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“I thought I deserved it at the time,” she amends. “But your dad made sure—still makes sure—that I know he didn’t believe it. He made sure I knew that he understood what had happened, and all he wanted was to help me heal.”
She looks at him again, and even though he’s lying motionless on the bed, covered in bandages and bruises and stitches that will undoubtedly leave scars, there’s no fear in her eyes. Just a depth of love I can’t even begin to fathom.
“Now it’s my turn to make sure that he knows I’m here for him,” she continues, “and that I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t pretend it’s not one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done, seeing him like this, not knowing if he’ll ever wake up or be the person he was before. But in a way, it gives me the chance to love him the way he loved me then, as painful as it is. And there’s nothing more worthwhile than that. So no, I don’t regret any of it,” she says, turning back toward me. “How could I? You’re the brightest stars in my sky, and without you, life wouldn’t be worth living.”
I don’t know what to say to that, and so I just hold her hand as she shifts closer to me.
“All I want now,” she says, “is for the three of us to have the chance to make new memories. Alexander’s fighting to stay—I know he is, just like he’s always fought for you and me. But even if he…even if he doesn’t make it, even if these memories are all we’ll ever have together, I’ll always be here for you, Evie. I won’t ever be able to make up for the time we lost, but I also won’t ever leave you again. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, resting my head on her shoulder. Maybe it’s the weariness, or maybe it’s the number of times I’ve cried in the past five days, but suddenly all I want is to believe that she really is a permanent part of my life, in a way she’s never been before. It seems like some distant dream—like a fantasy I’ll never really have—but in that moment, leaning against her and listening to the soft sound of the beeps, I desperately want to believe it.
“Evangeline.”
My eyes fly open as the sound of my name seems to filter through the air, little more than a soft whoosh as a distant door closes. “Did you hear that?” I say, sitting up straight, and my mom frowns.
“Hear what?”
“Someone said my name,” I say. “I heard it earlier, too, in—”
I cut myself off, but I can already feel the concern radiating from her. For a long moment, I listen, waiting to hear it again, and I’m so focused that when she touches my hair, I jerk away.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she says with gentleness I can’t stomach, because I know what she’s thinking. It’s the same thing I’ve been afraid of ever since the voices began, and my mouth goes dry.
In the weeks and months that followed, Laura Bright was diagnosed with schizophrenia, a lifelong mental illness that often has a genetic component.
They’re the words from the Daily Sun article that revealed my mother’s history and diagnosis to the world. At the time, it was a not-so-subtle swipe at me, considering the paper is owned by Robert Cunningham, who was convinced I’d killed his son. But that sentence is seared into my brain, and finally I admit to myself that I’m terrified it might be right.
Auditory hallucinations. Paranoia. Confusion. The absolute certainty that I’m seeing something that no one else will admit is there. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, painfully aware of my mother’s worried gaze, and at last I bury my face in my hands.
“I’ve been…hearing things,” I say softly into my palms. “Mostly whispers when I wake up and go to sleep at night. Sometimes they say things, like my name, or—or threats.” I bite my lip, but now that I’ve admitted it, the words spill out of me like a waterfall. “And the flowers Ben’s been sending me…he’s behind this, Mom—I know he is, but whenever I try to tell someone, they make me feel like I’m—I’m—”
“Paranoid?” she offers quietly. “Imagining things? Connecting dots that aren’t really there?”
I nod and finally work up the courage to look at her. “Nothing feels right anymore,” I say thickly. “But I’m also so sure I’m not making any of it up that—I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what’s real.”
My mom sighs and gathers me in her arms, her auburn waves tickling my nose as I breathe in the scent of her. Even after nearly a week at Alexander’s bedside, she still smells like home.
“You’ve been under an enormous amount of stress lately, Evie,” she says. “It would take a toll on anyone. We’ll find someone to help you sort through this, all right?”
I nod, though my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. “But what if it’s not just stress? What if…?”
While I can’t force the words out, my mom understands. “Then we’ll make sure you have the care you need,” she says. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart, no matter what happens. I promise.”
There’s no fear or pity or disappointment in the way she says it. Instead, she’s so calm about it, so matter-of-fact, that even though I’m all but clawing at the walls of my own mind, I let myself believe her. And for the first time since the bombing, I relax. Not entirely—not when I’m feet away from my father, whose chest rises and falls only because a machine is breathing for him—but enough that the crushing weight of anxiety inside me lessens to the point where, at least for the moment, it’s bearable.
My mom nuzzles my hair. “Why don’t I head back to Windsor with you tonight?” she says. “We can spend a little time together. Watch a movie, maybe, if you’re up for it.”
“Don’t you want to stay with Alexander?” I say warily.
“I’ll let Constance know so she can sit with him. He won’t be alone.”
And while I know I should say no—that every minute she’s away from him, she’ll only worry—I selfishly don’t want to. Because even during all those years on my own at boarding school, even after everything Jasper did to me, even in the thick of the shooting and the bombing and every awful thing that’s happened lately, I don’t think I’ve ever needed her more than I do right now.
“Okay,” I say. “But we’ll be back tomorrow morning, all right? First thing.”
“First thing,” she agrees, and she kisses my hair again as we settle into silence, both of us lost in our thoughts as we listen to the steady beat of Alexander’s heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
