The Art of Losing(41)

I lifted my head, my lips pressed into a tight line.

Mom opened her mouth and then sighed, her expression softening. “Harley . . . I—just do me this favor, please, okay?” she said. She looked at her watch. “I have to go.”

Of all the scenarios I’d imagined when I arrived at the hospital, not one included a flash of recognition. But that’s what I saw on Audrey’s face when I opened her door. It was there, and unmistakable, and it snapped me out of my funk in an instant.

“Harley,” she said.

Her voice was hoarse, her speech slurred. Her mouth tilted lower on the left side than it did on the right. But her light blue eyes belonged to the old Audrey. Every mean thought and lousy feeling I’d had slipped away. I laughed and rushed toward her, dropping my bag in the chair and draping my arms around her thin shoulders.

“Hi, baby sister,” I said into her messy hair. “How are you?”

“O-kay,” she managed to say. She pulled away, her face twisted in frustration. Talking took effort, clearly.

“I brought you a friend,” I said as a distraction, pulling Bear Bear out of the tote. Her eyes lit up and she tried to smile, but she didn’t speak again. Instead, she reached out with her left arm; her right was still in a cast. I tucked him in the crook of her elbow, put the bag in my lap, and sat down next to her. She gazed down at her stuffed bear. I felt the need to fill the silence, but my mind was blank. I had no idea what to say.

“Do you need anything? Are you thirsty?” I asked.

Audrey nodded. I poured a small amount of water into the plastic cup on her table. I helped her sit up, tilting the bed up and propping pillows behind her head. As I fluffed them, I caught a whiff of that familiar Audrey sleep smell. Before I knew it, I was crying. She had smelled different while she was in the coma. I hadn’t been able to pinpoint what exactly was different, but this clinched it. I knew for certain that she was back now.

Audrey noticed the tears and she knitted her eyebrows together. I shook my head and took a deep breath, then put the straw in her mouth so that she could drink.

“Sorry, I’ve just missed you,” I said. I tried to smile, reaching for a Kleenex to dab my eyes. “It’s been so weird and quiet in the house without you there.” To busy myself, I started arranging Mom’s framed photos on the bedside table. “I figured you were probably bored, so I brought your iPad, too. So you could watch Netflix. Well, so we could watch together. You’d be proud of me. I’ve been watching lots of your favorite—never mind. I’ll tell you later.”

She rewarded me with a small lopsided smile. “Thanks,” she said, drawing out the s. “You . . . have to tell me.”

“I will,” I murmured. “I promise.”





Fifteen Years Ago



I was almost two when Audrey was born. Experts say that’s too young for most people to have memories, but I remember clearly how Audrey sounded through the wall when she cried. I remember the feel of the carpet against my cheek when I would lie down next to her crib and put my fingers through the bars. I remember the touch of her tiny fingernails as she stroked my finger.

Mom confirms that she would find me in there night after night. We’d both be asleep, and she would pick me up and take me back to my own bedroom. And in the morning, she’d find me back on the floor next to Audrey.

After a few weeks, they finally moved my toddler bed into Audrey’s room. Mom says I would sing to her before I fell asleep, or try to anyway. Through the monitor, they’d hear me babbling things that sounded like “The Wheels on the Bus” and “You Are My Sunshine,” and she would coo along with me.

When she got old enough to need her own bed, though, Mom and Dad put me back in my room. Audrey didn’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore, so eventually I stopped my nightly visits. But I was attuned to the sounds of her next door like a mother with a newborn. If she so much as whimpered from a nightmare, I was there, pushing the sweaty hair from her forehead and singing to her.

Mom still found us sleeping beside each other in Audrey’s bed from time to time.

I felt sorry for people who didn’t have a sister. Audrey and I could be horrible to each other all day long, but at night, when the house was dark and Mom and Dad were asleep, we could lie in bed next to each other and share our secrets.

I told Audrey things I couldn’t even tell Cassidy. Because Audrey was required to love me. Her love was a guarantee. So when I told her that I wanted to break up with Mike but was scared of what my life would be like without him, she told me to stop being an idiot and get it over with. Because sisters will also say the things you need to hear.

And then they’ll make out with your boyfriend.





Chapter Eleven



Certain things became clear over the next few days. Audrey remembered her family—including Aunt Tilly and Spencer and Floyd—but she didn’t remember last year. The gaps were strange. When the doctor asked how old she was, she said she was fourteen, that she was a freshman. (She also guessed it was spring because there were leaves on the trees she could see out of her hospital room window.) She remembered Neema and, oddly, her old locker combination, but couldn’t remember Bear Bear’s name.

The good news was that the doctors were optimistic. Dr. Martinez assured Mom and Dad that, given her test results, much of her past would return to her eventually. Her brain was functioning as it should, both in terms of long-term and short-term memory. But they doubted she’d have any recollection of the accident, or even the weeks or months leading up to it.