A few minutes later they rolled the stretcher out, with a girl on it. I couldn’t see her face because the EMTs blocked my view, but one of her wrists was bandaged. Ms. Callou, the guidance counselor, followed behind them, her lips pressed firmly together, her T-shirt stained with blood.
“It was a suicide attempt,” I heard someone whisper. As everyone asked each other what was going on, I heard the whispered words “suicide attempt” echo through the halls.
As they passed, I saw a mass of strawberry blond hair and my heart caught in my throat. Her hands were over her face, but I recognized Fiona immediately. I took a step toward her, but one of the paramedics, a tall woman with graying blond hair, held up a hand to stop me.
“Make room,” she said.
“She’s my friend,” I explained.
“You can see her later.”
A hot rush of fluid hit the base of my throat. I swallowed hard and took a step back. Farouk touched my arm, and I turned to him. There was nothing to say. The combination of shock and surprise on his face told me we were both thinking the same thing. Why would bright, vivacious Fiona want to kill herself?
They’d closed the school after the ambulance left, as if sending us home would stanch the flow of rumors. Heather and I rushed to the hospital and spent most of the late afternoon in the waiting room. We hoped someone would let us see our friend or help us make sense of what had happened, but only her immediate family was allowed to see her. My mom wasn’t at work, so even she couldn’t help. After a nurse told Fiona’s parents that her condition was stable, her mother broke down and cried. Her father shook as he held her, his face gray and tight. He spoke to her in hushed tones. I’d never felt so useless, not even the day my parents split up.
Rather than burdening Fiona’s mom and dad further by hanging around, Heather and I decided to go downstairs. We wandered aimlessly, not sure where to go. Neither of us ready to go home yet, we ordered some flowers from the gift shop and headed to the cafeteria.
I picked at my beef vegetable soup, but Heather couldn’t eat at all. Her coffee sat on the table in front of her getting cold. She’d crumpled a paper napkin between her fingers, the edges twisted into points, and her eyes were red and splotchy from crying.
“Why didn’t I see the signs?” she asked.
“What signs?”
“That Fiona was depressed.” Heather blew her nose into the napkin, then left it in a heap on the table. “She’s always so upbeat.”
“She didn’t have any signs,” I said. Then I remembered how unhappy Fiona had seemed talking to Damiel that morning. My eyes stung. I didn’t even go talk to her. What kind of friend did that make me?
“I guess she didn’t,” she said, pulling another napkin out of the dispenser and worrying it with her fingers. “I know it’s terrible to think of myself in a moment like this, but what kind of psychotherapist will I be if I can’t even help my own friends?”
I grabbed one of Heather’s hands and squeezed it. “You’re going to be a great therapist one day, and Fiona is going to be fine.”
“How do you know?” Heather asked, blinking back more tears.
“I just do,” I said, and in that moment I did.
“You mean some kind of sixth sense?” She smoothed the crumpled napkin onto the table and refolded it. “You know I don’t believe in that.”
“I know,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re right.”
***
Friday was mild and sunny. It hadn’t rained for a couple of days and the fallen leaves had a chance to dry out in the sun. As I walked to school, I received another text from someone I barely knew asking about Fiona. That made a dozen since yesterday. I ignored it. I’d avoided the Internet too, not wanting to think what Elaine must have said, for surely she’d capitalize on someone else’s pain for her own popularity. It was all a horrible mess.
What would make Fiona want to leave us like that? Without even saying goodbye? She had a great family, friends who cared about her. She got along with everyone. Why would she ever want to kill herself?
I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the white VW pull up beside me. Immediately recognizing the car, I tensed.
Michael rolled down the passenger window.
“Get in,” he said. “I’ll drive you.”
I shook my head, keeping my tone icy. “I’m almost there.”
I kept walking. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked it, grabbing his bag on the way out. I didn’t wait for him, but with his long legs it only took seconds for him to catch up with me.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Please?”
His voice was as soft as a caress, and it was sad what the sound of it could do to me, how much I wanted to be close to him.
“This isn’t about Damiel again, is it?” I said. “Because I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“Probably not,” he said. “But won’t you hear me out?”
I sighed. “We’ll just argue again.”
I’d packed too many books into my school bag that morning. It was heavy, so I took it off my right shoulder and was switching to my left when Michael caught it.
“I got it,” he said, slinging it over his shoulder as though it were weightless.
My bag now his hostage, I followed him down the tree-lined street. At least he didn’t take off with it the way my brother used to. Instead he stayed close, so close that when a breeze hit, I could smell the shampoo from his freshly washed hair, combed back to dry in waves. If this had happened a week ago, I would have been thrilled to just hang out with him. But now, knowing he was going to talk about Damiel again made me increasingly nervous. Damiel seemed like my chance to get over him once and for all, but with Michael coming around all the time, that wasn’t working. Not at all.
We walked almost a block before Michael took a deep breath and said, “I’m not trying to make things difficult.”
“No?”
“You think I want to do this?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, but he was close enough that his arm grazed mine, sending tingles all the way up my neck.
Damn, why do I have to like him so much?
“Do what exactly?” I bristled, struggling to focus. “Meddle in my life?”
I hoped what I said would make him angry, because I wanted him to get so angry with me he’d leave me alone. But instead he was calm. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to help me? Maybe you should help yourself. You’re the one who pushed Damiel away because you don’t want to remember that part of your life—”
“What?” He turned on his heel to face me, and I could have sworn the air snapped. “What are you talking about?”
“He said you two were in the hospital together, that seeing him brought up bad memories for you.”
“That’s a load of…” Shaking his head, he stopped himself, took a breath. “You don’t believe that, do you? You’re smarter than that.”
“Oh, really? I’m supposed to be some kind of mind-reader? Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
He led us across an empty baseball diamond near our school, walking so quickly I had to hurry to keep up. “Haven’t you noticed it’s hard to say no to him?”
“I can say no.” I spat the words at him. Was he implying I was some kind of slut or something? Was I, as the girl, supposed to say no because it was what good girls did? “Why the hell should I? What if I don’t want to?”
He took a step toward me, his eyes blazing and yet not with anger. There was tenderness there, and sadness, and I wasn’t sure what else. I wanted to commit that look to memory. But then some kind of wall came up inside him, cold and solid as iron, blocking his true self in. Or was it blocking me out?