A bit later, Nurse Pink Pants bustles back in with some gear on a tray. “Let’s get those bandages off. I’m sure you’re probably worried about your face, a pretty girl like you.”
That’s the last thing on my mind, but it occurs to me that once I’m unbundled, that should clear everything up. No more worries about how to explain—my features, however distorted, will be all the clarification they need. Then someone can call my parents and … Morgan will be dead; it’ll be official. I swallow hard. There’s no way I can be relieved … or anything but empty. There’s no bright side here.
She gets to work when I don’t reply and is snipping away when the door cracks open. Clay comes in first, shadowed by Nathan, who looks like deep-fried shit. My gaze lingers on his face. He hasn’t shaved since the accident, it looks like. Normally, Nathan and Clay are like night and day, but right now, I see the family resemblance.
“We’re just in time for the unveiling, huh?” Clay smiles at me.
“Hey, Morgan.” Nathan doesn’t look at me, and it’s hard to see him so heartbroken, but he’ll cheer up soon enough.
I imagine him running to me when the gauze comes off. We’ve been dating for a while now, and I don’t doubt Nathan loves me. Thinking that I died because of him, while he was driving—it must be eating him alive. I’m unsure how Clay will cope with learning that Morgan died on that dark country road, but the truth has to come out.
“There,” she murmurs at last, offering a hand mirror. “Don’t focus on the stitches or the swelling. Try to believe that it’s not as bad as it looks, okay?”
I steel myself … and stare.
It’s not bad. It’s worse, a thousand times worse. Because despite the damage the nurse mentioned, I’m definitely registering Morgan’s face: her nose, her mouth, her chin, her black hair and blue eyes.
But I’m not Morgan Frost. For the last sixteen years, I’ve been Liv Burnham … and apparently, I am dead.
3
Once Nurse Pink Pants leaves, it’s just Nathan, Clay, and me. I can’t remember the last time I saw Nathan in a hoodie, but right now he’s an echo of his older brother. There’s no question they’re both hot, but usually Nathan is clean-cut and polished, none of Clay’s shadow.
I want to hug Nathan and tell him I’m right here, but now that I’ve seen the mirror, I understand how crazy it will sound. With an aching heart, I let him mumble without making eye contact, and then he slips out to give me some privacy. With Clay. Before this moment, I never wondered what he talked about with Morgan when they were alone. Maybe in some snarky part of me, I figured it was all heavy petting because Clay strikes me as teaspoon deep, but that’s certainly not on—for so many reasons.
What am I supposed to do? I can’t be Morgan. This can’t be happening.
“I wish I was better with words.” Clay’s voice is husky, and his eyes are soft.
This is how he looks at Morgan when nobody else is around. And I shouldn’t be seeing it.
He perches on the edge of the bed, taking my hand with a tenderness I can’t believe. “But you already know that’s not me. So you don’t expect me to know how to make it better, huh?”
“No,” I say.
That much is true.
I stare at his hand, wrapped around mine. While I’m looking down, he cups my cheek in one large hand. But he doesn’t lean in, thank God, or I’d have to make some excuse. It’s unnerving being this close to Clay, and I want to scream because I’m worried about Nathan. He thinks I’m dead, just like my parents do. He’s in the hallway alone, chewing himself up about the accident if I know him at all, and I can’t stand it because I’m holding hands with his brother.
Maybe this is hell. Maybe I am dead and the afterlife is way more FUBAR than I could’ve possibly imagined. I never pictured Clay touching me like this, though I’d have said hell would freeze before this would happen. I was wrong about him, too; right now, I can see he cares for Morgan.
“I’m real sorry about Liv,” he says. “And I don’t know what to do here. I get that you’re not a talker, but you have to give me something, sweets.”
I close my eyes then. Because it’s not Liv who’s gone; it’s Morgan. And nobody in the world knows except me. In this moment, I feel completely alone. I want my mom. My dad. Nathan. My old life. Bewilderment and sorrow are duking it out, but I can’t cry in front of Clay. I’m thirsty and my throat hurts, and the medication is making me feel weak and shaky. Despite my best efforts, a tear slips out. I feel it tracing down my cheek and then rough fingertips dust it away. Shocked, I open my eyes to find Clay’s face right next to mine.
Morgan’s.
At this distance I can see the green and gold flecks in his hazel eyes, dark stubble on his jaw, and the slightly chapped burn of his lips. His arms are gentle when they go around me; I’m shocked into stillness by the strength and heat of him. For two seconds, I lean. The situation is too big and I can’t fix it.
Then I sit back and say, “It hurts.”
Clay lets go as if galvanized with a cattle prod. “Sorry. God, I’m sorry. You look slagged. Should I…”
Say it. Offer to let me rest.
But he doesn’t. I can tell he wants me to ask him to stay. And if circumstances were normal, I’m sure Morgan would. Maybe they wouldn’t talk. Maybe they’d just hold hands and watch TV until the drugs took her away. But I can’t leave Nathan alone, and I’m dying inside, imagining how my parents feel. My silence builds too long and hurt flashes in his eyes, making him drop his hand from my face.
“I’m worried about your brother,” I say.
Which is true, but maybe Morgan wouldn’t be. I feel so uncertain in her skin. How is this happening? There are no sensible answers to that question.
Before I woke up in this hospital bed, I’d have said that I understood her better than anyone else. Now I’m left to wonder how much I really knew, how much I assumed.
The hurt shifts, then Clay gives a wry smile. “Liar. You just know I am. He was nuts about Liv.” Was, as in not anymore, because I have ceased to be. The past tense staggers me.
For everyone in the world, Liv Burnham is a memory. She’s a deceased daughter, a lost love, or just the girl in homeroom that they didn’t know too well, and that’s kind of sad, right? To some people, this might seem like a miracle—that I’m still here—but I can’t help thinking this is a mistake. Something went wrong, or Morgan would be, not me.
Why am I here?
If I could fix it, I would. But I don’t know where Morgan went or why I was left in her place. Religious people would talk about God’s plan and how I have work to do here on earth. The same thing could be said of anyone, though. How many people are good to go at the ripe old age of sixteen?
Seventeen. Morgan’s seventeen.
Though she’s only six months older, April to October, the difference in our birthdays means I’m a junior this year while she’s graduating. Would have. Jesus Christ, the tenses will kill me. My eyes fill with tears, but Clay is still here.
While I silently freak out, Clay goes on, “A few weeks back, they were comparing notes on colleges, trying to figure out if there was any intersection of first picks that would give them a reasonable shot to see each other now and then.”
I remember that convo. We mentioned Stanford and Berkeley as possibilities, though neither one of us was thrilled with the idea of the West Coast. Duke and Davidson came up, too, much closer to home. Nathan always joked about attending the same college, but it didn’t seem likely we could find a university with great programs in both our respective interests. And after half an hour, we’d stopped thinking of the future and made out instead.
That’s it. I can’t take anymore. I break down.
Morgan would probably never do this because she’s cool and strong. I can’t remember ever seeing her cry, though I’m sure she did. Maybe she preferred to do it alone like a wild animal. Though she was my closest friend, there was always a wall between her and … everything. I know
she valued me as a person, but damn, that sounds so detached. Morgan was Morgan. Bright, clever, a little bit wild. Other adjectives pile up like happy puppies.
Untouchable. Unknowable.
Gone.
The word cracks me open. I’m sobbing, loud, noisy gulps and streaming tears. It’s too much, I’m alone, I can’t deal, and Clay is watching it all happen with his mouth half open.
Then he springs into action, pulling me against him gently, and I don’t have the strength to resist. I cry into his chest while he whispers into my hair, comforting bullshit. “That’s good, let it go. Otherwise this will eat you alive, like everything else.”
I don’t have any clue what that means. And I hate that he knows her better than I do. I loved her, too, and I lost her and I’m the only one who knows. If I wasn’t so sore, I’d probably hit him, the ultimate cliché. But I’m too wobbly, woozy, weepy. It takes ten minutes before I’m wrung out, but Clay seems lighter, like our relationship has deepened.
He thinks Morgan let him in. Poor bastard has no clue that I’m a stand-in.
“We’ll get through this,” he whispers.
I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not who I was or who you think I am. I’m … wrong, a thing that shouldn’t exist.
“I miss her.”
Morgan and me, both of us. I miss us both.
“They had a nice service.”
“What was it like?” My voice is muffled in his shirt.
“Everyone from Liv’s class came, half the seniors, too. They pretty much gave everybody the day off and most of the teachers showed up. Mrs. Caruso sang ‘Defying Gravity.’ There wasn’t a dry eye in the place after the ‘kiss me good-bye’ line.”
Oh God.
That’s my favorite song—from my favorite musical. A few months ago, Nathan borrowed his brother’s car and drove us to Atlanta, surprising me with tickets. I can picture everything so clearly. My parents would’ve used the Purcell Funeral Parlor downtown, and my mom probably ordered the flowers.
I can’t breathe.
“There were a lot of wreaths and bouquets, too. Purple and yellow flowers everywhere.”
Hyacinths and jonquils. Sorrow and sympathy. That subtlety would be my mother’s doing. She loves the elegance of the Regency period and the language of flowers. It’s probably just as well that I missed the funeral. Seeing my own face in the casket, hearing that song … I wouldn’t have survived without a breakdown. Shit, maybe I’m having one now.
Listening to Clay’s heart makes me feel a little better, and that’s wrong, too. Everything about this situation is. How can I even leave the hospital? I’ll have to go home with Morgan’s dad, live in her room, go to school and be a senior, sitting in her classes. A shudder rolls over me as I ease back.
“I need to crash,” I say around a jaw-cracking yawn that I don’t have to fake. “Seriously, go take care of your brother.”
“Someone has to.” Clay kisses the top of my head. “Your dad will be back soon.”
Please, no.
But he’s right. I manage an hour of fitful sleep before the nurse is back to take my vitals and Mr. Frost is dozing in the chair. He rouses while she wraps the cuff around my arm, and gives me a sweet smile.
“You’re already looking a lot better. It shouldn’t be long before they’ll let you go home. If necessary, I can hire a nurse, whatever she needs.” The latter he adds for our silent audience’s benefit, I suspect.
Nurse Pink Pants laughs. “Convince the doctor, not me.”
If I had been listening, I’d know exactly what was wrong with this body. There’s a low, burning pain in my abdomen, a sharper one in my shoulder. My face is sore, and my pelvis feels weird, though that might be the meds.
I close my eyes and pretend none of this is real.
4
Two days pass in a pain-fogged haze. Because I don’t want to deal with any of this, I’m constantly maxing out my meds, and they leave me in a dreamy stupor. But the nurses are wise to this bullshit, and they fill my tubes with weaker doses until it’s not enough to conk me out.
We make progress, medically speaking. Since they give me no choice, I get up and move around. For so many reasons, this is beyond bizarre. I’m too tall and my legs feel wrong. I used to be five feet two. Nathan’s pet name for me was “pixie,” and I didn’t even mind when it came from him. Before, I had a sporty build leftover from when I did gymnastics, brown eyes, and auburn hair. I got lucky and escaped the freckle gene that left my mom looking like fairies had an orgy on her back at summer’s end. All of that added up to cuteness, though Nathan always insisted I was beautiful.
My breath emerges in a sigh so strong it’s almost a whimper. The nurse’s gaze snaps up to mine in alarm because she’s messing around down south. “You all right?”
“This isn’t my best angle,” I mumble.
She laughs. Then the catheter comes out—talk about a burning sensation—and I get praised a while later for making urine on my own. It’s inspected for blood, but apparently I’m okay in that department. Clumsily managing my IV stand, I shuffle back to bed and fake-Morgan through visits from Clay and Mr. Frost. The whole time, I have one thought on loop: I need to set everyone straight. I have to.
But … I’m scared.
I’m so scared.
The rational part of my brain insists they won’t believe me. Mr. Frost will call in the most expensive psychologist he can find and they’ll call this shock or denial. I can hear it now—It’s understandable, your best friend is gone, and you’re having trouble accepting reality. If I persist in my claim that I’m Liv, not Morgan, they’ll decide I’m delusional. Then I go into treatment with a patient, pipe-smoking, tweed jacket–wearing intellectual type. If I stick with this story, I’ll end up in a posh facility populated with troubled rich girls.
At two in the morning, I stare at the clock, listening to the muffled sounds of the night crew doing their checks. Are my parents awake? Crying? At least they have my little brother, right? Jason has always been a good kid, and I hope he takes care of them while I figure out how to fix this. It’ll be so hard if I meet them before I work out what to do. Picking up the phone, I trace the fingers over the numbers that make the landline ring at my house. What would I say?
Mom, it’s me. Everything is so messed up, and I want to go home.
But she’d hear Morgan’s voice, not mine. I’ve noticed that as my throat recovers from the tube, I sound more and more like her. There’s no evidence apart from my word. Quietly I put the phone down without dialing. For two more days, I follow instructions and speak little. Surely emotional withdrawal is natural under these circumstances. I suspect that’s how Morgan would grieve anyway. She never liked showing weakness or admitting when she needed help. I remember finding her surrounded by a two-foot wall of crumpled paper, eyes aflame with frustration because she couldn’t get her self-portrait for art to turn out right. I ended up drawing that picture for her. Funny, she was so good at faceless sketches of elegant figures wearing incredible outfits, but her own features stymied her.
Where’d you go, Morgan? Why did you leave?
That night, Nurse Pink Pants, though today she’s in violet and turquoise, brings news as I’m rearranging the food that should be labeled Bland Diet. “I went over your chart with Dr. Jackson last night, and he’s agreed to discharge you in the morning.”
She seems to be waiting for a response.
“Cool,” I mumble.
The nurse seems underwhelmed with my enthusiasm as she leaves.
I should be excited. Nobody wants to stay longer than absolutely necessary in a hospital, even if they’re really ill or injured. This is why wealthy people pay for in-home care, something Mr. Frost has been pushing for since the beginning. I’m sure he thinks it’s strange that I’m not begging to come home and recover in a more familiar and welcoming environment. The truth is, I’m only delaying the inevitable because I can’t ever go home.
This is underlined and punctuated
with an exclamation mark when Mr. Frost comes in, trailed by my wan-faced parents. Oh, shit. Pain flares in my temples as I stare at them. It’s like looking directly into the sun when you already have a migraine. They look at me, so washed in sorrow that they can’t even smile.
Because I’m a reminder of their loss. Mr. Frost’s daughter made it while theirs didn’t. Yet because they’re good people, and they know Morgan was my best friend, they’re here. They’re making the effort.
“You’re looking much better,” my mom says. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her hair looks as if she put it up in a ponytail a week ago and hasn’t taken it down since.
“We were here before you woke up,” Dad adds.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
My overwhelming instinct is to babble everything out, dump it at my parents’ feet and let them fix it. There’s nothing they can’t set right because they’re amazing, and they’ll recognize their own daughter even in someone else’s skin, like a weird changeling or whatever the hell I am. I know things only someone from our family could; I can tell the story about how Jason pooped in the cat box when he was two. That’s proof, sort of. Maybe they’ll listen? Words fill my throat like vomit but I swallow them down because this is beyond a rock and a hard place. It’s incomprehensible. The cold voice of reason reminds me that a mental health professional will say, Liv told you that story, Morgan, so you incorporated it into your delusion. Staring at my parents, I waver.
What if hearing this hurts them more? It’s more painful than a clean break … because I can’t be Liv again. Her body is indisputably in the ground.
As I frame that thought, the shakes set in. It hurts so much that I can’t breathe properly, and each inhalation smells like copper, as if I have blood in my nostrils. I imagine my flesh and bone in the casket, below layers of dirt. The macabre impulse sparks—I should dig it up to see for myself, only that won’t solve this problem. It’ll only convince my parents and Mr. Frost that there’s something terribly wrong with Morgan.