Someday when we are together as we were meant to be, I’ll tell her about that night. I’ll hold her in my arms, and she’ll look at me rapturously as I tell how hard it was that night, how my heart hurt thinking I’d lost her forever, how my chest tightened when her body fell against the hood of the car. I’ll tell her how grateful we should be that the Lord chose to save her. I don’t know if she’ll remember anything, but I’ll tell her. She’ll rest her head against my chest, and I’ll kiss her hair when I tell her that she was spared so we can be as we were meant to be.

All of my fears are quieted as I picture the future. This is what I feel when we are together. Her proximity saves me.

The intersection near her house is empty, so I pause a little longer. Seeing her house in my rearview mirror is like a closing prayer. I can pause and exhale, and the grace of the moment will carry me through the day ahead. Everything is right in this moment.

The past week has been harder because I didn’t have those rare flashes of togetherness at school. There, we talk in the corridors. Sometimes, it’s only a smile, but I can tell by the way she smiles at me that she feels the special connection we share. The first time I was shocked, but over the past year, I’ve felt our love grow. She knows me, knows things that no one else would understand. Someday They will know about how far I’ve gone to protect and cherish Eva.

“Soon,” I whisper.

DAY 11: “THE EX-BOYFRIEND”

Eva

I WAKE AT HOME, in my own bed, and it makes me feel closer to normal. I’m still in bed trying to decide if I’m ready to face the world when Nate texts to ask if I want company later. I do, but I’m not sure how much time I can spend with him before there’s trouble with Robert.

Instead of replying to Nate, I text Robert: “I need to talk to you. Come see me.”

“Exam this afternoon.”

“I know. Need to talk. Now or tonight?”

After a few minutes, he replies, “Video?”

I sigh. It’s better than texting, but it’s not how I want to have this conversation. I want him to want to see me, to want to hold me, to hand me a tissue if I cry. None of that seems to matter to him. I don’t want him to see my scars, but I need to see him.

“No,” I text. “Come over. Am home.”

After a few minutes, Robert replies, “k.”

Now that he’s coming, I feel a burst of panic. I wish that my face was healed enough to use cover-up. My face is still a mess of bruises and cuts, and I feel nervous about my appearance.

Now that I have a plan to talk to Robert, I reply to Nate. “I’m home. Mom knows you were at hospital with me. Sure you want to come here?”

His reply is instant: “Yes.”

I can’t stop the smile that his reply evokes. Nate is coming to my house. We sort out the details, and I start the laborious process of getting out of bed and downstairs. I’m only as far as returning from my bathroom when my parents walk into my room.

“Eva Elizabeth Tilling!” My mother has both hands on her hips. “What on God’s green earth are you doing?”

“Umm . . . going downstairs?” I don’t mean it to sound like a question, but it does.

“You’re on crutches!”

My father smothers a bark of laughter at my expression or maybe at my mother’s posture. “Why don’t I carry you down?” He turns to Mom. “We’ll be right down, Lizzy.”

Once she’s gone, I convince him—after few minutes of debate—to let me try the stairs. He only agrees under the condition that he walk backward down the steps in front of me. It’s a slow process, and I suspect that he’s using all of his patience to do it my way instead of carrying me.

My mother scurries into the kitchen to set out breakfast, and once we are all seated, she pours fresh-squeezed juice. It’s odd. We aren’t the sort to have breakfasts like this. Grabbing fruit or cold cereal before I leave for school is my usual routine. Sometimes on weekends we all sit down together, but even then, Dad is typically lost in the paper or a magazine and Mom is often working on one of her to-do lists. We have a “no tech at the table” rule—so my iPod and my mother’s tablet are banned—but old-fashioned pen and paper are fine. Today, there are no newspapers, magazines, or lists in sight. We sit awkwardly exchanging glances.

“Did you sleep well?” my mother asks.

“I did. Did you?”

My mother frowns. “Of course we did! We aren’t injured, and you’re home safe now.”

My father’s lips twitch briefly, not quite smiling. “I think Eva was making small talk, dear.”

“Oh.” She scoops fruit salad into a bowl and admits, “I’m a little distracted.” She pauses, but when no one asks why, she continues, “Trying to figure out the new schedule.”

“I’m fine, Mom. There’s food in the fridge, and I’m good on my crutches.”

She smiles at me in the way that says it’s cute that I’m clueless. “I know.”

I think I’m making my parents a little uncomfortable with the way I quickly reach out to touch them when they reach toward me even a little. I don’t understand the hallucinations, but I do realize one thing—being touched seems to trigger them. I don’t want to see my mother’s death, and I’m not sure if I’ll see my father’s again if he touches me. Either way, I won’t chance it. My head is pounding already.