M.I.N.D. (16 page)

I repeat (loudly in my mind): WTF?!

I want to be
with
Ethan, not
be
Ethan.

At least he's thinking of me.

Wait. Did I just jump from one rabbit to another?

In the meantime, Cora is striking a runway model's hip-jutting pose. “How's this?” she says, smiling at a photographer with a bright red mustache. He looks like he has a nosebleed. She glances over her shoulder and kicks up a leg, nearly taking out Vardina. “How about this?”

Ethan's body tenses and his heart speeds up, but it's not the rock-singer-slash-closet-supermodel who's spiking his pulse. Across the room, a girl with almost-black hair hanging all the way to her waist is arguing with her scruffy-looking date.

The girl could pass for Amanda's twin.

“Ethan, what's wrong?” Vardina asks. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“That girl…” His chest feels like there's a bubble inside, and it's on the verge of bursting.

“Oh my God,” Vardina says. “She looks just like Amanda.”

The bickering couple merge into the crowd. Ethan watches as though transfixed. “This was a mistake,” he says, his voice shaky. “I shouldn't have come tonight. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“You need to relax,” Cora says, waving off the cameramen. Then she winks. “I have just what you need.”

“I don't think so.” His voice turns so cold that if I had skin I'd be shivering. “Vardina, would you mind if we left now?”

“Come on, baby,” Cora says woozily. “Trust me, you'll like it.”

“Look, lady,” he says, removing her arm. “I'm interested in someone else.”

There it is. He's admitting it. He likes someone else. The coldness disappears and an oozy feeling spreads though him, his heart melting like chocolate in the sun.

If I could feel my own heart, I would feel it breaking.

Nodding with zeal in her rah-rah way, Vardina says to Cora, “She's very cute. She's petite and she has terrific cheekbones. Great hair too.” She smiles up at Ethan. “We're just friends. Good friends,” she adds, again with the squeezing.

They're just friends?

“Vardina,” Leanne says, rolling her eyes, “why would you think she cares?”

Wait.
I'm
petite with terrific cheekbones. Are they talking about me? They're talking about me! Vardina thinks I have great hair?

“So where is this goddess?” Cora says, her eyes struggling to focus on something she obviously finds fascinating (a button, maybe?) on the front of Ethan's shirt.

Very interesting, and I don't mean his shirt. (Though I must admit, the charcoal gray was an excellent choice. It brings out the green in his eyes.) I'm referring to the fact that I'm on Cora Wood's mind.

No, I tell myself. I've had enough diva-drama, thank you very much. Plus, all that dancing has tired me out. Which, when you think about it, is kind of weird, since it wasn't my body that was doing the dancing.

Besides, she doesn't even know me…

Wait. Did Tattoo Girl know me? Yeah, sort of. We met, we talked, we bonded. Okay, forget the bonding part. But we did meet. And talk. And what about the rabbits at the Shalom Center? We weren't exactly bosom bunnies.

“The
goddess
couldn't come tonight,” Leanne says to Cora. “She has issues.”

Why, thank you, Leanne. And what's with the sarcasm?

“Honey, we all have issues. So what's her name, sugar?” Cora asks, leaning into Ethan. Whoa. Her breath could wake the dead.

“What difference does it make?” he snaps. “It's over.”

Cora laughs. “And you're still carrying a torch. Aw. I'm (hiccup) touched.”

It's over? It hardly even started! Story of my life, I think miserably. Everything always leads to nothing. Why do some people get stardust when all I get is sawdust?

My almost-boyfriend dumped me, my best friend is a liar, and my mother is a blimp (as in hovering, not as in fat). And let's not forget my unhinged brain. Dammit, I'm not asking for much. All I want is what's normal.

You know what? Screw that. If I'm going to dream, why not dream big? Why aim for stardust when I can be a star? Bring on the drama!

I close my mental eyes and concentrate.
I want to be Cora Wood. So what if she's a little high-strung? She works so hard to please so many. Who is there to cheer for me?

Nothing.

I take an imaginary breath and concentrate harder.
I want her talent. I want her…boots. I want her hair!

Still nothing.

Either I'm no longer on her mind, or I'm still on Ethan's.

“Smile, toy boy!” says the photographer with the mustache.

A flash goes off, leaving Ethan temporarily blinded. “Hey!” he shouts, and in that instant comes the scent of lilac.

***

The short chunky guy has his hand on her elbow and is steering her off to the side. “What do you think you're doing?” he whispers furiously. “He's a kid, for chrissake. Do you have any idea what the press will do to you?”

“Do you have any idea how sick I am of you?” She pushes him away and bolts down a long hallway. Her blood rushing in her ears, she flings open a door to reveal a large bright room with wall-to-wall mirrors. Her dressing room, I presume, diva-style. Sitting on a marble coffee table is a crystal vase filled with tons of white roses, and next to that, a bottle is chilling in a shiny silver bucket.

“Get out,” she says to a small group of people sitting around the table. Startled, they look up. “Are you deaf?” she shrieks. “I said get out!”

Once they're gone, she locks the door behind her. She sits at her dressing table and kicks off her shoes. Stares at her face in the mirror. Deadened eyes stare back. A feeling rocks through her so awful, it makes her whole body tremble. It feels like she's fallen down a well and it's darker than night, colder than ice. She undoes the chain around her neck and slides off a little silver key. Unlocks the drawer under the tabletop. Pulls out a box, lifts the lid.

Removes a syringe.

Oh. My. God.

Wait. Maybe she has diabetes.

“I take it back, Darren,” she mutters as she raises her left leg onto the dressing table. “You have a purpose after all.” She uncaps the already prepared needle, leans forward, and jabs it between her two smallest toes.

She's not diabetic.

She leans back in her chair. Closes her eyes and smiles.

There now.

I know I should leave.

I know I should leave, but I don't.

It's as if I've been hypnotized, like a cat transfixed by its prey.

We're all mad here,
said the cat to Alice.

A warm buzz flows through her, like she's taking a bath, or lying on a feather, or riding a cloud of cotton and silk. Like she's floating in the air above a rolling wave, except she
is
the air, and the sky, and the sun, and she's everywhere at once, yet nowhere at all.

She opens her eyes. “There's nothing you can't do,” she says to her image in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her pupils the size of pinheads. “You're Cora Wood, queen of the rock world.” Her ears perk up like she hears something, but all she hears is silence. “Who's there?” she calls. She laughs. Then she laughs harder, and she's laughing and laughing, and then she stops.

Suddenly she feels cold. Cold and sweaty. She hugs her arms against her chest.

Her breath gets shallow, her limbs grow heavy, her stomach starts to spasm. Her skin isn't just cold, it's itchy. She runs a brush through her frazzled hair, then smacks her lips in the mirror. Her blue lips, she observes, then looks down at her fingers. They're blue too. “Get it together,” she says to her reflection. “Your fans are waiting.”

She stands up, heads for the door.

Her heart slows down.

She collapses.

No. This can't be happening. It's the skydiver all over again, but this time the rabbit's not breathing.

This time I can help.

I will myself out, and happily for me (I've never been good at holding my breath) as well as for her, in the next instant I'm back in my body.

I fumble for my cell on my night table, but then remember where I am. I'm exactly where I was when I left my body, on the couch in the family room. My mother isn't home yet (or I would have awakened in the ER) and the TV is blaring, but instead of
Ghost
I'm staring at an infomercial.

I grab the cordless on the coffee table and call 9-1-1.

“Can you hold?” asks a woman with a serious nasal problem.

One zucchini, two zucchini, three zucchini, four…

Are they kidding me?

I hang up and call Leanne.

“What?” she says, her voice dripping icicles.

“Leanne, listen carefully. You have to find a security guard. Tell them you heard something weird—I don't know, maybe screaming—coming from Cora Wood's dressing room. Tell them you think she's hurt.”

“If this is your way of getting back at me, it's totally lame,” she says.

“Can you forget about our fight for one second? Just do it!”

“If you think I'm going to make myself look like a complete idiot, you're crazier than I thought.”

“Look, I know you're backstage. Cora's wearing a red tunic and you're wrapped up like a burrito. I was there too. How else could I know this? I started off in Vardina and ended up in Cora. You have to believe me!”

“I get it. You were here. So what? It doesn't mean something happened to her. And thanks for the fashion dig. Just so you know, this shawl is vintage.”

“Leanne, you have to listen! Do you see her anywhere? No, you do not. And do you know why? She's lying unconscious on the floor in her dressing room! This is Cora, for cripes' sake! I'm not making this up!” Calm down, I tell myself. Take a deep breath. Then I get a brilliant idea. “You'll be a hero,” I say. “You'll be known forever as the girl who saved the queen of the rock world.”

She pauses. “You swear you're telling the truth?”

“Go!” I yell.

Click.

Two seconds later, the phone rings in my hand. “Just go!” I say.

“Ma'am, are you okay?” This time, it's a gruff male voice.

“Excuse me?”

“You called the emergency center and then disconnected. Is everything all right?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I called by mistake.”

“Ma'am, can you talk? Is someone with you?”

Not anymore. “I'm alone,” I say, starting to get irritated. “Look, I told you, it was a mistake. An accident. I have you on speed dial. I pressed the wrong button.”

“Ma'am, can you verify your address?” He rattles it off.

Crap. “Um, I'm not here,” I say, wondering if Amersham has its own SWAT team.

“Ma'am, you sound disoriented. Don't hang up. Try to keep talking, okay? We're sending a patrol car.”

“Okay, okay, I'm here, but I swear, it was an accident! Could you please not send anyone? I have a really bad headache. I just want to go to sleep.”

“Ma'am, how many pills did you take?”

“I haven't taken any pills, I promise!” Not that I know of.

“Ma'am, you have to stay calm. Just try to stay with us, okay?”

“Fine,” I say with resignation. “But could you please stop calling me ma'am?”

I'm afraid that if I disconnect, he'll think I've fainted or worse and send the whole fire department, so I stay on the line, trying to convince him that everything is all right. Five minutes later, the doorbell rings. I look out the window. Red and blue lights are flashing, illuminating the street like a video arcade. Sure enough, a police car is parked on the curb.

So much for my magical night with Cora. Once again, I get sawdust. Just my luck, she does drugs, I go to jail.

Fourteen

Critical Conditions

My mother is one of nature's mysteries. When she came home and found the police in the living room, she didn't flip out. Instead, she was happy to know I'd be saved in the event of a real, live emergency, one that involved the real, live me. I told her I'd called them by mistake. No lie there. It was a
big
mistake. Since she was in such a reasonable mood, I tried to get her to unground me, but she wouldn't budge. But she did grant me a temporary reprieve so I could visit Amanda. So here I am, the next day, hitching a ride with Leanne to the hospital. And that's another thing. My mother didn't even say boo about teenagers driving.

Leanne's all cheery—instant herodom will do that. I'm still pissed off, but not because of our fight. Last night, when she called me back to tell me they'd taken Cora to the ER, she'd said, all excited, “Guess what? I'm on the list! I'm allowed to visit her!” Hello? What about me? It's so unfair. I'm the real hero, and she gets all the credit.

Though to be honest, I'm a little relieved. How could I face her? What would I say? “Hi, Cora, I know you're stressed and all, but is that a reason to throw away your life? And what was up with you and Ethan?”

“I don't understand why you're mad,” Leanne says as she pulls into the parking lot. She hits the button on the dispenser, a ticket pops out, the gate goes up. “Is it my fault you weren't there? In person, I mean.”

“And that's another thing,” I say as she searches for a parking spot. “How come you didn't you tell me you had backstage passes?”

“What difference would it have made? You weren't going anyway.” She cuts someone off as she rounds the corner, and he honks. “But for your information, Josh's father didn't get those passes until Friday afternoon. I wasn't even speaking to you.”

“Backstage passes transcend not speaking. And speaking of not speaking, why didn't you tell me you were at that carnival?”

“God, will your snooping ever stop? Besides, what's the big deal? Josh was working and you were shopping with your mom. I was bored, so I went. Look, I'm sorry,” she grumbles as she pulls into a spot. “Sorry about everything. Happy now?”

I stare out the windshield. Up ahead, the parking section for doctors is virtually empty. Ha. No wonder hospitals are overcrowded. With all the doctors out on the golf course, how do people get better?

She turns off the ignition. “Fine. Be like that.” She opens her purse and digs out her makeup. “Do I need more blush?” she asks, scrutinizing her face in the rearview mirror. Without waiting for a reply, she brushes on a rosy, glittery powder to her already rosy, glittery cheeks. “Nice, huh? It's called
Fiery Dust
. Want some?”

“No, thank you,” I say curtly.

We get out of the car, and she locks the doors
.
“What is your problem?” she says, tugging at the hem of her fuchsia microskirt. If it was any shorter, it could be a belt. I'm guessing that Josh doesn't even know it exists. “It's not like you can tell Cora what you did. Anyway, what's so great about talking to someone, when you can be that person? You just have to wish it, and you're her. You can be anyone you want, even a shaman, seeing how you're into all that.”

I roll my eyes. “Leeny, name one shaman who would be thinking about me.”

But she does have a point. Why watch a movie when you can be in it? Talk about a front-row seat. Though given a choice, I'd rather skip the parts where I almost die. And I'd rather not be Nora while she's thanking Leanne.

“Not a problem,” Leanne says. “Just call him up and say, ‘Hi, Mr. Shaman, it's me, Cassie Stewart. I'd like to hack into your body,' and bingo, you're on his mind.”

“You're such a moron,” I say, fake-punching her arm.

She fake-punches back, and just like that, the argument is over.

Truth is, I'm relieved. I'm tired of all this fighting. Lately it seems it's all we ever do. Sometimes I think Amanda was the glue that held us together. It was always the three of us, and now, without her, it's like Leanne and I are breaking apart.

I can't let that happen. I can't let her fall away too.

“Except you have it all wrong,” I say as we walk toward the hospital. “I don't have to actually wish it. I just have to have a feeling about someone. But it has to be strong, like what happened with Ethan. I wanted to be
with
him, not
be
him.”

“You wanted to be Cora,” she points out. “And what about the others? What about Stephanie? What about me?”

I think about this for a second. “When I express a wish to be someone, I feel something too. It can be almost anything—envy, empathy, even curiosity—as long as it's strong. It's the emotion that triggers it, not a wish.” Then I sigh. “Except it's not always deliberate. Usually I have to concentrate really hard, but sometimes it happens all by itself. What's to stop me from popping out all over the place? It's not like I can avoid feeling.”

“Bummer,” she says. “What if you're making out with someone? You'll be having this really strong feeling—hopefully he's thinking about you too—and the next thing you know, you're kissing your face.”

I'd laugh if it weren't so tragic. What if I'm making out with Ethan? Yeah, right. Can you jump when you're dreaming? Actually, I've wondered about that. If I'm dreaming, how would I know the difference?”

We're stopped in the lobby by what looks like the entire U.S. Army. Someone is talking into a two-way radio. “Holy crow,” I whisper to Leanne, “you'd think we were terrorists, not groupies.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. We push into the overstuffed car, and Leanne remarks a tad too loudly, “Where's everyone coming up from, the morgue?”

“Shh!” I say, and then giggle. It wasn't that funny, but I'm feeling tense. It has nothing to do with the heightened security—I just hate hospitals. Yeah, I know. Who doesn't? But when you've spent as much time in here as I have, it's almost pathological. The germs, the chlorine, even the green walls in the X-ray rooms that are supposed to be relaxing but make me think of snot—I hate everything about them.

“Give my regards to Mrs. Lockhart,” Leanne says when five dings later we stop on the sixth floor. “I'll call you when I'm done.”

“Why don't you meet me there?” I suggest. “I think Amanda would like that. You know, the three of us together, like old times?”

“I don't think so,” she says as the doors open to another hoard of military-like personnel. “I don't buy into that stuff that people in comas can hear.”

Leanne is afraid. Though who am I to talk? This is the first time I'm visiting Amanda since the accident. I'm afraid too. Afraid I might have a meltdown when I see her. Afraid of coming face-to-face with the possibility that she might never wake up.

Leanne waves and gets off the elevator. Immediately she's stopped by a woman with a clipboard. The
list
, I presume.

The doors close and I continue on up. But I don't get off on Amanda's floor. I get off two floors beneath hers and look for room 812. Earlier this week I called Falcon Field to ask about the skydiver. They told me his name is Jason Cooper and that he's doing fine. I also learned that he's here in this hospital and visitors are welcome.

Before I see Amanda, I need a reminder that miracles do happen.

***

He's in bad shape. His head is wrapped in bandages, the trunk of his body and all four limbs bound in a cast. At first I'm not sure it's even him, but then he says, “Hey, sweet-stuff. Still got that beautiful smile,” and that's all the convincing I need.

Shyly, I approach the bed and sit on a plastic chair. He seems in pretty good spirits, for someone who could pass for the Abominable Snowman. We make small talk for a few minutes before a nurse in daisy-patterned scrubs comes in to tell me it's time for his bath. What's she going to wash, his fingertips?

“Can't wait to get out of here so I can return to the sky,” he says as I get up to leave. “It's like falling off a horse—you have to get right back on. How about you, sweet-stuff? Ready to take the plunge?”

“I can't,” I say. “I'm grounded.”

He tries to laugh at my joke, but it comes out like a grunt. Then he gets all sober. “You can't live your life like it's going to kill you. What happened to me was a fluke. At least promise you'll think about it. No harm in that, is there?”

He should only know. “Sorry,” I answer. “It's just not my thing. Take care,” I add, then wonder why people always say that. It's not like it can make a difference, or that he wasn't careful to begin with. Like he said, it was a fluke.

Still, the next time I feel like flying, I'll jump into a bird.

***

I dread running into Ethan, but I know the odds are against me. Unfortunately, it happens almost literally, as I'm coming off the elevator. “It's going up,” he says to his father, and then in a monotone, “Hello, Cassie. Here to see Amanda?”

“Cassie!” Mrs. Lockhart exclaims. “Is that really you?” Tall and striking with chin-length dark hair, she's pretty much as I remember. Except she looks exhausted. I hardly recognize Mr. Lockhart. He's a mere skeleton of his former self. I remember a colossal man flipping burgers in the yard. Amanda and I would giggle because he looked so silly in his big chef's hat. I also remember thinking how different our fathers were. Mr. Lockhart owns and runs a large pharmacy, but he looked more like a wrestler. My father was the type who put on a suit and tie every morning, even though he worked at home.

Mrs. Lockhart reaches over and envelopes me in a tight hug. “My goodness,” she says when she finally releases me. She studies my face like she's searching for the girl I used to be, as if conjuring up the past will make the present go away. “It's been a long time,” she says with a sad smile. “How are you, dear?”

For the next few minutes, we make empty small talk. Empty words to mask the real words. Ethan stares ahead, his hands shoved in his pockets.

But then Mrs. Lockhart says something that makes my heart sink. She tells me that yesterday Amanda was moving her fingers and even the doctors were hopeful. But today the neurologist said it was just a primitive reflex, a spontaneous movement. “Nothing to it at all,” Mrs. Lockhart says quietly, her eyes glistening with tears.

I look back at Ethan. I wish I could say something to console him, but he's somewhere else. Somewhere I'm not wanted. Anyway, what could I possibly say?

Finally, the ding of the elevator. Saved by the bell, I think dismally. “If I don't see you when we get back from the cafeteria,” Mrs. Lockhart says as the doors open, “please give my regards to your mother.”

Walking toward Amanda's room, I'm laden with guilt. Guilt for adding to Ethan's distress. Guilt for not knowing what to say to him or his parents. Guilt for just being able to walk, while Amanda is lying helpless in a coma. Just outside her room, I stop in my tracks. Someone is coming down the long corridor, from the other direction. He's wearing dark glasses, and the hood of his sweatshirt is pulled over his head.

He stops abruptly. Stares straight at me.

He knows me.

I start to move.

He spins around.

His hooded sweatshirt is a blur of gray as he disappears through the doorway, into the stairwell.

What occurs to me is so awful, I want to force it out of my head.

I consider it anyway.

Maybe Ethan told Vardina about Amanda moving her fingers. Maybe Vardina told someone else, and so on. Maybe Zack got wind of it and now he's worried that Amanda will wake up.

Maybe he was lurking by the stairwell, waiting for her family to leave her room.

I zoom after him, throw open the door, charge into the stairwell. I look over the railing. Getting smaller and smaller, the hooded figure disappears down the funnel, the thumping of his footsteps fading away. The slam of a metal door echoes up the stairs.

There's only one way I can be certain he
is
Zack, providing I'm still on his mind. I run out of the stairwell, back down the corridor, into the solarium. I plant myself on the couch. A coffin in a see-through tomb, I muse, noting the glass walls. At the table, a man and a woman are drinking Styrofoam coffee. I'm sure they won't mind if I take a nap.

***

“…the bracelet. She's been looking at me funny all week. I'm getting nervous, Pop. I'm telling you, she
knows
. What if she goes to the police? They might come after me again.”

I recognize the voice. It's Zack. Sitting on a tattered old sofa, he's wringing his hands and talking to a man in a wheelchair. Must be his father. Who else would he call Pop? The room is matchbox small with a faded curtain on the window, a threadbare carpet covering the floor. Yet it's clean and tidy, and it smells like fresh-cut flowers. Along the sofa, colorful throw pillows have been thoughtfully arranged, a decorative afghan draped over an arm. I'm assuming it's Zack who takes care of the place. Huh. At school he's such a mess.

I knew that he lived alone with his father on the west side of town—the older, poorer side off Canton Hill Road—but that's all I knew. I had no idea his father was disabled. Except for a few girlfriends here and there, Zack has always stuck pretty much to himself. I don't even know where he lived before moving to Amersham. All I know is that there he was that day on the school bus, looking at me with those bluer-than-blues as he picked up my Nike, his hair sprouting out from under his cap.

How long has it been since I looked over the railing in the hospital? One minute? Two? Problem is, there's no way he could have left the hospital, arrived home, and settled on this sofa in just two minutes. Unless he can teleport, he's not the lurker.