“What is wrong with me?” I say to myself. I crack open my window, letting in some cool air. Even though it's dark, I can see pretty well. Much better than I could a little while ago. Dear sweet Jesus.
If this is what's happened in just a few hours, what else can happen? I tear off my shirt and run to the bathroom mirror, scrabbling at my back to make sure I'm not sprouting wings. Panting, I lean over the sink, preparing to hurl again.
I know I'm changing, but I don't know how to stop it. I don't know what I'm changing into. It scares me, but Peter said it was the only way to get Ivan to leave me alone, and I have no reason not to believe him.
Another wave of nausea rolls through me. I heave once, but don't throw up.
There's a knock at my door that makes me get vertical. If it's Dad, I'm going to punch him. As quickly as I can, I get into bed and try to slow my breathing.
“Ava? Are you awake?” The sound of my mother's voice shatters something in me and all I want to do is cry. Curl up in a ball and feel her fingers in my hair. Pull yourself together, Ava.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to make my voice sound sleepy.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I quickly crawl under my covers and squint my eyes a little. I'm not a very good actress.
“You slept the day away, baby.” She sits on the edge of my bed and strokes my hair. I glance down to make sure my arm is covered.
“I know. I was just really tired with everything.” Understatement of my life.
“Are you feeling okay?” Her fingers dance across my forehead and it feels really good. Not enough to distract me, but still.
“I'm better now. I think I had this stomach thing.” I move my head so I can give her a smile.
“Okay,” she says, still stroking my head. I feel like she wants to talk about something.
“Are you going to bed?”
“Not yet. I can't sleep.” She looks out the window. Her eyes tell me she's exhausted, but I'm not going to argue.
“Do you want to do something?” I say. She turns from the window.
“Sure. I was thinking that the garden's looking a little sad. I feel like I haven't had the energy to work on it,” she says, pushing the sleeves on her robe up.
“Do you want to? Now?” Midnight gardening isn't the craziest thing I've done in the past 24 hours, which is saying something.
“Yeah,” she says.
Giggling like children, we tiptoe down the stairs and out to the little garden shed Dad made her one Mother's Day. Her energy perks me up better than a cup of coffee. I'm still weak, but feeling much better.
With my new sharper eyesight, I'm able to spot the tiniest of weeds, but I keep jumping at things in my peripheral vision. We spend the next few hours on our hands and knees yanking out dandelions and nettles. I struggle to make benign conversation.
The most vocal of all Things, Thing Two-and-a-half, rattles away in my throat, threatening to jump out of my mouth in a moment of weakness. There is absolutely no way I can tell her about it. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't see things the way Peter did about it being essential for my survival. I sigh without meaning to. Peter.
Thinking about his name sends a pang of loss through me. I miss him. Sick and twisted as it may be, it's like half of my soul or spirit has been carved out of my body. It sounds super dramatic, but that's the best way I can describe it.
“Have you figured out any of your friend issues?”
“Not really.” I snort. They're low on my priority list.
“There's something else up with you,” she says, looking at me sidelong. It makes me think of Peter.
She's hit the nail on the head and I have no way to get out of it, so I say, “there's this guy.” Instantly, her eyes light up as I tell her what I can about Peter, which isn't much. I haven't even made up a backstory.
I keep the details to a minimum. She's silent, listening to my verbal tap dance. I weave something mildly convincing and hope she's buying it.
“We should probably go in,” I say when I've run out of Peter things. I look up at the sky, which is significantly lighter than when we started. We gather up the discarded weeds and my mother's tools. I toss the weeds on the compost pile and she puts her tools away.
We can hear Dad snoring the second we open the door. She laughs softly.
“We're lucky he sleeps like the dead. Especially lately.” She says it as a joke, but there's something sad in it too.
“Goodnight, ma fleur. Sweet dreams.” She kisses my forehead and I pull her in for a hug. I hold her tight, breathing her in. Memorizing. Trying to bottle her up so I can keep her.
“I love you.” I've been having a hard time saying it lately, which is weird because I've never had a hard time saying before. I'm just more aware than ever what it means and how many times I have left to say it.
“Love you too, baby.” I freeze this image in my mind. Her with dirt under her fingernails and a tired smile on her face. Add her hair back, and a little more weight and she'd be perfect.
Twenty-Four
He stays outside my window the whole night. Not that he watches me sleep or anything, but he stays close. Close enough that I know he's there. I don't look out the window. I don't want him to know that I know that he's there. Somehow it feels embarrassing to have him babysit me.
He's not there when I wake up. I feel his absence like a hole in my chest and I hate myself for it. Mom is sleeping in, go figure and Dad left long before I woke up. Somehow I struggle into some clothes and make it to school without crashing my car.
With everything that went on in the night, I completely forget the coffee I promised Tex. She doesn't.
“I thought you were going start being a better friend,” she says, crossing her arms and squinting at me. She only squints when she's mad.
“I know, I know.” I rest my head against my locker. I'm so beyond tired that everything looks kinda hazy and I have to keep my eyes focused so I don't stare into space. Tex doesn't notice, or maybe she doesn't care.
“Don't know, do. I talked with Jamie this weekend.” Her nails are painted a sunny yellow, but her mood is the opposite.
“And?”
“And he really needs us. Both of us.” You suck, Ava, is implied.
“I'm sorry.” I keep saying the same stupid words, and they don't make any difference.
“I've had it with you being sorry. I'm done. Seriously. Either you tell me what's going on with you, or I'm...” She waves her hands and sputters, trying to come up with something that she's going to do to me.
“I know. I'm sorry. More than you know. I've been a crappy friend.”