The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (7 page)

Her nose and cheeks are actually tinted pink, and I duck quickly into the shed and emerge with a dusty Buckeyes baseball hat that probably belonged to Dr. Parker ages ago. I beat it against my jeans to get off the worst of the dust and then throw it at Evie.

“Sun’s out,” I say.

She stares at it for a long moment and then slowly, hesitantly reaches out and picks it up. I watch from the corner of my eye as she begins the process of gathering up all her hair and feeding it through the hole in the back of the hat, finally settling it over her head to give her face protection from the sun. I almost breathe a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to go and force her to put it on.

“Sorry.”

The word is muttered so quietly that I almost don’t catch it, and it takes me a moment to process it and then turn back to Evie.

“What?”

She was looking at me, but when our eyes meet she looks away, down at her hands. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, only fractionally louder. “I’m… I’m just crazy, I guess.”

I don’t say anything for a long moment, try to search for the right words, though nothing truly profound comes to me. “Everybody is crazy,” I finally say, because more and more I’m coming to believe this is true.

“Yeah,” Evie says, still not looking up. “I’ve just got an extra dose. I didn’t mean to freak out like that. I just… I haven’t been dealing. Obviously.”

You don’t say?
It’s what echoes through my mind, though I don’t say it, of course. Instead, I settle for a legitimate question, leaning against my shovel, wanting to move a little closer but deciding the distance—figurative and literal—is probably for the best.

“You approached me first,” I point out. “When I came back. Why the cold shoulder now?”

“You weren’t prying before,” she says sourly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you were cutting yourself before,” I reply, unable to keep the bite of sarcasm out of my voice. And then, more softly, “Or that you were… you know. That Tony did that to you, too.” I can’t bring myself to say the actual word. How many times have I used that word before, casually, offhandedly, and never stopped to consider how ugly it is? So different when you’re talking about the deed, one that actually, factually, happened in real life.

“I said, no pity,” Evie says, and there’s a truckload of warning in her voice.

“Good thing I don’t do pity then,” I say, somewhat harshly, because it’s true. Sort of. Of course I pity her, but I also understand pride all too well. We’re in the same boat that way; suffering, concealing emotions, wasting away but wanting to do it privately, secretly.

Neither of us says anything after that, and so I get back to work and Evie just sits and watches me. I’m glad she’s not trying to leave anymore, that I can both work and keep an eye on her. I’m also glad that she can at least acknowledge that what she’s doing is crazy, that it isn’t right and it’s because she isn’t dealing. Isn’t admitting the problem the first step or some shit like that?

It’s the longest silence yet, and by two o’clock I’m flagging. I toss aside the shovel and stretch my shoulders, suddenly realize that I haven’t eaten since early morning and that I’m parched. My stomach gives a loud, pretty embarrassing growl right then and I’m torn between embarrassment and a flash of pleasure and relief when I hear Evie giggle. I turn to look at her, and just then, like an echo, her own stomach growls and she looks down at herself with surprise.

“I’m hungry,” she says, sounding shocked.

“Yeah, generally if you don’t eat for a while, you get to the point where you get hungry,” I say, but gently. “When was the last time you ate, Evie?”

“I…” Her jaw works for a moment as she thinks, and finally she shrugs, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t remember.”

“Nice,” I snort, and force the sarcasm away—sort of. I need a little, for distance. “So, what’s it to be? Lunch. On me.”

Evie snorts right back. “You don’t need to feed me, Zeke.”

“I know,” I agree. “But you’re a spoiled rich kid, so odds are ten to one that you can’t cook without a microwave.”

Evie purses her lips but doesn’t argue the point. “Pizza,” she finally says. “Pizza Hut. Stuffed crust, with sausage and extra cheese. And Dr. Pepper.”

I can’t hold back a grin because weirdly enough, it’s my favorite combination as well. “All right. Delivery, I assume?”

Evie looks down at herself and grimaces. “Uh, yeah. That would probably be best.”

I call and order the food and then Evie and I head up to the house. I have to give her a hand during part of the climb and she’s breathless again by the time we reach the top of the stairs. I take off my shoes inside the kitchen door and then enter.

By the time I’ve washed my hands and face and Evie has set out plates, napkins, and glasses, the doorbell is ringing. I go and pay for the pizza and bring it back to the kitchen and watch in relief as Evie takes three pieces right off the bat. She catches me staring and gives a guilty smile, misinterpreting the reason for my stare.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Guilty pleasure. Clarissa hates pizza, so usually I only order it when I’m having friends over or when it’s just me…” She stalls, breaks off, and then looks down at her plate and I see her swallow hard, clench her fists. She takes deep breaths, and finally looks back up, her eyes bright with unshed tears that she’s holding back. “Or when it
was
just my dad and me home alone.”

I know all too well about that transition of the tenses; is to was, do to did, the reminder every time it’s said that they’re gone, gone, gone. I went through it myself just three months ago, still struggle with my phrasing. I could try and say something sympathetic, but I don’t. That’s just a little too close to home. So long as we focus on Evie’s problems, things are good. I sure as hell am not talking about my own.

At first the silence feels a little oppressive and I worry that I ought to be breaking it, but the truth is I’m just too damn tired and hungry to think of anything to say. Evie seems to be having thoughts along the same lines because she reaches into a kitchen drawer and pulls out a remote, switching on the flat screen in one corner of the kitchen.

It’s just local news but it helps relieve some of the awkward tension. Between the two of us, we polish off all but two pieces of the two large pizzas, along with the whole two liter of pop and several bottles of water besides.

Feeling fit to explode, I slide off my stool and reach out for the plates. Looking just as stuffed, Evie also slides off her stool and tries to gather up the trash, but I stop her.

“I’ve got it. Why don’t you, uh, go take a shower?” I try to say it as rationally as I can, but it still reeks of impropriety though I don’t mean it to.

Evie glares at me but I can see just a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Are you trying to say that I smell?”

I decide to stick with brutal honesty. “I’m not
trying
to say. I
am
saying you smell. And badly.”

She wrinkles her nose at me but turns away without argument, heading upstairs. I clean up the kitchen, find a bottle of Patron in a cupboard and down a shot to both steady myself and calm my emotions. They’ve been flaring all day, strong and then weak, hot then cold, overwhelming and then shoved back.

The fiery liquid helps me focus and also get a little bit of looseness—mainly from my emotions. I take one more shot just for good measure and then return the bottle as I found it and wash the glass. Then I return to the kitchen island and channel surf. I get up just once, hunting until I find what I know a good doctor will have in his kitchen: a first aid kit.

Evie is upstairs for a good forty-five minutes and when she finally comes back downstairs, she’s dressed in capris yoga pants and a red OSU v-neck. Her long hair is damp and braided down over one shoulder, her face scrubbed clean, fresh and young and innocent and it hurts to know that she’s ‘innocent’ in the barest sense of the word. The only thing marring her appearance is the hand towel wrapped around her left arm, and she stops short when she sees the first aid kit in front of me.

Her lips tighten and I know then that a shared pizza doesn’t mean she’s ready to spill her guts to me. She holds out her right hand. “I need more gauze.”

I stand up but don’t hand anything to her. “No problem. I’ll bandage you up.”

Something flashes in her eyes, just for a moment. “I can do it. Thanks.”

It’s a battle of who can insist on their way in the politest language. “No, I don’t mind, really. Come and sit down.”

Evie hesitates for a long, long moment, and finally she moves, comes toward me. She stands in front of me rather than sitting down and holds out her arm, staring pointedly up at the ceiling. I begin to unwind the towel from around her arm. Aside from the usual distance, I’m not sure why she won’t let me bandage her. I get some insight when the towel falls to the floor and I get a good look at Evie’s arm.

Five cuts. They are long and deep, all below the curve of her elbow, spanning half the circumference of her arm. Three are older; the first red and raw, scab almost gone and leaving an angry red scar in its wake, the highest on her arm. The other two are thickly scabbed, and the final two, lowest on her arm, are oozing blood, new and fresh and unhealed.

It unnerves me. Not the sight of blood, the gore of it, but the… the
neatness
of it. They are all exactly the same length, the exact same distance apart, clean and straight. She’s managed to cut herself with almost surgical precision and it’s creepy as all get out.

My hands are trembling just a little bit as I take out the new roll of gauze and tape and set to work. Evie stays looking at the ceiling until I am done. I carefully pack it all away and return the kit to where I found it.

Then I settle on a stool across from Evie and stare at her until she meets my eyes. “Why, Evie?” I ask, keeping my voice low and without accusation.

“You don’t understand,” she mumbles, and I wish I could erase those words from her damn vocabulary.

“So
make
me understand,” I say. I pause, think through all the reasons people do what she is doing. Finally I say quietly, “Replacing the pain doesn’t erase it, Evie. It always comes back. You can’t cut or bleed out memories.” If you could, I would have my fair share of scars, remembering that last look at Cindy.

“That’s not it,” Evie whispers. “I mean, that’s not why I do it,
need
to do it. I know that’s it for most people; pain to replace pain. Or to remind themselves they can still
feel
. But that’s not why I do it.” She stops and falls quiet.

I wait a little while, then can’t help but prod again. “Then why? Tell me why.”

She lifts her head and she has tears running slowly down her face. “I can’t. It’s not just an easy, simple reason, Zeke. I’m all screwed up in the head. I know that. I know it’s crazy and unhealthy. Every time I do it I swear that I won’t again, and then I have to. I’m messed up. I’m…” She chokes back a sob. “I’m just as crazy as Tony.”

“
No
.” I say it immediately, without hesitation. Even though I’ve thought or made similar comments, I know it’s not true. They were made in anger, or in grim bad humor. None of it seems funny now.

“You and Tony are nothing alike, Evie. Nothing at all. You can’t think that way. You may be harming yourself, but I know that you would never,
ever
harm another person. That’s a big difference.”

“Maybe,” Evie says, sniffling. “But maybe not. I just… there’s just
no one
. My dad was the only thing keeping me sane. And now he’s gone, and Tony is gone, my friends are gone. Even Clarissa is gone right now.”

“You have me.” The words pop out before I can stop them. Even as I hear myself them, I’m thinking,
oh
shit
. No, Zeke, no!
But they’re out. And most surprising of all, I mean them.

Evangeline

50

I’m up early the next day, surprising myself by the fact that I even fell asleep early enough to be early to rise. I’m filled with a strange kind of excitement, something that feels oddly familiar but as though I’ve long forgotten the last time I experienced it. Has it really been so long since I had something to look forward to?

Guilt still slams into me the instant I wake up, grief still steals my breath away when I go to my closet to dress and find one of my dad’s old t-shirts there, one that still smells like him. The emotions are all still there, alive and vibrant and still so very strong. But today… today I feel strong too. Today I don’t feel the threat of floating away. I have my sins, I acknowledge them, I’m still suffering from them, but I also don’t let them choke me because I’m too distracted by one thing; Zeke is coming back. We didn’t talk much yesterday after his announcement, saying that I had him if no one else. I didn’t have anything else to say because I couldn’t believe that he would be willing to volunteer himself like that. But he did, and now I can’t wait for him to return.

I’m dressed and downstairs before I even bother to check the clock, and finally notice in the kitchen that it’s only eight and Zeke won’t be here for another hour. I decide to use the time constructively because I’m starving, so I make myself pancakes. A huge stack and I eat every last bite. Then I sit at a window in the front of the house and wait and watch for Zeke to arrive.