Falling into Place(22)

Julia wonders where she had been going. The mall, maybe? But hadn’t Liz been there just a few days ago?

With one tick mark away from E, she takes an exit and turns into McCraps (so christened in eighth grade with the introduction of snack wraps, which Liz had first called McWraps, and then McCraps after she tasted one; the name had eventually come to encompass the entire franchise). Julia parks and goes inside, and immediately the grease and noise and smell of meat envelop her. Her stomach rolls—Julia has been a vegetarian since fourth grade, ever since her class took a field trip to an organic farm. She had received a sloppy kiss from a calf and fallen in love, and when she learned on the bus back that it was destined to become hamburger, she swore to never eat meat again.

But what knocks the breath from her is this: the sizzling grease, the shouting. The old couple drinking coffee by the window, holding hands and smiling. The tired dad with triplets fighting over a pack of ketchup. The group of middle schoolers crowded in a booth, maybe skipping school for the first time ever, laughing.

She hates all of them.

For smiling. For laughing. For being well and unconcerned and happy while Liz is in the hospital with a ruptured lung and a broken leg and a shattered hand and too many internal injuries to keep track of. No one should be happy. The sun shouldn’t be allowed to shine. The entire world should stay still for Liz Emerson.

It doesn’t take a crash site to break Julia. What breaks her is a bit of noise, a few lights, and happiness.

She is on the floor without quite knowing how she got there, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her eyes are shut, and in that darkness, she pretends to be alone. She says Liz’s name, and then says it again and again until it blurs and becomes senseless between her lips, a spell too weak to make the world spin backward.

Liz.

Liz Liz Liz Liz Liz Liz Liz.

Soon she is surrounded by McCraps employees and the old couple and the dad and the triplets and the middle schoolers. Frantic voices, hands at her elbows. For a moment she is frightened—all these people staring, surely one of them will see the mistakes seeping through her skin, the yellowing teeth, the circles under her eyes, the trembling fingers.

But she buries herself deeper, and the memories rush over her: all the times she, Liz, and Kennie snuck out to go to the best parties and the worst ones, all of the vastly insane things they did, all of the quiet afternoons spent in Liz’s room painting their toenails while the TV mumbled in the background.

She thinks about how it is very, very unlikely that she, Liz, and Kennie will ever do anything like that ever again.

Nevers and forevers. These are Julia’s greatest fears.


“I fell in love at a drive-through, honey,” says the cheerful, fat manager who is driving Julia the rest of the way to the hospital. She had one of her employees fill Mattie up and drive behind them, and best of all, she didn’t ask for an explanation when Julia asked her to avoid the interstate.

“He was my cashier. I ordered a Big Mac and paid with my heart. Ain’t that the saddest thing you ever heard? Lemme tell you something, honey—men are goddamn terrified of babies. Fine. I’m goddamn terrified of commitment. And it ain’t been easy, I tell you, but we ain’t doing so bad, are we? We’re keeping our heads up. . . .”

Julia does her best to listen. It’s the least she can do, but while her heart slowly falls apart, the rest of her is restless. In the front right pocket of her backpack sits an almost-empty ziplock bag, and she grips the door handle so she can’t reach for instant gratification, for escape.

In this moment, Julia would gladly have traded places with Liz, and she hates herself because of it.

Julia goes to the hospital.

Despite herself, she hopes.

She is vastly disappointed.

Liz is headed for surgery again. Sometime this morning, her heart had begun to stutter. Ten minutes ago, it began to fail. Now, she is wax beneath white lights and scalpels. Dr. Henderson is working over her, thinking about the note on her medical records: ORGAN DONOR. He thinks about that irony as he works. Liz Emerson will never donate her organs, because they are destroyed, and he doesn’t know if they can get replacements soon enough.

It seems that Julia may have arrived just in time to see all of her fears come true.



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Plans, New Years’ Day


She took a nap on the brown couch with her arm flung over her eyes, and when she woke up with her suicide outlined backward across her cheek and HERE LIES LIZ EMERSON on her forehead, she continued to plan.