I feel guilty, because I didn’t do anything good. I told her she was pathetic for missing her dad, I flicked a switch she couldn’t flick back, and when I found her, all I could do was scream.

Reg helped her, and Andrea, and the paramedics. I just watched it happen.

“You’re welcome,” I say, because it’s better than the silence, and Bernie’s mom touches my shoulder and gives me that look, the one that says she feels sorry for me, even though it’s her daughter in the hospital.

When Ali and Jennifer come out, everyone looks at me, and I start to blush, swallowing the sickness as I reluctantly walk into the room. And there she is, sitting up straight and surrounded by presents. I wish I’d thought of that, but it’s just another thing to feel guilty for.

I sit in the plastic seat next to Bernie’s bed and say, “Hi.”

“Hey.”

I’m beginning to think leaving was the better option.

“How are you?”

“I’m all right,” she says, although her eyes tell a different story. “It’s nice to see you.”

I hope that’s true, even after what I said on our spirit walk.

“Was it my fault?” When Bernie asks what I mean, I say, “We argued. You swore at me.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t reply.

“I thought you were happy,” I say.

“Not really,” Bernie whispers. She fills every silence with a sigh, her eyes digging deep into my own, looking for something that scares me.

“I thought you were dead,” I say at last, and she nods, as if she expected to be, as if she wanted to be.

“I’m so sorry, Jess. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I wanted it to end.”

“Wanted what to end?”

“This…”

When your mom has been ripped out of your life with no explanation, when your tiny broken family is all you have left, it’s hard to have sympathy for people who give up. But the way Bernie looks, I can’t help feeling sorry for her.

I touch her hand, and she squeezes it. I sit in silence, waiting for her to talk, because honestly, what could I possibly say to make her feel better?

“That place,” she says, “it was so amazing, and everyone was so happy. And you know what I felt? Nothing. Just empty.”

She looks pale and worn down by whatever invisible issues are eating away at her.

I understand what she meant now, when she said she wished every day could be like it was at Mayfield.

She takes a deep breath, then says, “They keep asking why I did it.”

“Why did you?”

“I couldn’t stop myself. I can’t remember the last time I was happy.”