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  “Okay, if that’s what you want.” I step to the door. “I’m so sorry.”

  She turns her face away. “Go.”

  I do.

  CHAPTER 37

  Sarah

  10:28 am

  In the quiet, I slowly start to breathe normally again. “Haddings hit me,” I whisper, blow my nose, and close my eyes. Hey, Cydni. Haddings and I might have been friends next year at the U, and it might have finally gone somewhere. You know what? I always believed it would happen eventually, no matter what you said. Before. Before I was hit. I tuck my chin and silently cry it out.

  A short bit later, my mom bursts into my room. She stops a second at the sink to wash her hands. “I didn’t find your father, but I found a Starbucks and a scone. Are you happy?” She glances over. Obviously, she can see I’ve been upset, but she doesn’t mention it. I’ve been weepy since I woke from surgery.

  My breath comes out shaky. “Absolutely.”

  Right then, my dad rolls a tray into the room, victorious in his quest. “I found your breakfast!” He whips off the metal plate covers. “Voilà! Breakfast for a princess!”

  “A frog princess, maybe,” I counter.

  Even Mom smiles while drying her hands.

  “Um, Dad. I don’t know whose that is, but I already had mine. See?” I point to my tray.

  Before we can get the food figured out, and who’s missed out on a meal with Dad’s find, or I decide whether or not to tell my folks about Haddings, the staff descends and begins to switch me out of ICU.

  As they roll me down the hall, I keep my eyes closed to the other kids crying in their rooms. “Here are your roses,” says Marlisa, but I don’t look. I can’t. They mean absolutely nothing. Maybe that was some little inkling of Haddings’ heart slipping out, even subconsciously, but it doesn’t matter now in the least.

  “I’ll carry those,” Dad offers.

  “Take care now,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I reply, barely peeking at her. The attendants move me two floors below, into a private room overlooking Seattle.

  A new nurse named Qwan welcomes us and helps Dad scoot me off the one bed into the clean new one. Mom scurries to cover the mirror with all the balloons and flowers that were delivered.

  When I’m settled in the space and Qwan leaves, I tell my folks about Haddings’ visit. “So, yeah. I know who hit me now, and that’s pretty much what happened when he was here.” I leave out what I hoped was between the two of us before, and what could have happened one day but won’t. “I really wish you had told me right away. I can’t believe Cyndi didn’t at least.”

  “No. We told her not to. It was right not to,” says Mom, shoving her hair behind her ear. “Look how much worse knowing made everything.”

  “Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.

  She paces. “The nerve of him coming here. Sneaking in when you were alone.”

  “He wasn’t sneaking, Mom. You guys just weren’t here.”

  Dad squeezes a balloon so tightly it pops, and we all jump.

  “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” My mother crosses her arms.

  “No, Mom. I’m — ​it’s fine.” I was right. Haddings better not come around for a long, long time.

  Dad gazes across the gray cityscape to the Sound. “So he’s twenty-one?”

  “Yeah. He, like, graduated early through homeschooling, finished college, and is in his first year of grad school now.” Things I found out from him over our lunch at the U.

  “A kid.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Mom wipes at a smudge on the sink. She shoves the paper towel into the garbage. “He’s going to pay.”

  “Of course he’ll have to pony up.” Dad slips his hands into his pockets. “Imagine his parents. They have it easier than we do, but this has to be pretty awful for them as well.” He turns and looks at me. Mom refuses to reply.

  11:45 am

  When my mother’s friends call and ask if they can visit, I nod yes. Since Haddings saw me, who cares who else does?

  The ladies arrive with more flowers, more balloons, and some magazines. The gorgeous models seem to sneer at me, while my mom’s friends stand there shocked.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, “for the gifts and … stopping by.”

  Nancy manages to smile first. “Oh, our pleasure.” She and Pat hug Mom and give sympathetic looks to Dad.

  “Has she asked to see herself?” Nancy whispers to Mom, who shakes her head.

  “No, I don’t want to see what I look like. I just don’t,” I say quickly.

  “And that’s fine.” Mom pats my arm. “There’s no rush.”

  Pat fills the silence. “There’s so much to be thankful for. It could have been much worse.”

  I tuck my chin, probably making the stitches easier to see, and the room goes silent again.

  Gossip does bubble up when they think I’ve fallen asleep. Nancy says, “Did you hear what happened over at Auburn High?”

  Pat cuts in. “Are you talking about the PE teacher caught with the student?”

  “Yes!”

  “What?” Mom asks.

  “Can you say pedophilia?” Nancy adds with what must be a pop of her lips.

  “Are you serious?” Mom straightens my sheet, but I don’t open my eyes, so they’ll keep talking.

  Pat fills in that a teacher had sex with a freshman in his car. “All caught on the security camera!” she whispers.

  “No,” Mom says.

  Dad’s silent through all this. What is he thinking?

  “That girl’s poor parents,” Nancy adds, but clarifies, “not that it compares to your trial.”

  I struggle to lie completely still. The ladies chitter on about the teacher being charged. Even short of sex, this is the sort of ridicule, or actual risk, Haddings would have been under with me — ​if anyone found out. Which is ridiculous, since we are both adults, but this is what Cydni was hinting at, what I never wanted to hear. The risk was real.

  Everything might have tipped that one day if Cydni hadn’t walked in on us. It was totally against Haddings’ “I can’t be alone with a student” rule, but he didn’t leave when I came to class early, did he? He looked incredibly hot sitting on his desk, reading a verse novel. I could see the tension in his hands though as he set the book aside and picked up a yardstick and fiddled with it. He was as determined not to respond as I was determined to get him to. It was like a showdown, proving I couldn’t get to him or something.

  “You’re early,” he said, “and no one else is here yet.”

  I shrugged and walked through the empty room, stopping before him. “It will only be a minute before they show up.”

  The yardstick bounced in his hands, tapped the carpet, tapped around my Chucks, and skimmed the inside of my bare ankles.

  I handed him my journal. “So, I checked out ‘Song of Solomon.’ ”

  “From the Bible?”

  “Yep. Most beautiful love poem ever,” I said and quoted, “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; For thy love is better than wine.” I nudged the ruler aside with my knee and inched forward.

  He leaned back on one hand. “Thy teeth are like ewes that are newly shorn.”

  We busted up laughing. “I go to church, you know,” I said when our giggling petered off.

  “Really?” he answered.

  “Uh huh.”

  “And you learn about right and wrong?”

  “Yeah.” I bit my lower lip. “Mostly.” I looked at him through my lashes and pressed forward against the edge of the desk. His knees burned my hips.

  Haddings sat still as if he had no other choice, a sailor to a siren. The small gap between us aflame.

  And then Cydni banged open the dumb door. Haddings quickly nudged me away and slipped past me.

  I stood still while the dizziness and sizzle were chased away by the bell. Cydni’s glares helped me make my way to my seat as the other kids streamed in. Desire rolled after my heels, despite m
y best friend’s disapproval.

  But then a few weeks later, when Haddings read his ridiculous poem, I couldn’t look at him. After class, Cydni caught me by the arm and steered me to lunch.

  I got right into it. “What do you think he meant when — ”

  “It’s obvious, Sarah. Never. Be happy alone. Couldn’t be clearer.” She bumped me forward with her tray in the cafeteria line.

  But I couldn’t let it go. The night before his next session with us, just two nights ago, I copied out a poem for him.

  That morning, he hit me with his car. Cydni never warned me that could happen.

  My thoughts break when mom’s friends’ discussion turns to Haddings. “Who is he anyway? A grad student? What was the PTA thinking funding this poet-in-residence? This should be a school board decision, don’t you think?”

  “And what was he doing to hit a child in the crosswalk?”

  “The imbecile!”

  “Who doesn’t see a kid crossing the road?”

  I snap open my eyes and glare at Mom’s friend for being that harsh to Haddings — ​what business is it of hers anyway — ​and for calling me a kid.

  Dad catches me wiping angry tears off my chin.

  Nancy raises her nose. “He definitely shouldn’t be in a position of authority over our children!”

  Dad closes his book and interjects for the first time since the ladies arrived. “That was, uh, my first thought, too.” He rushes on. “Especially when I saw Sarah, I was ready to destroy the kid. Well, teacher. Kid really, though, right? Twenty-one.”

  I nod, even though he uses the word “kid,” too.

  “Anyway,” Dad says, “after considering everything, I realized it could have happened to any of us.”

  Each lady stops mid-breath.

  “What I mean is that any one of us could have been the driver. I’ve taken a call on my cell. I’ve pulled something from the glove box, or I’ve zoned out driving because of some distraction. You know, Janet, how it is when I have a Mariners game on.”

  Mom and her friends glare at Dad. He rubs his chin. “I’m only saying it could have been one of us driving. Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Sarah could have been driving. Heaven forbid, but even she could be ‘the driver’ one day.”

  “Mark!” Mom stands and takes my hand. I pull out of her grip. “Don’t defend that man when he did this to Sarah!”

  The women glower.

  “No, of course not. I just wanted to share what I’ve been thinking. Thoughts about trying to forgive and be charitable. Certainly, all of us should be focused when we are driving. There’s no excuse for this accident, so believe me, I’m not defending him.”

  There’s a group sigh, and the chitchat resumes, but I still stare at Dad. Even when Mom tells her friends she’ll be sleeping in my room with me, when I’m released — ​as if — ​I don’t get distracted or return Dad’s little smile.

  He bends down and whispers to me. “It’s better all around to concentrate on getting better.”

  I force a nod through my confusion. One second I’m ticked at the women for slamming Haddings, and then the next I’m mad at Dad for cutting him slack. Really? He doesn’t think I’d see someone in a crosswalk? Under a streetlight?

  How much would Dad sympathize with Haddings if I announced the guy used to be attracted to me? Dad would fume like Mount St. Helens in the eighties. There’d be no more lectures about who could have been driving and stuff like that.

  I try to pull my anger away from Dad and throw it back on Haddings, but I’m too tired. Tired of all of it, especially the visitors. It’s a relief when Pat and Nancy say goodbye.

  I eat a bit for lunch then, finally, I zonk out for real. For at least an hour, I escape everything: the pain, the awkwardness, the stares, the need for help. I’m gone.

  1:45 pm

  Unfortunately, I wake feeling stiffer than ever. It’s amazing I can yawn since my face feels tighter than before. I blink to focus.

  Dad’s standing right next to me. There’s a big black garbage bag on the chair at his side, and my mom’s looking at it like it’s a bomb. “Feel better?” he asks.

  I shrug. “What’s that?”

  He pats the sack. “It’s all your stuff from the accident, Sarah. The police brought it in while you were napping.”

  Mom disappears into the bathroom.

  The poem for Haddings! Maybe it’s still in my pocket. I reach for the bag.

  “Let me help you,” says Dad. He loosens the tie and lifts it onto my bed. “Now, what do you need?”

  “Nothing! Can I just look inside?” I don’t wait for an answer and root around for my pants. Got ’em! My fingers slide under the snap and curl around the note deep in the pocket. Unbelievably, it’s still there. I tug it free and palm it as Dad reaches in.

  “Pink sweatshirt,” he says quietly, pulling it out. “You were wearing a pink sweatshirt. I won’t ever not stop and notice again.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says, setting the muddy hoodie aside. He tugs my shredded jeans out next.

  I turn from it all and clasp my note under the sheet.

  “What’s that you have there?” he asks.

  I freeze.

  “What?”

  He points to my fist below the sheet. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, this?” I pull my hand out. “Just, you know, a note for someone.”

  He waits.

  “It’s kind of private, and I was hoping I hadn’t lost it.”

  He nods. “I can see that. You must have been worried.”

  “Oh, you know.” I squirm my hand below the sheet again. “I’m glad to get it back.”

  “Nothing I should be concerned about?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “Nothing I should read?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “Can I deliver it for you?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  His eyes lock onto mine, and he lets me off the hook. He pulls out my cell. It’s totally dead.

  I shiver. “Everything’s so gross.” I push the pile away. “I remember throwing up.”

  “For good reason.”

  “You know what, Dad? I really don’t want to look at everything right now. Would you take the bag away?”

  “Sure thing.” He quickly reloads it and cinches the sack closed.

  Mom comes out of the bathroom while Dad is sliding the bag under my bed. He says, “I’ll take this home next trip.”

  Mom speaks like she’s pulling a big, beaded necklace out of her mouth. “That’s — ​a — ​really — ​thoughtful — ​idea — Mark.” She doesn’t look at him, but he beams.

  I slide the note into my sock. With a little nod to the bathroom, Mom understands. “No way do I want to use that bedpan anymore,” I say.

  “You might not need to.” She helps me sit and then stand. “So far, so good.” As I take one step and then the next, she rolls my IV pole along beside me. “Look how strong she is, Mark. Look at her!” Mom is so excited, she may wet herself. “A little food makes all the difference, don’t you think?”

  “Uh huh.” Dad comes along the other side of me. With them holding me steady, I make it all the way to the door with only a tiny threat of fainting.

  “There’s no mirror in the bathroom,” Mom points out.

  “’kay, great,” I say.

  Dad goes back to the chair.

  “I’m fine,” I say after Mom helps get me all the way into the space.

  “You are so strong today!” she says and claps. I stare at her. “Oh, sorry.” She closes me in. “Call me when you’re done.”

  “I will.” I struggle and pull the note from my sock. It’s exactly what I wanted to say:

  To Mr. Haddings:

  [i carry your heart with me (i carry it in]

  by e. e. cummings

  i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

  my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

/>   i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done

  by only me is your doing, my darling)

  i fear

  no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

  no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

  and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

  and whatever a sun will always sing is you

  here is the deepest secret nobody knows

  (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

  and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

  higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

  and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

  i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

  I tear the note to little bits and flush them down the toilet.

  Through the door, Mom asks, “Are you okay, Sarah?”

  I don’t answer.

  “I think she’s crying, Mark.”

  “She’s going to cry as she recovers. Let her be.”

  “Is it the pain, Sarah?” she asks. “Your meds should kick in any second.”

  I cram toilet paper against my mouth to muffle my sobs.

  “Was it seeing your clothes from the accident? Maybe that’s making the trauma fresh again?”

  I still don’t reply, but eventually do open the door. Mom’s standing there holding the mauve puke pan for some reason. She tucks it under her arm, and she and Dad walk me to the bed.

  I try to stand taller but can’t. I’m hunched by the pain and death of a dumb dream. The clichéd hope of love of how many stupid girls? Run down in a moment. Hit.

  I catch a blurry glimpse of my face flicking on the doorknob. I close my eyes to the flash in the metal strip that edges the doorway. Am I as gross-looking as those slim reflections hint? I curl up in bed.

  What do I really look like half bald? Do I want to know?

  2:20 pm

  A while later, I’m in another nightmare. “Come on, sweetie. Name three things that start with ‘T.’ ” Mom’s begging now.

  “Sarah, are you focused?” the therapist asks.

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Totally, truly, terribly, ton, tan, tin, top, truth, tell, talk, talk, talk, Sarah!” Mom blasts out.

  The therapist stares at her. “Please, Mrs. McCormick. This is for Sarah to recall. You’re confusing her and taking the words yourself.”