Blind Turn Page 2

  “You had an accident,” I tell Jess, touching her arm. I want to wrap myself around her, cushion the truth of what is coming, but I hesitate. Jess avoids my touch these days, rolls her eyes when I tell her I love her, hates when I call her my baby girl.

  “What?” Her forehead wrinkles and she frowns. “Where’s Sheila?”

  Sheila spent the night ostensibly so they could work on homework, although when I got home at ten after staying late to set up for Edna Mae’s party, Jess’ car was not in the driveway. I should have stayed up and waited for them, held her accountable, but I was not up for another battle. High school is half over, and if I spend the next two years fighting with Jess, she will never come back. Instead, I’ve called a truce in my heart. I have had enough of fighting on every front—Jess, my father, my boss, Jake, even the cashier at the Quikmart who can’t do simple math. I am not sure when everything got so out of control, but lately, my life is one episode after another of Liz against the world. I want to be on the same side as Jess again. So I let a lot go and trusted her to make good decisions—to not be the girl I was in high school.

  “I think Sheila’s fine,” I tell Jess. “A broken arm, maybe, I heard. Jessica, what happened in that car?”

  “Lizzie,” Jake says. “She needs to rest. We can talk about this later.”

  I look at him perched awkwardly on a chair too small for him, like when he went to his one and only parent-teacher conference at the elementary school and said exactly nothing. His knee bounces and he wrings his hands. Once again, I am single parenting even though there are two parents in the room.

  Jess doesn’t answer me. She touches the bandages on her head, running her long thin fingers across the gauze.

  “It’s just a few stitches and a concussion, but the doctor says you’ll feel pretty beat up for a while,” I tell her.

  “Did they shave my head?”

  I nod. “They had to, to put in the stitches.”

  For the first time, she looks stricken, tears threaten. “What about Homecoming Court?”

  Jess and Sheila were both nominated for Homecoming Court. We have been dress shopping for weeks and haven’t found a dress we can agree on.

  “Can you tell us what happened in the car?”

  “My car?” she asks, and it is clear she doesn’t remember the accident.

  Jake shifts in his seat; he looks at me and not Jess.

  “You don’t remember? You hit someone with your car,” I tell her, hoping it will bring the memory back.

  “I did not,” she says and for a moment she is four again, hands on hips, frilly yellow dress, red Jello powder spilled down her front denying she has eaten it. “I’m sure I’d remember something like that.”

  Jake says nothing. He studies the ugly faded painting on the wall opposite the bed. Ducks skim the surface of a pond, preparing to land or maybe get shot depending on if they are landing here in Harrison County where 90% of the population owns a gun.

  “That’s not possible,” Jess insists again.

  “The doctor says you’re in shock, but maybe it will come back to you.”

  A policeman raps on the door and peers through the tiny window. I wipe my face and go to the door. I open the door a crack and look at the policeman standing there. “Can’t this wait?” I ask. “She’s barely awake.”

  “I’m afraid not,” he says.

  I hear Jake say, “It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

  Why he thinks that is beyond me. There is no way in hell this will be okay.

  The police officer with pimply skin and a serious face approaches the bed. He takes off his hat, his pink scalp sweating through his close-cropped hair. He sits in a plastic chair, scooting it closer to the bed. It screeches on the linoleum. He pulls out a tape recorder.

  “I’m Detective Pittman.” He nods at Jess. “I need you to tell me what you remember about the accident.”

  I sit down beside Jess, take her hand. Jake gets up and paces the room.

  “I don’t remember having an accident,” she says.

  Detective Pittman sighs and looks at his notes.

  “You were on Elm Drive, going south. Do you remember where you were going?”

  She drives that route every day, taking Sheila to school in the beat-up Toyota Jake gave her. Sheila has a shiny red Mustang, but her mother won’t let her drive it to school. She worries someone will ding it in the parking lot.

  “I was driving Sheila home,” she says. “I remember that much.”

  The officer frowns. “Did you take any medications today?”

  Jess shakes her head.

  “How about drugs or alcohol?”

  “No.”

  Jess is an honors student and a varsity athlete. While she and Sheila get into their share of trouble, she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her chances for a college scholarship. She is more than aware it is the only way she can go anywhere except the community college if Jake and I are left to pay for it, or more likely, me.

  “Can I talk to Sheila?”

  The officer ignores her question. “Were you using your cell phone?”

  “I don’t use it when I’m driving.” She looks at me and scowls. Once, I ran a stop sign while arguing with Jake on the phone. If the other driver had pulled out a moment sooner, we would not be here now. Jess brings it up every time I tell her to be careful driving. The detective writes something on his pad.

  “So, you remember nothing about the accident?” he asks again.

  “No,” she says again, crossing her arms over her belly, hugging herself.

  “You don’t remember hitting a pedestrian?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I just told you I don’t remember anything.” I can hear the impatience in her voice. She doesn’t get it, I realize.

  Detective Pittman does not tell her what he knows, what Jake and I know. Instead, he says, “I may need to speak with you again. You’ll be at your mother’s house?”

  “I guess so.”

  We all watch him make more notes; his pen presses hard into the accident form making triplicate copies. With a heavy sigh, he closes his pad and stands up.

  “So, what happens now?” I wipe my eyes with a wadded-up tissue that comes apart in my hands.

  Detective Pittman puts on his hat. “The investigation is ongoing. I really can’t say. We may need to talk to Jessica again. The DA, too, probably.”

  “Will you charge her with anything?” asks Jake.

  Charges? My baby girl?

  “That’s not up to us. We just pull together all the information. With something like this, the District Attorney’s office will make the call.”

  “What could they charge her with?” Jake asks.

  “I told you, sir, I wouldn’t know; that’s not my call.”

  “You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell us?” I ask. A flush of anger, or maybe fear, colors my face. This is only the beginning, I realize. This accident is far from over.

  “Lizzie, he’s just doing his job.” Jake takes my arm, and his touch infuriates me. I push his hand away, busy myself looking for a new tissue.

  The officer taps a finger to his hat. “Ma’am,” he says and moves towards the door.

  Jake shakes the officer’s hand and closes the door behind him.

  “You okay, kiddo?” asks Jake.

  “What happened to the pedestrian? Is he hurt?” Jess asks.

  Jake looks at that stupid duck picture again and says, “I don’t know.” He is a terrible liar. Maybe if he were better at it, we would still be together.
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  I abandon the search for tissues and pull another stiff one from the box on the counter. After I blow my nose, I tuck the blankets around Jess; she cringes when I kiss her cheek.

  “I’m just going to make a call.”

  Jake follows me into the hallway. “Do you think we should call a lawyer?” he asks.

  “I’ll handle it.” I scroll through my contacts as I walk away. I know just who to call. I never thought I would be calling him, but luckily I kept his number just in case.

  3

  LIZ

  When I get back to Jess’ room, Jake is finishing a Twinkie and offers one to me. I ignore him and sit next to the bed in one of the orange plastic chairs.

  “I really don’t remember what happened,” Jess says before I can say anything. “I don’t,” she says again. I am not sure if she is trying to convince herself or me.

  Jake leans against the counter, bumping the box full of plastic gloves to the floor. I wait. I will not be the one to tell her. When Jake looks at me, I look away. Jake puts the gloves back on the counter and sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Jess,” he begins, “This is real bad.” He scans the ceiling, takes a breath. My anger softens as tears rim his eyes. He looks back at Jess with such tenderness, I want to reach out and take his hand, but I don’t. Finally, he says, “The person you hit is dead.”

  “What?” screeches Jess, shock rippling across her face. She looks at me, imploring me to tell her it isn’t true, that it is a mistake. I get up and sit on the bed too. I put my arm around her, pull her to me and she lets me. I reach for the right words but find none. Jake’s eyes meet mine. He reaches for Jess, rubs the back of her neck. Jess shudders in my arms, sobbing.

  I want to fix this. I want to save her from what is coming, even though I don’t know myself what that will be. I can hear our tiny town whispering about my daughter, eagerly sharing our tragedy. Telling the story, filling in the blanks that even Jess cannot. In a small town, people mistake proximity for intimacy, believing they know you when all they know is where you live and shop, how often you go to church, and whether you wear makeup to the post office. I hug Jess tighter as if I can keep her safe from their judgment, knowing I can’t. Just like I couldn’t escape it seventeen years ago when I walked around town hiding the bump under my t-shirt that would be Jess. In Jefferson, Texas, teen moms were the ultimate failure. My parents moved away to a retirement community in Arizona a week after my wedding rather than face the failure my father perceived was his own.

  After they left, I drove Jess there once a year. We spent more hours in the car getting there and back than in their home where my mother would fawn over Jess and my father would disappear into his wood shop. My mother passed from pancreatic cancer six years later. She had never told me she was sick. At her funeral, my father said, “I thought Jesus would heal her,” as if he was truly surprised.

  Jess’ muffled voice speaks into my shoulder. “Who was it? Who died?” Her words hang in the air, the marker dividing our lives into before and after. I know my answer will change everything.

  “It was an accident,” I say. Jake nods, silenced by the tears streaming down his face.

  “Just tell me!” demands Jess removing herself from my grip.

  “It was Coach Mitchell,” Jake says quietly, but he looks at me, not Jess. Coach Mitchell was the one he turned to when we found out I was pregnant. He was the only adult in his life at that time who did not tell him to pay for an abortion and walk away.

  “Coach Mitchell?” Jess shrieks. “They think I killed Coach Mitchell?”

  “Don’t say it like that. It was an accident!” I tell her. “It was an accident. It was. It was an accident.” I say it again and again as if by labeling it, I can make it so.

  Jess pushes me away and tries to get up, but pain forces her back down. She collapses against her pillow and covers her head with the sheet. A memory crosses my heart of her hiding in the bathtub after she has spilled an entire bottle of milk across the kitchen floor.

  This would be devastating if it was anyone, but this is Texas. Coach Mitchell is the football coach at Jefferson High where Jess goes to school, the same school where Jake and I met. He was Jake’s coach the year they won the state championship for the first time. The team has won it five more times since. He is as close as you get to a celebrity in this town, but to the football players, he is a god. More than that, he is a good man. I push the grief that rushes at me aside, focus on my daughter.

  Jess pulls the covers off her head and says, “I don’t even remember being in the car! Where’s Sheila? I need to talk to Sheila.”

  Jake gets up and sits in the chair where the officer was sitting; he puts his arm on the bed rail and looks at Jess even though she has pulled the covers back over her head. “Hey,” he says. “We’re gonna sort this out. The important thing is you’re all right.”

  I walk to the window and stare out at the darkness, wishing this nightmare was not ours. I want to keep her here, safe with us in our little circle of three. Once we leave this room, everything changes.

  — — —

  It is late when Avery calls and offers to come to the hospital. I tell her no, but not because I don’t want her company. I would love nothing more than my friend beside me to hold my hand and complain about the coffee and help me see where we go from here. Avery is very good at keeping me grounded and grateful. But her life is too complicated and too many people depend on her who would not understand her absence at this hour of night. Besides her three-year-old, Kimba, she also cares for her twenty-six-year-old brother Curtis, who is autistic, and her mom who struggles with the debilitating effects of ignoring diabetes until she couldn’t. So, I say, “We’re fine.”

  “Bullshit,” she says. “I can come over as soon as I get Kimba settled and check Ma’s sugars.”

  Her kindness brings my tears. When I can speak, I say, “There’s nothing you can do and I’ll just worry about you being away from your family.”

  “You know I might show up anyway, right?”

  “I know, but please don’t. I’ll save that offer for when I really need it.”

  She makes me promise I will call first thing and says she will let Morningside know what is going on.

  “I love you, friend,” I tell her.

  “Back at you. Hang in there, boss.”

  — — —

  All night long, the nurse comes in and wakes Jess, again and again. She is supposed to rest, but not actually sleep. The hourly checks are a form of torture. Each time, the nurse snaps on a new set of gloves before she touches Jess like the awful thing she has done is contagious. She peers into Jess’ eyes with a tiny flashlight then takes her blood pressure. She adjusts her blankets and tells her to rest. I watch her work and wonder if she went to Jefferson High. I wonder if she knows what my daughter has done.

  4

  JESS

  The nurse tells me to get some rest, but that’s basically impossible since she comes back and wakes me every hour. She shines a light in my eyes and asks dumb questions about what day it is when clearly it is night. This shit goes on all night long. Mom pretends to sleep, but Dad watches me. He hasn’t given me this kind of attention since I was a little kid and he’d take me fishing on his boat. He always made me wear a life vest, but he also tied a rope to me just in case. “Your mom will kill us both if you drown,” he used to joke.

  It’s weird to have Mom and Dad in the same room. Ever since I got my license they don’t have to see each other, and they’re happier that way. It’s been kind of nice not to have to pretend I don’t hear them fighting about the same stuff—responsibility (Dad’s lack thereof), or unreasonable expectations (Mom’s).

 
Mom has never liked his girlfriends, his dogs, or his dinner choices. Dad always says Mom is uptight. “Even her spaghetti is in knots,” he would tell me. I’d go home to Mom’s and study the spaghetti whenever she served it. It wasn’t until later I realized what he meant. My mom likes things a certain way. Avery says, “Your Ma is too smart to abide fools; that’s why she’ll never have a man.” I’m pretty sure she was half-looped when she said it, but it seems accurate. Your friends know you best. That’s why I’ve got to talk to Sheila. Find out what the hell happened in that car.

  I don’t care what that cop says, I could not have done what they’re saying. I’m an excellent driver. I’m one of the only kids who actually paid attention in Driver’s Ed. I got my Intermediate license when I was exactly 15 and a half, but I’ve been driving for years with Dad. Once I was tall enough to reach the pedals, he had me back the boat trailer into the lake so he could unload the boat. Backing up a trailer takes skill. I’m careful. I take driving seriously. How in the hell could I have hit Coach Mitchell? This makes no sense. I’d remember it if I had.

  Sheila’s a lunatic behind the wheel. She sideswiped a mailbox one time, and we told her mom someone hit the car in the mall parking lot while we were at the movies. She once got a warning for doing sixty in a twenty-five. Charmed her way out of the ticket with tears. But I’m a careful driver. I couldn’t have hit Coach. Not possible. Something is seriously screwed up here.