The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (35 page)

Evie shrugs, and I’m shocked to see that she’s smiling. “Don’t be so selfish,” she tells me. “It wasn’t just your fault. Tony was crazy, remember? If it wasn’t my fault, then it’s not yours either. Something else would have set him off eventually. It’s not like I blame you or anything.”

I want to ask how she can’t, why she ever sought me out afterward, all this time, when I am potentially responsible for what happened, but the moment is lost when Koby and Dominic stumble up, both of them shoving each other and talking too loudly. We all get into the car and I drop my friends of at Dominic’s, where Koby will stay the night because Dom’s parents are a lot more laid back about the whole underage drinking thing than Koby’s. Then I continue onward to my own home, a quiet Evie in the passenger seat.

I glance over at her and see that her eyes are closed and she’s leaning against the door panel with her head resting on her hands. I sigh, knowing this whole conversation will have to be saved for another time. I park on the street in front of my apartment, hoping that my dad is sound asleep and will leave early in the morning like usual. I go around the car and carefully open Evie’s door, catching her before she falls flat onto the sidewalk and prodding her into half-wakefulness.

Sleepwalking, I’m sure, Evie follows me up the porch and leans her head against the house, eyes still shut, as I unlock the door. I stifle a smile at her complete unawareness, and then gently guide her inside and help her up the stairs, practically lifting her once again. I push open the door to Cindy’s room, feeling weird as the enclosed scent of my sister wafts over me, mingling with the smell of Evie’s hair. Strange, to see the two of them intermingled.

I try to keep the thoughts away and lead Evie to the bed. She climbs onto it mechanically and collapses down, half on her side, half on her stomach. One hand seems to go automatically underneath the pillow, while her other one is clutched to her chest. She looks young while sleeping, painfully young and innocent, and I hate that I know how tainted she really is, or at least, how tainted she must feel.

With a sigh, I sit on the edge of the bed and carefully remove her shoes, setting them on the floor right next to the bed so she can find them first thing in the morning. I wish I could remove her blazer so she’d feel more comfortable, but that feels a little too inappropriate, so I let it be and just struggle to get the comforter and sheet out from underneath her and gently tuck her in. I can’t resist touching her hair one last time, and then the curve of her cheek, which is just as soft.

Then I tell myself to stop being such a creep and head to my own room, changing into gym shorts and a t-shirt and trying not to feel weird about the fact that someone, especially Evie, is sleeping in my dead sister’s bedroom. I’m tired, but I still have trouble falling asleep, because I know what’s waiting for me in the darkness; nightmares, and I feel sometimes they won’t ever stop.

Evangeline

75

I come awake suddenly, jolting as I break free of a strange dream, one where Tony was still the villain, like always, but Zeke came to rescue me. It’s never happened that way before, even though in real life, he saved me. In my dreams, I’m usually helpless, and I don’t get saved except when I wake up. The dream fades as I look around, feeling panic well up inside me because I have no idea where I am. Then I look across the room and see the mirrored wall and barre, and remember.

Cindy’s room.

It doesn’t feel right to be in here. Not for Cindy’s sake, but for Zeke’s. I know this must have been a struggle for him, letting me come and sleep in here, closing that door on me and knowing a stranger was in his sister’s bed. My heart aches for him, but that thought too falls to the wayside eventually, eclipsed by the realization I need to use the bathroom
badly
and that my throat is dry as a bone.

I scoot off the bed, taking a moment to remove my blazer because it’s making me uncomfortably warm, and then stand up. I lean to one side and almost stumble, and realize I’m still half-drunk or something. I cling to the bed, the nightstand, and finally the door and wall as I head for the bathroom, trying not to fall down with a crash and wake everyone up. These are not the best circumstances under which to meet Zeke’s dad.

Luckily, the bathroom is right next door, and I use it and find a disposable paper cup from the stack on the sink and drink several cups of water, not daring to turn the light on and look at myself. I can see through the window that it’s still dark out, though the purpling sky of very early morning. I remember bits and pieces of the night, gaps in my memory, but I remember Zeke leading me to the car when it was dark out and saying it was already two in the morning, so I can’t have been asleep for that long.

I’m ready to return to bed, but I can’t resist the curiosity any longer and finally flip on the light to look in mirror. It’s not as bad as I was expecting. Hair matted from sleep and my eyeliner smeared underneath my eyes, and my lipstick has faded from my lips except around the outer rim, making it look like I did a hideous lip-liner job. Blech.

I use tissues and water to take off my makeup as best I can, and finger comb my hair back and then put it into a side braid, my usual sleeping style. There. That looks better. I turn off the light and have my hand on the doorknob when I hear a strange noise and freeze.

At first I think it’s a moan, but then it happens again and I realize that someone is crying out, in a strange and very eerie way, from deep within the throat and in an almost keening wail. I strain my ears, and am chilled down to the very bone when I recognize Zeke’s voice within the strange sound, and that he’s calling out a name.
Cindy.

Nightmares. He said they were bad, probably worse than my own. He told me that he saw Cindy die, saw Tony hit her right in front of him and pulled her off the car, and I can only imagine the trauma that would leave on a person, let alone if they saw it happen to someone they knew and loved. It sounds out again, and I step out of the bathroom, take two steps toward Zeke’s door, and then two more. It’s as though I’m magnetically drawn toward it, wanting to see what’s going on in there, how Zeke looks when he’s crying out his sister’s name. Tossing and turning? Crying in his sleep? Sweating and fighting the blankets, the way I always do, thinking its Tony’s hold on me?

I’m standing directly in front of his door and he calls out her name twice more, each time seeming to cut my chest wide open, making it ache for him. Before I can decide what to do, if anything at all, the noise stops suddenly and I hear movement beyond the door. I hustle backward clumsily, back into Cindy’s old room and close the door most of the way, peeking out through the slim crack. A moment later, Zeke’s door opens and he stalks out, walking with purpose.

I watch, wide-eyed, as he passes me, and the barest hint of moonlight reflects off something in his hand. He disappears down the steps as I’m still trying to figure out what it was. Then it hits me.

A can of spray paint.

Without a second thought I fling my own door open and chase after Zeke, though quietly. I get downstairs just as the front door is clicking shut and practically leap across the room to it. I yank it open and catch Zeke at the bottom of the porch steps. The instant the door is shut behind me and no one can hear, I say, “Zeke,
no
.”

He’s so startled that he stops and turns around, and it gives me the precious few seconds I need to catch up to him. Before I can chicken out or lose the element of surprise, I march up and yank the can of paint out of his hand and skip a few steps back, out of reach.

Zeke is so shocked he lets it go, his grip still loose and relaxed. It only takes him a second to recover, though. His stance immediately turns threatening and intimidating, demanding as he sticks out his hand. “Evie,” he growls. “Give that
back
.”

“No.” I shake my head. I’m quaking in my bare feet, still a little woozy from all the drinking, but this is one fight I’m determined to win. “I won’t let you.”

“You don’t understand a damn thing about this,” he says savagely. “You’re just a stupid little spoiled rich girl who’s playing at having problems. Give it
back
.”

I ignore the insults because I know he’s just lashing out to shift the attention away from himself. I won’t allow it.

“Actually, I do understand. You went to great lengths to show me that once, remember? So don’t try and feed me that crap.”

“No, you don’t!” Zeke actually shouts it, losing control. He runs trembling hands over his head and starts to pace back and forth in front of me, full of nervous energy as he mutters and curses under his breath.

“I know
exactly
what it’s like.” I won’t back down, clenching the can behind my back in both hands, refusing to allow my voice to tremble as much as my hidden hands. Zeke helped me face my fears, forced me to talk about my problems, and damned if I don’t owe him the same thing, and I’m going to see it through, or else. “The feelings. Wanting it so badly it hurts, even though you know it’s bad. Wrong. Illegal. Actual pain, right in your chest, over your heart. Feeling too big for your own skin, prickly all over, every hair standing on end, your heart beating too fast, not enough air in your lungs. Feeling like you’ll explode if you don’t get it all out somehow. Knowing all the screaming and shouting and running won’t help, only the deed. I know all about that, Zeke.”

“No!” he bites out the word, still pacing, his sharp movements still making me cringe, though I do my best not to show it. “That’s
not
what it’s like! There are no feelings! I don’t fucking want them. And I don’t even have a heart. I don’t want one. I don’t want to feel, don’t want to love. You can’t possibly understand that.”

I swallow hard, because I don’t understand that part of it, not completely. I understand his rationale, but I’ll never want to push everyone away the way that Zeke has done for years. To deny my feelings so completely that I disintegrate like this when they surface and are strong.

“I understand what it’s like to feel like everything and everyone good and happy has been taken from you,” I say softly. “I know loss, Zeke. I really do. My mom, my dad, my friends, even Tony, in a way. I know grief and loss and the denial that comes with it. But eventually you’ll have to accept that she’s gone, Zeke. She’s gone and never coming back.”

“Shut up!” he screams at me. “
Shut up!
You think I don’t know that she’s gone? I have to go through it every night, every night when I see her die again! Every day when I walk by her room! Whenever I pass the studio or look at that fucking crosswalk!” He points accusingly at the light that is directly to my left, and my heart aches as I look out over it.

Right in front of his house. The grass here by the sidewalk is probably where he laid her down, where he screamed to Cindy that she would dance again, only to realize that wasn’t true, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. Where he realized that Cindy was gone, and never coming back. And yet in a way, it’s like Zeke
hasn’t
accepted that. I wonder if he grieved for her, cried his eyes out for her, the same way he must have wondered if I ever got mad at Tony for what he did.

They both seem like simple, logical questions, and yet my own answer to it was no. I think about all the reminders Zeke still has of Cindy, the way he doesn’t want to draw so he doesn’t tarnish her memory, the way he still goes to the studio to feel close to her, her whole bedroom, untouched, untarnished. I realize it isn’t any more healthy than my old bedroom, filled with reminders of Tony and what happened with him, what he did to me, and I realize that Zeke needs to let go of Cindy, grieve, allow the emotions to come over him, to actually
feel
it, if he ever wants to get on with life.

“Of course you know she’s gone,” I say, and my voice isn’t gentle or cajoling anymore, but strong and matter of fact. “But it’s one thing to accept that in your mind, Zeke, and a whole other thing to accept it in your heart. To
feel
it.”

“I don’t want to
feel anything!
” he shouts, and I wonder how long it will take someone on the street to wake up and hear us and call the cops. This thought is fleeting, however, when I see Zeke bearing down on me, one hand outstretched.

“And I won’t
have
to feel anything if you’ll give me the damn paint!” He’s growling again, a bad sign, and I back away just as quickly as he follows me, having to go twice as fast to escape his long legs.

“No! I won’t let you! You’ll get arrested again, remember? You’ll get sent away!”

“I don’t fucking care!” He’s still coming after me, his eyes wide, the whites showing around them even in the dim light, and I wonder if this was how I looked every time I was fighting him, crazy and scary enough to send chills down Zeke’s spine. Maybe we are both just as crazy as the other.

“Give me the paint, Evie! Give it to me
now
!”

He actually breaks into a run and I whirl around, looking frantically for a trashcan, for something, anything that I can toss the paint into so he can’t get it. Half a block ahead, I spy a postal drop box. Permanent, things can only go in, and they can’t be taken out. I don’t even hesitate. I take off sprinting for the box, and I can hear Zeke’s shoes thumping against the pavement behind me.