But what Mom doesn’t see is that there is no me when Tess is around. That there never has been.
It’s not that she and Dad have tried to turn me into Tess or anything like that. But Tess was the pretty one, the special one, the one people loved because she was so sunny and friendly and always knew the right thing to say. And no matter how hard I tried, I could never quite sparkle like she did.
“Are you thinking about what I said?” Mom says, and I nod, watching her eyes. They are calm, col ected.
I look at her and almost believe things wil be fine.
“I saw Beth today,” I say. “I bet the nurses told you, but the reason I got upset is because she told me she’s boxing up Tess’s stuff. She might as wel have said, ‘I don’t think Tess’s ever coming back.’”
“She’s boxing up Tess’s things?” Mom says, and there, in her eyes, for a moment, is a flash of what I know she real y feels. Surprise.
Worry.
Fear.
“Wel , Tess can always move her things back,” she says, and she’s smiling and calm.
And lying.
I let her, because I know what it’s like to need to believe in lies. I once believed I could make someone who loved Tess love me.
I once believed someone could see me, just me. I once thought I could be happy like Tess was.
I know better now.
I wake up—I like to sleep as late as I can on the weekends. Past noon is best. Whoever decided high school should start when it’s stil basical y dark outside should be shot.
I take a long shower and dry my hair, then debate what to wear to the hospital. Then I get mad at myself for doing that because Tess doesn’t care what I wear and it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone. Right?
Not that I can imagine impressing Eli, even if I somehow managed to find an outfit that makes me look both tal er and curvier. I final y throw on an old shirt and jeans that are ratty around the bottom of the legs because they’re too long for me. (I have yet to own a pair of pants that don’t end up dragging along the ground at some point or another.)
Mom and Dad get home late in the afternoon, just as I’ve final y headed downstairs and am grabbing something to eat. They both look tired and sad, how they always look when they get home from visiting Tess, and especial y on the weekends, when I think they remember Tess dragging us al down to the beach or Tess sighing over her homework or Tess getting phone cal after phone cal or talking to the three or four or twelve people who’d stopped by to say “hi” to her.
“What have you been doing?” Dad says, trying to sound cheerful and failing miserably.
I point at my bowl of cereal.
“You don’t have to stay home al the time, you know,” he says. “You can go out. If anything … if anything happens, we’l find a way to get in touch with you.”
I don’t say anything, because we both know I don’t go out. I didn’t when Tess lived here, and I don’t now, except to see her.
I finish my food fast and escape to the ferry.
When I get to the hospital, Clement is sitting outside, looking at his watch.
“You look like a little bird,” he says when he sees me. “Al that hair and those eyes.”
“Birds don’t have hair, Clement.”
“I know that,” he says, and sounds almost petulant for a moment, like a little kid, like Cole. “But feathers, hair, it’s bascial y the same thing. Is it so hard to take a compliment?”
“Thank you for saying I look like a bird,” I say, and he shakes his head at me and digs around in his pockets for a cough drop.
“Never loan your car to anyone,” he says as he unwraps the cough drop and pops it in his mouth. “You always end up waiting for it to come back.”
“You loaned your car to someone?” I didn’t know Clement liked anyone in Milford wel enough to loan them anything, much less his car.
“I told Eli he could take the car while I was at work,” Clement tel s me. “But here I am, done with work, and is my car here? No. His father was the same way, only he’d bring the car back with no gas in it. You don’t do that, do you?”
“I don’t have a car,” I tel him, pointing at my bike as I realize what has been right in front of me al along.
Clement is Eli’s grandfather. The family here that Eli talked about. The reason why he’s working at the hospital.
Talk about missing the obvious. I lock up my bike and tel myself I won’t ask Clement where Eli has gone, or what he’s done today.
“I’m sure Eli wil be here soon,” I say instead, which real y isn’t much better than asking about him because I’m stil mentioning him.
“I know,” Clement says. “He’s meeting you. What did he say to you in the cafeteria, anyway? He wouldn’t say anything when I asked him about it.”
“He’s not meeting me. He’s coming to see Tess.”
