When We Collided(73)

When I open my eyes again, there’s someone moving toward my windowsill, holding a basket in both hands. At first I assume my mom’s back, but this person has long black hair. Ellie. She glances over at me and freezes in place.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispers, noticing me. “I’m so sorry. I figured you’d be asleep.”

“You . . . drove here?”

“Yeah.”

That does not make sense. I scoot up a little on my pillow, even though it hurts my shoulder and collarbone. “What’s in the basket?”

“Oh, um. Just some, like, comforts from home, I guess. Sorry, it looked nicer but the front desk had to inspect it. Leah and Bekah and everyone helped me put it together.”

I’m eyeing her suspiciously—I know I am—but I can’t help but be curious. “Like what?”

She sits the basket down at the end of my bed. “Like some, um, dry shampoo. I know it’s not the same as being in your own shower at home, but . . . thought it might be nice.”

“Can I have it?” I ask.

“Now? Sure.” She walks the bottle over to me and doesn’t seem uneasy approaching me at all. “Want me to spray it in for you?”

I nod. I’m not sure why, but I’m oddly drawn to Ellie in this moment. I was not nice to her. And here she is. Why? She steps close to me and shields my eyes, holding her hand over my brow as I feel the spray against my scalp. It smells powerfully of pineapples. She massages the powder into my hair with the heat of her bare hands. I look at her even though her eyes are on my hair. They’re so dark, her eyes, the pupils barely discernible from the irises, and her skin is as copper and smooth as a penny. I’m sure she was a mare in another life—elegant, with panels of shiny hair and long legs. Powerful but choosing to be gentle. Even to me, who was wretched.

I’m starting to think I’m a troll in this life.

But my hair does feel better. Less stuck to my scalp.

“Why are you doing this?” I stare at her dead-on. She’s wiping her hands with a paper towel. “I was a total bitch to you, and don’t act like I wasn’t. And somehow I get a gift basket?”

“Yeah, you get a gift basket,” Ellie says. “Because depression f*cking sucks.”

I thought Ellie was what I call a Lovely. I don’t tend to like Lovelies because there’s a lot of posturing and holding back of real human emotion. So hearing Ellie say the f-word so casually feels completely out of place, like if Princess Kate booty-danced or flicked off the paparazzi with both hands.

“I don’t know much about bipolar disorder,” she continues, “but my brother stayed here a few years ago when his depression was at its worst. Well, not here. He had to stay in the actual psychiatry wing. But I figured I’d at least stop by and tell you the best vending machine is on the second floor near the emergency-exit stairs.”

“Your brother was here,” I repeat.

“Yeah. He’d probably stop by himself—tell you insider info—but he’s doing a study abroad this summer. I figured I’d be his proxy.”

“So . . . he’s better. He’s in college.”

“Yeah, he’s doing really well,” she says. “And now he wants to be a doctor to help other kids. He does all this stuff on campus for mental health education and visibility.”

“Did anything happen?” I ask, sitting up. “To trigger it for him?”

It’s not a polite question, but I don’t care. She considers my question, gnawing on her lip. “I don’t think so. He has a great life and a great family, but he started feeling . . . not even sad. He felt nothing. The doctors said it could be, you know, hormones, serotonin receptors, who knows?”

I press my eyes shut, trying not to cry. “Same for me. It’s like when the dentist numbs your mouth, and you can bite your lip or tongue without even realizing it. At first, it was almost funny, like—Ha-ha, look at this! I can’t feel anything. But then the sensation stayed gone, and I thought it might be forever, and I got desperate to feel anything.”

She nods. “Diego kept saying he felt like he should be able to control it. Like, he wanted to reason his way out of it. Because it’s your own mind, right? But of course it doesn’t work that way. Sometimes you just need medicine.”

Her words make me want to cry but only out of relief to have someone get me—without pity. Everyone else seems to feel so sorry for me, and also like they’re so glad that they’re not me. No one settles inside my shoes—inside my towering, beautiful shoes—and dances around, not even for a minute. No one else looks me right in the eyes and says it like the simple fact it is, depression f*cking sucks.

Ellie takes a breath to keep talking, but then makes a little gasp. “Oh gosh, listen to me babbling. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to put words in your mouth, I—”

“No. Don’t be sorry. Everyone else comes in here trying to be so polite. My mom, even the nurses, they give me these ridiculous, flowery platitudes, like they’re reading straight off a sympathy card. But what I really need is to f*cking scream because this feels like a war that I got thrown into, and I don’t know how I can be so tired and mad at the same time . . .”

My eyes fill, warm and brimming over. It’s an everything-finally-bursts cry. The kind that wrings out your spirit—a cleansing.