Cracked Kingdom

  “Can I self-induce that? Like sticking my finger down my throat to throw up, only this time I poke myself in the eye?” I want to crawl underneath the bed and hide in embarrassment. I just threw up on the lap of the most beautiful boy to walk the face of this earth. “Alternatively, do you have a special machine where I can make everyone lose their memory?”

  “There, there, Ms. Wright. You got a little sick to your stomach. That happens to everyone. It’s a very normal occurrence. Lightheadedness, dizziness, loss of balance are all things that you might suffer from as a result of hitting your head.”

  “Wow, it’s a basket of horribles.” I throw my arm over my forehead to block out the light.

  “You’re doing very well,” she assures me, hooking me up to my tubes and monitors. “In fact, so well that Doctor Joshi believes you’ll be able to go home tomorrow. Won’t that be nice?” She pats me on the arm and shuffles out.

  I don’t know if it will be nice. Whenever Mom and Dad have shown up to the hospital, there’s been a faint air of disapproval, as if they’re mad that I got injured. I wish someone would tell me exactly how the accident occurred—or some version of how it went down. I wonder how that other person is. What does it mean to be in critical condition? What condition am I in? I should’ve asked Nurse Susan that. Maybe Felicity or Kyle knew. Why didn’t I press them for that information instead of the irrelevant crap like who I did or did not sleep with—although having seen Easton Royal, I figure both of them are full of shit.

  There’s no way Easton Royal ever took an interest in me. I’m plain. I have plain black hair and plain gray eyes. I have a plain face with a small nose, a nonexistent bridge, and the occasional zit. I’m average height and wear a very average bra size: 34B.

  Easton Royal has hair so dark and rich, it could be on the cover of a hair dye box. His eyes are so blue I swear I could hear the ocean waves crashing against the beach when he blinked. He’s the one suffering from memory loss, wandering into my room, pressing his kissable lips against my fingers.

  I lift my fingers to my own lips. The smell of the hospital’s medicinal soap fills my nostrils and I fling my hand down in disgust.

  Kyle was right about one thing. I definitely liked Easton Royal. And that’s depressing, because first, that means Kyle might be right about other things, and second, me liking a boy of Easton Royal’s stature is as dumb as anything I could do.

  Where could I have possibly met Easton? Or Felicity, for that matter? Kyle, on the other hand, he looks like a North kid. If I had to guess, Kyle and I somehow snuck into an Astor Park party and we got into a fight. Easton was feeling charitable and decided to let me maul him?

  That scenario doesn’t feel right, but I can’t think of another realistic explanation.

  I let out a small, frustrated scream. I hate this not knowing. It’s terrible. All these people out there know things about me. It’s unfair. What I need is pictures. Although…Felicity’s quickly shared image only served to confuse me more. It was Easton and me in that picture. We were kissing. Why? How? When? Those are all unknown. I need to do my own research, which means I need my phone, a computer, and my purse—and not necessarily in that order.

  I’ll ask my mom when she comes to visit.

  * * *

  “How’s my favorite patient?” Doc Joshi sings as he walks into the room the next morning. His ever-present smile is stretched across his angular face.

  “Good.” I struggle into a seated position. “Have you seen my parents?”

  Mom never showed up last night. I slept awful because I kept worrying that I might miss her.

  “They didn’t come last night?” Doc Joshi looks mildly surprised.

  “I…maybe I missed them.”

  “Probably.”

  But I don’t think I did. They must be angry with me, but I don’t know why. Was it the accident or something? A hollow feeling inside my chest has developed. It generates a different kind of ache than the physical one. Worse, guilt is eating me alive. I really, really need to know how that other person is doing. Maybe Dr. Joshi will help me out if I ask.

  “Doc,” I say to get his attention.

  “Hmmm?” He’s engrossed in my chart.

  “How’s the other person? The critical patient?”

  “Mmmm, I can’t really say, Hartley. Privacy rules and all.” He pulls out a flashlight and points it into one of my pupils. “How’s the memory today?”

  “Great.”

  “You’re not lying, of course.”

  “No.”

  He hums again as he inspects my other eye. I don’t think he believes me.

  “Is the critical patient still critical?”

  “No. He’s stable.”

  He. Right. I was told that before. “Does he have any broken bones? Any memory loss? Where exactly was he hurt?”

  Doc Joshi straightens and shakes the flashlight at me. “No broken bones, but that’s all you’re getting out of me.” He pockets the light and makes a note on my chart.

  I arch my neck to see if I can read it, but it looks like a bunch of chicken scratching. I ask a different question. “Is he ever going to get better?”

  “I can’t see any reason why not. Now it’s time you focus on making yourself better. Can you do that?”

  I relax on the pillows, allowing Doc Joshi’s confidence to comfort me. “Yes.”

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Fine.”

  He pokes my chest. I wince. “Okay, I hurt some,” I revise.

  “Doctor Joshi.”

  My mother’s voice sends a surge of happiness through me. “Mom!” I exclaim, thrilled that she’s actually here.

  Of course she is, a little voice assures me. Where else would she be? Right. And she must have come last night, too, during one of the times when I was resting my eyes. She probably poked her head into the room and thought I was sleeping and didn’t want to disturb me—

  “Hartley.” Her tone is clipped.

  Doc looks around and greets her. “Mrs. Wright, good morning to you.”

  The smile on my face wavers as Mom takes a step forward. She’s not even looking at me, only at the doc. What’s going on? Why isn’t she coming to give me a hug, or a kiss on the cheek, a pat on the arm. Anything.

  “Good morning. I spoke with the nursing staff and they said that Hartley can be discharged today. I’d like for her to go back to school tomorrow. She has finals approaching.”

  I gawk at her in surprise. My head aches, my chest feels like a concrete truck ran over it—twice—and I still have no memory of the last three years. Don’t I need a few more days off before I throw myself back into school?

  Doc frowns. “I discussed the possibility of discharging her, but now that I’ve seen her this morning, I think she should stay for another twenty-four hours. We can see how she’s progressing tomorrow.”

  “I think today’s fine.” Mom sounds surprisingly firm. “The nurse said her vitals have been stable for the last twenty-four hours. She no longer needs an IV drip as she can take the oral painkillers. There’s no reason for her to be here another day.” She backs up, reaches through the doorway and pulls my father into the room

  My heart does a little jump at the sight of him. At first I think it’s a jump of joy, but...I’m not sure that’s quite it. It’s nervousness, I realize.

  Why would I be nervous at seeing my dad?

  His phone is glued to his ear, but he slides it halfway down his cheek to address us. “What’s the problem here?”

  “John, they want to keep Hartley here another day.” Mom’s agitated. Why is me staying at the hospital another night such a problem?

  “So? Let them keep her.” He puts the phone back to his ear and turns away.

  “Okay then.” Doc makes a notation.

  Over his back, I see Mom move to Dad’s side and tug on his arm. He glares at her, but she’s not deterred. There’s a whispered conversation that I can’t hear, but I see Mom rub her fingers toget
her. Dad’s glare shifts from Mom’s face to my doctor’s back.

  He disconnects his call and walks stiffly over to stand by the doctor. “This is still on Callum Royal’s dime, correct?”

  Callum Royal’s dime? My eyes widen. Why would Mr. Royal be paying for my hospital bills?

  Doc’s eyebrows go up. “I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to Billing about that.”

  “How do you not know?” Dad demands. “This is how you earn your money.”

  I didn’t die from the injuries from the car crash, but embarrassment might do me in. Doc senses my unease. He winks at me and tries to lighten the mood. “I’m in charge of making sure your girl gets better. Another night should do it.” He grabs my big toe and wiggles it. “You like it here at Bayview General, don’t you? New sheets every day and lots of one-on-one attention.”

  If I never see another nurse in my entire life, I’ll be thrilled.

  “The food’s great, too,” I add wryly.

  “We aim to please.” He hangs the chart back on my hospital bed.

  He nods at both my parents as he walks out. Mom barely waits for the door to shut before rushing over to my bed and pulling on the sheets. “Let’s go.”

  “Let’s go where?” I ask in confusion.

  “We’re leaving. You are not spending another night here. Do you know what this room costs?” She pulls the finger monitor off and tosses it to the side. “A small car. That’s how much a private room is for one night here at Bayview.”

  She tugs me to my feet and hands me a small bag I hadn’t realized she was carrying.

  “John, go and talk to the nurse and find out how to get her discharged. We’ll take her regardless.”

  “I’m calling the billing office,” Dad grouses.

  “There’s no point. I received the call this morning that the Royals were refusing to pay Hartley’s medical bills because they believe she is at fault for the accident.” Mom turns to me in anger. “I can’t believe you hurt a Royal! Do you know what this is going to do to us? We’re ruined. Ruined! What are you doing? Get dressed!” she snaps, a feral look in her eyes.

  I can’t move, though. The news that Mom just blurted out has frozen me in place. Mr. Critical is one of the Royal boys? Easton’s brother? No. That can’t be. Why would Easton come into my room and hold my hand if I’d hurt his brother?

  “Would you go!” Mom screeches.

  I jump up from the bed and nearly vomit when pain crashes over me. Mom grabs my arm and shoves me toward the bathroom. I brace myself on the sink and lean over the toilet to spit up the five bites of oatmeal I’d managed to swallow for breakfast.

  Oblivious to my condition, Mom continues to rant. “When you go to school tomorrow, you need to make sure that you’re nice to everyone. Do not cause any drama. Do not get into any conflict. If you do, you could ruin this family. Your dad could lose his job. We could lose the house. Parker’s husband could leave her. You and your sister would have to be sent to MawMaw’s home and not that fancy boarding school up north.”

  MawMaw? That old crone? She beats people with a spoon. I turn on the faucet and wet a paper towel. Mom’s overreacting, I decide as I wipe down my face. She has a tendency to do this. If someone spills punch on the floor, even if it’s on tile, Mom’s crying about how she’s never going to get the stain out and her floor is ruined. Or if the turkey is slightly overdone at Thanksgiving, the entire bird is inedible. She always uses the threat of sending us away to keep us in line and she’s never followed through—I pause, holding the towel against my lips as the last thing she said finally registers.

  And not that fancy boarding school up north.

  Chapter 8

  Hartley

  Mom doesn’t make me go to school the next day as she threatened. Doc Joshi released me with the promise that I’d stay home for a week. I didn’t expect my parents to follow his instructions, but they did.

  The last six days haven’t been a boatload of fun. My physical injuries are healing fine. It doesn’t hurt to breathe anymore. I can walk around. But although my health is getting better, I feel like things in my house are getting worse. I don’t understand what’s going on. My dad barely looks at me. My mom is always criticizing me. My little sister Dylan hardly speaks to me. And my older sister Parker hasn’t even come to see me. I was in the hospital for a week, recovering for more than that, and Parker can’t be bothered to visit?

  Tomorrow I go back to school, and I don’t even want to know what kind of response I’ll get there, if I’m to go by my family’s not so warm welcome.

  It’s Sunday night, and I’m spending it wandering around my house, which is both familiar and foreign at the same time. My room smells stale—as if it had been closed up for the entire three years I was at boarding school. The bedspread looks unfamiliar, as does the white laminate desk in the corner, along with the small collection of uniforms, shirts, and sweaters in the closet.

  The stark white walls are bare. The only splashes of color are the purple-and-blue ombre bedspread and the matching curtains that still have creases in them from the cardboard inserts they were folded around.

  I push the hangers on the closet rod from one side to the other. I have a tiny amount of clothes. Two expensive dark wool blazers with a red, white, and gold patch sewn over the breast hang in the middle. There’s a balled-up Kleenex in one of the blazer’s front patch pockets. To the left is a row of white button-down dress shirts: three long-sleeved, two short-sleeved. A zip hoodie and a navy sweater hang beside them. On the floor are a pair of bright white tennis shoes that look—and smell—brand new, and a pair of scuffed black loafers.

  For bottoms, I have three pairs of jeans, two pairs of yoga pants, and two ugly green-and-navy tartan pleated skirts. The latter must be part of my school uniform. Mom informed me that I attend Astor Park Prep, the most exclusive—and expensive—prep school in the state. That solved the mystery of how I know Felicity and Easton and, I guess, Kyle, although nothing makes complete sense to me.

  Mom provided no explanation for why I attend Astor Park or why I was at a boarding school in upstate New York for three years. She didn’t warn me that my bedroom had been turned into a storage room while I was gone and that all of my personal belongings had been given away to Goodwill. When I asked where my purse and phone were, she told me that both had been destroyed in the accident. That bit of news was such a punch in the gut that I stopped asking questions. I’d hoped that I could piece together parts of my life from my phone—my photo roll, my messages, my social media accounts—but that opportunity had been ground up in the accident.

  The rest of the closet is empty. In the small dresser across from my bed, I find underwear, plain bras, and a couple of cute hoodies. My current style is spare, I guess. I have a hard time believing that these are all the clothes I own. I vaguely remember this closet bursting with shit I picked up at Forever 21 and Charlotte Russe. It was cheap, but fun and colorful.

  I guess when I was in boarding school, my tastes evolved into something as bland as white toast. Is this progress? I can’t tell. I rifle through my desk, searching for clues to my past, but there’s nothing there. There aren’t any old cards or pictures or even used pencils. Everything in the drawers is new. Even the notebooks are pristine, as if tomorrow is my first day of school instead of the third month of the semester.

  A list of my classes and a small map of the campus is tucked inside the first notebook. I pull it out. Calculus, Feminist Thought, Music. I glance around the room but don’t see my violin. Is it at school?

  I trot over to the door and call for Mom.

  “What is it?” she asks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs with a dishrag in her hands.

  “Where’s my violin?”

  “Your what?”

  “My violin. I still play that, right? I’m taking music.” I hold up my class schedule.

  “Oh, that.” She gives a sniff of disdain. “You barely play it anymore, but you’re required to take an elective
and so we signed you up for music. You play a school one.”

  She walks off. I have an answer, but it doesn’t feel complete to me. I rub my wrist again. As I return to the bedroom, the pictures on the hallway walls catch my eye. There’s something off about them. I walk over slowly, inspecting each one. There are pictures of Parker, my oldest sister, from birth to her wedding. The photos of Dylan, my younger sister, stop after the ninth one, which means she’s currently in eighth grade.

  At the end is a picture of the family. It must be a recent one because I’m not there. They’re at dinner in a hotel or something. There are tall ceilings and large paintings with gold gilt. The chairs are upholstered in what looks like velvet. All of them are dressed up—Dad in a black suit, Mom in a red dress with sparkles, Parker wearing a simple black dress with pearls around her neck, and Dylan in a sweater and purple skirt. Everyone is smiling—even Dylan, who sneered a whole, “It’s you” when I arrived home and then disappeared into her room and has avoided me ever since.

  It’s the family picture that reveals the answer to the riddle of what is wrong with the hallway setup. I’m not in any of them.

  My family literally erased me from my home.

  What exactly did I do three years ago? Did I set the house on fire? Did I kill the family pet? I search my memory but come up blank. I don’t even recall being sent away. The clearest recollection I have is of my sister Parker’s wedding. That happened four years ago. I remember being vaguely annoyed I didn’t get to have champagne during the wedding toast, and sneaking some anyway with a tiny brown-haired girl who my memory says is my cousin Jeanette. We both got sick off one glass each. I should call her. Maybe she can fill in the blanks because no one in this house will.

  I heave myself down the stairs to find Mom. She’s washing dishes, a denim-colored apron tied around her waist and a faint frown stretched across her mouth.

  “What is it?” she asks, irritation in her voice.

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “For what?” Irritation morphs into suspicion.