I should be comforted by this. But there is nothing that feels like comfort to be experienced. There’s only pain and guilt and sadness and monumental remorse.
I used to think I was good at this.
I am not good at this.
I am dangerous to anyone I’m in.
Moses’s mother studies his face. The next time the doctor comes in, she asks her if it’s okay for me to sleep.
“There’s no sign of a concussion,” the doctor says. “Let’s just finish here, then you can take him home and he can sleep.”
So at least I protected my head.
No, not my head.
Moses’s head.
* * *
—
They give me painkillers. I take them. As soon as I get into bed and my mother turns out the lights, I crash.
I wake up in fits and starts over the next few hours. Either my father or mother is watching over me. My sister has expressed sympathy but has kept her distance.
I don’t have the energy to say anything, or even the energy to figure out if there is anything I could possibly say. Sleep pulls me under soon enough.
This body is done with me for today.
A
Day 6089
It feels unfair to wake up the next morning as someone else.
Gwen has type 1 diabetes and an insulin pump, so I know I will have to be extra attentive—what’s second nature to her is not going to be second nature to me. I feel like I’m betraying Moses by not thinking about him, about what might be happening to him, but I know it’s more important to pay attention to Gwen and what she’s going to need for the day. Staying in bed and feeling awful is not an option. I will have to get out of bed, be social, monitor my blood sugar, and feel awful.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Are you up?” a voice—Gwen’s mother—asks. Then she adds, “We’re all waiting for you downstairs.”
She says it sweetly, so I know I’m not in trouble. I feel I should be in trouble.
But not Gwen, I remind myself. She didn’t do anything to Moses. You did.
I pull a robe over my pajamas and open the door. There are excited noises coming from downstairs. The kitchen, Gwen’s memory tells me.
I swing open the door and there’s a cheer of “Happy birthday!” Gwen’s parents are there, as well as four younger kids who don’t share any family resemblance in their features but deeply resemble a family in the way they exist with each other. There are cookies on the kitchen table that spell out H-A-P-P-Y B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y.
“Cookies for breakfast!” one of the kids shouts out. Santiago, age seven. He’s only lived here three months, so this must be his first birthday celebration here. Cookies for breakfast is this family’s thing. “We made special ones for you!”
Santiago reaches for a cookie, but Alicia (age nine) stops him.
“Not yet,” she scolds. “We have to sing first.”
A spirited rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” follows.
Gwen (age seventeen) smiles. Because I make sure she smiles. Because I know she should smile.
But I feel more awful than ever. Why this, of all days? Why should I get to usurp a happy day, especially after I just caused an unhappy day for someone else? How is that fair?
And why am I expecting fairness?
Gwen’s family is so joyously excited for her. They love her so much. I try to allow that to take me in, to welcome me into my own expression of joy, because sometimes the only thing you have to pull you to a better place is the sheer force of invitation from the people who love you dearly. I know the fairest thing I can do for Gwen—other than leaving, which I can’t—is to try to give back to her family the affection that they are providing to her now, having no idea whatsoever that she’s not really here.
There’s no candle to blow out—I’m told there will be a big cake tonight. Now there are hugs and presents, until it’s time to go to school. Ozzie (age ten) wants me to wear an IT’S MY BIRTHDAY button on my shirt. Alicia tells him that buttons like that aren’t cool when you’re a teenager, which, she emphasizes, is something he should already know.
I almost put on the button to take Ozzie’s side. But I’m afraid of what the kids on the bus will say.
I head back upstairs to shower and change. In the shower, it all comes back to me—Moses in the hospital bed, the look of hate on Carl’s face.
It wasn’t your fault, I tell myself. It was Carl’s fault. And his brother’s. And all those guys.
I believe this. But I also believe that Moses would have been safe if he’d been navigating himself through the day.
After I’m dressed, I go online to make sure I know how Gwen’s insulin pump works. It’s the same kind I’ve had before, but I double-check. I also make sure to confirm the right levels from Gwen’s memory. At some point, I’m going to need to take a run, which is what Gwen does to make sure she gets the physical activity she needs. After school, usually.
I don’t go anywhere near Facebook. There’s no time. And I don’t deserve to see anything Rhiannon may have left me.
I figure I’ll have some time to think on the bus, but Gwen’s best friend, Connor, is saving her a seat. He throws little streamers in the air when she sits down, and the people in the seats around us wish Gwen a happy birthday. I realize I could have worn the button.
“I’m so excited for tonight!” Connor says. “It’s going to be such a great party! Your parents are the best.”
I don’t argue. Instead I think of Moses’s parents at his bedside. What they must be waking up to today. The conversations they must be having. His mother’s worry. His father’s anger.
We get to school and are soon joined by Candace and Lizette, Gwen’s other best friends. And Emily, Gwen’s other other best friend. Candace, Lizette, and Emily have decorated Gwen’s locker like it’s the biggest booth at a birthday convention—Gwen must love panda bears, because there are panda bears everywhere. And for presents, Candace, Lizette, Emily, and Connor have all gotten her picture books featuring pandas. (“Mine also features donuts,” Emily says as she hands hers over.)
Gwen says thank you. Gwen is blown away. Gwen tells her best friends how happy she is.
I am pretending. I am a fraud.
School is still school, and class is still class, but people are nicer when they have a chance to be nicer. Everyone seems to know it’s my birthday.