Melissa Marr - Made For You

The lights make the person getting out of the car look like a silhouette. He’s not a huge man. I can tell that. He could be a bigger woman … I open my mouth to speak, but instead puke all over the seat of my truck. Something’s wrong. Something more than the flu.

“Sick,” I force out of lips that feel oddly numb.

The person from the car is beside me, but he—or she—isn’t speaking. I can see jeans and tennis shoes, but when I look up, I can’t see a face. It’s there; it has to be, but I can’t tell anything about it.

“You should’ve stayed away.” The voice sounds almost familiar, but the person is whispering.

I’m shivering so hard that my face hurts from clenching my jaw.

My legs are shaking too, and I hit the ground. I’m sitting in a puddle of vomit. The person opens a bottle of what looks like Mad Dog 20/20, grabs my chin with a gloved hand, and tilts my head back. The alcohol pours into my mouth faster than I can swallow, and it spills down my shirt.

He takes my hand and wraps it around the bottle, and my muscles are too weak to put up much of a fight. I try, but it’s about as effective as a toddler resisting a parent. My phone hits the asphalt beside me hard enough that the screen cracks. The stranger had my missing phone.

I try to turn my head so I can throw up on the ground instead of on myself, and the person helps me this time, turning my head so I can try to get whatever I ate out of my body. As soon as I’m done though, he puts the bottle back in my mouth. He gives me a break when I start gagging, but as soon as I’ve caught my breath, the bottle is back.

I need to get away. I need to get home. Then it hits me: I’m not going to be able to walk anywhere. I blink blearily at the silhouette crouched in front of me.

Then he helps me to the ground and puts the bottle to my lips.

“Your blood alcohol should be high enough that they won’t ask a lot of questions,” he or she says.

I feel like the world is spinning. I try to turn my head as the bottle comes back, but the person holds my chin again. This time when the Mad Dog gags me and the vomit comes at the same time, there is no break. Tears fill my already blurry eyes as I try to shake my head to get away, but it doesn’t work.

I’m still shaking my head, suddenly aware of Nate saying my name over and over. He sounds panicky.

I stare at him, and my eyes tear up. He’s looking down at me; he’s not choking or vomiting. What just happened? I’m not sure if it was a seizure or hallucination or what. All I know is that he looks fine, but I’m suddenly freezing.

Then Kelli is there, stepping in front of him.

“Eva?” She squats down in front of me, and I look at her as she asks, “Can you hear me? Nod if you hear me.”

I can’t stop shivering. I’m so cold that my teeth are chattering. I nod.

My gaze drifts back to Nate. He looks worried, and I want to say something that will let him know it’s not his fault that I … what? Envisioned his murder? I don’t remember hallucinations being on the list of things Dr. Klosky discussed.

“I don’t know what happened,” he tells Kelli. “She just blanked out and started shaking. I didn’t know what to do. With my brother, I know—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head and turns to me. “I’m sorry if I did something.”

Kelli is taking my pulse. The feel of the latex gloves on my skin is still alien after over a week of it. I know now it’s for my safety and theirs—not all of my cuts are covered. It still makes me feel unsettled, like I’m in some bad movie about contagion. I’m sure I don’t have a zombie virus or bird flu or swine flu or whatever animal-named pandemic the next big outbreak will be.

“Is she okay?” Nate asks, drawing my gaze back to him. He’s somehow better-looking to me with that expression of concern on his face. The last time I saw him look at me that way was when I slid into second base in a game when we were in elementary school. I still have a small, faded scar on my knee from that day. It was stupid, but I’d watched a game with my granddad and it hadn’t looked painful when the players in the game did it.

“I’m fine,” I try to assure them both. I hope it reassures me too, but so far it’s not working. I feel incredibly unwell right now.

“Your pulse is good, and your pulse pressure is fine. Let’s get you back to the room to check your blood pressure and oximetry.” Kelli has that tone I’ve already come to identify as “something worries me but I won’t let the patient know.” Nate obviously recognizes it, too. He stares at Kelli a beat too long and then glances at me.

I sigh. There’s no way I can tell them what I thought I saw. I pictured Nate’s death . Clearly, my brain injury isn’t as healed as everyone thinks. My poor, battered brain caused me to hallucinate—and in a macabre way.

I pause when I realize I’ve started thinking of my brain as something separate from the rest of me and add that to the list of topics I’m not interested in pondering—or mentioning to anyone.

“What room?” Nate asks suddenly. He stares at me with the sort of intensity I’ve dreamed of seeing in his eyes—but for completely the wrong sort of reason.

I don’t answer.

Kelli looks between us before telling him, “Nurses can’t give that information out.”

I take the coward’s way out and stay silent. Right now I want to go to my nice, quiet room and try not to think of why I pictured him dying so vividly and awfully. I fake a yawn that turns into a real yawn, and Nate walks away without another word. That’s the Nate I’m used to these days, the one who abandons me, not the one who sounds like he cares.

Kelli is quiet as she pushes my wheelchair back to the room. She does the same things the nurses do every four hours: check my pupils’ reaction to light, my temperature, and my blood oxygen level. Everything is fine. She also checks my CSMs—color, sensation, and motility in my toes. Then, after she helps me up so I can use the toilet, she gets me settled back in my bed and piles several blankets on me since I’m still shivering. I think my quiet acceptance of her help makes her nervous, but I’m a little freaked out myself. In all of the things they’ve told me about TBI, there was nothing about horrible visions.

I was warned about less extreme issues like headaches, dizziness, ringing in the ears, and decreased sense of taste and smell. Then there are a whole slew of major worries, like issues with memory and speech, personality shifts, difficulty expressing and reading affect, and—one of my personal favorites—decreased coordination, because becoming clumsier is what every girl wants. Nowhere on the far too long list of things-that-can-go-wrong is vivid morbidity.

“Everything looks good, but I’m going to check in with the doctor on call to see what she wants to do.” She flashes me one of the fake smiles that are meant to be reassuring, and then she heads out to the desk.

I close my eyes. I’m afraid I’ll see Kelli dying, but thankfully, I don’t. In my mind, I play out the details of what happened with Nate, and it’s different remembering it. When it happened, I was more than picturing Nate dying. It was like I was Nate. I’ve never imagined being someone else, not like this and certainly not while they were dying. I feel embarrassed, but the more I think about it, the more I think I’m going to keep this to myself. I’m not up for being labeled crazy on top of “the Cooper-Tilling girl,” “the scarred girl,” and “the almost-murdered girl.”