she had been going. The mall, maybe? But hadnât Liz been there just a few days ago?
With one tick mark away from E, she takes an exit and turns into McCraps (so christened in eighth grade with the introduction of snack wraps, which Liz had first called McWraps, and then McCraps after she tasted one; the name had eventually come to encompass the entire franchise). Julia parks and goes inside, and immediately the grease and noise and smell of meat envelop her. Her stomach rollsâJulia has been a vegetarian since fourth grade, ever since her class took a field trip to an organic farm. She had received a sloppy kiss from a calf and fallen in love, and when she learned on the bus back that it was destined to become hamburger, she swore to never eat meat again.
But what knocks the breath from her is this: the sizzling grease, the shouting. The old couple drinking coffee by the window, holding hands and smiling. The tired dad with triplets fighting over a pack of ketchup. The group of middle schoolers crowded in a booth, maybe skipping school for the first time ever, laughing.
She hates all of them.
For smiling. For laughing. For being well and unconcerned and happy while Liz is in the hospital with a ruptured lung and a broken leg and a shattered hand and too many internal injuries to keep track of. No one should be happy. The sun shouldnât be allowed to shine. The entire world should stay still for Liz Emerson.
It doesnât take a crash site to break Julia. What breaks her is a bit of noise, a few lights, and happiness.
She is on the floor without quite knowing how she got there, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her eyes are shut, and in that darkness, she pretends to be alone. She says Lizâs name, and then says it again and again until it blurs and becomes senseless between her lips, a spell too weak to make the world spin backward.
Liz .
Liz Liz Liz Liz Liz Liz Liz .
Soon she is surrounded by McCraps employees and the old couple and the dad and the triplets and the middle schoolers. Frantic voices, hands at her elbows. For a moment she is frightenedâall these people staring, surely one of them will see the mistakes seeping through her skin, the yellowing teeth, the circles under her eyes, the trembling fingers.
But she buries herself deeper, and the memories rush over her: all the times she, Liz, and Kennie snuck out to go to the best parties and the worst ones, all of the vastly insane things they did, all of the quiet afternoons spent in Lizâs room painting their toenails while the TV mumbled in the background.
She thinks about how it is very, very unlikely that she, Liz, and Kennie will ever do anything like that ever again.
Nevers and forevers. These are Juliaâs greatest fears.
âI fell in love at a drive-through, honey,â says the cheerful, fat manager who is driving Julia the rest of the way to the hospital. She had one of her employees fill Mattie up and drive behind them, and best of all, she didnât ask for an explanation when Julia asked her to avoid the interstate.
âHe was my cashier. I ordered a Big Mac and paid with my heart. Ainât that the saddest thing you ever heard? Lemme tell you something, honeyâmen are goddamn terrified of babies. Fine. Iâm goddamn terrified of commitment. And it ainât been easy, I tell you, but we ainât doing so bad, are we? Weâre keeping our heads up. . . .â
Julia does her best to listen. Itâs the least she can do, but while her heart slowly falls apart, the rest of her is restless. In the front right pocket of her backpack sits an almost-empty ziplock bag, and she grips the door handle so she canât reach for instant gratification, for escape.
In this moment, Julia would gladly have traded places with Liz, and she hates herself because of it.
Julia goes to the hospital.
Despite herself, she hopes.
She is vastly