With Malice (8 page)

I peeled the foil off and popped one into my mouth. “I feel like I could live with the—talking thing now that it's better, but I hate that I can't remember anything from the past few weeks. It's like the truth is inside my head, but I don't have any way to get it out.”

Dr. Weeks shrugged. “It's possible your memory isn't related to your injury.” She pulled the bowl back and grabbed a chocolate for herself. “It could be that your brain doesn't want you to remember.”

I swallowed. “You mean because I can't face what I did. That the accident was my fault.” The online articles I'd read about the accident made me sick. They painted me as if I was this crazy loser who finally snapped after years of having a prettier, smarter, sexier best friend and decided to take us both out. Murder-suicide. It didn't make sense. Simone was better than me with some things, but I was better than her in others. It evened out. She was my best friend. Sure, she annoyed me, but I knew I annoyed her too. It didn't mean that either of us would
kill
the other. It was absurd, but everyone acted like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to have happened.

And I couldn't understand why so many people cared about the accident at all. My lawyer, Evan, said it was because the story had legs. Two pretty girls, an exotic foreign location, mystery as to why I did it, and the potential for revenge and jealousy to be the cause. It didn't matter what the truth was—what mattered was that it was fun to talk about.

The whole case seemed to be based on how the one eyewitness didn't see any brake lights before the car hit a stone wall that went around the town. She told police that I aimed straight for it. Anna had pointed out that it was possible there had been something wrong with the car. Maybe the brakes or steering were busted. When she'd come up with the theory, I'd experienced a huge wave of relief. It explained everything. All I needed was for someone in Italy to look closer at the car, and it would clear things up.

“I'm not saying the accident is anyone's fault, but what happened, however it happened, had to be extremely upsetting. It's not uncommon when there's trauma, emotional or physical, for the brain to shut down. It goes into emergency-only systems as a way of protecting itself. Your brain may be giving you some space to recover.”

I looked out her window onto the parking lot. The rehab hospital was directly behind a strip mall, complete with a grocery, a coffee shop, and one of those everything-for-a-buck stores. It was weird to see people coming and going, doing everyday stuff. It made me feel like I'd gotten stuck in the wardrobe of Narnia, peering out, with no idea how to get back to the real world.

“I think not remembering is worse than anything that could have happened. I keep imagining different scenarios. There has to be something I can—” The word disappeared from my head.

“Do?” Dr. Weeks finished my sentence. “You can't force yourself to remember, and there's no pill or treatment that can zap your memory back into place. However, you can help it along.”

I leaned forward. This was way better than putting together block puzzles. “What?”

“Do you have a phone?”

I nodded and pulled the replacement my mom had finally given me out of the bag that hung from the handles on my wheelchair. Now that there wasn't anyone to text, it seemed pointless, but I still took it. It was like a lucky rabbit's foot, my reminder that life could be normal again. I'd find myself compulsively checking online to see how everyone else's life was progressing without me. I stalked Simone's Facebook page every day to see what people were saying about her. I wasn't allowed to post anything on social media. No selfies. No nothing. My dad and Evan had forbidden me to text or email anyone from school. Not even Tara. Just in case. Neither of them clarified in case of what. I was cut off from everybody. I passed it over to Dr. Weeks, and she began to click around. Who knew? There really is an app for everything. It hadn't even occurred to me that there would be some kind of memory aid I could download.

Dr. Weeks slid the phone back over to me. “I put the memo section on your first home screen. Anytime there is something you need to remember, either type it in, or there's a voice-record function. If you're getting headaches, it may be better to use the record. You can transfer it later from speech to text.”

The excitement in my chest slowly deflated like a deserted party balloon. “That's it?” I'd been hoping for something more impressive.

“Don't look so disappointed. In the old days, when I was still taking my horse and buggy to work, we had people use notebooks and a pencil. At least this way you can play games and take a call, too.” She smiled. “It isn't very glamorous, but it works. Memory is a funny thing. Did you ever do one of those hedge mazes that you can walk through?”

“When I was a kid, my mom took Simone and me to a corn maze.”

Dr. Weeks pointed at me. “Bingo. Those mazes are complicated because you can't see the whole picture. If you get up high, it's easy to see how one way will lead you to the next until you get out, but when you are in the middle of them, you can't tell.”

“So my brain is a cornfield.”

She raised a finger in triumph. “Not just any cornfield, a sculpted maze of a field. Write down what you remember, even if it's just a tiny flash. Often one memory will lead to another. Like a trail. Right now you can't see the full image of what happened. All you have are pieces, but if you write down enough of the clues, snap the puzzle pieces in place, you may get the big picture.”

I tucked the phone back into my bag. It was worth trying. I didn't have a lot of other options, and it would be nice to use the phone for something other than playing games.

“Tell you what, let's call it a day with the testing.” Dr. Weeks cleared her desk and leaned back. “That will give us some time to chat. I wanted to see how you feel about things with your lawyer. You mentioned last time you found him stressful.”

I shrugged. I didn't like talking to Evan Stanley. He was my lawyer, which should have meant he was on my side, but it didn't feel that way. He looked at me like he thought I was guilty. That I was someone who had to be managed. I picked at the skin on my thumb and then made myself stop. “I don't know what he wants from me. I don't remember the accident. I can't tell him—”

I realized my hands were clenching the side of the chair, so I relaxed them. And tried to find another word to replace the one that was gone. “I can't tell him what happened. He wouldn't let me go to Simone's funeral. I want to talk to Simone's parents, apologize or explain or something, but Evan said I shouldn't speak to them. That it might hurt my case somehow, or give them something they could use if they decide to sue us.”

“And you don't agree.”

“They lost their daughter, but she was my best friend. She was like my sister. We were both only children, so we used to say all the time that we were sisters by choice. I lost something too. It's not right that they don't seem to get that.” I bit my tongue, stopping myself from saying more. Blaming her parents wasn't fair. “I know that's wrong to feel that way.”

“Feelings aren't wrong. They just are.”

“So what do I do?” I asked.

“You answer his questions so he can do his job and then you focus on your rehab. You make notes and follow where those memories get you. You get better, and you move forward.”

She made it sound so easy, but it was way more complicated. “Did you read any of the stuff online about my accident?” I asked her. Anna had shown me a site, a blog,
Justice for Simone.
Anna hoped knowing more about the accident might have poked something free in my memory, but reading about it had been like reading about something that happened to someone else. “Other kids who were on the program with us are saying that Simone and I weren't getting along.”

What the blog had posted was that everyone thought I was a stuck-up bitch. I was used to this. The truth was I was awkward around strangers, but it's somehow illegal for someone who is reasonably attractive and popular to be shy, so I got labeled a bitch. Simone was the one who could talk to anyone and in five minutes convince them she was their best friend.

“Is that possible?”

I shrugged. “We fought sometimes, but it was never anything—” My brain stuttered to a stop. “Big.”

“What's the last thing you remember fighting about?”

“Simone was mad at me because I was considering going to Michigan State.” I could tell she was confused. “I also got into Yale, which was my top choice. My dad went there.” I wasn't sure why I felt like I had to add that, but I did it every time where I was going to college came up. “How could people think I could kill Simone when I was thinking about giving up going to the Ivy League just so we could still be near each other?”

“But Simone didn't want you to do that?” Dr. Weeks's tiny mouth pursed tighter, almost disappearing into her face.

I sighed. “No. She said even thinking about it was stupid. That if I wanted to go to law school, I needed to go to the best. It wasn't that I didn't know Yale's a better school, but we've been best friends since forever. The idea of her not being in my life seemed wrong.”

“You could have stayed friends, even if you went to different schools.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. This was exactly what my mom kept saying. “Sure, but it wouldn't be the same. I wouldn't be around. Simone would make new friends, people she could hang out with.”

“And you would have made new friends too,” Dr. Weeks pointed out.

“Yeah.” I knew she was right. It wasn't like I thought I was going to be some loser who only had meaningful conversations with my stuffed animals. Even with me being shy, I would find someone. It was just hard to imagine I'd ever find a friend like Simone. She was special. She
had been
special. “Some guy named Brad told a reporter he thought we were fighting over a guy, but that wouldn't happen.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not really interested in guys.” I looked up quickly. “I don't mean I'm interested in girls, just that I'm not the kind to have huge crushes. I'm more focused on school.”

“But Simone did?” Dr. Weeks played absently with one of the puzzle blocks in her hand.

“Sort of. Simone liked the game. Getting someone to be crazy for her. In ninth grade there was this exchange student from Germany, Mathias. He was really shy. I swear he looked like he would explode if anyone spoke to him. Simone didn't even like him, but Tara bet her that she couldn't get him to ask her out, so she went after him until he did. She liked the challenge. She hooked up with him once and told everyone he was a terrible kisser. Maybe it was having a front row to my parents' marriage, but I'm not a huge fan of the happy-ever-after concept,” I admitted.

“These articles and their accusations really upset you.”

Duh.
“Did you see any of the comments?”

“People often lose their inhibitions online. They say and do things they would never do if they were face-to-face.”

I gave a cynical laugh. “Trust me, I'm very familiar with Internet trolls. I used to have a website.” A sick sensation rolled through my stomach, as it did every time I thought about it. When people asked me about the blog, I always shrugged like it was no big deal, but it still ate away at me. “I'm into a bunch of social justice issues. I plan to go into law. I used to write a blog about that stuff, feminism and things from a teen perspective. Trying to get other people my age interested. It started so I'd have a project to put on my college apps, but it was more than that.” I glanced over to see if I could tell what she was thinking. “It's not that I actually thought some blog from a high school student would change the world, but I wanted—” The words dropped out of my head.

“But you wanted to give voice to what you found important,” Dr. Weeks said.

I leaned back in the chair and wiped my eyes. She got it. So few people did. My blog had been the first thing I'd done that felt like it might matter. Getting an A in AP physics wasn't going to make the world a better place, but the stuff I cared about was important. Real issues—those mattered.

“There was someone who found my site and started trolling me like crazy. Every time I put up a post, he would go on and say all this nasty stuff. It didn't even matter what I was talking about. It got out of control, so I shut it down.” I crossed my arms over my chest, defensive. “There wasn't anything else I could do.”

The truth was there was a part of me that was ashamed I'd given in. I hated that I'd quit as soon as it got difficult. I should have fought back, but that's easier in theory. Someone constantly calling you a stupid slut day after day is an ugly reality.

I had the sense she was going to push me on the issue, but she must have decided to let it go. “My advice is that you stay off the computer and avoid these articles for a while. Reading them is only going to be a distraction from what you should focus on—getting better.” Dr. Weeks glanced over at the clock on the wall. “That's it for today. You did good.”

“I bet you say that to everyone,” I said.

“Yeah, but I mean it with you.”

I wheeled out of her office, passing the next person coming in. I paused to let a group of people go by. I turned the chair and looked down the hall, first one way, then the other. A flash of panic ran down my spine. I wasn't sure where I was supposed to go. My heart picked up speed. I told myself I was being stupid. It wasn't like I'd wandered into a neighborhood full of crack dens and rabid bears. I was still in the hospital. All I had to do was ask someone for help or figure it out on my own. Even with the maze of halls and different departments, the place was only so big.

I made myself roll forward. There were posters announcing everything from a movie night to times for various workshops. The entire place was painted neutral bureaucratic beige. I stopped. There was a blue plastic sign mounted on the wall announcing
POOL
with an arrow. Someone had made the two
O
's into crossed eyes by drawing in pupils in black Sharpie.