The Words We Keep: Chapters 41–59

“The police?”
“Trespassing is a misdemeanor.”

Damon's hand flies to his jaw, and then he’s barreling toward Micah and they’re pushing against each other until Micah has Damon up against the locker, and he’s hitting him, hitting him, hitting him, and a girl screams and the security guard is yelling at everyone to “Step back, right now!” and he’s grappling for Micah’s hands and clicking handcuffs into place.

The Artists are wearing bright socks with fruit and palm trees and jungle animals on them, in solidarity with what they’re calling a total miscarriage of justice—a violation of First Amendment rights.

A smattering of Post-it notes and magnetic poetry show up randomly, but for the most part, the words are gone.

Gifford says they’ll pick a winner soon, and Kali doesn’t even bother to flaunt her certain victory in front of me.

Her dress is cherry red, with white spots and a tulle petticoat that keeps it flouncy.

“But he’s not languishing in some jail cell or whatever other worst-case scenario you’re imagining.”

His face is pale and his hair is unkempt, and the guilt needles me.

Her head lolls backward lifelessly.

In the ambulance, EMTs poke needles into her arms, cover her mouth with oxygen. They use words like nonresponsive and laceration.

A woman across from me bounces a crying baby on her knee. Her eyes dart around the room from an ashen face.

The thought of food makes my stomach roil.

A security guard stands in the corner of her room, watching her sleep.
“Protocol for suicide watch,” the nurse says, nodding toward the guard.

When the nurse says it’s time for a catheter change, I touch Alice’s arm again to let her know I’m leaving.

Back in my own room, I stare at Alice’s unmade bed, wishing she were here—whichever form of Alice it happened to be. Manic, red-lipped Alice with her booming laugh, or sullen, short-haired Alice with her eye rolls and cocooning.

He shakes his head a little too vigorously.

“So yes, I want to pretend everything is fine because I don’t know how to fix this, Lily.” His voice is quiet now—resigned and sad and lost.

Micah says it’s not my fault. I want to believe him.
To let the words absolve me.

I grab the book and throw it over her head into the hallway. It lands with its spine smashed, edges splayed out.

Why did I think I could become someone new? That I could scrape off this Lily-ness and reveal someone better, someone who didn’t have monsters in her head and an insatiable itch in her fingers?

My brain is a saturated sponge, heavy and soft.

She takes in my mottled skin—makeup can only cover so much—and her face falls.

I’m six again. Alice’s hands guide me through the water.
Flash!
They buoy me up.

Dad’s running toward me, his face contorted.

His arms wide, a visceral, guttural cry erupting from his throat.

Sometimes we hold hands, in a circle, like we're saying a prayer. And maybe we are, supplicating a higher power to help us, to heal us, to make us better.

Dad and Alice and Staci and Margot escort me out of the hospital. We look ridiculous, my entourage flanking me like a Secret Service detail.

And when my petals finally unfurl,
I’ll blossom,
wild
beautiful
and free.

“I’ve always liked a man in uniform,” I say, pulling him closer by both sides of his vest.
“Court- mandated community service does it for you, huh?”

“You nervous?” he asks, nodding toward the poem in my hand.
“Petrified,” I say.