Made for You
Page 38
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
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 FOR EVA. JUDGE.
I turn her 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 turn her 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.”
