When Reason Breaks (23 page)

The images in her head are vivid. Are they dreams? Or is this the other side? She's on a plane, the skydiving propeller kind. It glides over the ocean, smoothly at first, but then it hits serious turbulence. She grabs the chair's arms, but this doesn't help to steady her. Nearby is the open area where someone strapped with a parachute would normally jump.
She unlatches her seatbelt and stands. The plane's shaking throws her to the floor. She crawls to the opening and rolls out of the plane.

She falls, twisting through the choppy air, but she never hits the water. The plane circles around and she falls through a hole in the roof. She lands hard on the floor. Everything feels like it's broken. The hole in the ceiling closes and the side opening vanishes. The plane is sealed. No way to escape. The shaking plane drifts from side to side. She crawls back to her seat, fastens her seatbelt, and holds the chair's arms again. She braces herself for the bumpy ride.

No white light. No escorted walk by dead loved ones. She's dreaming, and if she's dreaming, then she must be alive.

Emily pries open her eyes. Her lids are heavy and prefer to remain closed. She blinks several times to clear her vision. She moves only her eyes. Everything else hurts. Her body has been battered by hands and equipment that worked to save her life. She's still attached to some of the machines.

Mamá sits on one side of the bed and holds Emily's hand. Her eyes are closed and her head is lowered. Pop sits on her other side. His elbows press into the bed and his face is buried in his hands. They are praying.

Emily moves her hand to confirm that she's alive and not watching this scene from outside her body. Mamá feels Emily's fingers move. She snaps her head up and leans into her daughter's face.

“Emily? Emily, are you awake?”

Pop also leans in, his face inches from hers.

Emily nods her head weakly. Everything hurts so much.

“
¡Oh, gracias a Dios!
” Mamá exclaims.

Pop runs a hand through his hair and then grips the metal bedrail.

Tears slide out of Emily's closed eyes.

Three floors down, Ms. Diaz lies on a bed in the emergency room area with small plastic tubes up her nose and a monitor on her finger.

When she had walked out of the woods, her breathing was still labored.

“Elizabeth,” she whispered and faced the girl. Without hesitation, Elizabeth had hugged Ms. Diaz tight. They were both shaking.

“When I first read the note, I thought it was you,” said Ms. Diaz.

They had pulled away from each other, but Elizabeth had maintained a grip on Ms. Diaz's arms by the elbows.

“Ms. D? Are you okay? Your face is scratched and you're pale.”

Ms. Diaz had touched her cheek where a wayward branch assaulted her. The brush of her fingertips across the scratch had released the tiniest bit of blood. The red speck reminded her of amber flecks in half-closed brown eyes.

She had dropped to her knees. Her upper body felt like it was being squeezed tighter and tighter. She had placed her hands on the ground to steady herself, but it didn't help. Her vision blurred and her chest hurt. She rolled on her back. The earth was cool beneath her; the sun was hot upon her. A strong wind blew over and carried away her consciousness.

Elizabeth had called nine-one-one for a second time.

Now, Ms. Diaz closes her eyes but can't sleep.

After some time, a nurse walks into her room.

“Hey there, sunshine,” she says as she reviews Ms. Diaz's chart.

Ms. Diaz laughs a little because she must look like crap. She tries to talk, but her throat is painfully dry.

“Just relax,” the nurse says. “I'll get you some water in a minute. The doctor said you don't need to be admitted, but they want you to stay a little longer before you're cleared to go home. He said you probably fainted from a combination of overexertion and anxiety.”

Ms. Diaz can't argue with the diagnosis.

“Some of your teacher friends are in the lobby. We won't let them in yet, but one asked me to deliver your bag. She figured you'd need your identification, phone, and whatnot when you woke up.”

“Thanks,” Ms. Diaz whispers.

“Now, try to get some rest,” the nurse says.

Ms. Diaz nods, closes her eyes, and easily falls asleep.

Time passes. At some point, Ms. Diaz opens her eyes and looks around. She's alone. She spots her work bag on a nearby chair and suddenly wonders if the manila envelope is inside.

She slides out of bed and inches her way to the chair, rolling anything that can be rolled and being careful not to detach herself from the machines. When she returns to the bed, she finds and rips open the envelope. She pulls out a marble design–covered journal and begins to read:

Dear Ms. Diaz
,

Hi. How are you?

Okay, that was a stupid way to start, but I wasn't sure how to begin. Deep breath and here goes: When you read this, I should be gone. The first envelope is my suicide note, and this journal is the explanation. “This is my letter to the World / That never wrote to Me –” That's a line from an Emily Dickinson poem, but I'm sure you know that. Do you know how that feels? To expect a response from someone and get nothing? She was ignored and resented it. So was I. Not by you. You tried …

When she finishes, Ms. Diaz hugs the journal to her chest. She sinks into the bed, turns on her side, and pulls her knees
up. Tears stream down her face and into the pillow beneath her head. After a few minutes, the nurse walks into the room.

“The girl who tried to kill herself in the woods, is she alive?” Ms. Diaz asks. She stays rolled away from the nurse, facing the wall.

“I can't give you information about another patient,” the nurse says. “That's confidential.”

“I found her there. That's why I'm here. I passed out after trying to resuscitate her. Please, I need to know. Is she alive?”

The nurse is quiet for a moment and then she says, “Yes.”

Ms. Diaz turns her face into the pillow and sobs.

Elizabeth stands alone outside the high school's front entrance. After countless retellings of the morning's events, she's free to go, but where? The principal asked if she wanted to call her mom for a ride home. No. The police offered to give her a ride. Absolutely not. Her mom would have a heart attack. She'd never believe Elizabeth had not been arrested—again. After all, only yesterday the police were involved after she popped Emily in the face.

Yesterday, she hit Emily in the face. Today, she decided to kill herself. And this morning, Elizabeth saw Emily in the distance and decided not to catch up to her. She knows now that Emily was the girl in white walking ahead of her. If Elizabeth had caught up to her, she could have ruined Emily's plan. She saw Emily walking to her death and didn't stop her.

Elizabeth buries her iPod earbuds into her ears, turns the volume way up, and zips up her jacket as high as it'll go. She glances at the nearby wooded area and flashes of Emily on the ground fill her head. Her still eyes. Her cold mouth. Elizabeth's stomach tightens and, without a real destination, she runs away from the school.

After a while, she cuts through the baseball field in Rogers Park. She stops running and turns in a circle. She doesn't want to go home, but she doesn't know where to go.

Her mind races as music pounds in her ears. The sun is high in the clear blue sky, but gusts of cool wind remind her winter isn't over. She throws up her fur-trimmed hood to protect her face against the sun and wind. She glances in one direction. That way leads home. No. She turns in the opposite direction. That way leads back to school. No. She looks to her right and sees a playground. She attacked her father near there. No.

She eyes the town green in the distance and walks through the cemetery to Sophia Holland's grave. She drops her bag on the ground, kneels, and sits back on her heels. She shuts off her iPod but leaves the buds in place. The rushing of her own blood fills her ears, like waves lapping the shore. She shoves her gloved hands into her pockets, tucks her nose under the top of her coat, and closes her eyes.

At first, her body is tense, focused on keeping warm as she kneels on the cold earth. Soon, though, the tension eases as she focuses on her breathing and the darkness behind her eyes. Elizabeth lies down next to Sophia's headstone, her eyes
closed, her legs and arms somewhat apart and relaxed, her palms up. Her mind races with questions, apologies, requests for help—from whom she's not sure. But then she hears what seem to be responses, but it's her own voice inside her head.

Elizabeth takes in a deep breath. As she exhales, she imagines releasing her anger and guilt with her breath into the wind. She does it again and imagines that the deep-seated, hard-to-get-to junk seeps through her back and legs into the earth. She does this again and again. The black behind her eyes lightens, and for several minutes, she sees swirls of purple and gold. She wishes she could take a picture of the majestic colors. She holds them as long as she can as she floats for what seems like forever in a semiconscious state.

When Elizabeth opens her eyes, she sees the sun is starting its descent, and the moon is already visible in the sky. The impending sunset brings a deeper chill. Still, she's warm and remarkably relaxed. She props herself on her elbows and looks around.

Some of the grass remains green, while some areas are marred brown by the weather. Some spots are muddy from the melting snow. To the right of her elbow, a thin layer of ice covers a small patch of green grass on Sophia's burial site. She extends her arm and gently presses her palm on the ice, her warm skin turning it into water. The grass is set free to feel the sun's beams and hear the wind's song.

Elizabeth takes her camera out of her bag and rises from the ground. She turns the camera to the north. Click. To the
south. Click. To the east. Click. To the west. Click. She points the camera at the sun. Click. And at its cool companion, the moon. Click.

She stares at Sophia's headstone and imagines the letters that spell her name morphing into “Emily Delgado” and then “Emily Elizabeth Davis.” A chill shoots through her.

“I'm sorry you died so young,” she whispers, “but I'm still alive.” Her breath catches in her throat and she swallows hard. “I'll see you on
El Día de los Muertos
. I promise you won't be forgotten, but I can't hang out here anymore.”

She picks up her bag and walks off in a new direction.

Elizabeth rings the doorbell, and without waiting for a response, bangs on the door. She knocks continually until Tommy stands at the entrance. The two stare at each other in silence for a few moments.

“Hi,” Elizabeth says.

“Hi,” Tommy responds, with confusion and surprise in his voice.

She lifts her camera and takes a picture of him.

“Hey,” he says, raising a hand like a celebrity ambushed by the paparazzi. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture of you.”

“I see that. At least warn me or get my good side,” he says. He passes a hand over his short hair and strikes a pose. She takes another picture and laughs, which causes Tommy to cock his head and look at her with wonder.

“Can I come in?” Elizabeth asks as she puts the camera into her bag.

“Depends. Are you going to attack me?”

“You never know,” she says, raising an eyebrow. When she realizes he's not amused, she adds, “No.”

He steps aside and allows Elizabeth to enter.

“Is anyone home?” she asks, unzipping her coat.

“Just me. Come on in. Have a seat,” he says as he walks toward the nearby living room.

“No thanks, I'm not staying long,” she says. She shoves her gloves into her coat pockets and lowers her bag to the floor.

Tommy sits on an arm of the couch, while Elizabeth stands a few feet away.

“I need to tell and ask you something.”

“All right,” says Tommy. He crosses his arms and looks at her with interest and suspicion.

She shifts from one foot to the other before saying, “I'm really sorry.”

“It's okay,” he says, waving her off. “I deserved it. I shouldn't have trusted Kevin to be a reliable reporter of information. I should have known better after being his friend all these years. I should have asked you myself.”

“Yeah, but you didn't deserve what I did to you. I'm really sorry. For everything. I'm going to work on, you know, not losing it anymore,” she says and grins.

“It's nice to see you smile,” says Tommy.

Elizabeth bites her bottom lip.

“So, what do you want to ask?” Tommy reminds her.

Elizabeth steps toward him. She nibbles on a fingernail and then steps closer. In response, Tommy unlocks his crossed arms and widens his legs so nothing blocks her from reaching him. She leans in and outlines Tommy's earlobe with her nose. She gently kisses him on his neck, below his ear. “Am I too late?”

He pulls off Elizabeth's jacket and wraps his arms around her back. She circles her arms around his neck and holds on tight. Tommy's hands seem to inject warmth into her body. Elizabeth pulls back so her face is next to Tommy's. He leans back a little farther and turns his face to kiss her. His lips brush hers, once, twice. Then, he extends the kiss and opens his lips a bit. Elizabeth responds, and after a few kisses, she lets him in.

His hands grab her back and pull her into him. She grips his shoulder with one hand and reaches up with the other to rub the back of his head, his buzz cut soft beneath her fingers. Her eyes are shut tight, and for a moment she sees tinges of purple and gold again.

They pause. She keeps her head near his and they continue to hold each other.

“Wow,” says Elizabeth.

“Yeah,” says Tommy.