Backlash

When I tap him on the shoulder, he jumps.

“Sheesh, Bree, why’d you sneak up on me like that?”

“I didn’t sneak. You just play your music obnoxiously loud.”

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

I hesitate, trying to figure out the best way to handle him. I need his help. He can find out what I need to know so badly.

“I’m really worried about Lara,” I tell him. “You’re still friends with Sydney, right? Can you text her to see how Lara’s doing?”

He takes off his headphones and stares at me without saying a word. I get this feeling I’m being judged, and hard.

“Why do you care?” he asks, his eyes narrowed on me like thin green lasers.

I expected him to give me some attitude, but not to ask me that. “What do you mean, why do I care?”

“You haven’t been friends with Lara for over a year, and now you’re so worried?” Liam says. “Why do you really want me to text Syd? So you can post something else?”

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want to be the first one to post whatever news there was about Lara. Who wouldn’t? But that’s not the only reason I want him to text her sister to find out how she is. It’s because … I never thought about death being so … real, so … permanent. Death’s always been for old people, like grandparents, or people far away who are killed in wars that you hear about when your social studies teacher talks about current events or your parents flick past the news on cable.

It’s not something that happens to someone I know, that I used to be best friends with.

“It has nothing to do with Facebook,” I half lie, pretending to be really offended. “Why would you even think that?”

“Maybe ’cause you posted that picture of her passed out on a stretcher, being taken to the hospital?” Liam says. “I mean, c’mon, Bree, how could you do that? It’s so wrong.”

“What do you care?”

“ ’Cause Sydney’s my friend,” he says. “And because you’re my sister, so when you do sick stuff like that, people think I’m a loser, too.”

How does it make me a loser when that post already has fifty likes? If anyone’s a loser in this family, it’s Liam. He just doesn’t understand. But I can’t say anything because I need him to send that text. So I try a new tack.

“If you’re such good friends, why wouldn’t you text Syd? Don’t you want to know if Lara’s okay or if she’s … you know …” I can’t bring myself to say the word, and without even having to pretend, my voice chokes up and I have tears in my eyes.

My tears are what convince Liam that this isn’t just about a Facebook update.

“Okay. I’ll do it,” he says.

He reaches for his cell and starts to text.

What he doesn’t realize is that I’m crying because I’m scared.

“OURFATHERwhoartinheavenhallowedbethynamethy​kingdomcome …”

“Pete! I think she’s coming to …”

BeepBeep. Beep. BeepBeep.

“Lara … Lara, sweetheart, can you hear me? It’s Dad …”

Ow. Hand hurts. Dad. Hurt me. Tell him. Mouth not working.

Beep. Beep. Beep. BeepBeepBeepBeep.

“Syd, go get the nurse!”

“Lara, open your eyes for me. Your parents are here, and your sister. They want to see you.”

Who’s that?

“Wake up, darling. We love you.”

Mommy. Love can’t fix me. Too tired.

Beep. Beep. BeepBeep. BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.

“Come on, honey, you can do it.”

No, Daddy, can’t. Want to sleep.

Parents sound like they’re at the end of a bad co

“Lara! Wake up!”

Syd.

Everyone else is soft and pleading. Syd is mad. Why so mad? Doesn’t she understand? Too tired. Shake head no, don’t hate me.

Try talking. Why mouth not working? There’s something in it. Throat hurts.

Have to leave cocoon. Don’t want to. But Syd mad. Open eyes. Eyelids stuck. Won’t open. Crack open. Lights so bright close again, too bright.

Eyes open. Room so bright.

Beep. Beep. BeepBeepBeep. BeepBeepBeep. BeepBeep.

“Welcome back,” a lady says, wearing a scrub shirt with pandas on it. Black-and-white pandas, purple shirt. Happy pandas. Pandas sososo happy. I am sad. Sad panda.

“Thank goodness!” Dad kisses my hand.

Mom next to the bed, sobbing.

What happened? Where am I? Why is everyone acting like I died?

Mask over my face. Smells like plastic. Thing in my throat. Hurts.

Try to get it out, but hand shaky and weak, like a newborn baby. Tubes in my hand. Hurts. Everything … hurts.

Panda Nurse tells me to leave the tube in my throat; the doctor is coming to take it out.

“You’re at Central Hospital,” she explains. “You overdosed on medication.”

Christian. You’realoseraloseraloseraloseraloser.

Theworldwouldbeabetterplacewithoutyouinit.

I failed. Can’t even get that right.

Wanted it to be over and it’s not.

Itsnotoveritsnotoveritsnotover. Hurthurthurthurthurtnononononononono.

Brightness, a painful spotlight in one eye, then the other. Seeing spots. Want to go back to sleep, get away from the pain, get away from the memory, get away from everything. Panda Nurse taps my elbow with a rubber hammer.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.

Man with glasses standing over me. See shoulder of his white coat.

“Lara, I’m Dr. Delman. We’re going to remove the breathing tube now. I want you to exhale on the count of three. Nod if you understand what I’m saying.”

Move my head, slowly. So tired. Brain hurts. Hand hurts. Throat hurts.

“Okay, here we go, Lara. One … two … three …”

Exhale … less pressure in my throat and then tube slides out.

Moan. Gag.

“Your throat might feel a little sore for a while,” the doctor says. “You can try gargling with salt water, or drinking some warm water with honey and lemon.”

It does hurt. More than a little. Everything does. Hurts. Especially … especially if I … no.

“Why did you do it, Lara? Why?”

My father’s voice.

Daddy. No.

Shut my eyes. Want to go back to sleep. Don’t want to think. Don’t want to feel. Don’t want to remember why. It hurts. Daddy, Mommy, it hurts too much, to remember. I want to go back to sleep.

Moving head side to side, trying to shake away thoughts, trying not to remember again.

But then I see his face.

See the words he wrote.

See them on my computer screen.

See them etched into my brain.

Feel them etched into my heart.

Know them deep in my soul.

Remembering.

Don’t want to remember.

Don’t want to live.

Tear rolls down my cheek.

“Christian.”

“Was that Christian she said?”

Doctor is asking. Are they going to do something to him?

I shouldn’t have said it. Open my eyes.

This is real. This is happening.

It was supposed to be over.

Instead of making it better I’ve … just … made … it … worse.

Panda Nurse tapping my knees with the rubber hammer.

Involuntary movement.

I’m awake involuntarily.

I want to go back to sleep.

“Is Christian her boyfriend?” That sounds like Panda Nurse.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.

He hates me. He told me the world would be a better place without me in it. I still don’t know why. But it hurts. It still hurts so badly I don’t want to be awake. I don’t want to be here. I wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Not that we know of,” Mom says. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“She’s friends with someone named Christian on Facebook and — What?! How can people —”