The Onion Girl Read Online Free

don’t have the flu,” he says, “but you got banged up something bad. There’s no point in either of us pretending otherwise. And you and I both know there’s old hurts you’ve just hid away. Maybe you can turn up the wattage of that shine of yours to fool most people, but you don’t fool me.”
    â€œWhat kind of hurts are you talking about?”
    â€œIf I knew, maybe I could help.”
    â€œYou know the story of my life,” I say.
    He gives a slow nod of his head. “But I don’t know how you feel about it.”
    â€œThis is such bullshit.”

    Joe sighs. “I’m just telling you how it is. If you didn’t want to know, you shouldn’t have asked.”
    It’s true. Joe rarely offers advice without first waiting to be asked. The trouble with advice is that it’s usually something you don’t want to hear.
    I have to look away. I let those wonderful trees fill my vision. Already they seem less present. Or maybe I am. I can feel the tug of my body, and it’s stronger. I don’t want to go back. I know what’s waiting for me now.
    â€œI’m sorry it worked out this way,” Joe says.
    I nod. “Me, too,” I tell him.
    â€œYou deserve better.”
    I shrug. I don’t think the world works on merit. At least, not as much as we’d like it to.
    â€œWe’ll find a way to beat it,” Joe tells me.
    And if we can’t?
    But I don’t say the words aloud. I touch his hand.
    â€œDon’t you worry about me, Joe,” I say. “I’m a survivor.”
    Then I let the pain reach across into the dreamlands and pull me back to that hospital bed. I hear his voice as I go, a faint sound, growing fainter.
    â€œThere’s more to life than just surviving,” he says.
    I know that’s true. But I also know that sometimes just surviving is all you get.
    6
    It was getting to be like old home week, Wendy St. Clair thought as their friends continued to arrive. The waiting room was crowded, getting close to standing room only as the last seats were taken. There were so many familiar faces, Wendy felt she was at one of Izzy’s or Sophie’s gallery openings, except for the fact that everyone was far too glum.
    And Jilly wasn’t here.
    If there was something special going on in your life—a reading, a book signing, a gallery opening, a gig—you could always count on Jilly to be there to help you celebrate. Just as she was also there when the world bore down too hard and you needed a friend, someone to commiserate with. But tonight Jilly was a couple of rooms away, wires and tubes connecting her to the life support and monitoring machines, the Rackham
pixie transformed into a creature from an H. R. Giger nightmare, and it was her friends who had gathered to lend each other what support they could, and to celebrate, in their quieter way, Jilly’s having come out of the coma.
    Professor Dapple, Christy, his girlfriend Saskia, and Alan were on one couch at the end of the room, with red-haired Holly sitting on the coffee table in front of them, looking perfectly at home between the piles of old magazines stacked on either side of her. Sophie, Sue, Isabelle, and Meran had commandeered the other couch that ran along the longer wall. Desmond and Meran’s husband Cerin were sitting on the floor between the two. Cassie had a Formica and metal chair that must have been borrowed from the cafeteria, while Wendy herself was sharing the only other seat with Mona. It was a stuffed chair with squared cushions and arms that was a really dreadful color of olive green. The two of them were taking turns sitting on one of the arms and the seat cushion.
    While they were missing a few faces—Geordie and Tanya were still in L.A. and Cassie’s husband Joe … well, who ever knew where Joe was?—it was still quite the turnout. But then Jilly inspired this kind of loyalty. If she was to die,