"Come on, tough girl," said Bill, ushering me away with a firm hand. "They'll be taking him to the hospital to get patched up. Same place you need to go."
The man in the gray suit said nothing, but he didn't look happy. Made two of us.
Turned out the man in the suit was one Detective Taylor. He, along with a Detective Garcia, questioned me at the hospital Sunday afternoon. It was as soon as the doctors and Mom would allow. My story never changed, no matter how many ways they came at it or how many times they made me repeat the sequence of events that took place Saturday night. Eventually they were satisfied. The good news was that because everything had happened in plain sight, Chris had pled guilty, which meant I wouldn't have to appear in court as a witness or anything. Suited me just fine. If I went the rest of my life without ever seeing Chris again, that would still be too soon.
An unsmiling Detective Taylor confirmed that John had been released after questioning. That was welcome news. I kept replaying the haunting picture of John in my head, alone and injured, as the police drove him away. At least things had been made okay since then. Chris was behind bars and John was free. That made me feel better. Still not great, but better. Pain meds and careful movement were what the doctored ordered. It was hard to stay still, though, when my head worried that every tall figure walking into the room might be Chris. Shaking and imagining all sorts of crazy shit seemed to be my new normal.
When Georgia came in, she cried all over me. It wasn't pretty and it also wasn't comfortable what with my cracked ribs, cuts, and bruises. But it was great to see her.
"I told them we were only there by random fate or whatever," she said, wiping at her cheeks with the palms of her hands.
"You gave interviews in your unicorn satin pajamas?"
She nodded. "I looked like a total lunatic."
It hurt, but I couldn't help but try to laugh. Stabbing pain, so much fun.
"God, Edie. I'm so sorry."
"For what? None of this is your fault." I grimaced, trying to get more comfortable among my mountain of hospital pillows.
"But--"
"Don't. Seriously."
A heavy sigh.
Looks-wise, Georgia and I were total opposites. She had short dark hair, her body petite. Perfect for the acting career she'd been dreaming of since birth. Our shared sense of bad humor, love of Sephora, and taste in books bound us tight. We'd be friends forever, Georgia and I.
"Your TV debut and your hair is a mess and you don't even have any makeup on," I teased. "Catastrophe."
Hands slapping her cheeks, she fake-gasped. "Can you believe it?"
"Such bad timing."
"Yeah." With a small frown, she sobered. "What the hell went on in there? I've never been so scared in my life. But you were actually stuck inside there with those people."
"It was just the one, that meth-head Chris."
"Are you sure? They led that other kid away in cuffs; I saw them."
I shook my head, vision wavering and pain stabbing at my brain. Concussions sucked. Careful, they'd said. I needed to be more careful. Groan. "No, John did know the guy, but he tried to help. He actually handed out beers and cigarettes to everyone."
"What?" Her nose wrinkled in disbelief.
"It's true. I drank beer at gunpoint." My attempt at a smile hurt. It twisted into a grimace. That hurt too. "He was trying to keep the asshole calm. It worked . . . for a while."
"But he definitely knew the robber?"
"Yeah." Everything had started to hurt. Guess the good stuff was wearing off. "At first I thought they were like best buddies or something. But then he winked at me, and I realized he was just trying to get us all out of there alive." It was hurting just to talk. I closed my eyes against the pain starting up inside my head. Tiny little people with tiny little pickaxes mining my frontal lobe. God only knew what they were after. "John's brother and Chris were friends or something."
"Holy shit. Still, the cops must have had their reasons for hauling him out of there like that," she pressed, curious, needing to know. Georgia always asked too many questions, used too many words. "Don't you think? I mean . . ."
I tuned her out, keeping my eyes shut, trying to calm the pain. Just breathing hurt.
Mom had returned from getting coffee or whatever. She mumbled something and the chair Georgia had been slumped in shifted. I heard footsteps and a request for a nurse out in the hallway. Hoped they brought the good drugs.
"More flowers," said Mom the next day with an almost painfully cheerful smile. It's a wonder her face didn't hurt worse than mine. Her determination to remain upbeat was strong.
"The place smells like a funeral parlor." I sniffed.
"Don't say that." Carefully, she moved a couple of vases in order to fit the arrangement on the hospital windowsill. "There. It's from all the students at your school."
I coughed out an attempt at a laugh. Yep, ribs still hurt like hell. "Yeah, right."
In lieu of a response, she picked up her cell phone and settled back into the comfy corner chair.
"You don't have to stay," I said. "I know you've got other things to do."
Her brows snapped together. "I'm not leaving you here on your own, honey."
"Nothing's going to happen."
No response.
Oh, well. If Mom was determined to play guard dog, there wasn't much I could do. She might even have a point. There was a big media storm happening over the whole thing. The standoff had taken long enough for some press to get there. Georgia had said there was even actual footage of Isaac getting shot making the rounds on the internet. Bastards. One overly enthusiastic reporter had already tried to sneak in and grab an exclusive. Like I had anything to say or was even remotely worth photographing. Mom hadn't been keen on the idea of me talking to the media, but left the final decision up to me. It was a big N-O on my front.
In my dreams, my teeth still clacked against the muzzle of a gun as I stood in a stinking puddle of urine and blood. To relive the holdup again, to tell the story--the thought alone made me want to puke. With stitches holding part of my forehead and right eyebrow together, along with all the swelling and bruising, Frankenstein's Bride would have been jealous. Why the hell would I want anyone other than the police taking my picture for evidence?
"I take it you're still pushing to go home this afternoon?" asked Mom.
"Yes."
She sighed. "Your injuries aren't nothing, honey."
"Please," I begged. "You heard what the doctor said: my concussion is improving and there's nothing they can do about the cracked ribs. And I'd rest better at home--I know I would. It'd be so much quieter and I'd be in my own bed."
Eyes narrowed on me, she sighed in defeat. "You promise me you'll rest and follow the doctor's orders?"
"Absolutely."
"I'm serious, Edie."
I gave her my best sweet and innocent: eyes wide, small hopeful smile. Then with a finger I drew a line across my upper chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
"Stop talking about death."
"Sorry."
With a final look of disapproval, she gave up the fight.
I'm pretty sure Mom was as keen to get out of the hospital as me, to get back to some kind of normalcy. Mom and I were a team. I even looked a lot like her. Tall and blond, but with boobs, belly, and butt, not to mention my lovely thunder thighs. Mom's been on a diet almost every day of her life. Combatant would be the most accurate word to describe her relationship with food. Always denying herself, taking a crumb when she wants a full piece of cake. Maybe, for her, slipping into a small size made it all worthwhile. I don't know. Either way, I didn't want to live like that. Though right then, I was just glad to be alive in general.
We got home without incident. I wasn't at the level of notoriety that the hospital had journalists camped outside it or anything. The living room couch had never felt so good. I slumped back into it. Home was everything.
Home was safe.
"That boy the police t
ook away," started Mom, "how did you know he was innocent?"
"He tried to save my life."
"According to the detectives, he's been detained on suspicion of dealing drugs before," she said. "Among other things."
I shook my head, immediately regretting moving. Again. Talk about never learning. "Ouch. You're as judgy as Georgia. Doesn't matter what he's done before. There was only one psycho criminal there that night and it wasn't him. Heck, Mom, if it wasn't for John and Isaac, you'd be standing beside my coffin."
Mom's lips tightened in disapproval at my words, but she stopped bugging me about the topic.
Tired and bored, I sagged back against the pillows with the remote in my hand, flipping through channels. Normally I could channel-surf the day away without too many complaints. But today was different. Everything on TV seemed far off and trivial. An old black-and-white film, people arguing politics, a documentary on frogs, and some woman selling a face cream guaranteed to help you recapture your youthful glow. The model she was slapping it on looked about fourteen.
Then there was a music video featuring a girl shaking her ass in front of the camera like it was double-jointed. Her ass, not the camera. A replay of a college basketball game came next, and then there was Georgia.
Georgia?
She sat on a white lounge wearing a scary amount of makeup, her short, dark hair all teased up. It barely even looked like her. If they hadn't kept stopping to flash pictures of her and me together, at camp, a selfie at the movies, and another goofing around in her room, I never would have bothered to look. Oh fuck no. She'd even given them the one of us sitting by her pool last summer with me in a bikini. It was a cool retro style and I loved it, but still. That photo had no business being on the TV without my permission.
". . . she acts tough, but Edie is actually really sensitive and easily hurt," she said.
"You must be very worried about her." The interviewer, a middle-aged man with cool hair, shook his head sadly.
"Yes, I am." Her voice dripped with syrupy concern. "I don't know how she's going to get over this."
"I understand your friend confided in you about what happened inside the store?"
Georgia looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. "Yes."
"And about eighteen-year-old local John Cole's involvement in the events?"
"He definitely knew the robber; Edie told me."
"There've been rumors Mr. Cole has a history dealing drugs in the area."
She squared her shoulders. "I don't know about that. But apparently he was stealing beers and cigarettes inside the store. Like they were having a party. He was winking at Edie and everything. It seems really wrong to me that the police let him go."
The interviewer frowned thoughtfully.
"I just, I don't want him hurting her anymore," she said, voice rising. "He's out there somewhere, doing who knows what."
"You're a good friend," said the man. "Georgia Schwartz, everybody. Best friend of hostage victim Edie Millen. Thank you very much, Georgia."
"Thank you." She even managed to squeeze out a tear. All of those drama classes her parents put her through were really paying off.
Cool-hair man started talking about an upcoming local dog show and I switched the TV off. The rage inside me grew, wanting out, pushing at my sore ribs. Yet I just stared at the blank screen in stunned silence. How many people would see this? How much similar shit was already out there? People showing pictures of me, saying my name, talking about what happened like they had a clue. Talking about John. God, I wanted to hurl.
Mom was quiet.
"Georgia hasn't tried to visit again?" I asked. "Hasn't called?"
Her mouth opened, eyes softening as if she might try and peddle some excuse. But in the end, she didn't. "No, she hasn't."
"No," I agreed, closing my eyes. "She didn't say anything about doing this, talking to them."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"I told her that stuff in private, Mom. I trusted her."
Mom shifted in her seat, a little line between her brows. "She said she was concerned about you."
"So she goes and gives some interviews?" My headache was back, better than ever. "No, she had to know I didn't want this, not that she bothered to ask. And she doesn't even know what she's talking about. God, John's going to think I believe that crap."
Nothing from Mom.
"How could she have done this?"
Even if I'd wanted to cry, I couldn't. It might be cathartic, a release. But the wall between me and my feelings allowed only the worst of the worst to get out. Terror and angst and all of their friends were just waiting to party hard in my head. Best to keep on aiming for numb. Who knew? Eventually, it might work.
A day later when Georgia finally did call, I didn't answer. I tried not to miss her, but it was hard. Next she texted me and I ignored those messages too; after reading them, of course. It was all such bullshit. Any media outlet who'd give her the time of day, she'd talked to, sharing her insights on me and the situation. Giving them pictures of us together and all sorts of personal information I'd entrusted her with. True or not, she'd already said it all. There was nothing left for me to say.
Generally, at home, things were better. People left me alone. Mostly. We had to call the cops on some overzealous reporters sneaking through our garden and loitering out front. I dropped all of my social media accounts and sure as hell didn't answer the phone. But at least there were no doctors or nurses constantly checking on my condition. Though I did miss the good pain meds.
After a few days of me assuring Mom of my well-being, she went back to work. Mom managed the front desk at a resort near the lake. Over a year ago when I turned sixteen, she started doing the night shift. It paid better, apparently. Though I think she also liked it being quieter. Given the new circumstances, she offered to change over to working during the day so I wouldn't be in the house at night on my own. But I told her it was fine.
At home, I could eat what I wanted, or I could freak out for no reason. Generally no one was around to judge. Just in case, I avoided TV and the internet unless Mom and I were doing our Sunday TV-series together time. Last year we'd watched Nashville; this year it was The 100. I honestly didn't miss social media, given what a clusterfuck it had turned into. I lacked the care and the energy to deal with it. Besides, who needed it? I had my bed, perfectly positioned beneath my bedroom window for staring up at the sky. When I couldn't sleep, or didn't want to sleep, there were stars to count and a moon to stare at. Bet it was quiet on the moon. Peaceful with no people. The one downside to the situation was my focus had been shot to shit. Pun intended. I couldn't seem to concentrate on reading. My books sat on their shelves, staring at me accusingly. Every single damn time I tried to read, the words would blur and my mind would wander. Surely it was enough that my best friend had betrayed me, without my books deserting me as well? It sucked.
All of the pictures of Georgia had been taken down and thrown away. Years of friendship, gone. I felt angry and bereft, completely and utterly alone. Loving someone sucked.
Interestingly enough, it turned out that I now mostly used my phone to hang up on anyone who called. Easily done, since there was no one I actually wanted to talk to. If someone stopped by to visit, I feigned sleep or didn't answer the door. Mom found some therapist for me to talk to, and I found excuses not to go. With me barely managing to keep my shit together as is, a therapist might drag up all sorts of horrible truths.
Gradually, my bruises faded to yellow and green. Man, did my ribs take their sweet time healing; in the meantime, any kind of movement hurt. Turned out little could be done for cracked ribs; you just had to wait while they healed. An ugly pink line dissected my right eyebrow, reaching another couple of inches up toward my hairline. Courtesy of Chris pistol-whipping me.
Despite doing my best to ignore the world, time passed. School was looming, God help me. The new school year would start again in a couple o
f weeks. In life, unless you're willing to run away and live in the woods and risk being eaten by bears, some things just were unavoidable.
"Edie, hurry up," called Mom.
"Just a minute," I yelled back, doing up the zip on my gray school skirt. Yay for uniforms. Not.
Toothpaste on and I cleaned my teeth, working the brush back and forth with great zeal. A little concealer and a lot of foundation hid the remaining bruises along with the shadows under my eyes. I'd tied my hair back in a low ponytail, leaving a bit at the front to sort of sweep over my forehead and tuck behind my ear. If this style didn't cover the scar, I'd cut myself some bangs. Lack of sunlight during the last while had left me sickly pale, but whatever. I'd done my best to look presentable.
"Edie, you're going to be late!"
I paused in the process of giving my molars a scrub to bellow my reply. Froth from the toothpaste slid into the back of my throat and my gag reflex kicked in. Just that easy, my heartbeat hammered, sweat breaking out all over my body. God, it was just like that night, having the gun in my mouth.
I coughed into the sink, spitting out the toothpaste. My breakfast of coffee and Pop-Tart followed straight after, stomach heaving. Going, going, gone.
Dammit, my ribs hurt. Not good.
I turned on the cold tap, washing out the sink, sipping a little water to wash the taste of acid from my mouth. So gross. The bathroom stank of sick. A slow breath in, then out. Everything was okay. I wasn't at the Drop Stop gagging on the barrel of a gun. No one stood behind me; no one was even in sight. It was just a random accident involving too much toothpaste, for heaven's sake.
"Calm down, you idiot," I told myself. "You're fine."
"Edie--" Mom appeared in the doorway, then stopped cold. "What's wrong?"
I swallowed hard. "Nothing."
Worry lined her face. I hated that.
"Seriously," I said. Mouth rinse was what I needed; I'd give the toothbrush a pass for now. I swished the minty goodness around with my tongue, then spat it out. "All ready."
"Are you sure? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine."
"Do you want me to drive you?"