Stephen gets admitted quickly at emergency, and Dad and I hang out in the waiting room while Mother takes him in. We sit side by side, each flipping through a magazine, and I catch Dad looking at me every now and then with an odd look on his face. It’s too soft to be anger. It could be disappointment, but there’s something else mixed in with it. Pity maybe? The look seems to say, I’m giving up, but I don’t want to. I almost tell him that I know exactly how he feels, that I feel the same way about myself, but I think if I try to speak I will break down and cry.
We’re alone in the waiting room for the first half hour, and then an exhausted-looking woman with a crusty-nosed toddler comes in. She lowers herself onto one of the plastic chairs with a loud sigh and closes her eyes while her little boy tries to stack magazines on the top of his very black, very shiny hair. They fall off one by one, but he keeps on trying.
Dad puts his magazine down and closes his eyes. I wish he would say something, tell me everything is going to be all right. But he’s probably thinking the same thing I am: what a loser the new Jessica Grenier has turned out to be. I’ve tried pretending I can be like the old Jessie, that I am as lovable and kind and as wonderful a friend/daughter/sister, but there’s no point lying anymore.
Stephen. He’s tried telling me, in his own sweet, nerdy way, to back off and give him space. But no, my defective brain couldn’t—wouldn’t—absorb something so simple. I stand up, and the room seems to shift under my feet.
“Jess?” Dad looks up at me. “Going somewhere?”
“Got a time machine?” I say. “We could travel back to this morning.” I want to be funny, make him laugh, but I know my joke will fall flat. “Or better yet, three months ago.”
Dad reaches up and puts his hand on my arm. “Jess,” he says. “Let’s not get into all this right now. It’s late. It’s been a long day. Let’s just wait for your brother. Okay?”
The little boy is beside me then, tugging at my pant leg. “Gotta snack? Hey, lady. Gotta snack?”
“Lady?” I say. “Do I look like a lady?”
He gawks at me with huge brown eyes and nods. His mother shifts in her seat and gives us a quick look before closing her eyes again. “Excuse me,” I say, and then again, louder: “Excuse me!” She opens her eyes and looks at me blankly. “Your little boy is hungry. Do you even give a crap?” Dad grabs my arm and pulls me down into the chair. The woman rolls her eyes and leans forward to dig in her purse.
“Jessie,” he whispers. “Take it easy, please?”
I slump down. It’s killing me, absolutely killing me, to be sitting here waiting. More than anything, I wish I could erase my idiotic fishing idea, make it all go away. And now Mother and Dad know about the party too, that I lied and made a total fool of myself. But all I can do is sit here and wait and accept that I am totally worthless.
We stay that way for another hour at least, the boy munching on crackers and then crashing on his mother’s lap, before Mother comes through the doorway, her shoulders sagging. Her hair is a mess and she’s all rumpled, like it’s been days, not hours, since she’s had a chance to glance in a mirror.
Dad stands up and they embrace in a long, tight hug.
“So?” Dad says. Mother leans on him; she has not yet looked my way. She’d rather pretend she has only one child, I’m sure.
“He’s going to need surgery,” she says, “to reattach the tendon. But first they need to get the swelling down. If everything goes smoothly, he’ll be able to come home in a few days.”
“Thank God,” Dad says. A soft relief trickles through me, but it’s not enough to take away the twisted feeling in my stomach.
Mother looks at me, her expression oddly neutral. “Stephen’s asleep. Let’s go home,” she says.
We walk together in silence to the parking lot. It’s dark and cold, and there is a full moon. No one says a word during the long drive home. When we finally turn off the highway to the gravel road that leads to our house, I clear my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Mother glances back at me. “Okay,” she says.
And the only other thing said is “good night” once we walk in our front door. Mother and Dad disappear to their room, to either collapse in exhaustion or discuss what they’re going to do with their satanic daughter. I sit on my bed in the darkness. The clock reads 1:23, but I know I cannot sleep, may never sleep again.
I click the light on and step up to the mirror. The Girl sizes me up, her lips pursed and her eyes narrow.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I whisper. She doesn’t answer, but I see it in her eyes. We’re on the same page, for once.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” I say. I reach out and touch the glass with my fingertips. But I don’t know why I bother. As always, I can’t reach her.
At the back of the closet I find a backpack, which I fill with some clothes, my phone and charger, and a toothbrush. I grab the sand rose from my shelf, the printout of my photo collage and, for the Girl, the shoebox. Strangely calm, I make my way downstairs. I close the back door gently and step out into the night.
I can’t be that Girl. I will always be only a second-rate version of the daughter and sister they adored. They’re better off without me.