Blind Turn

  Blind Turn

  Cara Sue Achterberg

  © Copyright Cara Sue Achterberg 2020

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2020 by Cara Sue Achterberg

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-610-4

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for checking out one of our Women’s Fiction novels.

  If you enjoy the experience, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!

  The Apple of My Eye by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  “A mature love story with an intense plot. This book has something important to say.”

  –William O. Shakespeare, Professor of English, Brigham Young University

  For every writer who hasn’t given up.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Where to begin? If you knew the history of this book, you’d brace yourself, knowing the people and factors and fate that had a hand in this book are vast and messy.

  I have to start with my former literary agent, the first agent to love this book and sign me for it—Tina Schwartz. Her belief and outright affection for this book buoyed me long after we’d parted professional ways. Her efforts and her advocacy for this story deserve more than my thanks, but it is all I have to honor the spark she blew into a flame, even if the fire was six years down the road.

  Next, I must thank all the readers of all the different versions of this story. I am telling you flat-out that I’m certain I am missing a few. There were so many beta readers and critique partners and kind-hearted friends and almost-agents and would-be publishers to keep track of, nevermind the number of times I started over and required all of their eyeballs once again. The lists and post-its and notes on my phone are jumbled and unreliable, but in no particular order, I would like to thank:

  Mom and Dad, There is never enough space to thank you for your constant support and absolute belief in my abilities, despite having born witness to my messy teenage years.

  Margot Tillitson, my speediest reader, favorite mother-in-law, and wise encourager.

  Margie Geasler, for your smarts and for telling me that ‘this is the one!’

  Leslie Johnson, my full-time fan, occasional grammar consultant, and long-time friend.

  Candace Shaffer, editor extraordinaire, who perfected her craft on this story time and again; I can never pay her for the hours she spent picking it to pieces and noticing every single detail.

  Gina Moltz, for many reads, much hashing of the story, but for always, always being enthusiastic and encouraging.

  Heather Marsiglia, a reader I never met who nonetheless, generously offered her time and thoughts.

  Dahna Clarke, my former neighbor and fellow down-hiller, for reading this in its YA phase; I’m so grateful this story allowed us to reconnect after thirty+ years.

  Susan Robinson, you read this one so long ago and so many versions ago, I’d bet you don’t even remember reading it. Thanks for being my toughest critic; I wish I could clone you.

  Lisa Weigard, for never giving up hope in the story or in me.

  Adelaide, whose supernatural grammatical skills were not inherited and who read this manuscript and was paid per error she found. See? It finally got published!

  Carly Watters, my current agent, who unleashed me to find a publishing home for this manuscript. I owe you a debt for the hours spent on this manuscript and for teaching me that every chapter has to have at least two real plot points so the reader doesn’t get bored. Excellent advice that kept me from wandering in the swamp of my own verbiage.

  Steve MacDonald, for patiently answering my legal questions and translating the confusing system into words I could understand and then assuring me, “But this is fiction, so you could probably leave that out.”

  Jacquelyn Mitchard for doing her darndest to acquire this book despite her publisher’s ultimate no. You gave me legitimacy at a moment in my career when I needed it most. Your belief in this story was one of the main reasons I’ve never given up on it. “If Jacquelyn Mitchard loves it, I’m for real.”

  All the judges on twitter pitch wars, the editors who almost bit, and the publishers who passed, you sharpened my aim and helped me see that while it wasn’t my time yet, I was getting closer.

  For Reagan Rothe and Black Rose Writing for finally (finally) giving Blind Turn a publishing home.

  For my husband Nick, who has listened to the long and winding road of this novel for more than seven years and never once asked to read it or doubted its future. I love you for that (and lots of other reasons).

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  1 - LIZ

  2 - LIZ

  3 - LIZ

  4 - JESS

  5 - LIZ

  6 - LIZ

  7 - LIZ

  8 - JESS

  9 - LIZ

  10 - JESS

  11 - LIZ

  12 - JESS

  13 - LIZ

  14 - JESS

  15 - LIZ

  16 - JESS

  17 - LIZ

  18 - JESS

  19 - LIZ

  20 - JESS

  21 - LIZ

  22 - LIZ

  23 - LIZ

  24 - JESS

  25 - LIZ

  26 - JESS

  27 - LIZ

  28 - JESS

  29 - LIZ

  30 - LIZ

  31 - JESS

  32 - LIZ

  33 - JESS

  34 - LIZ

  35 - JESS

  36 - JESS

  37 - LIZ

  38 - JESS

  39 - LIZ

  40 - JESS

  41 - LIZ

  42 - JESS

  43 - LIZ

  44 - LIZ

  45 - JESS

  46 - LIZ

  47 - JESS

  48 - LIZ

  49 - JESS

  50 - LIZ

  51 - JESS

  52 - JESS

  53 - LIZ

  54 - JESS

  55 - LIZ

  56 - JESS

  57 - LIZ

  58 - JESS

  59 - LIZ

 
60 - JESS

  61 - LIZ

  62 - JESS

  63 - LIZ

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  AUTHOR THE AUTHOR

  BRW INFO

  “Forgiveness is the act of admitting we are like other people.”

  – Christina Baldwin

  1

  LIZ

  “You need to take this.” Avery shoves my cell phone at me. “I’ll deal with the party.”

  “Who is it?”

  I glance at my watch. Eleven-thirty. I rarely work on Sundays, but it is Edna Mae’s 100th birthday and her entire family is here for a birthday brunch, as well as a reporter from the paper. She probably doesn’t even know the party is for her, but I wanted to be on hand to be sure it went okay. Her great-grandchildren have just blown out her candles and a cheer goes up.

  “He kept calling,” Avery says. “He says it’s an emergency.”

  The residents break out with an enthusiastic but out of tune rendition of For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow. Their time-worn voices always center my heart, reminding me that life wasn’t always so complicated and on-demand. One time when my daughter Jess was maybe eight, she heard them singing and asked, “Don’t they know she’s not a fellow?”

  I take the phone and slip into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me. The call is from Jake, my ex-husband. I have not talked to him in weeks; parenting is mostly a side gig for him, something he squeezes in between fishing season and the latest bimbo.

  “What do you need, Jake? I’m busy.” I glance back through the narrow window in the door to watch Avery lean down and kiss Edna Mae on her crinkly cheek, leaving a faint red trace. Edna Mae smiles, pats her arm.

  “It’s Jess.”

  It is the sound of his voice that frightens me. Instead of the cocky boy-man he has become, I hear a scared kid, the one who proposed to me because he didn’t know better.

  “She’s been in an accident,” he says. “It’s bad.”

  I hurl questions at him as I sprint to my desk, grab my purse, and run for my car. “Is she okay? Where is she? What happened? Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “I’m calling you now. She’s at Memorial. They’re checking her; they said the injuries aren’t life-threatening…”

  The phone goes quiet and I think it has cut him off, but then I hear him talking to someone, muffled voices, Jess’ name.

  “Jake?” I shriek as I open my car door.

  “She hit someone,” he whispers. He says nothing more. I wait for him to explain, but all I hear is the buzz of a hospital corridor. He takes a breath, and I can hear it catch on the inhale. Is he crying? He exhales loudly, slowly.

  “She hit someone? What do you mean? With her car?”

  I have always operated at a much higher speed than Jake Johnson. He’s a good old boy from Texas, a guy used to taking his time, never in a rush to say anything he doesn’t need to say. As he has done for the better part of twenty years, he ignores my questions.

  “Lizzie,” he says. “It’s real bad.”

  “I thought you said her injuries weren’t life-threatening?”

  “It’s not her, it’s the guy she hit—he’s dead.”

  “What?” My world teeters sideways. Skidding to a stop. For a moment, just a moment, I thank God it was someone else and not Jess. And then I dig in my purse for my keys, toss out receipts, mints, and earbuds, leaving them where they scatter on the pavement. Finally, my keys.

  “She was taking Sheila home,” Jake says, as I slam the door behind me and crank the engine. “She hit some guy on Elm.”

  “I don’t understand! You’re not making any sense!” I scream as I back blindly out of my spot, slamming on the brakes when a nurse jumps out of my path. I wave an apology, and she scowls. I take a breath. “I don’t understand,” I say again, calmer now as I carefully back out of my space. “Is Sheila okay?”

  “I think so. Nobody said. The guy was walking on the side of the road.”

  “Then how did she hit him? That makes no sense,” I insist. I wonder if Jake got all the details or if he was only half-ass listening, as usual.

  “That’s all I know, I just got here. I’ll call you when I know more.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  The yellow light turns to red as I press the pedal to the floor, my dragging tailpipe banging through the dip in the intersection. The entire way to the hospital, I chant, “No, no, no, no,” as if I can change whatever has already happened.

  Sixteen years ago, when I found out I was pregnant with Jess, I thought my whole life was ruined by the reckless choices of one night and a cute boy. It was the Senior Formal. I had used all my babysitting money to buy the most exquisite dress—periwinkle blue with tiny shimmering sequins and a matching shawl made of translucent fabric that winked silver. I can still remember Jake’s face when I opened my front door and spun for him. “Damn, I didn’t know you could look like that,” he said.

  He never left my side that night. Instead of cutting up with his buddies, he kept his eyes on me. When the dance ended, we drove to the quarry in his pickup truck. There was no discussion, no debate. We knew what was going to happen. Why we couldn’t stop for a condom at the Quikmart, I do not know. But we were teenagers, invincible, on top of our world. I remember thinking afterward, as we sat on the hood of his car and watched the moonlight slide across the water, that even if I ended up pregnant, it would be okay. I loved Jake.

  My Honda’s tires squeal as I turn onto the hospital campus. For one crazy second, I am jealous Jake got to her first. I should be glad he is there. Glad someone is with Jess. Maybe Sheila is with her, too. Sheila is her best friend, not the friend I would have picked for her, but Jess isn’t three anymore, so I don’t have a say about much in her life. Sheila’s bottle-blond hair and runway wardrobe are years ahead of this tiny East Texas town where the hem length restrictions are spelled out in the school handbook, and when the cashier at the Gas & Go dyed her hair blue, it was nearly front-page news.

  I park the car in the loading zone and race inside. “No, no, no, no,” I whisper as I run.

  I haven’t been here since the day Jess was born. I remember these faded pastel walls, the antiseptic smell. All I wanted was my mother that day, but my father had already whisked her away to Arizona and an alternative life that did not include daughters who disappointed him. They raised us Southern Baptist and while they would never have condoned me having an abortion, they couldn’t face the idea of a baby either. An illegitimate granddaughter for the head deacon? Not in Jefferson. I married Jake, and I told my parents I loved him (and I believed I did), but a sin was a sin.

  At the reception desk, the nurse speaks in soft reassurances to someone on the phone. I ask where Jess is, but she holds up a finger to shush me.

  “Lizzie!” I hear Jake yell. He rushes down the hallway towards me. For once, the prodigal father comes through.

  “She’s all right,” he tells me and my knees buckle. Jake leads me to the nearest chair. “She’s in and out, and not making much sense when I saw her. She hit her head good, but the CT scan shows it’s just a concussion. The doc said she’s in shock, but she’ll be fine. Just fine.”

  Fine is what I want to hear. It is what I want to believe, but I know it’s not true. Nothing can be fine if a man is dead.

  2

  LIZ

  Jess’ swollen face is surrounded by a sea of white—pillows, blankets, and the halo of white gauze covering the stitches that closed the wound on her head. There are butterfly bandages securing the cuts on her face and faint purple around her eyes that will surely de
epen in the days ahead.

  “She’s still a bit out of it,” the nurse tells us before leaving us alone in the room.

  Jake and I stand side by side in silence. Jess looks impossibly small, not the same girl who fights with me about curfew and tube tops, who takes all AP classes and has her sights set on a full-ride to a big college, anywhere but Texas. Not the powerful girl who holds the school record for the 400 and hopes to be captain of the track team, even though she is only a junior. No, she looks like the tiny girl who slept in a princess tiara and made me read the entire Harry Potter series to her when she was only seven.

  “Did the police say what happened?”

  “They’re still piecing it together,” Jake says. “But it looks like it was her fault, and there’s something else…”

  “What?” I cannot imagine it can get worse, but then it does.

  “The guy she hit…. it was… it was Coach,” says Jake. He blinks his eyes trying and failing to hold back tears as he runs his hand over the weekend stubble on his face.

  “Coach Mitchell?” A shiver goes through me.

  “No,” Jess mutters, her eyelids fluttering as she stirs.

  “Jess?” I lean closer and take her hand. She opens her eyes, looks at me, then at Jake, and furrows her brow.

  “You’re in the hospital, sweetie. You’ve had an accident.”

  She stares at me for a long moment, and then she says, “Your mascara is running.”

  I laugh with relief and turn my head to wipe fresh tears.

  She looks at Jake. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

  He grimaces but says nothing. Typical. He will leave it to me to tell her. He has always liked the fun parts of being a dad, but the dirty diapers and timeouts and curfews, he leaves to me. I have done the sex talk, the drug talk, the peer pressure talk, and the internet safety talk. As soon as she rounded the corner to adolescence, he never had time. I was the one subjected to her impatience and indifference. I used to think it was because his own father left when he was a baby, but that’s not it. Jake doesn’t like to upset people and more than anything he never wants to disappoint. Somehow I was the exception to that rule. He started disappointing me two days after we were married when he couldn’t say no to a fishing trip down at the Gulf and left me alone and hormonal with boxes to unpack. But at least he didn’t disappoint his buddies. “They’re countin’ on me,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you.” Maybe he did that time, but wilted flowers from the Quikmart and dinner out at Jeb’s can only take you so far.