He paced back and forth across my front porch and mumbled, “I do want to help you.” Then he changed course and walked toward me. I backed up, until I was pressed against the door. Troy leaned into me, hands against the house, one on either side of me.
His face was an inch from mine, and I could feel his breath. He seemed to be waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he pushed his lips onto mine—and when nothing happened still, he brought a hand behind my head and pressed harder. He moved his lips, eyes closed, as I just stood there, unmoving, eyes open. Until he was done and dropped his hand, pulled his head back, and winced.
“You’re dying,” he whispered.
“What?” I gripped the doorknob. Was I sick? Could he sense it?
“On the inside,” he said. I wanted to feel relief, but I didn’t. Because he was right. He saw what Decker couldn’t see. I released my grip and pushed him in the chest with my oven-mitted hands. He staggered backward and walked down the steps.
“Troy.” He paused, one foot on the sidewalk, one still on my porch steps. “Guess I should stay away from you then.”
I waited for an argument, but I didn’t get any. And he didn’t look ashamed or hurt or angry. He looked thoughtful. So I spun around and ran inside, slamming the door in his face. I tried to flip the lock, but the oven mitts got in the way. So I threw them on the floor, successfully turned the lock, and leaned into the door again, peering out through the peephole. Troy was still standing there, thinking pretty hard about my front door. He thought about it for a solid three minutes—which, coincidentally, was the amount of time it took to lose all feeling in my fingers.
I went back to the kitchen and punched at the power button over the oven, making sure it was off. Then I scraped the cookies into the garbage. I tied up the trash bag and threw it into the garage. Because Troy ruined the memory. Now, anytime I’d smell melting chocolate, I’d think of him.
Then I scrubbed and disinfected and mopped until my joints ached. I took down a mug—#1 ACCOUNTANT—and dragged a kitchen chair over to the refrigerator. Because along with not being trusted with medicine, I also wasn’t trusted with alcohol, which was one cabinet over. I reached up, pulled down the vodka, and filled my mug. Then I shook out a little blue pill and a long white tablet from the vials in the medicine cabinet and gulped it all down.
Everything burned. It still felt better than what was underneath. Before retreating to my bedroom, I topped off my mug one last time. My room felt much too bright, so I pulled the curtains tight, huddled on the floor in a corner, and sipped my drink.
I went to sleep in the middle of the afternoon in the house that had become a mausoleum.
I woke to pitch-blackness. Voices carried through the walls. Dad yelling, which he never did. Mom shrieking in return. My head ached and the floor tilted back and forth. I stumbled across the hallway and flung their door wide open without knocking.
Mom was standing in her flannel pajamas, her face gaunt and teeth clenched. Dad’s hair was ungelled and wild, and he was also in flannel. Nothing seemed as serious in flannel, so I giggled.
They both whipped their heads in my direction. Then Dad grabbed Mom’s hand. I looked down at their interlocked fingers. They weren’t angry with each other. They were yelling about me.
Dad said, “I’ll take care of this,” and walked toward me. “Come on, honey, let’s get you back in bed.”
This. I was an unrecognizable “this.”
He tucked me into bed and eyed the mug on the floor. Then he picked it up and frowned at me, but didn’t say anything. He should’ve. If he was Dad and I was Delaney, he would’ve. Instead, he kissed my forehead and tucked the blanket up to my chin and shut the door behind him.
I lay flat on my back, my arms straight down at my sides. Just like in the hospital when I was trapped in my body, staring out. I imagined the boy with the gray skin from Dr. Logan’s office stuck in this position indefinitely. Stuck because of me. Until infection or illness or another stroke put him out of his misery. And I realized that maybe death was not the worst thing that could happen. And I wondered what I was trying to do. What was I trying to save him from?
I didn’t sleep. The planets spun wildly, partly from the air spurting out of the heating vents, partly from the alcohol and pills disorienting my damaged brain. I heard tires crunching through the snow. I heard footsteps. I knew it was Troy. I just knew, like I could sense him. Like I could hear his voice whispering, “Delaney,” into my ear, like a mythological Siren, luring me.
Chapter 17
I couldn’t find a pair of black pants, so I wore dark gray. Mom swished through the kitchen door dressed in a pastel shirt, like December 30 was just some normal, carefree day during winter break and not the day of Carson Levine’s funeral. I did a double take, and she paused for a moment before moving again. She sat at the other end of the dining-room table and flattened the newspaper in front of her.
“I didn’t know you were planning on going to the funeral,” she said, not meeting my gaze. “I can’t go today. And your father had to go in to work. He had an important meeting.”
“Why can’t you go?”
She stared blankly at the center of the newspaper, but her eyes didn’t move. “I have plans,” she said.
“Maybe you should consider changing them.” It’s not like kids die in our town every day. Actually, this was the first one I’d ever known. Second, if you count me.
“I’m sorry, I’m meeting your father and some clients at his office. It’s okay if you don’t go. Nobody will be mad at you.”
“Unbelievable,” I said, but she still didn’t look up.
I went upstairs and prepared myself for an awkward conversation. “Decker,” I said as soon as he picked up the phone, “I need a ride.”
He paused. “A ride where?”
“To the funeral.”
Another pause. “I didn’t know you were going.”
“Why wouldn’t I go?” I knew things would be strained, but I still thought he’d take me.
“Why isn’t your mom taking you?”
I sighed loudly into the phone. “She’s going to my dad’s work. Apparently she has more important things to do.”
“Mine are insisting on going, even though they’re supposed to leave for Boston today. Yearly New Year’s Eve party at my aunt’s.”
I grunted in solidarity. “At least yours aren’t being selfish.”
“It’s not selfish if you don’t go, Delaney. Everyone knows you’ve been through a lot. And, I mean, you saw him . . .”
Die. Dead. Did they all think I couldn’t handle the funeral? “I’m going.”
“Okay,” he said after a pause. “We’re—I’m supposed to go to Kevin’s after. You can come back home with my parents. If you want.”
But he wasn’t really asking what I wanted to do. He was telling me.
*
Even though we were early, the parking lot was full. Kids from school huddled around the front steps in groups of three and four. Teachers who’d known Carson most of his life stood talking quietly to each other. Pairs of parents stood off to the side, holding hands, never taking their eyes off their own kids.
Decker’s parents pulled into the spot beside us. When they got out, his mother took Decker in her arms, which obviously made him uncomfortable. His arms were wrapped around his mother’s waist, but his fists were clenched. She stood back, smoothed his hair, and looked at me, tears in her eyes. “You sure you want to go in, sweetie? I can take you back.”