Miss Congeniality

Early afternoon. Mother is in my room, giving me a mini-lecture on her favorite subject, Life Before the Very Bad Day. Today it’s about our summers, and how we usually go camping and I am obsessed with roasting the perfect marshmallow and Stephen puffs up when he gets a mosquito bite. I nod and listen, but all I want is to have a long nap or pick my hangnails. She finally gives me a goodbye peck on the cheek and I curl up on the bed, but the door swings back open.

I think maybe she forgot her purse or something. But when I look up, three girls around my age are standing in the doorway. One is short and athletic-looking, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Another looks like a little waif, with long brown hair parted in the middle. The third is super tall, with a couple of bright-blue streaks in her dark hair. They are all smiling in a friendly-but-terrified way that makes me feel like a specimen in a zoo.

“We just saw your mom,” the tall one says. “She said this should be an okay time to come say hello.”

The other two nod in unison.

“Oh,” I say.

“If that’s cool with you, of course,” the waif says. Written in bright fuchsia across her shirt are the words Get a Life!

I shrug. “Sure.”

I know who they are. Mother pointed them out in the photos on the bulletin board, and I have an oversized Get Well card they all signed and decorated with lots of hearts and smiley faces. One of them wrote: The Pink Posse is not the same without you! They are the Friends. They move together as a pack toward the bed, surveying the room. Their names pop into my head: Cybil, Kerry and Megan. But I have no clue which is which.

The tall one is the first to hug me. I let her, my arms hanging at my sides. “Glad you’re okay,” she whispers gruffly, her arms tight around me. “We thought maybe we had lost you.”

The athletic-looking one gives me a quick squeeze. When she steps back, she smiles but can’t look me in the eye.

The waif gives me the longest hug of all, her hazel eyes misty. “We wanted to come ages ago,” she says, “but we weren’t allowed. God, we’ve been so worried.” Her face is pale with a sprinkling of freckles on her nose.

Mother’s head pops in the door, and I realize she has been hovering outside, monitoring the situation. “Everything all right, Jessie?”

“Fine,” I answer, and she disappears. It’s probably a big moment, I think, this casual-seeming reunion. Likely it has been discussed with the doctors, trying to decide the right time and the right way. Another test of sorts. Will Jessie recognize the Pink Posse? Will she break into fits of giggles, reminiscing over food fights and fashion faux pas?

The tall one doesn’t beat around the bush. “So,” she says, “do you remember me?”

Something about her is familiar, but it’s probably only from the pictures. “I don’t know,” I say.

She takes my hand and squeezes. This girl exudes confidence, making her seem much older than her fifteen or so years. “Well, that’s better than no.”

“Stupid question,” I say, “but what’s your name?”

She blushes. I’ve caught her by surprise. I try to put myself in her place—one of my best friends survives an encounter with a crazed beast and comes out of a coma, only she doesn’t recognize me. I suddenly want to make her feel better, to lessen the blow. “Megan, Kerry or Cybil?”

It seems to work, because she smiles. “Cybil.”

The sporty-looking one is Kerry, and the waif is Megan. Now that the names are established, they wander about the room, looking at the photos and checking out the view of the parking lot.

“Any hot doctors?” Cybil asks. Kerry giggles.

I shake my head. “Not in this ward anyway.”

“And how’s the food?” Kerry asks.

Cybil groans. “You and your stomach, Ker. ”

“It’s not so bad, if you don’t mind roadkill,” I answer, even though I barely touch the food. I eat mostly cereal, and so far no one has forced me to finish my other meals.

They all laugh a little too loudly. Kerry gives Megan a look I recognize, one I’ve seen Mother and Father share. An Oh poor Jessie look.

“Well,” Kerry says in a slightly high, trying-to-sound-casual voice, “you were always complaining that your life lacked excitement.”

Megan shoots her a stern look. “Ker! Seriously…”

“Geez,” I say, “maybe I should have run away with the circus or something. I could have skipped the part where they drilled a hole into my skull and sucked out the fluids with a mini-vacuum.”

An awkward silence; then Cybil puts her hand on my arm. “I think our time is up, Jess. We’ve been severely warned not to overstay our welcome. We”—she glances at the other girls for encouragement—“we miss you.”

I wish I could say I miss them too. Deep down inside, I must. I must miss what they meant to me in my other life. They were the ones who understood what I was going through, the ones I could talk to about stuff. Stuff, I’m guessing, like boys and tests and clothes and the latest gossip. And now? Well, there is no one who can understand.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

They swarm around me, but they must have been warned not to pet the animal, that she might attack, because instead of the group hug I expect, they give me little pats on my back. Then they rush out of the room.

Mother strolls in moments later. “So?” she asks. “How’d it go? You’ve always been lucky to have such great friends.”

I look over at her, with her naïve, hopeful smile. I can’t help it—I groan. “Right, I’m one lucky ducky, aren’t I? Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”

I know it’s not her fault that the word lucky hit a nerve. But I can’t stand it anymore, everyone thinking they know how I feel or should feel or what I should appreciate. Her smile falls like I’ve slapped her in the face. She must be tired of it all too, because she lets out a defeated sigh and picks her purse up off the table. On her way to the door, she touches me gently on the arm. “I’m sorry I threw that at you. ” A quick peck on the cheek, and she is gone.

I am left alone in my room to study the walls and think about the Girl—the old Me—and the new Me, and how much of a disappointment this new version must be. I wonder when the Girl is going to teach me how to play nice.

The lounge is empty when I get there, so I settle into the couch. The remote control has made a reappearance and sits on the coffee table, so I pick it up and switch on the TV. On-screen, a little boy takes a spoonful of soup, then whispers to the camera that it’s even better than his mom’s. It’s midafternoon, so I’m guessing Felonia must be coming on soon. My thumb pushes the arrow button past another commercial—this one for a pocket-sized epilator—then a tennis match, until finally she appears.

Stunning as always, she is still lounging in her hospital bed, surrounded by flowers. The scratch on her face has healed, and her hair is pinned up in a style more suitable for a cocktail party than a hospital. When she picks up a framed picture on the bedside table and clutches it to her chest, the camera zooms in on her face.

“Oh, Sam,” she says. “I must have loved you once. Our wedding is set for only weeks from now. But that was before the accident. How can I marry you when you are like a stranger to me? But if I don’t marry you, will I be walking away from the love of my life?”

Her lower lip trembles, and tears streak down her cheeks.

This dumbass soap has it all wrong. I should write them a letter:

Dear Through the Hourglass,

Your show is crap. Especially the part about Felonia. I know, because I don’t remember my past either. But I would never clutch a photo longingly or blubber over a lost love. I wouldn’t because I have no feelings.

Yours truly,
Jessica