Evermore - Alyson Noel [7]
“So why aren’t you there now?” I asked.
And when she shrugged, the picture disappeared. And so did she.
I’d been in the hospital for more than a month, suffering broken bones, a concussion, internal bleeding, cuts and bruises, and a pretty deep gash on my forehead. So while I was all bandaged and medicated, Sabine was burdened with the thankless task of clearing out the house, making funeral arrangements, and packing my things for the big move south.
She asked me to make a list of all the items I wanted to bring. All the things I might want to drag from my perfect former life in Eugene, Oregon, to my scary new one in Laguna Beach, California. But other than some of my clothes, I didn’t want anything. I just couldn’t bear a single reminder of everything I’d lost, since it’s not like some stupid box full of crap would ever bring my family back.
The whole time I was cooped up in that sterile white room, I received regular visits from a psychologist, some overeager intern with a beige cardigan and clipboard, who always started our sessions with the same lame question about how I was handling my “profound loss” (his words, not mine). After which he’d try to convince me to head up to room 618, where the grief counseling took place.
But no way was I taking part in that. No way would I sit in a circle with a bunch of anguished people, waiting for my turn to share the story of the worst day of my life. I mean, how was that supposed to help? How could it possibly make me feel better to confirm what I already knew—that not only was I solely responsible for what happened to my family, but also that I was stupid enough, selfish enough, and lazy enough to loiter, dawdle, and procrastinate myself right out of eternity?
Sabine and I didn’t speak much on the flight from Eugene to John Wayne Airport, and I pretended it was because of my grief and injuries, but really I just needed some distance. I knew all about her conflicting emotions, how on the one hand she wanted so desperately to do the right thing, while on the other she couldn’t stop thinking: Why me?
I guess I never wonder: Why me?
Mostly I think: Why them and not me?
But I also didn’t want to risk hurting her. After all the trouble she’d gone to, taking me in and trying to provide a nice home, I couldn’t risk letting her know how all of her hard work and good intentions were completely wasted on me. How she could’ve just dropped me off at any old dump and it wouldn’t have made the least bit of difference.
The drive to the new house was a blur of sun, sea, and sand, and when Sabine opened the door and led me upstairs to my room, I gave it a quick cursory glance then mumbled something sounding vaguely like thanks.
“I’m sorry I have to run out on you,” she’d said, obviously anxious to get back to her office where everything was organized, consistent, and bore no resemblance to the fragmented world of a traumatized teen.
And the moment the door closed behind her, I threw myself on my bed, buried my face in my hands, and started bawling my eyes out.
Until someone said, “Oh please, would you look at yourself? Have you even seen this place? The flat-screen, the fireplace, the tub that blows bubbles? I mean, Hel-lo?”
“I thought you couldn’t talk?” I rolled over and glared at my sister, who, by the way, was dressed in a pink Juicy tracksuit, gold Nikes, and a bright fuchsia china doll wig.
“Of course I can talk, don’t be ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes.
“But the last few times—” I started.
“I was just having a little fun. So shoot me.” She stalked around my room, running her hands over my desk, fingering the new laptop and iPod Sabine must have placed there. “I cannot believe you have a setup like this. This is so freaking unfair!” She placed her hands on her hips and scowled. “And you’re not even appreciating it! I mean, have you even seen the balcony yet? Have you even bothered to check out