Broken (17 page)

Despite lugging Phil, Tony makes it to the front door before I do—those long legs of his. He rings the bell then barges inside before anyone has a chance to answer. I get there a few seconds later.

The foyer opens onto a wide curving staircase with a large living room on the left and a dining room on the right. The screaming is still going on. Nonstop shrieks that make the hairs on my arms quiver.

It’s coming from upstairs. I run up just in time to see Tony go through a door at the end of the hall.

I clutch my phone, ready to call 911, and follow him.

It’s a small square room on the back corner of the house with wide windows on two walls reflecting light through hanging prisms, casting rainbows on the dove gray walls. There’s a mattress on the floor in the corner and a beanbag chair. And that’s it. No other furniture or decoration.

Tony stops inside the door. Inside are Nessa and Jordan. In the center of the floor, a girl with short dark hair is attacking Celina whose left arm is in a sling. But it’s not Celina screaming bloody murder, despite the scratches on her neck. It’s the girl.

She’s whip-snake skinny. And fast, writhing out of Celina’s free hand and attacking her—no, not her, she’s desperately clawing at the sling, seems terrified of it. Celina’s trying to extricate herself from both the girl and the sling but has hopelessly tangled herself.

Jordan begins circling slowly, crooning a low song, until miraculously everything goes quiet.

The girl’s head whips around as she forgets about Celina and tracks Jordan. He circles closer and closer, like a snake charmer, and ends up sitting Indian-style across from Celina. He holds his arms open wide, still humming, and the girl crawls off Celina and onto Jordan’s lap. He hugs her tight—so tight it looks uncomfortable, but the girl’s expression goes from panicked to calm as he rocks her and keeps humming.

He catches Celina’s eye and nods slightly as the girl exhales a long, soulful sigh and closes her eyes.

This must be Celina’s little sister. Caridad.

Tony helps Celina to her feet. She seems unaffected by the emotion that rocks the room. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with this intensity every day. Two minutes of it and I’m covered with sweat, my heart thudding. Then it skips a few beats and my vision goes dizzy. Last thing I need is to have a Close Call, not here, not in front of my friends.

I back out of the room and lean against the wall, gathering my breath and willing my heart to slow down. Tony left Phil downstairs by the door; should I try to make it down there so if I collapse I’ll be closer? My vision is filled with an image of Tony and Jordan seeing me half-naked as they strip my top off and attach Phil’s electrodes, my body writhing as electricity shoots through it.

No way. Not going to happen. I’d rather die. After a few seconds of deep breathing from my belly, my heart obeys and returns to a nice, steady rhythm. For now.

I hate it when Mom’s right. She was worried about exactly something like this happening.

Nessa, Tony, and Celina follow me into the hall. Celina leads us down to another bedroom, this one furnished with bed, dresser, bookcases, desk, and bright yellow walls covered in Impressionist prints. She collapses on the bed. Tony grabs a tissue from the box on the dresser and pats the bleeding scratches on the side of her neck.

While Nessa whirls on me, hands on her hips, leaning forward, standing between me and Celina. “Come to spy for your mom, have you?”

I stand there, speechless—just like the first time I met Nessa. Tony takes a step forward, placing himself between us, as if he’s expecting more than words from her.

“You have no right—” he starts.

Nessa whirls on him. Her hands are balled into tight fists. “Don’t give me that crap. Her”—she jerks her chin at me—“mother is making Celina’s life hell.”

Emotions collide inside me, threatening to tumble me off balance. I lean against the doorjamb, trying to sort out what’s going on. “Why are you so angry at my mother? All she’s ever done is try to help.”

“As if you don’t know—”

Celina closes her eyes. “Stop it,” she says, her voice not loud but carrying the impact of a slap. “Stop it, both of you.” She opens her eyes again. “Tony, would you and Nessa check on my mom? I’d like a minute with Scarlet.”

Nessa balks but Tony takes her arm and they head out together. She glances back at us, her face filled with anger and concern. I’m guessing the anger is for me.

“I’m sorry about your arm,” I tell Celina, not sure what else to say.

“Broken collarbone. Just what I didn’t need.” She pauses. “I’m sorry about those pictures.”

“Just what I didn’t need.” My joke fails. “I know you didn’t send them.”

She shakes her head and makes a noise that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Mitch Kowlaski. Idiot.”

“Maybe if they lose tomorrow night, they’ll finally suspend him. Make life easier for you.” I want to ask about my mom but have no idea where to start.

She slides over a bit and I sit down beside her on the bed. Unlike my pretty-in-pink room, Celina’s room feels grownup, sophisticated—no, elegant, that’s the word. Cheerful and bright but not childish at all. The artwork is inexpensive but carefully chosen. The books are many of the same classics I’d read as an escape from the hospital and hours of boredom.

“Life won’t be easier for you if Mitch is gone?” she surprises me by asking.

I shake my head. “Mom says I’m not going back to school.” I sound like a whiny baby and hate it.

“About your mom—”

“Why were you so upset after she sent you home this morning?” I blurt out.

She doesn’t look at me. Instead, she focuses on undoing the strap to her sling and easing her arm out of it. She’s wearing a hoodie, of course, and unzips it, awkwardly sliding free of it using only one arm. Without the bulky sweat jacket, I see that she’s not really as fat as I thought when we first met—she just has layers upon layers of thick clothing, as if she needs the extra bulk for protection.

I wonder for a moment if she’s pregnant or trying to hide an eating disorder. I’d met girls at the hospital with anorexia who dress like Celina.

Under the hoodie is a crew neck sweatshirt. She slides her good arm out, pulls it over her head, then gritting her teeth, slides her injured arm free.

Beneath that is a flannel shirt, oversized. She pushes the left sleeve up. Her skin, that golden, flawless skin I’d so admired, is covered with bruises of various ugly colors: iridescent green, yellow, angry red, blue, purple. Between the bruises are scratches and scabs in various stages of healing.

I gasp. Even when I roomed with cancer patients who had poor healing and easy bruising, I’d never seen anything like this. Her arm looks like a crazed psycho killer is using her for his canvas of violence.

“The rest of me looks as bad.” She’s so calm, staring at me as if waiting for something.

“Celina.” I gulp. This is obviously the secret my mother had discovered. “Who did this to you?”

“You’re just like your mom. Jumping to conclusions. Assuming the worst.”

“This isn’t the worst?”

“Look. This is nothing. Not compared to what my folks have to deal with. But your mom won’t believe me. She threatened to call Child Services, report us, have me removed, Cari committed to some hellhole.”

That didn’t seem like such a bad idea if it kept Celina from getting hurt. “Are you safe here?”

“Of course.” Her tone made it clear that no amount of arguing would change her mind.

“Who takes care of Cari when you’re at school?”

“She goes to a special daycare facility. That’s why I can never stay late after school. They bring her home at three-thirty. Before she got sick, Mom used to pick her up, but now—”

Now everything’s changed. I understand that, all too well.

“Is Cari always like that?” I nod toward the closed door beside us.

“Not usually. But since Mom’s been home and moved into a room downstairs, hospice workers coming and going, all of Cari’s routines have been upset. It’s not her fault. She can’t help it. Usually I can calm her down.” She picks up the sling, dangles it before her like it’s contaminated. “Until something like this freaks her out. She didn’t even know who I was. My own sister can’t recognize my face.”

There are tears in her voice. She flings the sling across the room. It knocks against the globe on top of her bookcase, making it twirl and teeter.

If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I never would have believed that a skinny twelve-year-old like Cari could inflict such damage. I look at her arm again. “But—do your folks know?”

“No. And we’re keeping it that way. Which is why I need your mom to mind her own business.”

I can’t stop staring at her bruises. Was it really the best thing, not getting her and her family the help they needed?

Mom talks about that all the time. Her responsibilities as a mandated reporter. How hard it is to make a judgment call. Weighing the best interests for her patient and putting them first. She always goes to bed early with a headache and Dad pampers her extra when he’s home after she’s had to report an abuse case. Says it’s the toughest part of her job.

Now I understand what she’s talking about.

How do I know what’s best for Celina or her family? I barely know her and don’t know her folks at all.

She shakes off my silence, rolling her sleeve back down. “Fine. If you won’t help me, I’ll find another way. Your mom isn’t the saint she makes herself out to be.”

I jerk so hard the mattress bounces. “What are you talking about?”

She shrugs her good shoulder. “There’s stuff I’ve heard. A guy she got bumped off the basketball team, telling him she heard a murmur and that he needed a heart workup. Coach benched him, and by the time the doctors all decided he was okay to play, the season was over. He lost his scholarship because of it.”

“So my mom’s a little overprotective of her patients. After dealing with me, surely that’s understandable. Better safe than sorry.”

There’s pity in her eyes. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Before I can answer, the door bangs open. My mom is standing there. Glaring at both of us.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” My blood flees my face, cascading down in an icy waterfall all the way to my toes. Shit, shit, shit. How the heck am I going to get out of this?

“What are
you
doing here?” She isn’t shouting. Which is very, very bad. “Conspiring with her?” Contempt drips from her voice as she glares at Celina.

“Conspiring?”

Celina steps forward. “You have no right being here. You need to leave. Now.” Her voice sounds like a cop’s voice. Steady and filled with command.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” Mom asks me, holding up her cell phone, which has a map of Celina’s street on it. “Your phone led me here.”

“I can explain—”

“I don’t care. You’re coming with me.” She yanks my arm and hauls me out to the landing. Nessa and Tony are at the bottom of the steps, gaping at us. “You,” she points her finger at Celina, “might want to start packing. I’m making that call to Child Services.”

“No,” Celina and I protest simultaneously.

She pays us no mind, pulling me down the steps. We shove past Nessa and Tony, and are out the door before I can blink.

“Mom. You don’t understand.”

“No.” She lets go of my arm and whirls on me. “You don’t understand. You have no idea who you’re dealing with, young lady. I always knew this day was coming, but—” She shakes her head as if her words have fled her and she can’t find them.

Finally she gets into the car, which she left running in the driveway. I risk a last glance toward the house. Tony, Nessa, and Celina are all staring at me.

I wave good-bye, wondering if I’ll ever see them again.

During the short drive home I try to explain, try to protest, try to apologize. Anything to breach the wall of silence.

I fail.

When she gets out of the car, she doesn’t even look back at me as she stalks into the house. By the time I get inside, she’s hung up her coat and is stomping up the steps. Leaving me at the bottom, standing silent in disgrace.

Less than a week at school and I’ve found and lost four friends, humiliated Jordan while making blood enemies of the entire football team, ruined Tony’s biology grade, possibly destroyed Celina’s life and her family’s reputation, and alienated my own mother.

Where’s my plastic bubble to hide in when I need it?

I stand there, self-pity and remorse and guilt washing over me, leaving me shivering as shadows darken the foyer. Looking up the stairs after my mother has long since disappeared.

In the hospital, I never had to make decisions. Everything was planned out for me. What I wore, what I ate and drank and when, where I went, who I saw.

Now, here in the real world with real people getting hurt, I feel like I’m hanging over a precipice, barely clinging to sanity. Is this how being a normal teenager is meant to feel? Like there’s no clear right or wrong and every step you take, someone is going to be hurt or disappointed or angry with you?

If it is, maybe I don’t want to be a normal girl. Maybe I want to crawl back into my safe hospital bed, pull the rails up so I can’t accidentally tumble out, and huddle under the covers.

Let the grown-ups who know what they’re doing make all the decisions. It’s kept me alive so far.

I drag my backpack—now empty of Phil, but I can’t even think about little details like that right now—into my room and curl up on my island of pink ruffles and try to decide what to do. Seems like anyone I could talk to wouldn’t want to talk to me. And what could they do anyway?

I squint my eyes shut, trying to conjure my little dream boy, my twin…but he’s not coming to my rescue either.

There’s only one person who can fix all this. The same person who solves all of my problems for me. Mom.

I look around my room. My bubble is painted pink, I realize. This is the place I’ll always run to when the rest of the world is too much to handle. And me, with my broken heart, I can only handle so much. I’m not meant for high school or the cruel real world. Far better to stay here safe and sound, surrounded by people who can take care of me.

Growing up, being normal—it’s all highly overrated. And way too much work.

I could never do what Celina does. Much less handle a sister’s death like Nessa has. Or watch over the three of us like Jordan. Hell, I can’t even force myself to ask my Mom the questions I need answered for my biology assignment. Sorry, Tony, but it’s not going to happen. My twin might always remain a mystery.

I’m finally learning my limits. They’re bounded by fake wood paneling and pink lace curtains.

It’s not so bad. Not really.

I climb out of bed and shuffle up the steps. Knock quietly on Mom’s door, almost hoping she’s already asleep.

“Come in,” she answers. At least she’s talking to me.

My hand trembles as I turn the knob. I push the door open and stand on the threshold. Mom has the lights off, but the TV’s on, the volume turned low. She’s snuggled in her favorite sweater, the dark green one Dad says matches her eyes, lying on the bed.

“I’m sorry.” My words come out choked with tears. She keeps staring at the TV as if I’m not there. I take a deep breath and step inside. “Mom, please. I’m so sorry. You were right.”

That gets her attention. She turns her face toward me, the TV throwing shadows of color across it. “Right about what?”

Her voice is so cold it makes me shiver. I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to get warm again. I take another step; now I’m halfway to her bed. Swallow my fear and answer. “Everything. You were right about everything. I should never have tried to go to school. I should stay home.”

She nods and waits expectantly.

I know what she wants to hear. I bite my lip, not sure I can go through with it. My heart is thudding like the cops on TV, trying to bust down a door, rescue a killer’s victim, open up, open up!

“You were right about my surgery.” There I said it. “I should get the defibrillator implanted.”

Sealing my fate, tying my future to a machine shocking me from the inside out, satisfies her. She springs off the bed and gathers me in her arms like she’s just rescued me from something awful. “Honey, I was so worried! You have no idea—I thought you’d die before we could help you. You’ll see, it will change everything. We can buy some time for you, sweetheart. And I’ll take care of you, just like I always have.”

She’s hugging and kissing me and I feel like a little kid again.

Mom’s voice fades and all I hear is the sound of clowns cackling. I blink and look over her shoulder and realize it’s only a stupid TV commercial.

“There’s just one thing,” I say. My tone is timid, pleading, but Mom goes rigid and draws back, holding me at arm’s length, eyeing me suspiciously. “Could you please not call Child Services? Give Celina and her family a little more time? Her mom doesn’t have very long.”

Anger flashes across her face like summer heat lightning announcing a storm’s arrival. But then she smiles—the fake smile she uses on doctors when she’s not too happy with them, but right now I’ll take any smile. “Of course, dear. Whatever you say.”

She hugs me again. “I’ll call Dr. Cho tomorrow and we’ll schedule the surgery for Monday—I doubt he can operate over the weekend. Oh, wait until your father hears; he’ll be so happy. I’m proud of you for realizing you were in over your head, Scarlet. There are some decisions you need to trust your parents to make for you.”

Problems solved, world back in balance, safe bubble of existence intact.

So why do I feel so empty inside?