was an awful blur. The only part of that night that had seemed real was the part that no one would ever believe.
When Mom and I did talk, our conversation matched the landscape—brittle and withered. She asked about Dad’s new apartment, what I thought of Rachel, and the fancy restaurants where we’d eaten. She asked me what classes I would be starting soon, and even delivered a little speech about keeping up the grades in my final semester of high school.
I could see that Mom was trying to be kind, talking about trivia instead of terrorism. But as the hours passed, her avoidance of reality started driving me crazy. Like she was gaslighting me, trying to make me think I’d imagined the whole attack. Every time her eyes drifted up to the stitches on my forehead, or the little tear gas scar on my cheek, an expression of confusion crossed her face.
But nothing that night had been imaginary. I’d gone to another world. Yamaraj was real. I could still taste his kiss, and when I touched my lips, his heat still lingered there.
Plus, he’d practically dared me to believe in him, which is a pretty good way to get me to do anything.
Mom just kept talking about nothing, driving us farther away from Dallas, her hands tight on the wheel. The closest she got to mentioning the attack was to say that my luggage would arrive in San Diego soon after we did.
“They said a few days.”
No mention of who “they” were. The FBI? The airline? She spoke as if my bag were simply lost, not sitting in a pile of evidence for the biggest Homeland Security investigation in a decade. No big deal.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve got plenty of clothes at home.”
“Yeah. It’s much better to lose your luggage on your way home than going away!”
As if that was the big takeaway from surviving a terrorist attack.
“All I need is a new phone,” I said.
“Well . . . maybe we can stop somewhere and get you one.” She hunched forward, scanning a cluster of passing signs, as if one might lead her to an Apple store out here in the West Texas desert.
Didn’t she understand that I needed things to make sense right now? I needed my mother here in reality with me, not off in make-believe land.
We kept driving. Long pauses were easy in this terrain, and it was a while before I spoke up again. “I feel weird without it. That phone saved my life, kind of.”
Her grip on the steering wheel grew tighter, and her foot musthave tensed on the gas pedal, because the car shuddered beneath us.
“What do you mean, Lizzie?”
I took a slow breath, drawing calm from the cold place inside me.
“I was running away, we all were, and I called 911. The woman on the phone said . . .” My voice gave out, not with any emotion that I could feel, but like a ballpoint pen running dry. I’d already told this story, I realized—to Yamaraj.
My mother waited, staring at the road ahead, the muscles in her shoulders tight, and I heard that calm voice from my phone: Can you get to a safe location?
“She told me to play dead,” I finally said. “That’s why they didn’t kill me. They thought I was dead.”
My mother’s voice was tight. “The doctors told me about that paramedic, the one who thought you . . .”
“He was really sorry about that.” I shrugged against my seat belt. “Guess I fooled him, too. But it wasn’t even my idea. The woman at 911 told me what to do.”
Well, not quite. She hadn’t told me to think my way to the afterworld, meet a boy, and then come back. And she hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing ghosts, either.
Tom hadn’t reappeared once they’d given me my own room, so it was possible I’d imagined him. Or maybe he only haunted the ER.
Mom made a soft sound. She was trying to say something, but couldn’t. The hairbreadth narrowness of my escape was more reality than she could take.
That was when I realized the weird truth: my mother was more freaked out than I was. And the fact that I was so
When Mom and I did talk, our conversation matched the landscape—brittle and withered. She asked about Dad’s new apartment, what I thought of Rachel, and the fancy restaurants where we’d eaten. She asked me what classes I would be starting soon, and even delivered a little speech about keeping up the grades in my final semester of high school.
I could see that Mom was trying to be kind, talking about trivia instead of terrorism. But as the hours passed, her avoidance of reality started driving me crazy. Like she was gaslighting me, trying to make me think I’d imagined the whole attack. Every time her eyes drifted up to the stitches on my forehead, or the little tear gas scar on my cheek, an expression of confusion crossed her face.
But nothing that night had been imaginary. I’d gone to another world. Yamaraj was real. I could still taste his kiss, and when I touched my lips, his heat still lingered there.
Plus, he’d practically dared me to believe in him, which is a pretty good way to get me to do anything.
Mom just kept talking about nothing, driving us farther away from Dallas, her hands tight on the wheel. The closest she got to mentioning the attack was to say that my luggage would arrive in San Diego soon after we did.
“They said a few days.”
No mention of who “they” were. The FBI? The airline? She spoke as if my bag were simply lost, not sitting in a pile of evidence for the biggest Homeland Security investigation in a decade. No big deal.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve got plenty of clothes at home.”
“Yeah. It’s much better to lose your luggage on your way home than going away!”
As if that was the big takeaway from surviving a terrorist attack.
“All I need is a new phone,” I said.
“Well . . . maybe we can stop somewhere and get you one.” She hunched forward, scanning a cluster of passing signs, as if one might lead her to an Apple store out here in the West Texas desert.
Didn’t she understand that I needed things to make sense right now? I needed my mother here in reality with me, not off in make-believe land.
We kept driving. Long pauses were easy in this terrain, and it was a while before I spoke up again. “I feel weird without it. That phone saved my life, kind of.”
Her grip on the steering wheel grew tighter, and her foot musthave tensed on the gas pedal, because the car shuddered beneath us.
“What do you mean, Lizzie?”
I took a slow breath, drawing calm from the cold place inside me.
“I was running away, we all were, and I called 911. The woman on the phone said . . .” My voice gave out, not with any emotion that I could feel, but like a ballpoint pen running dry. I’d already told this story, I realized—to Yamaraj.
My mother waited, staring at the road ahead, the muscles in her shoulders tight, and I heard that calm voice from my phone: Can you get to a safe location?
“She told me to play dead,” I finally said. “That’s why they didn’t kill me. They thought I was dead.”
My mother’s voice was tight. “The doctors told me about that paramedic, the one who thought you . . .”
“He was really sorry about that.” I shrugged against my seat belt. “Guess I fooled him, too. But it wasn’t even my idea. The woman at 911 told me what to do.”
Well, not quite. She hadn’t told me to think my way to the afterworld, meet a boy, and then come back. And she hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing ghosts, either.
Tom hadn’t reappeared once they’d given me my own room, so it was possible I’d imagined him. Or maybe he only haunted the ER.
Mom made a soft sound. She was trying to say something, but couldn’t. The hairbreadth narrowness of my escape was more reality than she could take.
That was when I realized the weird truth: my mother was more freaked out than I was. And the fact that I was so
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