The Half Life of Molly Pierce Read Online Free PDF

things out because I don’t want to go back on the medication, because I don’t want him to send me away. Because I don’t want to end up in an insane asylum. They still have them. They still exist. “He knew my name, Alex. He kept saying that he knew me, and that he wanted to catch up to me. Like he . . . wanted to see me or something. He said he fucked up again. That’s what he said. And then I told him he was going to be okay and he said he knew he was going to die.”
    Alex leans back a little in his chair. His eyes are big and sympathetic. “Molly, a person can say some pretty confusing things when he’s that hurt. His brain isn’t working properly; his body is expending all its energy on healing its wounds. He doesn’t have time for much cognitive activity.”
    “He knew my name, Alex. He said my name.”
    “This is a small town, Molly.”
    “No, this was different. He acted like he knew me. Like he really knew me. But I’d never seen him before.”
    “Friend of a friend? Someone you met one time and never thought about again?”
    Was it possible? I search back through a year of disjointed memories. All the blank spots, the missing time, keep jumping to the surface. I know I’ve never seen his face before. I would have remembered him.
    Or . . .
    I don’t know.
    Maybe I wouldn’t have.
    Maybe I don’t.
    “I don’t think so,” I say, but now I’m not so sure.
    “Nobody wants to experience something like that by themselves. Even if he’d only met you once, Molly, enough to know your name, he might have invented a stronger connection with you, to help himself.”
    This makes sense.
    This makes sense, doesn’t it?
    “Do you think that’s possible?”
    “Of course. Think about it. If you were so injured you thought you might not make it, wouldn’t you want to be with someone—anyone? As opposed to a perfect stranger? Or by yourself?”
    It’s a far better explanation than any I’ve been able to come up with.
    “Tell me what else,” he continues. “What happened after the accident?”
    “He asked me to ride with him in the ambulance and he told me to call his brother for him. I took his cell phone and then in the hospital we were in a private waiting room and it felt weird. The brother and me. It felt like I was intruding on something.”
    “You didn’t feel like you had a right to share his grief.”
    “I was covered in blood, Alex,” I continue. “The brother, he, um . . . he asked me to go to the funeral. On Saturday.”
    “Are you going to go?”
    “Do you think I should?”
    “I think it might bring you a sense of closure. He probably invited you because you were there for his brother when no one else was. There is nothing wrong with declining his invitation, but I think it might be a good experience.”
    Since when did I let any experience be good.
    I don’t say that out loud.
    What I do say is, “Thanks, Alex. It was, um . . . really helpful. To talk to you.”
    “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever thanked me, Molly.”
    And I don’t blame him for looking just the smallest bit pleased with himself.
    When I finally get home and plug my phone into the wall, it’s been dead for over twenty-four hours and I have approximately thirty-seven text messages from Erie, the last one received about a half hour ago, asking me if I think it will be easy to find a new fucking best friend who’s prepared to put up with all my dead-phone bullshit. I text her back and tell her to come over after dinner. She responds immediately— OK .
    Nothing from Sayer yet.
    And nothing from Luka, but that’s no surprise. He’s worse with his phone than I am.
    At dinner my family is back to their regular selves. So I’ve discovered how long dead-boy sympathy lasts around here and it’s less than one full day. Although I shouldn’t say that. Mom has brought my favorite dessert home—lemon meringue pie—and Dad pours me a small glass of wine without even asking. Clancy is his