“Oh. Hi. You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did. C’mon. Let’s get out of here for a bit. I’ll buy you a milk shake at that diner down the block.”
Her gaze slanted toward Braden’s parents. I forestalled her objection. “You can’t camp out here until Braden comes out of the coma. It could be hours or days.” Or weeks or never. I was no expert, but I knew enough to realize that moving Braden to a regular room only meant that he wasn’t in imminent danger of dying, not that he’d necessarily come out of the coma any time soon.
Unfolding her arms and legs, she stood. The dark circles under her eyes had nothing to do with makeup because her face was scrubbed clean. She looked younger without the heavy eyeliner and mascara. “Okay. But I need to be back here in, like, half an hour.”
I was going to try to persuade her to go home and call a friend or get ready for the school week, but I said, “Fine.”
A thin cardboard skeleton leered from the diner door and swung loose-jointedly when we walked in. The diner smelled of fried onions and was too warm, so we ordered our shakes to go. This part of Brunswick didn’t seem to have a park, so we strolled down the sidewalk heading away from the hospital. Gusty winds tossed discarded plastic bags high in the air and scooted an abandoned comics page from the Sunday newspaper along the sidewalk in front of us. A homeless man, drunk or asleep, leaned against the rough concrete wall of a closed video store. I hoped there was a nearby shelter he could take refuge in if the hurricane hit.
I spooned up a slushy mouthful of chocolate shake and looked over at Rachel. She was working so hard to suck her strawberry shake through a straw that her cheeks were concave with effort. She gave up and started using the straw like a chopstick to scoop shake into her mouth.
“What have the doctors said about Braden?” I asked.
“He’s got a lot of brain swelling,” she said, concentrating on swirling her straw through the thick ice cream mixture. “And the broken leg. But it’s the brain injury that’s worrying them. I overheard the main doc tell Braden’s folks that with brain injuries, there’s just no way of, like, knowing exactly what’s going on inside their heads or how long they might be in a coma or if there’ll be any permanent damage when the person wakes up. Doctors are just useless!” She yelled the last words, startling a small flock of pigeons pecking hopefully around a trash can. They flapped into the air in a flurry of gray, white, and tan feathers, settling to the ground just feet away to fight over a limp French fry.
I didn’t try to argue with her about the utility of doctors. “I’m sure they’re doing all they can. And Braden’s young—resilient.”
“Like I haven’t heard that thirty times this morning,” she said sullenly. Kicking at a pebble, she watched as it skipped over the curb and clattered down a storm drain.
Her anger and moodiness seemed out of proportion. I’d expected her to be worried about Braden, but her reaction seemed a bit off. I eyed her profile, noting the way she gripped her lips together and tugged at a lock of hair behind her ear.
“What’s wrong, Rach?” I asked.
“My best friend is, like, sucked into a black hole in his brain, and you ask me what’s wrong?” She hurled the remains of her shake at a metal trash can, but missed, splattering strawberry goo across the sidewalk and into the street. Drawing in a quick breath, she started to run, arms pumping hard, black hair flopping against her shoulders.
Depositing my cup in the trash, I jogged after her, not trying to catch up with her, but wanting to keep her in sight. She didn’t run long. After only two blocks, she wrapped an arm around a light pole and spun around it, sinking to the ground. As I stopped a few feet away, I asked myself, What would Mom do?
I, of course, had been a delightful teen, helpful, courteous, and happy all the time. I never obsessed over acne or feeling fat. I never sobbed my heart out when Hank flirted with another girl or my best friend, Vonda, deserted me for a whole week to hang with Stephanie Matejka. I never overreacted to a bad grade or imagined slight. Hah! I remembered Mom’s technique for kicking a little sense into me and Alice Rose when we let our moods or hormones get the better of us.
“Enough, Rachel,” I said in as unsympathetic a voice as I could muster. “Stand up, blow your nose, and tell me what the heck is eating at you.”
She looked up, surprised at my tone. Sniffing, she dug in her jeans pocket for a tissue and scrubbed at her tear-stained face. I held out a hand, and when she took it, I hauled her up.
“Let’s sit.” I pointed to a bus stop and we settled on the bench with its back advertising a local Realtor. The red metal bench had a woven look to it, with holes for water to drain through. “Talk to me.”