Something else fell into place.
“I’m afraid of my grandmother.”
“Is she mean to you?”
“No,” I said. “She loves me most of all.”
42
The next time I woke up, I smelled Faraday.
Her scent stood out against the background of hospital antiseptics: her lemon shampoo, her mother’s perfume. The hit of weed she smoked whenever she had to deal with bureaucracies or elevators.
“Hello, dear,” I said.
“She lives!”
My eyes opened to find her in one of the visitor’s chairs, which she’d tugged into a slant of afternoon sun. Faraday’s smile glittered, striking the bell of my constant headache.
“For the moment,” I said.
“Don’t be silly, dear. It’s just a bump on the head.” She waved a hand at the machines, the tubes. “All this is precautionary, one of your aunts told me.”
“Someone told me I had a seizure, from my brain swelling.”
“Nothing’s swollen but your nose, dear.” Her smile slipped a little. “And those lovely cheekbones are missing. To be completely honest, I had to check the room number twice.”
My face had changed, perhaps permanently. All the better for the disappearance of Jessica Anderson.
Me, transformed into not-me.
“Am I unsightly?”
“I’m mostly sad about your hair.” She leaned forward to take my hand, the last of her shiny cheer evaporating. “My god, Jessica. When Sebastian called, I almost lost it.”
“Sebastian.”
“He called me the moment he found out. The poor sweetie—he sounded so upset.” She glanced at the door to my room. “I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Me either.” Just the dream Sebastian, who was still sad about Peter. He’d come again the night before, telling me I was forgiven. “How long have I been here?”
“Three days. You were on your way back from the city. You, Cyrus, and a tree?”
“Three days.” It felt like less time than that. It felt like much, much more.
“Don’t worry, Jessica. You’re going to get better. Your face will go back to normal. Those scars on your head will be covered by hair.”
“Mortons always heal,” I said.
A pent-up sigh eased from her. “You simplyhaveto, my dear. I can’t imagine doing any of this without you. Not senior year, not graduation. And especially not…this.”
Her hand went to the breast pocket of her linen jacket, where a neatly folded pocket square peeked out—crimson and excruciating in the sun.
She hadn’t earned that red. (I had earned mine.)
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll always take care of you.”
And your children, and your children’s children.