She doesn't want to know.
She shouldn't know.
Because where I went is hurtful, and I don't want to hurt her. I went where I had to go. I went where I survived on gulps of memory and scraps of touch. I went where I remembered a good kind of quiet. A peace. I went to be with my memories of Jenna. Her voice may have been gone, but my memories of her were still alive.
"I don't remember where I went. I died. I shut down. I was lost in a black hole. Just like you."
Where were you, Locke? Tell me. Where were you?
Chapter 7
It was always Kara, Jenna, and me. Or at least it seemed that way. We were friends for only a year and a half before the accident, but for me it was a lifetime. We were instantly bonded. Maybe it was because it came at a turning point in our lives--just the right window where our worlds were all aligned, all needing something, maybe the same thing, maybe one another. We lifted one another up. Strengthened one another. We held hands. We crossed a line. We made one another braver.
I was the youngest. Only two months younger than Jenna, but a whole year younger than Kara. A whole year. I shake my head, thinking of that now, but then a year meant more. When you're fourteen and you meet a girl who is fifteen and she smiles and is nice to you, nice, a new world opens up for you. And then when Jenna did the same, I couldn't get enough of either one of them. Jenna was the first girl I kissed, and then Kara. It was only in fun, and I laughed right along with them, but inside it felt like something more. Something important. I was somebody different.
When Dr. Gatsbro told us that Jenna had survived the accident, I was relieved. More than relieved--I had to sit down, 260 years of guilt flooding out of me for what I had done. And for the first time, I thought I could see tears in Kara's eyes. But when Dr. Gatsbro told us Jenna was still alive, that was when Kara had to sit down too. "They saved her? All these years, alive? Free? While we were--"
Dr. Gatsbro continued with his explanation, but Kara was only hearing a fraction of it, her voice rising as she tried to process it.
"Just because she still had ten percent of her brain and we didn't? Ten percent?"
I watched her change. Right then. Like veined marble was traveling up her legs, across her lap, up to her shoulders, stiffening her neck and finally covering her face, leaving a cracked version of who she once was.
"They saved her, but didn't bother with us?"
She stood up and began pacing. By this time Dr. Gatsbro had stopped explaining and was telling her she needed to let it go. Her voice only grew louder. She mimicked the words that Jenna had so often said to us when she was frustrated with her parents. "Precious Jenna. Their precious, adored Jenna. Anything for Jenna."
She stopped pacing and her eyes fixed on a lampshade across the room, staring at it like she was looking right at Jenna. "All this time, going on and living your life and you never tried to help us?"
That was when she grabbed the nearest thing to her hand, a decorative glass cube on Dr. Gatsbro's desk, and threw it. I don't think she was aiming for him. The Kara I knew would never raise a hand to anyone. But then again, she wasn't the Kara I knew. I had seen that from the first day, when she slapped me. She had changed. We both had. And by the next day, I was wondering right along with her, Why didn't Jenna save us? We would have saved her.
Chapter 8
"There, now. Hold still and let me straighten your collar."
"Miesha, stop fussing!" I try to dodge her grip, but she already has me. "Next you're going to spit on your hand, I suppose?"
"Now, why on God's green earth would I do something as nasty as that?"
Because it's what my mother used to do to tame my cowlick. But I don't tell her that. I don't want her to think my mom was a savage. And I don't want her to think I'm implying she's my mother, either.
"Because you're nasty," I tell her.
She gently slaps me on the side of the head. "And you're a good boy," she says. "Even if you don't know it."
"Miesha, I am not a boy. Look at me. Do I look like a boy?"
"Height has nothing to do with what's in here." She pokes my forehead with her finger. "Now, turn around!" She pushes at my shoulder to spin me, and I comply. I know she will win anyway--she always does. She swipes away wrinkles that aren't there and pulls the cloth in unnecessary directions to make sure the fit is perfect. I already know that when she's done she will give my back two pats. I don't think fussing was in her job description. She does that part for free.
When I'm with Miesha, I can almost forget where I am. I could be in my old house on Francis Street. I almost feel normal. She asked me about my family once and I lapsed for two hours, so she doesn't go there anymore. She doesn't talk about the past or the future, only the moment, and that's where I try to stay when I'm with her, because my future is too uncertain, and my past is something she could never understand.
Two pats squarely in the center of my back. Done.
"Done," she declares, and I smile.
I turn around and look in the mirror at the new clothes Dr. Gatsbro has requested I wear for today's visit. As usual, he knows exactly what fits me. The shirt is green, a color I don't usually wear. Miesha says it goes well with my eyes.
"My eyes are brown, Miesha."
"But with flecks of green."
There weren't green flecks before. At least I don't think there were. I honestly never looked that closely. How can anyone look in the mirror every day of his life and not notice something like that? But I didn't. All I noticed were emerging blemishes or a nose that seemed too big or facial hair that I wished was thicker so I could actually grow a beard. Green flecks were not even on my radar. I turn sideways, taking in my image from all angles, thinking I need to pay closer attention to such things.
There were, however, a few details I checked out right away. Any guy would. I have the equipment. Dr. Gatsbro made sure of that. And I've tested it, so I know it works. But was Gatsbro as careful with Kara's particulars as he was with mine? I can't ask. I don't want her to think it matters. It doesn't. It shouldn't. But it's almost more than I can bear. I am, without a doubt, the oldest virgin in the history of the world. It's not a record I want to keep.
"So, Miesha," I say, looking in the mirror and pretending I'm adjusting the collar again, "who's the mysterious visitor today?"