Read Online I'm Not Her by Janet Gurtler - Free Book Online Page B

table, their legs pressed together. Kristina looks wrong in the papery gown, with her toned arm muscles, her square shoulders. Her trainer has worked her hard over the months and it shows. Her outfit and her expression don’t suit the image of the high-jumping spiker who makes the opposition quiver on the volleyball court.
    Kristina bows her head and closes her eyes. I wonder if she’s praying. We’re not a church family, not like Melissa’s. Dad says he had religion forced down his throat when he was younger and he doesn’t want to do it to us. Mom doesn’t have a strong opinion one way or another. She doesn’t talk about her childhood much, and the last time we saw her parents was over five years ago. Far as I know she hasn’t even told them about Kristina.
    We only go to church when someone dies. Not even at Christmas or Easter. Melissa told me once that she thought it would matter. As in after. It was the first time we had a real fight. Well, we’re wimps so it was more that we didn’t talk to each other for a few days. Then we pretended none of it happened. I never learned how to pray. I’ve thought about it and stuff, tried talking to God in my head sometimes, but mostly it makes me nervous and I wonder what he really thinks of me. Like does he think I’m a bad person because I don’t go to church or read the Bible? I don’t really feel like I have the right to ask for anything now. I mean, I really, really want to ask for God to fix Kristina, but I’m afraid it might make things worse. Like instead she might get punished because I’m only praying when I want something.
    Dad stares at the wall, no expression on his features, but the blankness doesn’t mask the fear he’s hiding. I wonder if he’s worried he won’t be able to handle it. He’s always been the kind of guy who prefers not to face things head-on. That’s what Mom says anyhow. She says he inherited it from my grandpa, but he died before I was born so who knows if she’s right.
    Mom fusses with her purse, pretending to search for something, rooting through her worldly goods to keep her mind busy, focused away from what is happening. She appears to be planted firmly in the soil of denial. Kristina will be fine, just fine.
    In the room next to us I hear a woman moving around, probably changing back into her street clothes. I saw her walk to her room alone in her blue gown, following a nurse.
    I wish I could ask Kristina if she’s okay, but I stand frozen, barely breathing, barely moving.
    “Kristina Smith?” a deep feminine voice calls from the other side of the curtain. The raspy voice sounds like she should be on a morning show on the radio.
    “Yes?” Kristina answers, her voice weak, frightened. She looks to Mom for courage.
    A nurse pulls back the curtain and the four of us stare at her. She’s short. Her uniform is red with Scottish Terriers on it and it makes her look boxy. She wears a name tag that says “Pamela.”
    “The doctor ordered a couple more X-rays, and when those are done, I’ll take you to her office where she’d like to speak with all of you,” she says. Her voice is rich with an accent. Scottish?
    The nurse glances at the rest of us. “There’s no one needing this room so you can stay here or wait out in the waiting room where it’s more comfortable until the X-rays are done. You can join Kristina in the doctor’s office afterward.”
    Her accent has a slight comforting effect on me.
    “Can I go to the X-ray room with her?” Mom asks.
    The nurse looks at Kristina for approval and then nods. Mom and Kristina disappear into the hallway, and Dad and I are left alone.
    “I’d rather wait here than out there,” he says, and his voice catches. “Jesus Christ, Tess. What am I supposed to do?”
    I don’t tell him that he’s the parent, not me. I say nothing. We don’t exchange another word until half an hour or so later when Kristina and Mom return.
    “Okay, out,” Mom tells us. “Kristina needs to