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  “We just saw your mom,” the tall one says. “She said this should be an okay time to come say hello.”

  The other two nod in unison.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “If that’s cool with you, of course,” the waif says. Written in bright fuchsia across her shirt are the words Get a Life!

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  I know who they are. Mother pointed them out in the photos on the bulletin board, and I have an oversized Get Well card they all signed and decorated with lots of hearts and smiley faces. One of them wrote: The Pink Posse is not the same without you! They are the Friends. They move together as a pack toward the bed, surveying the room. Their names pop into my head: Cybil, Kerry and Megan. But I have no clue which is which.

  The tall one is the first to hug me. I let her, my arms hanging at my sides. “Glad you’re okay,” she whispers gruffly, her arms tight around me. “We thought maybe we had lost you.”

  The athletic-looking one gives me a quick squeeze. When she steps back, she smiles but can’t look me in the eye.

  The waif gives me the longest hug of all, her hazel eyes misty. “We wanted to come ages ago,” she says, “but we weren’t allowed. God, we’ve been so worried.” Her face is pale with a sprinkling of freckles on her nose.

  Mother’s head pops in the door, and I realize she has been hovering outside, monitoring the situation. “Everything all right, Jessie?”

  “Fine,” I answer, and she disappears. It’s probably a big moment, I think, this casual-seeming reunion. Likely it has been discussed with the doctors, trying to decide the right time and the right way. Another test of sorts. Will Jessie recognize the Pink Posse? Will she break into fits of giggles, reminiscing over food fights and fashion faux pas?

  The tall one doesn’t beat around the bush. “So,” she says, “do you remember me?”

  Something about her is familiar, but it’s probably only from the pictures. “I don’t know,” I say.

  She takes my hand and squeezes. This girl exudes confidence, making her seem much older than her fifteen or so years. “Well, that’s better than no.”

  “Stupid question,” I say, “but what’s your name?”

  She blushes. I’ve caught her by surprise. I try to put myself in her place—one of my best friends survives an encounter with a crazed beast and comes out of a coma, only she doesn’t recognize me. I suddenly want to make her feel better, to lessen the blow. “Megan, Kerry or Cybil?”

  It seems to work, because she smiles. “Cybil.”

  The sporty-looking one is Kerry, and the waif is Megan. Now that the names are established, they wander about the room, looking at the photos and checking out the view of the parking lot.

  “Any hot doctors?” Cybil asks. Kerry giggles.

  I shake my head. “Not in this ward anyway.”

  “And how’s the food?” Kerry asks.

  Cybil groans. “You and your stomach, Ker. ”

  “It’s not so bad, if you don’t mind roadkill,” I answer, even though I barely touch the food. I eat mostly cereal, and so far no one has forced me to finish my other meals.

  They all laugh a little too loudly. Kerry gives Megan a look I recognize, one I’ve seen Mother and Father share. An Oh poor Jessie look.

  “Well,” Kerry says in a slightly high, trying-to-sound-casual voice, “you were always complaining that your life lacked excitement.”

  Megan shoots her a stern look. “Ker! Seriously…”

  “Geez,” I say, “maybe I should have run away with the circus or something. I could have skipped the part where they drilled a hole into my skull and sucked out the fluids with a mini-vacuum.”

  An awkward silence; then Cybil puts her hand on my arm. “I think our time is up, Jess. We’ve been severely warned not to overstay our welcome. We”—she glances at the other girls for encouragement—“we miss you.”

  I wish I could say I miss them too. Deep down inside, I must. I must miss what they meant to me in my other life. They were the ones who understood what I was going through, the ones I could talk to about stuff. Stuff, I’m guessing, like boys and tests and clothes and the latest gossip. And now? Well, there is no one who can understand.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  They swarm around me, but they must have been warned not to pet the animal, that she might attack, because instead of the group hug I expect, they give me little pats on my back. Then they rush out of the room.

  Mother strolls in moments later. “So?” she asks. “How’d it go? You’ve always been lucky to have such great friends.”

  I look over at her, with her naïve, hopeful smile. I can’t help it—I groan. “Right, I’m one lucky ducky, aren’t I? Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”

  I know it’s not her fault that the word lucky hit a nerve. But I can’t stand it anymore, everyone thinking they know how I feel or should feel or what I should appreciate. Her smile falls like I’ve slapped her in the face. She must be tired of it all too, because she lets out a defeated sigh and picks her purse up off the table. On her way to the door, she touches me gently on the arm. “I’m sorry I threw that at you. ” A quick peck on the cheek, and she is gone.

  I am left alone in my room to study the walls and think about the Girl—the old Me—and the new Me, and how much of a disappointment this new version must be. I wonder when the Girl is going to teach me how to play nice.

  The lounge is empty when I get there, so I settle into the couch. The remote control has made a reappearance and sits on the coffee table, so I pick it up and switch on the TV. On-screen, a little boy takes a spoonful of soup, then whispers to the camera that it’s even better than his mom’s. It’s midafternoon, so I’m guessing Felonia must be coming on soon. My thumb pushes the arrow button past another commercial—this one for a pocket-sized epilator—then a tennis match, until finally she appears.

  Stunning as always, she is still lounging in her hospital bed, surrounded by flowers. The scratch on her face has healed, and her hair is pinned up in a style more suitable for a cocktail party than a hospital. When she picks up a framed picture on the bedside table and clutches it to her chest, the camera zooms in on her face.

  “Oh, Sam,” she says. “I must have loved you once. Our wedding is set for only weeks from now. But that was before the accident. How can I marry you when you are like a stranger to me? But if I don’t marry you, will I be walking away from the love of my life?”

  Her lower lip trembles, and tears streak down her cheeks.

  This dumbass soap has it all wrong. I should write them a letter:

  Dear Through the Hourglass,

  Your show is crap. Especially the part about Felonia. I know, because I don’t remember my past either. But I would never clutch a photo longingly or blubber over a lost love. I wouldn’t because I have no feelings.

  Yours truly,

  Jessica

  Abduction

  Mother, Father and Stephen are all in my room first thing in the morning, waiting to escort me to my big CT scan. I had one when I was in the coma, before they put the tube in for the brain drain, but obviously I don’t recall it. Father’s eyes have that early-morning puffiness, and he smiles at me as he sips coffee. Stephen is affectionately cradling a calculator, the way most kids would a stuffed animal. Mother is all business.

  “Did Dr. Lavoie say what you should wear?” she asks me. “I can’t remember if it matters.”

  I shrug. I let her take care of the small stuff. I’m putting all my energy into concentrating on more pressing issues, like willing that weird, lumpy organ in my skull to wow the doctors today.

  Mother digs through my drawers and hands me a pair of yoga pants and a hot-pink T-shirt with Little Miss Sunshine written across the front. Hands shaking, I slip on the clothes in the bathroom.

  The scan is only to check how the healing is progressing, Super Doc said. It’s not the Final Word. But I can’t help wondering what will become of me if it detects what I fear most: that I
am not getting better at all, that I am damaged beyond repair.

  Once dressed, I stare down the Girl in the Mirror. “Kick some ass today, okay?” I whisper. She nods, but her eyes are huge, like a scared puppy’s.

  We march down the hall, the four of us, on our mission to the eleventh floor. I am hyperalert: I can feel my heart beating in my chest, my feet touching the floor with every step, Mother’s hand on my lower back. I am fully here, in the moment, not the Sleeping Beauty of a few weeks ago. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?

  A short woman with spiky blond hair is in the scan room when we get there, and after a brief “Hello Jessica, my name is Donna,” she launches into a speech describing the test procedure and the rules I have to follow. I have to take off any jewelry. I have to wear the most ridiculous-looking gigantic helmet that must weigh a hundred pounds. Donna excuses herself for a moment, saying she needs to do something on the computer in the other room. The door closes behind her, and Stephen leans in toward me.

  “Be brave, my friend. I know you must be scared,” he says, “being the human subject in alien experiments.”

  Mother shoots him a dirty look. But I laugh, although nervously, and Father chuckles too.

  “Please stop them,” I say, “if they try to take my brain out through my nostrils.”

  Another look from Mother, but she doesn’t try to put an end to our silliness. There must be a sense of humor somewhere deep down in there.

  Stephen is standing up now, his hands firmly planted on his hips. “They are obviously cold, heartless creatures who see us as nothing more than lab rats. We need an escape plan. And we don’t have much time!”

  I wonder what it’s like for him at school. The other kids must either love him or think he’s a freak. I stand up too, to join him in the fight. “Yes! How about I get in the scanner, let them think we are cooperating? Then, as soon as they let me out, we hit them with a surprise attack.”

  He nods. “Unless, of course, I smell burning flesh during the scan, in which case I go after them like a rabid pit bull!”

  I laugh, but Father’s eyes shoot to the door, and when I turn around, the technician is standing there. Her eyes are narrowed, and I can’t tell if she’s amused or disturbed.

  “The scanner doesn’t usually burn flesh,” she says, “but we’ll keep an eye on it.”

  Usually? I see then that she’s playing along, and my laugh comes out an obnoxious snort. Mother and Father laugh too, and the tech picks up the helmet and moves toward me. At that moment, all the fun Stephen had put into the room vanishes. My body tenses.

  Donna raises her eyebrows apologetically at my parents. “Unfortunately,” she says, “no one is allowed to stay in the room with you.” Mother nods, her face creased with worry, and gives me a tight hug. Father hugs me too, and Stephen gives me a thumbs-up.

  I wave to them as they leave the room, like an astronaut about to embark on a shuttle. I want to give them what they want: their daughter and sister back.

  “Hook me up,” I say.

  And so it begins. Donna has me lie down on the bed in front of the scanner, my head fitting into the bottom half of the giant helmet. She gives me earplugs and foam pads to place around my head. She hands me what looks like a video-game controller and shows me the big red button, explaining I can push it at any time if I panic or feel ill or whatever. There will be very loud noises, and clicking and whirring, so she will put some music on for me. I must be careful not to move my head at all, or the photos of my brain will blur. I listen and nod, but inside I am screaming, Don’t make me, please! I’m getting better, I promise! I haven’t hit anyone in weeks!

  When Donna finally fires up the machine, the bed I am lying on moves me headfirst into the tunnel of the scanner. It feels like it’s happening in slow motion. The tunnel is not as dark as I expected, and music materializes in my earphones. It’s the kind of fluffy stuff most girls my age must like. I examine the beige plastic above me, trying hard to think positive. C’mon, brain. Show them your stuff. Even over the music, I can hear the whirs and clicks and shrill beeps Donna warned me about. I close my eyes and focus on the beat of the music, letting it carry me away from this place.

  Song after song, more groans and whistles from the scanner, and then the music stops and Donna’s voice cuts in. “We’re all done, Jessica. The bed is going to slowly move forward so we can get you out of there.”

  The platform vibrates slightly as it moves, giving me a soft massage, and the light grows bright. I think about death and the light at the end of the tunnel. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but when I emerge my eyes are watering, and I’m not sure if it’s from the machine or… could I actually be crying? I reach my arm up to dab at my eye, to see if it’s wet, but the door pops open and Mother comes in and grabs my hand midair, clutching it tightly in her strong grasp. She holds it like that until Donna appears and says, “Perfect! You did perfect!” and lifts the monstrous helmet from my head.

  Strangers in the Night

  Lights out in the hospital. I lie on my side, mesmerized by the slit of light under my door, and listen to the sounds in the hallway—something beeping, someone yelling. My breathing is deep and slow, and thoughts float in and out of my mind. And though I try not to let the bad ones reach the surface, they are stronger than I am. I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nobody.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Jessica the Sweet Thing wouldn’t have let such dark ideas take over. She would have fought them off with thoughts of rainbows and unicorns. “I can be her,” I whisper into the darkness. But it sounds empty and meaningless. A lie.

  Sitting up, I click on the bedside lamp, grab a magazine and flip through the pages. Aqua eye shadow is hot, but pink is not. Ankle bracelets are in again, wrist bangles are out. Working out is cool, but bo is nasty. I am at the last page and ready to declare myself a fashion expert when a small piece of paper flutters out and disappears under the bed. Down on my knees, I reach past the blanket hanging over the side and grasp about until my fingers hit pay dirt.

  Jess, you old cow. Happy Birthday! the note says in orange ink. A big heart with Love Ya Forever is on the other side, and it’s signed Best Friends Always, Megan.

  My fingers trace the shape of the heart carefully. Only a few short weeks ago, before this shitty thing happened and I was turning fifteen, I was somebody. All that I had before has to be up here in my head somewhere, lingering, hiding in the shadows. My hand is shaking as I put the note down on the table, and a number appears clearly in my mind: 770-2865. And I know. That is Megan’s number, one I probably used to call several times a day.

  She was there for me. And she would be now, wouldn’t she? She seemed to care when she visited with the Pink Posse. If we were as close as it seems we were, this whole thing must be tearing her up.

  I pull myself up on the bed and stare at the phone. It’s late, and Megan might be sleeping. But I probably called her late at night all the time before, to talk about homework and guys and whether I should wear aqua or pink eye shadow. Wouldn’t she be happy to hear my voice? Wouldn’t it feel like old times?

  I pick up the receiver and dial slowly, my heart beating hard in my chest. I am not a nobody. I have a Best Friend Always. The phone rings once, twice, and I am thinking about hanging up when there is a click and a soft, sleepy “Yes?”

  Nothing comes out of my tight throat, but my breathing is so loud she must be able to hear me. Does she know it’s me? Would the hospital’s number show on caller id? I clamp my hand over the receiver, panic taking over. What was I thinking? She used to be my best friend, but that was a whole other life. That was then; this is now. And now is very, very different.

  “Hello?” Her voice is louder now, more awake. “Anyone there?”

  The loneliness that has been creeping through my system all day makes me want to cry out and say, It’s me, your friend, and I miss you, or at least I think I could, and do you think about me? Maybe we could talk—like, really talk—about the way
things were before and things that matter and the way things might be again if I can beat this stupid thing. But instead, with shaking hands, I place the receiver gently back in its cradle. I curl up tightly in a ball on the bed and wrap my arms around my legs.

  What color eye shadow to wear isn’t exactly a life-or-death decision. But what about the other stuff? There’s no one I can talk to, no one who will genuinely understand what it’s like to lose everything. It’s not advice on makeup that I need. It’s someone to tell me that everything is going to be all right.

  System Malfunction

  I’m back from another march around the rehab room and contemplating a shower when Mother and Father and Little Man show up. I know right away that something is different. There’s a stiffness in the way they walk. After polite hellos, Father announces that Dr. Lavoie wants to talk to them about the results of the CT scan.

  “I’m coming too,” I say. Mother and Father share a look that says, Oh no—is this going to set her off?

  I soften my voice, trying to show them I can be reasonable. “Please,” I say, putting my head on Father’s shoulder. “I promise to be good.”

  Mother sighs. “I’ll go ask.” When she’s gone, I go into the bathroom and have a brief staring contest with the Girl in the Mirror. I win. There’s a knock on the door, and Mother tells me from the other side that Dr. Lavoie has said it’s all right, but Stephen has to stay in my room.

  I open the door and blow Mother a kiss. “You rock,” I say, and she blushes.

  Super Doc’s office is perfectly organized. The files on his cherrywood desk are stacked up neatly in the corner.