Made for You (7 page)

“Gracie!”

My best friend pauses as she’s pulling out a bag of dried fruit and a box of some sort of sugar-free, preservative-free, flavor-free snack mix. “I’m not leaving you with just junk,” she starts, clearly thinking I was objecting to the healthier snacks she brought.

“You can’t.” I gaze longingly at the cereal, all wrapped up in a bright child-friendly package. “Take it with you. My marshmallow cereal. Take it.”

She tilts her head and gives me a suspicious look. “Take the
junk
away?”

I hold out my Oreos. “These, too.” I shake the package. “I can’t exercise.”

“Sweetie, you hate exercise.” She comes over to stand beside me. Her expression is clouded. “Remember?”

I feel a twinge of guilt. Personality changes are possible with TBI, and while Grace isn’t making a scene over worrying about me, she is still aware of the possibilities. It makes me glad I didn’t tell her about the hallucination thing.

“I remember. I just know I’ll get fat if you can’t make me run,” I explain.

Clarity dawns on her, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. She also takes my Oreos. We’re both quiet while she repacks some of the junk food she brought for me.

I break the silence by saying, “Thanks for bringing clothes.”

Grace pulls out the skirts she and her mother bought for me. The first one is the sort of loud pattern that makes me wince visibly. It’s the brightest piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. “Still think my mom is perfect?
She
picked this one.”

I tilt my head. “It’s not that bad. The General has fine taste.”

Grace rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. We’ve been having the same discussion over her mother for at least eighteen months. She thinks her mom is overbearing; I think she should be grateful for having an attentive mother. Mrs. Yeung is awesome, and I’d wear a sack if that’s what it took to back my stance.

“I picked this one.” She holds up a solid brown skirt with a subtle peacock feather line drawing that starts at the hem and stretches over the bottom quarter of the skirt. The lines are in the same sky blue as the first skirt, but here, they’re a burst of bright on a dark palette. It’s exactly what I’d pick for myself.

She pulls out two more skirts, both more like the one she’d selected for me, and I know that she was responsible for keeping Mrs. Yeung’s appreciation for bolder colors in check. “Thank you.”

At the bottom of the bag are five short-sleeved T-shirts in various colors: pink, blue, black, gray, and brown. Grace doesn’t unfold them, just puts them to the side. “These are pretty basic, but I figured you could use a few clean shirts so you aren’t living in pajamas. Mom said she’d wash everything you have here now.”

I hadn’t thought about the state of my laundry until now. I had wanted some skirts because of the cast, but as Grace mentions my clothes, I realize that I’d have had to re-wear things if not for them. My parents are due back soon, but as usual when they’re away, it’s Mrs. Yeung to the rescue.

After a quiet moment, I blurt, “I saw Nathaniel Bouchet yesterday.”

“The Jessup man-slut?
Here?
” She sounds more like Piper in this moment than I ever would tell her.

I simply nod.

“He actually seemed surlier than usual at school today.” Grace shakes her head. “Which is saying something because when he’s sober, he’s about as friendly as a rabid dog.”

“He was in class?”

“Yeah.” She drags the word out like I’ve asked something stupid. “Every day this week I think, but text Piper or Laurel. They’d know for sure. I think Piper watches him even more than you do.”

I know I’m blushing, but I try to shrug it off. Most people don’t comment on the way I watch Nate. “I thought maybe he was a patient, too. When we talked he said he was in the lounge most evenings.”

“So, let me get this right: Nate don’t-talk-to-me Bouchet visited you, but
Robert
hasn’t?” Grace pauses, looking at me as if I’ll pick up the conversation.

“Nate didn’t visit me. He was here, and we talked . . . it’s different.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I motion toward my brush, which is on the nightstand. Grace hands it to me, and I busy myself brushing my hair. It’s already become habit to brush it more often, as if frequency will overcome the fact that I refuse to look into a mirror to see the results. “Robert texts me,” I say.

“About why he wasn’t there the night of the accident?”

I pause mid-brushstroke. “No.”

At that, Grace goes into a rant about Robert not deserving me anyhow, and how she “always thought he was an asshat”—which is nowhere near the first time she’s said as much. I’ve given up on trying to explain to her that Robert is nice, even if he acts a bit stiff. He’s been my friend forever, and while he’s never been the sort to want to climb trees or go sloshing in the creek, he was the sort to listen to me when I was angry or to bring me a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts when I was depressed.

I think about him while Grace repeats a lot of her usual complaints. I don’t think he’s “the one” for me, but he’s a good guy even though she can’t see it. Robert
gets
me. He’s a Baucom. It’s not quite the same as being a Cooper or Tilling, but if my grandfathers were selecting candidates for an appropriate match for me in Jessup, Robert would be on that very short list.

How do I explain Jessup traditions to Grace though?

When she takes a breath, I ask, “Who else is going to be willing to date me now, Gracie? Seriously,
I
can’t stand looking at me.”

“Oh, sweetie!” She grabs my hand, and I am gone.

I’m late. I know that Eva’s fine without me there, but she’s going to worry. I shove the rest of my books into my backpack. There are notes and photocopies, but I still don’t have an answer
.

“Good night,” I tell the librarian as I walk past the reference desk
.

She waves and smiles at me. I’ve been here a lot over the years, and the librarians are all sweet and very helpful. I wonder vaguely if there’s a librarians’ oath like doctors take. The thought makes me grin as I walk out the door
.

“Eva? Eva!” Grace’s voices echoes in my hospital room.

I shake my head and yank away from her.

“Are you hurt? What’s going on? Let me get your—”

“No!” I can’t tell her about my hallucinations. I’m too embarrassed. It’s weird to hallucinate that I’m someone else.

“Shhh,” she soothes. “You’re freezing.”

She pulls my blanket up and sits next to me on my bed to hug me.

After a few moments of silence, I whisper, “I look like something stitched together in a mad scientist’s lab.”

Grace doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ll get better. Your leg will heal, and the cuts will heal, and—”

“I know, but that won’t fix how I
look
, not really.” Tears start falling again. I don’t have to ask for a tissue before she holds out the box of softer ones she brought for me. I dab at my tears because rubbing would hurt, and then continue, “I feel stupid for caring about this. I could’ve died. I get it. I’m lucky to be okay. I get that, too. But I hate that I look like this. I hate that even after these heal, I’ll
always
look like something slashed up my face.”

I take a deep breath, and then another one, and then a couple more.

Grace is quiet as I grab her hand and squeeze before saying, “I’m afraid to ask Robert why he hasn’t been here because I don’t want him to ditch me. We’re more convenience than anything, and I knew we’d break up eventually, but I
like
having a boyfriend.”

She holds my hand in silence for a few moments. Then she points out, “If he isn’t here anyhow, does it
matter
?”

“He texts.”

Grace holds my gaze. “If he were my boyfriend, what would you tell me?”

“He’s an asshat,” I say with a small smile.

“And?”

“You deserve better than an asshat,” I add.

“And I’d listen because you’re smart,” Grace says. She taps her chin with one finger. “Wait? Who else is smart? Hmmm. I know this answer. Who is it?”

“Grace Yeung. Maybe I should listen if she offers me advice.”

Grace’s expression is serious, as if she’s considering the matter, and then she nods. “You’re right. I
am
pretty freaking awesome.” She grows slightly more serious as she adds, “And I don’t see any practical use for an asshat.”

My laugh is watery, but it’s there. Like so many other times in my life the past two years, Grace is the voice of reason in my life, the one who has my back.

“Eva, do the doctors know about whatever just—”

“Yes,” I interrupt her with a lie. “I told them the first time it happened.”

DAY 8: “THE CRUSH”

Eva

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, I
’M
sitting in the common room reading. When I look up, I find Nate standing in front of me and let out a surprised squeak.

“You didn’t see me.” His voice lifts slightly as if this could be a question.

“True.”

He pulls a rocking chair over toward me. It’s one of the chairs that I’ve only ever seen moms with babies use, but he doesn’t seem to care if it’s unusual for him to use a rocking chair. He leans back and rocks in silence for a moment, so I dog-ear the page and close my book.

“Good book?” He nods toward the book I’m holding with both hands now.

“I like it,” I say cautiously. It’s an older book called
Story of a Girl
that I found on one of the shelves here. I’ve never read anything else by Sara Zarr, but I’ll be looking to see if they have anything else of hers.

Nate folds his arms over his chest. “You used to read those Andrew Lost books and then the Warriors ones when we were in elementary school. I never got the cat ones.”

I frown. It’s hard to believe that Nate remembers my reading habits that clearly. It’s been a long time. “The Warriors were good books!”

“I don’t know about that. Andrew Lost was good though. I ended up borrowing some of those more than once.” He nods as if he’s said something profound. “So it’s chick books now?”

“This isn’t a ‘chick book.’”

He leans forward and pushes the book flat so he can look at the cover. On it, a girl is staring out of a window, and the title is written in what could be lipstick or crayon maybe. “Story of a girl,” he reads. “So it’s . . . a story about a girl with a girl on the cover. Looks like a chick book to me.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ve moved on since elementary school.”

“It happens.” He rocks a little. “I’m rereading the Andrew Lost series, actually. I dug them out after I saw you.”

I frown, before realizing that he’s watching me for a reaction. I don’t know if he’s joking or not. His expression hasn’t changed, but I’m not sure why he’d be serious about reading a book series for eight-year-olds.

“My brother likes them,” he says after a pause that’s almost too long. “I’ve read the first three to him so far.”

“Your brother?” I prompt in confusion. I know he didn’t have a brother when we were friends. I don’t think any of us knew or heard much about his family since then.

“Room 423.” He gestures to the corridor on the opposite side of the common area. “I try to come most every night when he’s in here. Aaron’s mom works nights so she can be with him days. He has a sitter who’s there when he sleeps. I try to go over to their house some, but when he’s in here, I am here every night I can be.”

“When does his mom sleep?”

“When Aaron naps, when I’m there, and she’s usually home to catch a few hours before he wakes up in the morning.” Nate shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but his lips press tightly together and his gaze drops. “I try to go more, but
my
mom bitches about the drive and nags about my grades. Nora, she’s Aaron’s mom, gives me gas money so my mom can’t bitch about that, too.”

I stare at him, not knowing what to say. I remember his parents splitting up, but I had no idea his dad had another kid—or remarried. Whatever the case, Nate hasn’t mentioned his father helping out. I debate briefly whether or not to ask, before deciding that since he’s the one who brought it all up I might as well. We’ve gone from not talking at all to him sharing things that are extremely personal. I don’t know how to make sense of it, but I figure that continuing talking is the only thing that I can do.

“What about your dad?” I ask.

Nate meets my gaze, and I resist the urge to shiver at the fury in his expression. “Aaron has CF, cystic fibrosis. The sperm donor couldn’t handle Aaron being sick, so he walked.”

I shake my head because there’s nothing to say here that isn’t harsh. I remember liking Nate’s dad. He laughed and played with Nate like my parents never did with me. Mine were more of the “why don’t you go play quietly or read, dear?” sort. I liked reading; I still do. But I think I would’ve liked wrestling on the floor, too.

It hits me as I’m staring at Nate that in my hallucination he thought about Nora and Aaron. He was concerned about worrying them. I gasp.

“Are you okay?” He leans forward but doesn’t touch me.

“Twinge,” I lie.

“Do you need the nurse?”

I shake my head. My hands clench the book, and I try to quell the insanity in my mind. Cautiously, I ask, “Have I met Aaron? Or Nora?”

Nate stares at me for a moment. “The memory thing, right? From your head injury?” He gives me such a sympathetic look that I wonder if
that’s
the answer. I knew it, but then I forgot. Memory issues are common with TBI. Relief washes over me.

“No, you haven’t met them,” he continues. “We . . . stopped talking a few years ago. Do you remember that?”

I nod. I must have just heard their names somewhere. It’s the only logical explanation. I guess if I’m going to have forgotten things, it’s best that it was gossip I forgot.

“What do you remember about . . . us?” he asks.

“I missed you,” I say. I thought I remembered everything up until the accident, but maybe I’m wrong. I look at him and continue, “I remember that you changed. We talked all the time, and then you were a jerk. Not all at once, but . . .”

“I’m sorry.” He stares at me, and I’m not sure if he’s the boy I used to know or the jackass I’ve seen around parties the last couple years.