Made for You (15 page)

“Stop.” I put my hand over Amy’s. “Not like this. Not tonight.”

She obeys, and we’re silent as we drive to Scuppernong Park. I park, cut off the engine, and reach into the backseat. On the floor is a bottle of wine—from the Cooper Winery, of course. I like to drink it when I’m with Amy. It makes me think of Eva, helps me feel like she’s with me.

Once I open it, Amy and I pass the bottle back and forth. I put on a condom before I guide her hand back to my trousers. “So it’s not messy.”

She giggles, but doesn’t argue. “And the gloves?”

“It’s something I read about,” I say. I don’t mention
where
I read it.

I know her body well enough to distract her before she thinks too much about it. A few minutes later, we’re both panting. “Will you? No one else does it like you. I’ve missed it.”

In my mind, I realize what a sacrifice I’m making. I’m giving
this
up so Eva can be saved. I tangle my hand in Amy’s hair to urge her down. When she starts to remove the condom, I yank her away.

Her yip of pain makes me guilty and excited all at once. “No. Leave it on.”

“But—”

“Please. I just want tonight to be different,” I whisper.

She sits up and stares at me for a moment.

“Come on,” I beg. “I want to pretend. We could be strangers tonight.”

She frowns. “You’re fucked up.”

“But you like it.” I start pulling her back toward me, and this time she doesn’t resist.

Afterward, I remove the condom and stuff it into a bag that I brought with me. Beside it on the floor is a tiny pill and the wine bottle. I slip the pill into the wine, lift it like I’m drinking so I can dissolve the pill into the wine. I would never drug a girl to get her naked. That’s wrong. I don’t want Amy to hurt though. If there were anyone else who could give the message, I wouldn’t do this.

I hand her the bottle and tell her, “Here. You can drink the rest while I take care of you.”

Her eyes widen, and I realize she thinks I mean something different. I’ve been too careful not to leave any fluids so far, so I can’t do that. I put the bottle to her lips and use my gloved hands to make her happy before the pill kicks in.

“Serious afterglow,” she mumbles after she reaches satisfaction. Her words slur, and she slumps to the side.

I realize that I’m crying silently when she loses consciousness. I’m proud that I gave her happiness before that happened. I’ll miss her.

Quietly, I get out of the car, go around to her side, and scoop her into my arms. I bring the asphodel, too. I walk to the edge of the lake and lower her to the ground. “Thank you,” I whisper. She can’t hear me, but I still need to say it. I have manners.

I remove her shirt and break the wine bottle on the ground beside her. I watch to be sure Amy doesn’t move. Then, I tuck the asphodel under her, so the water won’t wash it away.

She’s unconscious, facedown at the edge of the water. Then, I pick up a piece of glass and start to write a message on Amy’s back. I keep one hand on her shoulders to hold her steady as I push the glass into her skin. She cries out as I carve the words, but she doesn’t move away. She can’t, but I still whisper comforting words to her as I carefully spell out F
OR
E
VA
. J
UDGE
.

I turn Amy’s head so she’s facedown in the water, and I hold her steady. I could’ve left, left her alone for her death as I did with Micki, but Amy means too much to me for that. I stay at Amy’s side as she inhales the water, shudders, and dies.

Then, I carefully peel off the gloves and incinerate them on the ground. After they stop burning and melting, I use the piece of broken bottle to push the remains of the gloves into the water and tuck the glass into my pocket to save. It’s harder to walk away from Amy than it was from Micki. I glance back and whisper, “Thank you.”

Someday, I’ll tell Eva about this moment, and she’ll understand how deep my love for her runs.

I sacrificed a friend for her. I wouldn’t do that for anyone else.

DAY 13: “THE VEIL”

Eva

I
FEEL LIKE
I
’M
getting ready to face an attack instead of a funeral. I know that most of my classmates will be there, and as guilty as I feel for wanting to skip it, I really wish I could. I want to pay my respects to Micki, but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I certainly don’t want them to see my slashed-up face. I’m not ready. I’m not sure I ever will be.

I pull on the long black dress my mother set out this morning. It seems strange that we wear the same size, but she’s really not that much older than me. Maybe that’s why motherhood has always seemed a little confusing to her. She was almost my exact age when she got pregnant with me, so she’s still young enough to be thin and have clothes I’m not embarrassed to wear. If anything, I look
better
when I borrow from her closet. This dress is no exception.

“I can do this,” I repeat as I try to avoid the mirror my mother refuses to cover. I’m fairly sure I’m lying to myself; I’m not at all sure I can handle today. Going to the funeral feels too weighty. Micki was my age, and she’s dead. The suspicion that her death wasn’t an accident, that maybe the same person hit me, was a topic of discussion in today’s
Jessup Observer
. What if the newspaper is right? If my accident was meant to be a murder, will the killer try again? Will he be there watching me? My stomach turns at the thought that the person who did this will be there—gloating over Micki’s death, over my scars, over the growing fear.

I sit in my wheelchair trying not to let my fears paralyze me, when my mother comes back into my room. “Try this.”

She holds out the black veiled hat. I accept it and hold it by the brim.

“It’ll hide your face,” she says gently.

It’s not the sort of thing I’ve ever worn. Mom was raised with a more conservative, Old South attitude. I blame some of it on her decision to stay in Jessup and not go to college. Of course, I can’t criticize her too much: that decision was made because she was pregnant with me. Grandfather Cooper continued to treat her like a child, and my father—and
his
father—were much the same. Between Grandfather Cooper, Grandfather Tilling, and my father, my mother was treated like a sheltered Southern woman of an earlier generation. She wore pearls and tasteful clothes, poured tea, and volunteered like it was a career.

When I meet her gaze, she adds, “I know you don’t like attention, so I thought this might help.”

I nod. “Braid my hair first?”

She pulls my wheelchair backward so she can sit on the chair that I usually use for reading. I feel like a child sitting in front of her while she brushes my hair. She’s gentle, and the rhythmic tug of the bristles makes me close my eyes. I could probably do this without a mirror, but for the funeral, I’d rather it look as good as possible. This will be the first time my classmates see me, and I am terrified.

“The veil works today, but you’ll need to face them after this,” my mother instructs. “I agreed with the nurses lying so people didn’t come to the hospital, but you need to move forward. They won’t all be great, but you’ll know who your friends are.” Mom’s voice is matter-of-fact. “The longer you stall, the harder it’ll be. I know a little about this, Eva.”

I hear the soft clatter of the brush being lowered to the wooden table beside my chair. I stay silent as her fingers start separating my hair into chunks for braiding. Oddly, it occurs to me that this is the closest I’ve felt to her in years. She’s not a touchy-feely person, but right now, I feel like a little kid.

“When I was pregnant, even though I was married before I was showing, it was hard walking around Jessup. Their eyes would go from my face to my stomach to my hand, like they were saying ‘Lizzy . . . the pregnant one; yes, she did get married.’ It was true, but I don’t think I ever felt
small
before that.” She tucks in stray tendrils of my hair as she talks. “I was a brat. Daddy bought me what I wanted, spoiling me the way he’d have spoiled Mama if she hadn’t died. Every girl at school wanted to be me, and every boy wanted to kiss me.”

I’m tempted to speak, to ask questions, but I’m afraid that if I do, she’ll stop talking. She so rarely talks about being a teenager, so I don’t say a word. I listen.

“A few of them did kiss me, but your father . . . he was different. The preacher’s boy, trying to prove he wasn’t a good boy, and we were careless. We had so much fun, but there were consequences.” She sighs, and I’m not sure if it’s regret or longing for those days when she and my father were young. She smiles at me then and continues on, “I knew Daddy wouldn’t let me date him seriously; not even being the preacher’s boy would overrule your father’s lack of ‘proper breeding’—until I turned up pregnant.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t be stuck with Dad if—”

“Hush, you.” She leans forward to see my face. “I loved your father. I still do. I didn’t mean to trap him, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I have you and him. This was exactly what I wanted then—and still is. The only thing I might’ve changed was how young I was.” My expression must be as disbelieving as I feel because she adds, “I love you, Eva. I’m lousy at being a mother. I try, but you just never seem to need me. I’m not sure you ever did. You always seemed to know what you wanted, and no matter what I said or did, you marched off to do whatever you felt like doing. When you were little, you and Nathaniel—”

“Nate,” I interject.

“You and
Nate
,” she continues, “were such little hellions. I swear you sweated mud. I’d buy you the perfect little dresses that I loved as a girl, and you’d go outside and wallow in the mud like a piglet. It made me so crazy. I didn’t understand you.” She laughs a little. “I probably still don’t. I never knew what you needed, so I listened to what Daddy and the Reverend suggested. Even when their advice was in opposition to each other, I tried to listen. I didn’t want to mess up at this. I try not to push you, but I’m not sure I can keep this distance between us. Knowing you were in the hospital and I couldn’t get there . . .”

She’d finished the braid at some point while she was speaking, and now her hands slide over my hair in a caress.

“I knew you couldn’t get there, and I was okay,” I promised.

“You’re
always
okay. It makes it hard to know when you need me.” My mother sniffles, and it’s so out of character that I turn to look at her. The impeccable Elizabeth Cooper-Tilling looks heartbroken. Instead of grabbing a tissue to dab at her perfectly made-up eyes, she swipes the back of her hand across her face, and then wraps her arms around me. I lean back against my mother and close my eyes as she hugs me and sobs.

“I’ll do better.” She’s not hugging me so tightly that it hurts, but she’s not letting go. “Maybe I can ask Grace’s mother. You like her, right?”

“Ask her . . . ?”

“How to be a good mother,” she clarifies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I bet she has ideas. She could be my mentor.”

I smother a laugh, but I know she’s not joking. She has the tone that I’ve always associated with one of her volunteer projects. If her new focus is motherhood, I’m not sure what that will mean for me—especially if we get confirmation that my accident was not random.

“I’ll have her over for tea, and we’ll get started.” My mother settles the hat on my head and drapes the veil over my face. In an instant, the world is dimmed by black gauze, and her fingers arrange it so it looks artful and natural.

When she holds a hand mirror in front of me, I don’t feel like looking away. The veil hides the cuts and yellowed bruises. I smile before murmuring, “Thank you.”

“This is just the start, Eva. I’m going to be a new mother. I’ll do everything right,” she promises. She smiles at me for a moment, and then she adds, “I need my planner. We’ll need a schedule for meetings with Mrs. Yeung, and then mother-daughter events.” She pauses, clearly thinking of the lists in her mind already. “We should have a brainstorming session to figure out what I can do better, and what activities we should set up. Maybe Grace could help, too. She’s so smart and outspoken. I’ll see what day works for the four of us to get together this week.”

And then she’s off, and I’m left sitting in my room a little alarmed, but also a little amused. The idea of my mother and Mrs. Yeung together should terrify me. Mostly, though, I feel happier than I have in a while—at least until I think about going to a funeral . . . and the murderer who waits somewhere out there. Fear fills me, and I can’t help feeling overwhelmed.

When my mother goes downstairs to wait for Nate, I debate telling someone about my hallucinations. Despite only being back in touch with Nate for a little over a week, I’m tempted to tell
him
. The problem there is telling him that I imagined his murder. I’m not sure how I feel about that. It isn’t the sort of thing that sounds sane or like a reason to become closer friends. I don’t want to tell my parents or the doctors though. They’d overreact, and I’d end up with a bunch of tests or back at Mercy Hospital. I’m still thinking about what to do when I hear his voice downstairs.

I smile as I listen to him and my mother talk. I feel a little like a creeper, but luckily, Grace arrives while Nate is still going over my mother’s undoubtedly copious notes on taking care of me. Unlike Nate, she doesn’t stay downstairs with my parents.

When she walks into my room, she gasps, “What are you wearing?”

“A dress.”

“On your head, Eva.” She walks closer, gently closing the door behind her.

I flip the veil up to bare my face. “I like it. I’m not ready for the stares.”

She reaches out to brush my cheek, and that’s all it takes. I fall into what looks like a continuation of the same hallucination of Grace I had before.

The streetlight I parked under is out, but there are no other cars nearby so I feel comfortable walking across the parking lot. All of these articles I’ve been skimming have made me jumpy. No one knows what I’m here researching, but too much time with my thoughts makes me nervous
.