winces in pain and I see that he’s not as okay as he’s pretending to be. I don’t see bruises, not with my eyes anyway, not the way I did with Hannah or Ayo or the other kids in the support group. I don’t need to. Not anymore.
I just see him.
And, oh, there is so much to see.
Pain, relief, disappointment, excitement, worry, uncertainty, love. Not just one emotion, but a dozen at once. Visible and invisible, conscious and subconscious, physical and emotional, a wild array.
“What?” he asks, because I am staring at him.
“Nothing,” I say, and smile. “It’s just so good to see you.”