Shannon has been in the room with Tara most of the afternoon, but she leaves when Mom and Rick return, saying she needs to answer some e-mails and study. This is no doubt true—Shannon is missing crucial days of law school—but Tara knows there are also other reasons why Shannon prefers to check her e-mail elsewhere. Shannon doesn’t want to be with them because they have different opinions on what should happen to Tara.
The truth of it is obvious: Tara’s mother and stepfather want to kill her.
They don’t think about it this way, of course. They’re wandering around the outside of 1804 London Street, calling her name and shining lights in through the filthy windows, but even if they could get through the locked doors and inside the house, they wouldn’t find the staircase that leads into darkness.
No one can follow her down there.
They don’t know that she’s still in the house, and so they hate the house for what it represents: The house killed their daughter. It needs to be condemned, torn down, and the foundation scraped clean.
The problem with that is that Tara’s body is the awful house.
She’s listened to their halting, tearful exchanges already. The word dignity is Rick’s mantra. They must think of her dignity. They’ll be preserving her dignity by ending the feeding tubes and diapers. They have no idea that she’s still here, watching them, listening to them. They have no idea what their hopelessness takes from her.
What am I taking from them, though? she thinks as she watches them. They seem so tired all the time. So beaten. All because of her.
Tell me if there’s any hope, she wants to say. She begs them through her silence and her stillness to just look her in the eye and state the cold hard truth. Is Shannon delusional, or has a doctor told them that Tara might come out of this? Is there any hope that she can convey her awareness to anyone outside of her own skull? Because if not…
If not, then do it.
Their focus isn’t even on her, though. No one wants to look her in the eye. Mom is usually on her iPad. She posts constantly on Facebook, updating friends, responding to well-wishers, and begging for help. She’s corresponding with three doctors, two ministers, and at least one psychic—maybe more, but she shut down disclosures on that pretty quickly after Shannon’s response to it. She sometimes stops and stares at Tara, but the rest of the time, she’s tapping away on the iPad. She doesn’t put on any makeup or do much more with her hair than run a brush through it. It hurts Tara to watch her. To feel responsible for it all.
Rick just gazes at Tara with a horrible detachment. He doesn’t accept the possibility that she can see him, and he’s unhappy about the time he is required to sit here and talk to her.
He will make the call, she thinks. In the end, he will convince Mom that it’s best, and then Shannon will be overruled. She doesn’t get a vote, anyhow. All she can do is argue. From a legal standpoint, isn’t my mother in charge of deciding to end my life?
These are issues that the three of them surely discuss, but they never do it in front of her. And yet, as terrible as it might be to hear, she wants them to explain the situation to her. She needs to understand.
There’s a soft knock. Rick stands and says, “Yes?” and the door opens.
Please be a doctor, Tara thinks. She hasn’t seen the doctor since she returned to awareness, only heard her family talk about doctors.
It’s not a doctor, though, or even a nurse.
It is a boy with a bouquet of flowers in hand. He’s younger than her, maybe not even out of high school yet. Average height and build, but he seems carved out of something very hard, not earned muscle so much as a natural quality; his angular face is all rigid edges and crisp lines. He’s dressed in old jeans and a black hoodie and a black baseball cap with a line of silver stitching down the front.
“Can I help you?” Rick says.
“Is this…” The stranger glances Tara’s way. “Yeah, it’s Tara’s room.” He says her name softly, almost reverently, and she is very confused. She has no idea who he is.
“Yes,” Rick says. “And you are?”
“A friend,” he says, and Tara thinks, What? A friend? I’ve never seen you before.
“Oh. Well, we’ve asked for some privacy from visitors, because it’s very—”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I just…I had to see her. I wanted to drop these off and…I’ll get out of your hair. I’m so sorry. I just had to see her.”
Who are you?
“It’s fine,” Mom says. “That’s very sweet. What’s your name?”
“Justin Loveless.”
Tara stares at him. No, he is not Justin Loveless. She hasn’t seen Justin in months, but he doesn’t look even remotely like this kid.
Is this a symptom of something? Is that really Justin? Why can’t I tell that?
While she fights a rising hysteria over this disconnect, he steps farther into the room and sets the flowers down on a table already crowded with them. He turns to her then and stares into her face and she feels a deep, cold fear and thinks, He is lying, with a sudden certainty. He is pretending to be Justin, and he is lying. Why is he here? Who is he?
Unlike most visitors, he isn’t avoiding her eyes but looking directly into them the way Shannon does, seeking some sign of connection, of awareness. It doesn’t feel affectionate, though. They are a hunter’s eyes.
“Hi, Tara,” he whispers.
She holds her breath. It’s the first time she’s realized that she can do this—the first clear connection between brain command and body response—but any joy over the discovery is drowned by the fear she feels as he studies her.
Without taking his eyes off hers, he says, “She’s not responding at all? No blinks or hand squeezes or anything?”
“Not yet,” Rick says. “But we’re hopeful.”
“Yes,” the stranger answers. “Everyone is. She’s so strong. She’ll make it back. Are the tests encouraging, at least? I know the scans can sometimes show—”
“We’re dealing with all of that as a family and with the doctors,” Rick says, cutting him off. The stranger nods, accepting that, and Mom seems embarrassed.
“How do you know her, Justin?” she asks. “Do you go to Hammel?”
He straightens and looks at Mom. “I do. We were in the same a cappella group.”
It is true that Justin Loveless goes to Hammel College and that Tara sang with him during her brief flirtation with the music department as a freshman, when she had visions of Broadway that were quickly crushed. But…this is not Justin Loveless.
“It’s very nice of you to come,” Rick says, “but we really do need to ask you to respect the family’s request.”
If this were a real friend, Tara would be furious at Rick’s coldness, but instead she thinks, Yes, get him, Rick, get him out of here!
“Of course. I shouldn’t have come. I just wanted to see her and tell her that I know she can make it back to us. I’m sorry to intrude, though. I really am.”
“It’s okay, hon,” Mom says.
He gives a little nod, then says, “I’ll leave now. I really appreciate you letting me say hello, though. A lot of people are thinking of her. I hope you know that.”
“We do. Thank you. Hey!” Mom’s face brightens. “Have you joined the Team Tara page?”
“Team Tara,” he echoes. “What’s that?”
“We’re on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. I’m trying to keep everyone updated because we can’t, obviously, let everyone in to visit. But we know how many kind people like you are out there, and we don’t want to take that for granted.”
“Team Tara. I like that. I’ll sign up. I am definitely on Team Tara.”
Rick clears his throat, and the stranger nods with understanding, then turns back to Tara. He leans down and puts his hand on hers. The overwhelming, irrational fear returns, amplified now by his touch. His eyes search hers.
“When you come back, Tara,” he says, “I’ll be here.”