I stay until he wears himself out. I stay until he changes the subject. I stay until he decides to watch a fourth episode.
I’ll be there when he wants to deal with it. He knows that, and right now that’s the best I can do.
When I get home, Mom is sitting in her usual spot, watching the news on her usual channel. If the story is really sad—a girl gone missing, a boy trapped in a well—she’ll talk back to the screen, little murmurs of sympathy, Oh, that’s too bad or Goodness, how awful.
I imagine the pretty newscaster looking into this room, looking at my mother sitting in that chair, and saying the same things. Because hasn’t she fallen down her own kind of well? Hasn’t she found her own way of being missing? Liza used to push her—telling her she needed to go out more, once even telling her she needed to get some friends. But now that it’s my turn, I find I’ve given up. It’s probably the only way I can make her happy, to leave her alone. That’s what my dad has done all these years, and it seems to have worked out fine for him.
I think about calling Liza, about telling her what’s going on.
You’re as crazy as she is. That’s probably what she’d say.
But Mom isn’t crazy. She just doesn’t care anymore.
She enjoys her shows, I think.
I want to see you again.
I don’t think Justin’s ever said that to me. But he hasn’t really needed to, has he? There’s never any doubt that he’ll see me again. Never any need to want it.
I start another email.
A,
I only want to see you again if this is real.
Rhiannon
But I don’t send it.
Chapter Ten
I wake up and write another email.
A,
So, who are you today?
What a strange question to ask. But I guess it makes sense. If any of this makes sense.
Yesterday was a hard day. Justin’s grandmother is sick, but instead of admitting he’s upset about it, he just lashes out at the world more. I’m trying to help him, but it’s hard.
I don’t know if you want to hear this or not. I know how you feel about Justin. If you want me to keep that part of my life hidden from you, I can. But I don’t think that’s what you want.
Tell me how your day is going.
Rhiannon
This one I do send. I try to act like it’s a normal email that I’d send to a normal friend. Then I try to have a normal day, partly to figure out what a normal day really is. At first it works. I go to school. I go to classes. I go to lunch and sit next to Justin. He won’t commit to any emotion.
When lunch is over, I check my email.
Rhiannon,
Today is a hard day for me, too. The girl whose body I’m in is in a bad place. Hates the world. Hates herself. Is up against a lot, mostly from the inside. That’s really hard.
When it comes to you and Justin, or anything, I want you to be honest with me. Even if it hurts. Although I would prefer for it not to hurt.
Love,
A
I try to return to normal. I try not to imagine where A is, what that body looks like. Justin has work, so I’m on my own after school. I check my email again and find a cry for help.
I really need to speak to you right now. The girl whose body I’m in wants to kill herself. This is not a joke.
There’s a phone number. I call it right away.
I know it’s not a joke. I’m sure there are people who could joke about a thing like this, but I know A isn’t one of them.
I just know.
The voice that answers is a girl’s. “Hello?” She sounds a little like me.
“Is that you?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“I got your email. Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s all in her journal—all these ways to kill herself. It’s really…graphic. And methodical. I can’t even get into it—there are just so many ways to die, and it’s like she’s researched each and every one. And she’s set herself a deadline. In six days.”
I feel the dredging inside me. I feel the girl I once was reaching out to connect with that. I try to focus on the present.
“That poor girl,” I tell A. “What are you going to do?”
“I have no idea.”
She sounds so lost. So overwhelmed.
“Don’t you have to tell someone?” I suggest.
“There was no training for this, Rhiannon. I really don’t know.”
I’ve been there, I want to tell her. But it’s too scary.
“Where are you?” I ask.
A tells me where she is, and it’s not that far. I tell her I can be there in a little while.
“Are you alone?” I ask.
“Yeah. Her father doesn’t get home until around seven.”
“Give me the address,” I say. After she does, I say, “I’ll be right there.”
I don’t know this girl. A hasn’t told me much. But maybe that’s why it’s easier to fill in the blanks with myself.
I shouldn’t think it, but I think it anyway: This is the girl I’d be if I hadn’t met Justin.
That’s how bad it was. Or maybe that’s just how bad it seemed. I don’t know now. I can’t tell the difference. All I know is I was convinced that nobody would care if I died. I had elaborate fantasies about my very simple funeral—no one but my relatives there. No boy in tears in the front row. No one who could get up and talk about me as if they really knew me.