Delirium (Delirium #1)(104)

“Sorry to inconvenience you. I didn’t exactly ask to get knocked out and dragged here.” I’ve never spoken to Rachel this way, and I can see it surprises her. She rubs her forehead tiredly, and for a second a glimpse of the Rachel I used to know—my older sister Rachel, the one who tortured me with tickles and braided my hair and complained that I always got bigger scoops of ice cream—flickers through.

Then the blankness is back, like a veil. It’s amazing how I’ve always just accepted it, the way that most cureds seem to walk through the world as though wrapped in a thick cloak of sleep. Maybe it’s because I, too, was sleeping. It wasn’t until Alex woke me up that I could see things clearly.

For a while Rachel doesn’t say anything else. I have nothing to say to her, either, so we just sit there. I close my eyes, waiting for the pain to begin ebbing away, trying to sort out words from the tangle of voices downstairs and the sounds of footsteps and muffled exclamations and the television going in the kitchen, but I can’t make out any specific conversations.

Finally Rachel says, “What happened tonight, Lena?”

When I open my eyes, I see she’s staring at me again. “You think I’ll tell you?”

She gives a minute shake of her head. “I’m your sister.”

“As if that means something to you.”

She recoils slightly, just a fraction of an inch. When she speaks again her voice is flinty. “Who was he? Who infected you?”

“That’s the question of the evening, isn’t it?” I roll away from her, facing the wall, feeling cold. “If you came here to grill me, you’re wasting your time. You might as well go home again.”

“I came here because I’m worried,” she says.

“About what? About the family? About our reputation?” I keep staring stubbornly at the wall, pulling the thin summer blanket all the way to my neck. “Or maybe you’re worried that everyone will think you knew? Maybe you think you’ll get labeled a sympathizer?”

“Don’t be difficult.” She sighs. “I’m worried about you. I care, Lena. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy.”

I swivel my head to look at her, feeling a rush of anger—and, deeper than that, hatred. I hate her; I hate her for lying to me. I hate her for pretending to care, for even using that word in my presence. “You’re a liar,” I spit out. Then, “You knew about Mom.”

This time the veil drops. She jerks back. “What are you talking about?”

“You knew that she didn’t—that she didn’t really kill herself. You knew that they took her.”

Rachel squints at me. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about, Lena.”

And I can tell, then, that at least I’m wrong about this. Rachel doesn’t know. She never knew. I feel a twin flood of relief and regret.

“Rachel,” I say, more gently. “She was in the Crypts. She’s been in the Crypts this whole time.”

Rachel stares at me for one long second, her mouth falling open. Then she stands abruptly, smoothing down the front of her pants as though brushing away invisible crumbs. “Listen, Lena . . . You got bumped on the head pretty badly.” Again, as though I’ve somehow done it myself. “You’re tired. You’re confused.”

I don’t correct her. There’s no point. It’s too late for Rachel, anyway. She will always exist behind the wall. She will always be asleep.

“You should try to get some sleep,” she says. “I’ll refill your water.” She takes the glass and then moves toward the door, switching off the overhead light as she goes. She pauses in the doorway for a bit with her back turned to me. The light from the hallway looks fuzzy around her, and makes her features blur to black so she looks like a shadow-person, a silhouette.

“You know, Lena,” she says at last, turning back around to face me, “things are going to get better. I know you feel angry. I know you think we don’t understand. But I do understand.” She breaks off, staring down into the empty glass. “I was just like you. I remember: those feelings, that anger and passion, the sense that you can’t live without it, that you’d rather die.” She sighs. “But trust me, Lena. It’s all part of the disease. It’s a sickness. In a few days you’ll see. This will all feel like a dream to you. It was like a dream to me.”

“And you’re happier now? You’re glad you did it?” I ask her.

Maybe she takes my question as a sign that I’m listening and paying attention. In any case, she smiles. “Much,” she says.

“Then you’re not just like me,” I whisper fiercely. “You’re not like me at all.”

Rachel opens her mouth to say something else, but at that moment Carol comes to the door. Her face is flushed and red and her hair is sticking up at strange angles, but when she speaks she sounds calm. “Everything’s all right,” she says in a low voice to Rachel. “Everything’s been settled.”

“Thank God,” Rachel says. Then, grimly: “But she won’t go willingly.”

“Do they ever?” Carol asks drily. Then she disappears again.

Carol’s tone of voice has frightened me. I try to sit up on my elbows, but my arms feel like they’ve been turned to Jell-O. “What’s settled?” I ask, surprised to hear that my voice sounds slurry.