| photo by Olga Kononenko from Unsplash |

Someone is holding my hand. Strong fingers threaded through mine. Pressure constant.

I keep my eyes closed, holding onto the idea—the possibility that it might be Noah sitting beside me.

But no. It can't be. He left before Mom got there.

My eyes sting and I squeeze them tighter, remembering: the relief and the shame of hearing her frantic voice in Drew's foyer. Retching the second migraine pill into a cheery orange dish towel. The rain soaking my clothes, yet again, as Mr. Watterson carried me out to Mom's van so she could bring me to the emergency room.

"Allyson?"

Dad?

I test the light with a cautious squint. And yes, it's Dad's sturdy hand holding mine. But his brown eyes are wide and anxious. "How can you be here?" I ask, but the words come out fractured. My voice is croaky. Like I haven't spoken in years.

"I left work as soon as I got your mom's message," he says.

Left North Carolina? But that's three hours away. I clear my throat and ask, "How long have I been here?"

And where is Mom—where's Lindsay? I know they were both here when the nurse brought me in because the neurologist I can't remember—because she's the doctor who took care of me right after my accident—asked Lindsay three times if she was sure I hadn't hit my head on anything.

I scan the small cluttered room, finding that Dad and I are alone and...also...that I can relax my eyelids. All the florescent light and shiny chrome seems to have lost its intensity. I mean, yeah. It still hurts my eyes, but not in a knife-stabbing, migraine kind of way.

Oh. That's because there's a clear tube taped to my arm. "What are they giving me?" I ask.

"They gave you a shot when you first got here," Dad says, nudging my hand away from the IV. "But that was more than four hours ago. Now you're on your second bag of saline. The doctor thinks dehydration may have played a role in the severity of your headache."

His tone is guarded, but there's an edge of...disappointment?

"Lindsay said you refused your medicine when she first offered it to you," he says. Definitely disappointed.

Crap. What else did she tell them?

Mom started pummeling her with questions the moment the three of us were alone in the car—that much I remember. But the migraine wouldn't let me focus, so I don't know if Lindsay told the truth.

Do I even know what the truth is?

The uncomfortable knot that lives in my chest goes sharp and burning. I close my eyes, but that only diverts the tears down the sides of my face and into my ears. "I was so stupid," I say. "So convinced I could be brave and strong—that I could fix her. But all I did was make things worse. I gave my little sister drugs. I taught her how to escape."

"Lindsay said she stole drugs out of that Watterson kid's car," Dad says, his tone significantly less guarded. And that edge in his tone has sharpened into frustration.

Drew's fuzzy face pops into my head, his eyes flighty with panic, his head shaking. It's a moment I desperately wish I did not remember. I open my eyes and focus on something I know is true.

"Lindsay is lying," I say. "Or just..." I try to sit up, but my brain refuses to relay the message to my body. "She's withholding information—like Mom did, trying to protect me. But that's not what we need, not any of us. That's how our family got so...just...messed up."

"Shh." Dad lets go of my hand to smooth the hair back from my forehead. Petting me like I'm a freaking cat.

"No," I say, batting him away. "We have to talk about this. I know things you don't know. I did things—made decisions here and now—based on my cowardly interpretations of my past. Mom discouraged me from reaching out to the only best friend I can remember, but she didn't tell me why. Do you know the truth, Dad? Was Kara Carpenter a bully? Did she really start that embarrassing rumor about Lindsay—and did I just stand by and let her?"

Dad leans way back. Kind of like he's trying to escape from my questions. "We do have a lot to talk about, sweetheart. But for now let's concentrate on getting you home. Your mom put in a call to Dr. Greene and—"

"No!" A rush of frustration gives me the momentum to sit—and I keep it going. I kick out of the stiff white sheet and throw my leg over the bedrail, trying to get a foot on the floor. 

Dad springs out of the chair and jogs around the end of the bed, but the heroics are wasted because I'm stuck. The stupid bed is jacked up too high. Plus I forgot that I'm tethered to an unrelenting pole by the needle lodged in my vein. It digs into my arm and I groan—more out of frustration than pain. "Please get this thing off me so I can go find my little sister."

"Sweetie, your mom took Lindsay home an hour ago. But I will call the nurse in to take out the IV—after we get you settled back down."

I concede, collapsing onto the pillow with another groan. Dad lifts my leg off the cold metal railing. He straightens my covers and hands me the controller, pointing out the button that will raise my head before he presses the red one.

A chirpy female voice blares out of the speaker box. "Our saline bag is empty," he tells her.

"I'll be right there."

Dad turns his attention back to me. And he just stands there, his chest rising and falling with this...totally un-Dad-like air of hesitation. Which almost reminds me of my first day home, when Mom and Lindsay had that intense freak-out after Noah called. Except that day, Dad didn't know what was going on. But I get the feeling he does now.

"I think we need Dr. Greene," he says, finally.

"Yes, Dad. Obviously. But first, everyone in this family needs to stop keeping secrets from each other. And I need you—right now—to tell me if the things I think I remember are wrong. Were Lindsay and I ever friends? Because she said we weren't. Not ever. But I remember the tea parties in the guest room. The sharp spicy smell of Earl Grey. And there were pearl buttons on my favorite church dress. It's good memory for me—Lindsay and I had fun—but I can't trust that feeling. Did I eat the raspberry centers out of the fancy cookies to keep Lindsay from getting in trouble?"

"I don't know, sweetie, but it sounds like something you would do. You were always good to your little sister."

"No, Dad. I wasn't—not if I didn't protect her from Kara Carpenter."

"That kid was a..." He pinches his lips on the word, takes a breath and starts again. "Kara was spoiled and manipulative. She bullied you too, but you couldn't see that until we moved away from her."

Manipulative? I hadn't thought of it that way, but yeah. I guess manipulated is a good word for what I was feeling the day of our eighth grade dance. 

Mom had dropped us off at the mall a couple of days before, so we could shop for something new to wear. Kara begged me to try on a yellow sundress. She said it would look so amazing with my brown hair and summer-tanned skin—and it did. I felt pretty. I stared at myself so long, she knocked on the dressing room door and said, "Ohmygod, Ally. Come out already." When I did, she barked out a laugh and told me I looked like a flat-chested banana. I made myself laugh right along with her, but I was crushed.

She came to our house the night of the dance so we could get ready together. Kara sat cross-legged in the middle of my bed—in her brand new floral swing blouse—and frowned at every old boring thing I pulled out of my closet. Then she crossed her arms and said, "You should've listened to me and bought the yellow dress."

When I reminded her what she said to me at the mall, she got mad. "You need to learn how to take a joke," she said. "You know that's why nobody really likes you, right? You don't have a sense of humor."

My heart burns, like I remember it burning then, and I know my sister was telling the truth about Kara starting the bed-wetting rumor. I can't say I remember that comment specifically, but I remember laughing with Kara at Lindsay's expense. I laughed to prove I had a sense of humor.

"I started the war," I say, and Dad shakes his head. Meaning he doesn't know what I'm talking about. "Do you know about the phone call?"

He lets out a mile long sigh. I decide that means yes.