I got up to use the bathroom. The girl didn’t even stir. That worried me. But when I leaned over her, her breathing was even.
In the hallway, the light falling through the translucent vent cover let me know it was late morning. Without a phone, clock, or watch, it was so hard to keep track of time. Every day I made a tick mark on a paper napkin hidden in the back of a cupboard. But since I wasn’t sure when I’d started it, I didn’t really know what day of the week it was. Maybe even what month.
After I flushed the toilet, I did what I no longer allowed myself to do.
I turned on the bathroom light and looked at my face.
Or what was left of it.
I did not let myself blink. I made myself see it. Every inch of red that still showed the marks of being stitched together.
My face was no longer a bloody, open horror.
It was worse.
I looked like a monster. Sir had taken out the stitches, but my skin was still angry, crimson and swollen, meeting in some places, gaping in others.
My bottom lip had a hole in it now. The ripped edges of my torn left nostril had also refused to knit together. I whistled when I breathed, and I drooled all the time. A barely healed gash ran from the edge of my lower eyelid nearly to my chin. A bit higher, and I would have lost my eye.
When my face started to burn, I realized I was crying, salty tears slowly leaking from my eyes. With a piece of toilet paper, I dabbed at them as lightly as I could. The pain still made me wince. Then I flipped the switch down and left. Since it was daytime, I decided it was okay to turn on the light in the bedroom. I wanted to look at her, check to see if she was okay.
Lying on her side, curled around her broken arm in its makeshift splint, the girl still didn’t stir. Sir had said to let her sleep, that that would help her heal, but wasn’t there a point when it was too long?
I sat back down on the edge of the bed. The girl’s scraped-up face was slack, her mouth open. She was so still. Could she be dead? A fist squeezed my heart. Holding my breath, I leaned closer. Her chest was definitely moving. Her hair was dark like mine, but wavier. It smelled so sweet, like apples. I had run out of shampoo months ago, and Sir hadn’t brought any more.
Even though I was only an inch away from her face, her breath kept the same rhythm and she didn’t move.
With trembling fingers, I reached out and gently cupped her left hand, the injured one. She still didn’t flinch or react in any way. Her fingers were the same color and temperature as mine. I released her hand. It stayed limp.
After all these lonely months, here was this girl, plopped down in the middle of my bedroom. It felt like she filled up every square inch of space. She was an alien who had crash-landed on planet Jenny. Even asleep, she changed everything. Someone else to look at. Someone else to talk to, at least once she woke up.
What would she think when she saw me? Would she scream? Throw up? The first time I saw myself in a mirror, I had gotten sick. Vomited so hard some of the stitches had ripped free.
The quilt had fallen away from the top half of her body. Her green, short-sleeve T-shirt read MO DUK PAI. I said the words out loud. I said everything out loud now, just to have someone to talk to. Occasionally I recorded myself singing and then played it back and sang the harmony. Somehow these things made me feel less alone. When a faint frown creased her face, I realized I needed to remember how I had behaved out in the world. I went into the living area. Sir had left the backpack on the couch, so it must be hers. I looked inside. There wasn’t much. A wallet, a big library book about that kung fu guy Bruce Lee, and a black cloth sash that I figured must have something to do with the book.
The wallet held three dollars. A little pocket that fastened with a snap held two quarters and a nickel. In the slots for cards, there were just three: a library card, a driver’s license, and a student ID for Wilson High. Her name was Savannah Taylor, and she was a sophomore.
Maybe it was a good thing Savannah was still asleep. Now that I saw the RV through her eyes, it seemed cluttered and not all that clean. Some of it I couldn’t help, like the stains on the carpet and built-in chairs. But I could at least straighten up.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, I started putting away the clothes I had washed earlier in the kitchen sink, even though they weren’t quite dry. To make things neater, I put things into piles. Then I balled up a paper towel, wet it in the kitchen sink, and began to swipe at the cobwebs in the corners.
When I first realized that I was stuck here forever, stuck in a space I could cross in nine paces, I almost went crazy. The silence lay heavy in my ears. No one to talk to, nothing to look at. My friends, my family, the freedom to go anyplace in my car—all of it had been taken away as if it had never been. It was like living in a cave, with only my sounds to fill the space. I talked and sang to myself, but it didn’t make any difference. I was all alone, my thoughts pawing at me, day after day, night after night.
I slept as much as possible. It helped me escape the pain of my face. And it made it so that I could return to the outside world, even just in my dreams. Time folded in on itself and then stretched out endlessly. A day could be the same as an hour, or an hour the same as a day.
Some days I felt nothing but small. Others I felt enormous, the RV shrinking around me. I couldn’t turn without knocking over something. Whenever Sir came by, I would tremble with fear. But it was also a strange relief to know that I was not alone in the world.
When Savannah woke up, she would have to deal with the same reality I had so many months ago. But at least she wouldn’t have to deal with it alone.