Made for You
Page 28
“I won’t take them.”
“What medication?” My mother’s voice is a little higher than normal. “You’re refusing medication? The doctors have good reasons to prescribe the things they do.” She folds her arms and looks at Kelli. “What is she to take?”
Soothingly, Kelli assures my mother, “The pain pills are PRN—so they are only administered when she requests them. She only needs them if the pain is unmanageable. The details are all in her discharge papers.”
“I take everything that’s required. It’s the other stuff I skip; it makes my head feel fuzzy.”
“Are you allergic to it? Why don’t they prescribe something else then?” She’s glaring at Kelli now. The odds and ends are already in the box at my mother’s feet. She’s quicker than I expected.
“No,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not allergic. Narcotics have that side effect. They make you sleepy and slow, and I don’t like it.”
My father intervenes before she gets more upset. “It’s fine, Elizabeth. We’ll fill the prescription, and if she needs it, we have it. If she doesn’t, we can throw it out.” He catches my eye, and I know not to argue about picking the pills up. I’m fairly sure he also knows not to try to make me take them.
That’s my father: the king of not making waves.
They walk quietly through the hall as Kelli wheels me to the elevator. Quietly, she tells me, “The shift supervisor told her about your friend’s sleepover.”
I wince, and Kelli gives me a sympathetic look. I’m not sure whether it’s worse for my mother to know that Nate slept in my bed or that he did so because Micki died, and I was afraid. I’m not bringing it up either way.
We stop in the lobby, just inside the main door, while my father goes to get the car. It’s a tense silence as my mother and Kelli both watch me—and each other. I let out a sigh of relief when my father drives up in front of the lobby doors.
Unfortunately, getting into the car is more challenging than I’d like. My parents debate whether it’s better for me to be in the front seat or the back. The front reclines, but if I sit sideways in the back, I can stretch my leg out and keep it from hanging down. Kelli suggests that the latter is a better plan, and adds in a low voice, “I know you hate the pills, Eva, but you ought to take one today. No matter how carefully he drives, you’ll hurt.”
About ninety minutes into the drive, I decide she might have had a point. I haven’t hurt all over like this in days. It sucks, but it’s done now. Once I get home, I’ll be more comfortable, and the food is certainly better.
Every bump and dip in the road brings tears of pain to my eyes. I feel every bruise, the throbbing in my leg, and the tenderness in my ribs. My head aches too, and that seems worse than all the rest.
By the time we get home, I hurt so much that my father carries me up to my room. I hadn’t thought about stairs, and I’m in no shape to think about them right now. I wrap my arms around my father and hope that I’m not going to throw up from pain. Right now, I’m beyond willing to take one of those stupid brain-blurring pills. If I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep. My leg feels like it has a pulse of its own, and my head hurts to the point that vomiting seems like a distinct possibility.
Once I’m settled with the medicine in hand, I realize how much softer my bed is. I’d adjusted to the hospital bed, but now that I’m home, I’m grateful to be on my absurdly soft mattress with my down comforter and stack of pillows.
My mother fusses around me until my father convinces her that what I need most is a nap. It’s a little disconcerting seeing them like this, but between the pills and general exhaustion, I’m not going to be able to stay awake to ponder it. “I’m okay,” I assure them. “Really. I’m fine.”
My father says nothing, but my mother tucks the covers around me like I’m a small child and says, “We’ll be downstairs. Text if you need us for anything.”
And that’s all there is before I’m asleep.
DAY 10: “THE STALKER”
Judge
I DRIVE PAST HER house as I have for months, not so often that anyone would notice, but frequently enough to keep myself calm. Seeing a glimpse of her has always filled me with a sort of peace that is too hard to find. These past days while she was in the hospital, I had to pretend that she was inside, that there was a chance she could come to the window. Sometimes, though, I had to drive to the hospital in Durham. Being so far away from her for this many days has been more difficult than I could’ve imagined. I’m glad she didn’t die. I’m not sure how I’ll cope if she still has to die. The fear of her loss cripples me briefly, and I know that I have to do a good job. She has to understand the messages, and she has to obey them. Anything less will mean I have to finish killing her. I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that. She’s made for me, my perfect match.
“And I was made for you,” I tell her as I glance at the window of her room.
The curtains are pulled, and she’s on crutches now, so I know she’s not going to see me, but surely she feels my presence out here. Surely, she feels calmed by my closeness even if she doesn’t know why. I imagine it, picturing her face turning toward the window in awe.
I do this for both of us. No one will ever know her the way I do.
They talk about her at school, repeating every detail as if They know her. I listen. It’s all I can do right now. Eventually, They’ll all find out about us, and They’ll remember me listening quietly while They guessed and pretended to know things. They’ll be ashamed at how They discussed the night I almost sacrificed her. They know nothing. No one does.
“What medication?” My mother’s voice is a little higher than normal. “You’re refusing medication? The doctors have good reasons to prescribe the things they do.” She folds her arms and looks at Kelli. “What is she to take?”
Soothingly, Kelli assures my mother, “The pain pills are PRN—so they are only administered when she requests them. She only needs them if the pain is unmanageable. The details are all in her discharge papers.”
“I take everything that’s required. It’s the other stuff I skip; it makes my head feel fuzzy.”
“Are you allergic to it? Why don’t they prescribe something else then?” She’s glaring at Kelli now. The odds and ends are already in the box at my mother’s feet. She’s quicker than I expected.
“No,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not allergic. Narcotics have that side effect. They make you sleepy and slow, and I don’t like it.”
My father intervenes before she gets more upset. “It’s fine, Elizabeth. We’ll fill the prescription, and if she needs it, we have it. If she doesn’t, we can throw it out.” He catches my eye, and I know not to argue about picking the pills up. I’m fairly sure he also knows not to try to make me take them.
That’s my father: the king of not making waves.
They walk quietly through the hall as Kelli wheels me to the elevator. Quietly, she tells me, “The shift supervisor told her about your friend’s sleepover.”
I wince, and Kelli gives me a sympathetic look. I’m not sure whether it’s worse for my mother to know that Nate slept in my bed or that he did so because Micki died, and I was afraid. I’m not bringing it up either way.
We stop in the lobby, just inside the main door, while my father goes to get the car. It’s a tense silence as my mother and Kelli both watch me—and each other. I let out a sigh of relief when my father drives up in front of the lobby doors.
Unfortunately, getting into the car is more challenging than I’d like. My parents debate whether it’s better for me to be in the front seat or the back. The front reclines, but if I sit sideways in the back, I can stretch my leg out and keep it from hanging down. Kelli suggests that the latter is a better plan, and adds in a low voice, “I know you hate the pills, Eva, but you ought to take one today. No matter how carefully he drives, you’ll hurt.”
About ninety minutes into the drive, I decide she might have had a point. I haven’t hurt all over like this in days. It sucks, but it’s done now. Once I get home, I’ll be more comfortable, and the food is certainly better.
Every bump and dip in the road brings tears of pain to my eyes. I feel every bruise, the throbbing in my leg, and the tenderness in my ribs. My head aches too, and that seems worse than all the rest.
By the time we get home, I hurt so much that my father carries me up to my room. I hadn’t thought about stairs, and I’m in no shape to think about them right now. I wrap my arms around my father and hope that I’m not going to throw up from pain. Right now, I’m beyond willing to take one of those stupid brain-blurring pills. If I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep. My leg feels like it has a pulse of its own, and my head hurts to the point that vomiting seems like a distinct possibility.
Once I’m settled with the medicine in hand, I realize how much softer my bed is. I’d adjusted to the hospital bed, but now that I’m home, I’m grateful to be on my absurdly soft mattress with my down comforter and stack of pillows.
My mother fusses around me until my father convinces her that what I need most is a nap. It’s a little disconcerting seeing them like this, but between the pills and general exhaustion, I’m not going to be able to stay awake to ponder it. “I’m okay,” I assure them. “Really. I’m fine.”
My father says nothing, but my mother tucks the covers around me like I’m a small child and says, “We’ll be downstairs. Text if you need us for anything.”
And that’s all there is before I’m asleep.
DAY 10: “THE STALKER”
Judge
I DRIVE PAST HER house as I have for months, not so often that anyone would notice, but frequently enough to keep myself calm. Seeing a glimpse of her has always filled me with a sort of peace that is too hard to find. These past days while she was in the hospital, I had to pretend that she was inside, that there was a chance she could come to the window. Sometimes, though, I had to drive to the hospital in Durham. Being so far away from her for this many days has been more difficult than I could’ve imagined. I’m glad she didn’t die. I’m not sure how I’ll cope if she still has to die. The fear of her loss cripples me briefly, and I know that I have to do a good job. She has to understand the messages, and she has to obey them. Anything less will mean I have to finish killing her. I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that. She’s made for me, my perfect match.
“And I was made for you,” I tell her as I glance at the window of her room.
The curtains are pulled, and she’s on crutches now, so I know she’s not going to see me, but surely she feels my presence out here. Surely, she feels calmed by my closeness even if she doesn’t know why. I imagine it, picturing her face turning toward the window in awe.
I do this for both of us. No one will ever know her the way I do.
They talk about her at school, repeating every detail as if They know her. I listen. It’s all I can do right now. Eventually, They’ll all find out about us, and They’ll remember me listening quietly while They guessed and pretended to know things. They’ll be ashamed at how They discussed the night I almost sacrificed her. They know nothing. No one does.
