Page 211 of The Perfect Wrong

Emails go unanswered.

I haven’t touched my paints for weeks.

I should’ve been back on campus a week ago, but I’m taking a leave of absence.

That sent Marnie over in a panic. She showed up a few days ago, trying so hard to be encouraging, to urge me back to life.

All I could do was cry on her shoulder. Literally.

And when I told her what was killing me, when I spilled the truth about Chris, I asked her one thing.

How can I ever pretend to go on?

That’s what I’m still wondering now, riding to this ridiculous treatment center against my will. When Evie started pushing Dad to have me shipped off to a facility a couple weeks ago, at first he put up a fight.

Then he showed up this morning, pushing into my room and pleading for me to come down to breakfast.

Just like I have so many times lately, I refused.

The pale, tired look on his face told me he’d made up his mind. I stopped giving him excuses a while ago, too burned out to even lie.

I keep thinking that one day something will just click in my head.

Maybe I’ll just wake up and feel well enough to go through the motions, leave the house, and summon the energy to finish my last semester and get on with my shadow of a life.

Somehow, I won’t feel sick to death anymore.

I’ll only wonder if Chris will ever come home alive everyotherwaking moment.

And the nightmares where I see him beaten, bruised, crunched up in this dark, dingy cell will just go away.

Yeah, who am I kidding?

I’m so alone.

Lost.

Lovesick.

“We’re almost there,” Dad says softly, looking back at me in the mirror again. “Just try it out for a few days. They’ll help you feel better, honey, if you give them an honest chance. I’ll be back Friday to see how you’re doing.”

Evie snorts next to him from the passenger seat.

“Oh, back off the girl, Bruce. She’s just heartsick. She hasn’t reverted back to the crib.” Evie looks up at him from filing her nails.

There’s a steady rain falling on the hills, spattering the entire metro area. It already has that familiar bite of fall coolness. I stare out the window, wondering if it’s a fraction as dismal as the cold distant place where Chris is being kept.

The drumming rain merges with the scratch of Evie’s nails.

A rough, grating sound. Like my whole world ripping in two, plunging me into an empty grey pit I don’t know how to escape.

The next few miles stretch on in silence, the streets weirdly empty today.

“But you’d still say the program helped, wouldn’t you?” Dad asks quietly when we’re at a stoplight.

“Huh?” She looks up. “Oh, of course. I’m sitting here, perfectly dried out and sober, helping you with—with this, aren’t I?”

Dad nods woodenly.

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