Frozen

17. FORGIVENESS

Zo didn’t bother asking where we’d been or how we’d ended up stranded on the side of some deserted road. She stayed linked in for the duration of the ride, her eyes closed and her lips moving silently along with the lyrics only she could hear. Auden and I didn’t talk much either until we dropped him off at his place.

I kept hearing it. Tak’s scream. The gunshot.

I kept seeing him fall.

I saw him fall to the concrete, as I’d seen the bodies fall into the waterfall—and then, suddenly, I got it.

It was all the same.

This night, this moment, this was the ugly truth that lay hidden behind the wild beauty of the falls, behind Jude’s pretty speeches. He had called me a coward, someone who couldn’t face the truth. So I forced myself to face this; I forced myself not to look away.

This was the core of Jude and his friends. The core of what they did, who they were, what they wanted. A scream. A gunshot.

A gun.

Destruction and pain, in a place as broken as they were.

This is what they sought out, these people I’d thought were like me; this is what they offered, when they invited me to belong.

It wasn’t romantic. Whatever Jude said, it wasn’t bold, it wasn’t freeing.

It was a raw, ugly need.

And it was a need I finally understood.

Or maybe Jude was right; maybe I always had.

“I’m sorry,” I said as he was getting out of the car.

He shook his head once. “Don’t be.”

But from the way he said it, I guessed that meant I shouldn’t bother apologizing—not because it wasn’t necessary, but because it wasn’t enough.

When we got home, Zo brushed past me into the house and went up to her room without a word, slamming the door behind her. I couldn’t believe she was acting like I’d done something to her when I knew, because they’d been live-casting it on their zones, that she’d spent most of the night with Walker.

I should have just shut down for the night. And I tried. I uploaded the day’s memories. I pulled off the clothes covered in city grime and slipped into my favorite pair of thermo-sweats. I even lay down in bed. I could have shut my eyes and been out with a thought. That’s how it worked. None of that inefficient tossing and turning, trying to force your brain to slow down and your body to relax. I just decided how long I wanted to “sleep,” then told myself to shut down, the same way I told myself to walk or sit or scream. It was just another command, easy to issue, instantaneously carried out. But I wasn’t ready to let go of the night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the neat tunnel the bullet had made in Tak’s shoulder. I heard him scream; I saw him smile.

No blood. No danger.

Just the thrill of the moment. And the pain.

And I wondered.

I found a razor in a bunch of junk under the bathroom sink. Left over from the days when I had real skin that sprouted real hair. It was a little rusty, but still sharp.

It wasn’t the same as what they did, I told myself. I wasn’t seeking pain in some sick attempt to make life more interesting. I wasn’t sick, not like they were. I wasn’t so numb that I needed a jolt of violence to wake up my brain. I wasn’t chasing a death that would forever be out of my reach.

I was just curious.

It was an experiment. Perfectly safe, perfectly normal. I just wanted to see what would hurt, and how much. I needed to see how far I could go.

The blade pierced the skin.

Although I knew better, I half expected beads of blood to bubble up along the cut. It didn’t happen. Nothing happened. The razor had barely sliced through the surface layer. It was like cutting through leather, the blade leaving only a thin groove behind.

And it hurt.

But not much. My brain registered: pain. Like a flashing red light, a warning to stop. But I didn’t feel it, not really.

The stronger the emotion, the more “real” it may seem.

I bore down harder.

Still nothing. Or at least, not much.

In frustration, I raked the blade from my wrist to my elbow, hard, and gasped as the pain blazed through me. Finally.

There was an echoing gasp from the doorway. I looked up to see Zo staring at me in horror.

I jumped off the bed, pressing my arm awkwardly to my side to cover up the long gash. The razor clattered to the floor.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” I said.

Yeah, right.

She smirked. “Whatever.”

“Seriously, you can’t tell,” I pleaded. Our mother would freak out. Our father would… I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know.

“Why would I tell?” she said.

“I wasn’t trying to… hurt myself, or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. “I was just… It’s normal. What I was doing, it’s normal, it’s no big deal, so can we just—”

“I don’t care,” Zo said, slowly and firmly. “How many times do I have to say it before you believe me? I don’t care what you do. I don’t care how big a freak you want to be. I. Don’t. Care.”

She really didn’t. She couldn’t, or she wouldn’t act like this. She wouldn’t have stolen my friends, my boyfriend, my life. She wouldn’t glare at me like she wished I would disappear. Like she wished…

“You wish I was dead, is that it?” I started toward her, and she backed away. “You probably think it’d be easier for everyone if I’d died in the accident, so you didn’t have to deal with me like this.”

“Shut up,” she said quietly.

“Nice comeback.” I couldn’t take it anymore, her smug, lying face pretending that I was nothing to her. Let her hate me, fine. At least then there’d be some kind of connection, some emotion. We’d still be sisters. “Why don’t you just say it? You wish I was dead.”

“I don’t wish anything,” she insisted. “I don’t care what you are or what you do. I don’t care.”

“Say it. Say it! You wish I was dead!”

“You are dead!” she screamed. The mask didn’t just fall off her face. It disintegrated. Her lips trembled. Her eyes spurted tears. Her cheeks blazed red as the blood drained out of the rest of her face. She swallowed hard. “My sister is dead.”

“Zo…” I crossed the room, tried to hug her, but she slipped out of my grasp. “No, Zoie, I’m not, it’s okay, I’m right here.”

She turned away from me and crossed her arms, huddled into herself. “What you said before, about the accident? That it should have been me?” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was shaking. “It should have been me.”

“No. No, I should never have said that. I didn’t mean it.” But I had.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s true. I should have been in the car. I should be dead. But now—” She choked down a sob. “Now Lia’s dead, and it’s my fault.”

“I’m not—”

“Lia’s dead!” she shrieked, spinning to face me. “My sister is dead, and I basically killed her, and then this thing pretending to be Lia moves into her house, into her family, into her life, and I’m supposed to pretend that’s okay? It’s not bad enough that I have to live with what I did, with the fact that she—” Another sob. Another hard swallow. But when she spoke again, she was steadier. “I live with that. Every day. Every minute. And that I could handle. But seeing you… act like her, try to be her. Watching you take her place, like you ever could?” She shook her head, and continued in a cold hiss. “I hate you.”

“Zo, don’t.”

“You think I like it?” she asked, furious. “Wasting my time with those losers she called her friends? Joining the track team, being Daddy’s perfect little girl? You think I like screwing my sister’s boyfriend?”

I flashed on the image of the two of them, lips fused. If she wasn’t enjoying it, she was a better actress than I’d thought. “Then why—”

“Because she would have wanted me to protect what she had.” Zo looked down. “Because if someone’s going to replace her, it damn well isn’t going to be you.”

“But it is me.” I came closer again. She stiffened.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Fine.” I stayed a couple feet away, hands in the air. See? Harmless. “I’m not dead. I’m not. You didn’t kill me. I know I look… different.” I wanted to laugh at the understatement, but it didn’t seem like the time. “It’s still me. Your sister.”

Zo shook her head. “No.”

“Remember when we had that food fight with the onion dip? Or when we got iced in the house for a week and filmed our own vidlife?” I asked desperately. “Or how about the time you thought I hacked your zone and posted that baby pic of you, the one in the bathtub?”

“You did,” she muttered.

“Of course I did,” I said, grinning. “But only because you rigged my smartjeans and I ended up bare-assed in front of the whole seventh-grade class.”

She almost laughed.

“How would I know all that unless I was there?” I asked. “Every fight we ever had, every secret you ever blabbed, everything. I know it. Because I was there. Me, Zo. Lia. It’s still me.”

She looked like she wanted to believe it.

But she decided not to. I saw it happen. The mask fell back over her features, stiffening her lips, hardening her eyes. She decided not to care.

“No,” she said. “Lia’s dead. You’re a machine with her memories. That doesn’t make you real. It definitely doesn’t make you her.”

“Then why am I still here?” I asked angrily. “If I’m just some imposter, why do Mom and Dad—excuse me, your mother and father—want me living in Lia’s house? In Lia’s room.”

“They don’t,” she murmured.

“What?” But I’d heard her.

“They don’t,” she said louder. “They don’t want you here. They wish you’d never come.”

“You’re lying.”

“You wish.”

“They love me,” I said, needing to believe it. “They know it’s me.”

“They loved their daughter. Past tense. You just make it hurt more. They thought you’d make it better. That’s why they did it—made you, like you’d be some kind of replacement. But you make everything worse.”

“You’re lying,” I said again. It was the only weapon I had.

“If I am, then why is Dad up every night, crying?”

“He doesn’t cry.”

“He didn’t used to,” Zo said. “But he does now. Thanks to you. Every night since you came home. He waits until he thinks we’re all asleep, he goes to his study, and he cries. Sometimes all night. Don’t believe me? He’s probably at it right now. See for yourself.”

“Get out of my room.” Nothing she said could make me believe that about my father. Nothing.

“None of us want you here,” she said.

“Get out!”

Zo shook her head. “I should feel sorry for you, I guess. But I can’t.”

She slammed the door behind her.

I told myself she was lying. Being cruel for the sake of cruelty. And maybe I couldn’t blame her, if she really thought her sister was dead, if she thought it was her fault. But that didn’t mean I had to believe her about our parents.

If my mother had fallen apart, if she thought I was just an inferior copy—Well, that I could deal with. It made even more sense than Zo. Our mother was weak, always had been. It wasn’t her fault; it didn’t mean I didn’t love her. But it meant lower expectations.

My father was different.

He was the strong one, the smart one.

And, although I knew he would never admit it—not to me, not to Zo, not to anyone—I was his favorite. He was the one who knew me the best, who loved me the best. No, things hadn’t been the same since the accident, but they were getting better. It would take some time, but I would get him back. Because he saw me for who I was, Lia Kahn.

His daughter.

I knew Zo was lying. I was sure. But not so sure that I stayed in my room and lay down in bed and closed my eyes. Not so sure that I didn’t need proof.

My parents always turned on their soundproofing before they went to bed. So they wouldn’t have heard Zo and me fight, not if they were already asleep. As they should have been at three in the morning. But when I crept downstairs, I saw the light filtering through the crack between the door to the study and the marble floor. And when I pressed my ear to the heavy door, I heard something.

Gently, noiselessly, I eased open the door.

He was on his knees.

He faced away from me, his head bent. His shoulders shook.

“Please,” he said, in a hoarse, anguished voice. I flinched, thinking he must be speaking to me, that he knew I was there and wanted me to leave before I hurt him even more. But it was worse than that.

“Please, God, please believe me.”

My father didn’t pray. My father didn’t believe in God. Faith was for the weak, he had always taught us. Backward-thinking, cowering, misguided fools who preferred to imagine their destiny lay in someone else’s hands.

“I’m sorry.”

And worse than faith in God, my father had taught us, was the ridiculous faith in a God who listened to human prayers, who had nothing better to do than stroke egos and grant wishes. An omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent being who troubled himself with the minor missteps of the mortal world.

“Please forgive me.”

He hunched over, bringing his forehead to his knees. “I did this to her. It was my choice. I did this. Please. Please forgive me. If I could do it again…” His whole body shuddered. “I would make the right choice this time. If I had a second chance, please…”

I closed the door on his sobs.

The right choice.

Meaning, the choice he hadn’t made.

The choice to let me die.