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She stared up at him, seeing remorse in his eyes—and love—and it affected her so profoundly that it was all she could do to mutter, “Shit happens. ” She couldn’t think about him—and them—now. Turning away, she went into the ICU room and closed the door behind her.
The click of the door sent her back in time. Suddenly she was sixteen again, coming into her mom’s hospital room. Come here, baby girl, I won’t break. You can hold my hand …
Marah shook the memory free and approached the bed. The room was sleek and boxy and filled with machines that plunked and whooshed and beeped. But all she saw was Tully.
Her godmother looked … ruined—crushed, almost—pierced by needles and hooked up to machines. Her face was bruised and cut and bandaged in places; her nose looked broken. Without hair, she looked small and vulnerable, and the tube going into her head was terrifying.
It’s my job to love you.
Marah drew in a sharp, ragged breath. She was responsible for this; she knew it. Her betrayal of Tully had to be part of why her godmother was here, fighting for life.
“What’s wrong with me?”
She’d never voiced this query before, not when she’d started smoking pot or sleeping with Pax, not when she’d cut her hair with a razor or pierced her eyebrow with a safety pin or when she’d gotten a small Celtic cross tattooed on the back of her wrist, not when she’d run away with Pax and lived on food they found in Dumpsters. Not even when she sold the story to Star magazine.
But she asked it now. She’d betrayed her godmother and run away from her family and ruined everything, broken the only hearts that mattered. Something must be wrong with her.
But what? Why had she turned her back so completely on everyone who loved her? And worse, why had she chosen to do that terrible, unforgivable thing to Tully?
“I know you’ll never forgive me,” she said, wishing now, for the first time, that she knew how to forgive herself.
* * *
I waken in a darkness so complete I wonder if I have been buried alive. Or maybe I am dead.
I wonder if a lot of people came to my funeral.
Oh, for God’s sake.
“Katie?” This time, I think I make a sound. It is her name, but it’s enough.
Close your eyes.
“They are closed. It’s dark. Where am I? Can you—”
Shhh. Relax. I need you to listen.
“I’m listening. Can you get us out of here?”
Focus. Listen. You can hear her.
There is a break in her voice when she says her.
“… up. Sorry … Please…”
“Marah. ” When I say her name, lights come on. I see that I am in the hospital room again. Have I always been here? Is this the only here for me? Around me are walls of glass, through which I see other, similar rooms beyond. Inside here, there is a bed surrounded by machines that are hooked up to my broken body: tubes and electrodes and casts and bandages.
Marah is sitting beside that other me.
My goddaughter is in soft focus, her face is blurred a little. Her hair is cotton-candy-pink, razor-cut, and unattractive as hell, a little roosterlike the way she’s gelled it, and she has on more makeup than Alice Cooper in his heyday. A big black coat makes her look like a kid playing dress-up for Halloween.
She is saying my name and trying not to cry. I love this girl, and her sadness scalds my soul. She needs me to wake up. I can tell. I will open my eyes and smile at her and tell her it is okay.
I concentrate hard, say, “Marah, don’t cry. ”
Nothing.
My body just lies there, inert, breathing through a tube, eyes swollen and shut.
