Free Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) by Lisa McMann Page B

people like that, and I thought she was right. I’ve thought that about my dad, too. Lots of times.
    But I don’t know about that anymore. Everything about this, about mental illness, is so complicated. I just don’t know.
    •       •       •
    The rest of the week, I am a zombie. I do what I need to do to get through the day. Talk if I have to. Get my homework done, not really caring if I do it right, seeing crash after crash after crash like I’m stuck in one minute that keeps repeating. On slow nights I send Rowan upstairs and work alone, keeping my mind occupied as best I can. Because I don’t want to think about anything. I try to ignore the vision like I’d ignore a bug splat on the windshield. And I fail. It buzzes between my ears and crawls under my skin and coats the insides of my eyelids. The days blur together and soon it’s another weekend. I ignore Trey’s quizzical glances and Rowan’s concerned looks and questions. I know I need to do something.
    Maybe my grandfather knew that too. But he couldn’t.
    My father can’t.
    And I can’t.
    •       •       •
    One morning I wake up to Rowan’s alarm and stare at the wall. And it all becomes real. Nine real, human people, people with families and friends and jobs to do, will all die. And I am helpless, and I will never be the same again,and it doesn’t matter that I actually told Sawyer what to expect, because if he doesn’t believe me I’ll still feel like it’s my fault. The weight of this responsibility is so heavy, so crushing, I can’t move.
    “I’m sick,” I tell Rowan when she stumbles out of bed. “Tell Trey he needs to get you to school today.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    I just close my eyes and moan. “Everything.”
    “You need me to get Mom?”
    “No, don’t wake her up. I’m okay, just sick.”
    I hear Rowan hesitating at the door. “I’ll leave her a note to call in to school for you.”
    “Thanks,” I say.
    She closes the door.
    Trey comes in a few minutes later. “Hey,” he whispers.
    I pretend to be asleep. There’s a rattle of keys sliding off my dresser, and then he’s gone.
    Later, when my mom peeks her head in, I ignore her, too. Soon I hear Dad lumbering down the hallway, which means he actually got out of bed today.
    I’ve taken his sickness from him. What a thing to pass down to the next generation.
    •       •       •
    All day, the wall is my only friend. If I don’t look at the window, it’s a day with few visions.
    Still, the scene rolls through my brain regularly, and Ican’t make it go away—the more I try, the more often the vision appears. I don’t want to tell anyone—not a soul—but I admit to myself that I will need a doctor soon. And on the off chance that I’m not already insane, this vision will push me there. I think about what it’ll be like to be in a hospital for people like that . . . people like me, I guess I should say. A hot tear slides from the corner of my eye into my hair. The thought of a crazy roommate scares me, like, a lot. The thought of having to take drugs that make me feel weird, of strange doctors asking me questions about the vision, of my mother with her overly cheerful face coming by to see me and pretending everything’s just fine . . . I can’t take it, I really can’t.
    •       •       •
    Back when I was in first grade, when my father went crazy with the hoarding and the depression, he was in the hospital for a few days. I visited him—only once, though. I can still remember the smell of that place. His roommate was a scary man with white hair and a red-splotched face. His eyes bulged, and the scariest thing to me was that he didn’t have any teeth. He walked up and down the hallway muttering to himself, and I was so afraid of his gummy maw coming after me that I slammed the door to my dad’s room when he was coming in, and screamed when my mom tried to take me out of there,