dogs. “Especially Amy. She calls every day. What do you think, Jeremy? Do you think it's a good idea?”
I don't want anyone staring at Analise, carrying stories of her condition back to school. Stories of how her face has changed; how her jaw sticks out because of the clenching of her teeth, whichthe doctors can't control; how her gaze darts without purpose. We've had time to adjust to the changes in her body, but others haven't. Seeing her as she is now will be a jolt. “Maybe Amy,” I say. “She can be trusted.”
Sonya nods. “Amy's asked me for a few baby pictures of Analise for the yearbook. She and the staff are setting aside several pages to pay tribute to our girl.” She shifts the mail to a nearby table. “Any special plans for Christmas?” She changes the subject.
“Both my brothers will be home for the holidays. Mom's cooking up a storm.”
“That'll be so nice.”
Tears brim in Sonya's eyes, and I quickly look away. She says, “Who'd ever have thought we'd be spending Christmas in a place like this? I—I'm grateful for it,” she adds quickly. “The staff is wonderful. It's just that I thought we'd all be at the house, the three of us. Now it doesn't look as if she'll be home … ever.”
“Don't say that.”
She looks at Analise, strokes her arm. “I get so discouraged sometimes. And you know what really makes me angry, Jeremy?” She doesn't wait for me to answer. “It's knowing that somewhere out there, someone is walking around, planning Christmas,maybe with their family, just going along fancy-free,
knowing
they have struck our little girl on her bike and driven off without so much as a backward glance.”
I feel my own anger boil up as I too see the picture Sonya has painted. Analise's eyes continue to dart, but they look blank and purposeless. I remember how her eyes once twinkled, brimmed with intelligence and fire. And love. I shudder.
Sonya says, “Someone has ruined her life. Ruined our lives. Yours too. And even Amy's been permanently affected. It isn't right, Jeremy. It isn't right.”
She's crying now and I'm helpless to do anything to make her feel better. There's nothing I can say. I mutter a curse on the person or persons who did this to Analise … did this to all of us. I hope they burn in hell.
D ECEMBER 19
I feel Jeremy's kiss on my hand. I want to tell him I love him. I want to let him know how happy I am whenever he comes into the room. If my thoughts could reach out and touch him, they would cover him in kisses. If I could control my body … if I could move … Stop it! I can't move. The only thing that makes this bearable is that time is fluid. I sleep. I wake. Great chunks of time pass in between. I never know when my consciousness will rise to the surface. I only know that it does. And when it does, I hear them talking. Mom's pain hits my soul and makes me angry. I struggle to speak.
I hear Mom say, “She's agitated, Jeremy. Help me get her into bed.”
“This is just a
reflex
?”
“That's what the doctors say, but they're wrong, Jeremy. I know they are.”
They lift me, my mother and my love. They lay me down on clean linen, cover me, kiss my cheeks, stroke my arms, trying to calm me. They whisper my name. I want to cry. I want to tell them how much I love them. Someone did this to me. Someone who's still out there. And now I want something else.
I want revenge.
D ECEMBER 22
I help Mark carry the massive desk into Spencer Palmer's den. We've driven it over in Mark's pickup, brushed the falling snow off the tarp covering it in the circular driveway. The front doors of the Palmer mansion—because it looks like a mansion to me—are double wide, but even so, we had to remove the desk's top to get the piece safely inside. We could have used Rudy's help, but he hasn't come to work for two weeks, so Mark figures we won't see him again for quite a while.
The den is off the foyer, close to the front doors. “Here,” Mrs. Palmer says, indicating a
I don't want anyone staring at Analise, carrying stories of her condition back to school. Stories of how her face has changed; how her jaw sticks out because of the clenching of her teeth, whichthe doctors can't control; how her gaze darts without purpose. We've had time to adjust to the changes in her body, but others haven't. Seeing her as she is now will be a jolt. “Maybe Amy,” I say. “She can be trusted.”
Sonya nods. “Amy's asked me for a few baby pictures of Analise for the yearbook. She and the staff are setting aside several pages to pay tribute to our girl.” She shifts the mail to a nearby table. “Any special plans for Christmas?” She changes the subject.
“Both my brothers will be home for the holidays. Mom's cooking up a storm.”
“That'll be so nice.”
Tears brim in Sonya's eyes, and I quickly look away. She says, “Who'd ever have thought we'd be spending Christmas in a place like this? I—I'm grateful for it,” she adds quickly. “The staff is wonderful. It's just that I thought we'd all be at the house, the three of us. Now it doesn't look as if she'll be home … ever.”
“Don't say that.”
She looks at Analise, strokes her arm. “I get so discouraged sometimes. And you know what really makes me angry, Jeremy?” She doesn't wait for me to answer. “It's knowing that somewhere out there, someone is walking around, planning Christmas,maybe with their family, just going along fancy-free,
knowing
they have struck our little girl on her bike and driven off without so much as a backward glance.”
I feel my own anger boil up as I too see the picture Sonya has painted. Analise's eyes continue to dart, but they look blank and purposeless. I remember how her eyes once twinkled, brimmed with intelligence and fire. And love. I shudder.
Sonya says, “Someone has ruined her life. Ruined our lives. Yours too. And even Amy's been permanently affected. It isn't right, Jeremy. It isn't right.”
She's crying now and I'm helpless to do anything to make her feel better. There's nothing I can say. I mutter a curse on the person or persons who did this to Analise … did this to all of us. I hope they burn in hell.
D ECEMBER 19
I feel Jeremy's kiss on my hand. I want to tell him I love him. I want to let him know how happy I am whenever he comes into the room. If my thoughts could reach out and touch him, they would cover him in kisses. If I could control my body … if I could move … Stop it! I can't move. The only thing that makes this bearable is that time is fluid. I sleep. I wake. Great chunks of time pass in between. I never know when my consciousness will rise to the surface. I only know that it does. And when it does, I hear them talking. Mom's pain hits my soul and makes me angry. I struggle to speak.
I hear Mom say, “She's agitated, Jeremy. Help me get her into bed.”
“This is just a
reflex
?”
“That's what the doctors say, but they're wrong, Jeremy. I know they are.”
They lift me, my mother and my love. They lay me down on clean linen, cover me, kiss my cheeks, stroke my arms, trying to calm me. They whisper my name. I want to cry. I want to tell them how much I love them. Someone did this to me. Someone who's still out there. And now I want something else.
I want revenge.
D ECEMBER 22
I help Mark carry the massive desk into Spencer Palmer's den. We've driven it over in Mark's pickup, brushed the falling snow off the tarp covering it in the circular driveway. The front doors of the Palmer mansion—because it looks like a mansion to me—are double wide, but even so, we had to remove the desk's top to get the piece safely inside. We could have used Rudy's help, but he hasn't come to work for two weeks, so Mark figures we won't see him again for quite a while.
The den is off the foyer, close to the front doors. “Here,” Mrs. Palmer says, indicating a
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