Blind Turn Read online

  When that policeman came into the room earlier, though, he looked familiar. I had a weird Deja Vu moment or something, and the last time the nurse woke me I was having a dream that scared the shit out of me. I can’t remember the dream, just pieces—flashing lights, the shine of a badge, Sheila yelling, the smell of burning rubber. And a horrible thud that woke me up even before the nurse turned on the lights. Was it a real memory, not a dream?

  I just wish I could go back to before this happened and change things. None of this makes sense. I didn’t even party last night. Sheila and I had planned to meet Jason at a party, but the cops broke it up right before we got there. We hung out at McDonald’s til it got late and then I went home because it was pretty clear Sheila and Jason needed to get a room. Most of the time it doesn’t bother me when they’re sucking face right in front of me, but I had homework, so I left. I spent the rest of the night working on my history project and then watched YouTube videos waiting for Sheila to not show up. She said she was spending the night, but that was just so I’d cover for her if her mom called. I don’t have to imagine what they did with the rest of the evening because Sheila gave me the play-by-play in the morning. Everything with Sheila is Jason this and Jason that, but I put up with it because she’s in love. That’s how love can be, I guess.

  And he loves her too. Sheila and I made the homecoming court this year thanks to Jason. He got all the guys on the football team to vote for us. I still don’t have an escort, but Sheila says that Jason’s working on something as if I’m a charity case, which compared to her I kind of am. Some people ask their dad to walk them in, but I haven’t done that yet because there’s a good chance my dad wouldn’t actually show up and even if he did, he’d probably be covered in grease or drunk.

  After Sheila me about what she and Jason did up at the lake, most of which I think she embellished because that’s kind of what she does, she copied my chemistry homework. And then I drove her home. That’s the last thing I remember. No matter how hard I try. Just putting the car in reverse and Sheila talking about how her mom would probably be pissed because she missed church.

  It freaks me out that I might get arrested. How can you get arrested for something you don’t even remember? Will they put handcuffs on me?

  Mom reaches for a tissue from the tray table at the end of my bed. I’ve never seen her like this. She cries at Disney movies and sometimes just before her period, but it’s never like this.

  Sheila has probably talked to Jason by now. He’s the captain of the football team. Coach is the only reason he hasn’t quit high school to work with his dad’s plumbing business. If Coach Mitchell is really dead because of something I don’t even remember doing, Jason will hate me. But then, so will everyone else at Jefferson High. My life would pretty much be over.

  “I’m going call work and let them know I won’t be in,” Mom says and Dad nods. He doesn’t have to call his work because he’s the boss of his sorry-ass garage.

  It’s hard to imagine my parents have ever been friends, even harder to believe they were ever in love with each other. If Mom hadn’t gotten pregnant, she wouldn’t be stuck in a dead-end job saving what little money she has for annual trips to Minnesota to see her sister. I mean, I love Aunt Kate, but Minnesota is even more boring than Texas.

  Dad, though, he would probably still be doing what he’s doing, happy in his crappy trailer park, working on his truck or out on his fishing boat, but I know Mom gave up everything for me. She could have gone to college and gotten out of Jefferson. Instead, she’s stuck in that crappy job at the nursing home in this crappy town. When I was younger, I thought if I could be the perfect student and model daughter, my parents would have less to fight about. It turned out they didn’t need any excuse to hate each other.

  Dad sees me awake and scooches his chair closer.

  “How ya doing?”

  Is there a dumber question to ask me at this moment?

  I shrug.

  “It’s like your mom said, it was an accident. You have to remember that. That’s what’s important.”

  Miracle of miracles—they agree on something.

  “Can we not talk about it?” I ask him because I can’t talk about it. I can’t think about it. It cannot have happened.

  5

  LIZ

  On my way to the coffee station in the waiting area, I run into Sheila’s mother, Janet.

  “How’s Sheila?”

  Janet has never been friendly with me, probably because I have never been one of the moms who volunteer with the PTA, chaperone the school trips, or work the concession stands at sporting events. It is not just that I am busy working, which I am, it is more because I feel so out of step with the other moms. I had Jess when I was eighteen. The other moms are older than me. Their confidence and comradery are intimidating, and it is hard to find anything to talk to them about. The very few times I have tried, the awkwardness was painful. They never seemed to need or want me there, so I just stopped trying.

  But now, seeing Janet, I have the urge to hug her. She looks worn through, instead of the pulled-together shiny-bright woman I have always known. She won’t meet my eyes and turns to press the elevator button, but my question stops her. She adjusts her purse strap, glances over at the nurse’s station. “Her arm is broken. Thank God, it’s not worse.”

  “I’m so sorry. Jess is banged up pretty bad, too. Concussion. She can’t remember the accident. She’s been asking for Sheila.”

  Janet’s thin lips curl and she sets her jaw and still will not look at me as if she cannot bear the sight of me. After a few chilly seconds, she says, “I think it’s best if the girls don’t talk.”

  “Why? They’ve been in a horrible accident. They need each other.”

  “A man is dead. I think what we need to do is let the police sort it out.”

  A man is dead. An image of Coach Mitchell appears in my mind. Smiling, congratulating me, shaking Jake’s hand in this very same hospital the day after Jess was born. The elevator doors open, and Janet gets on without a word. I wander back to Jess’ room in a daze. A few moments later, a new nurse comes in with paperwork, followed by a doctor.

  He nods to Jake and me, then sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m Dr. Alstair. I’m just going to take a look at Jessica.” The nurse hands him his own set of gloves and he pulls them on. He looks at her chart. “She seems to be doing well, considering.”

  No one says a word. Silence echoes through the room. The high-pitch squeak of nurses’ shoes fades down the hallway. A delivery truck backs up outside. Jake cracks his knuckles, and I bristle at the sound. Jess says nothing, stares out the window. Is she doing well? Jake stretches, then leans back in his chair, making it creak. None of us are doing well, but that is not this doctor’s concern. He is focused on the physical being, not the hearts that are shattering all over this room.

  Dr. Alstair does the same routine as the last doctor. Shining the light, making Jess track his finger and asking simple questions like, who is the president and what day it is. Then he signs a paper and hands it to the nurse.

  “The nurses will go over the concussion protocol with you. As long as she is stable all morning, you can take her home this afternoon. Come back in ten days to have the stitches removed or go to see your family doc,” he says. Then he looks at Jess, shakes his head, just slightly. In what? Pity? Anger? Judgment? Or am I only projecting what is to come? “Good luck, young lady.” He shakes Jake’s hand, and I watch his white back go out the door.

  Later Jake goes to the cafeteria and comes back with lunch. Neither Jess nor I can eat, but nothing seems to get in the way of his appetite. He has just balled up the empty wrapper to his sandwich when the nurse comes in.

  “I’ll need some signat
ures,” she says and hands me papers. “You’ll want to bring your car around to the back entrance.”

  “Why can’t we go out the front?” I ask.

  “I think it would be better if you went out the back. There are reporters out front and a lot of people in the lobby.”

  “They’re here because of Coach,” Jake says. It is not a question. “I’ll get my truck. I’ll call you when I’m at the door.” He doesn’t look back at us.

  I feel as if the twenty-four hours since I arrived at the hospital have been a slow grind up a rickety roller coaster track and we are perched at the top now, about to go down, unsure whether the track will hold or the seatbelts will work, or whether I can even watch.

  — — —

  Driving home, we sit three across in Jake’s tow truck. Its steady, insistent grumble would drown out our conversation if we had anything to say. I hate this time of year, the days growing shorter, the cold seeping in at night. Cars flash by, drivers hurrying home from school or shopping, their day just like any other, but today, everything looks foreign. Dangerous. We pass a woman jogging, and I tense up until we have passed her. Jess says nothing; she just stares blankly out the windshield, unmoving. I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away, tucking it between her knees.

  We are almost to the house and Jake says he plans to stay over. “I want to be here in case you need me. In case Jess does,” he clarifies when I roll my eyes at his offer.

  I do not need him hovering, acting like he can help when he can’t. There is nothing to fix, at least nothing he can fix. Besides, his latest floozy is probably waiting at his trailer.

  When I made the decision to keep Jess and marry Jake, I changed. I grew up. One of us had to be the adult. I thought once the baby was born, Jake would step up. He would stop running around with his buddies and be the husband and father I wanted, no, I needed him to be.

  I think my conviction—the naive belief that he could be a better man—is what underwrote our divorce. I could not see past the man I wanted him to be, and I finally realized he didn’t want to be that man. Jake is a great guy, the guy everyone wants to hang out with, drink a beer (or ten) with, take fishing. But they don’t have to live with him. In the end, I became a shrew, and he moved out to Gillam, where there are no neighborhood associations, and no one goes to church on Sundays during fishing season.

  “We will be fine, really. Besides, you’ll need to open the shop in the morning.” I say this even though I know he doesn’t. His garage is the local hangout where all the other men who don’t have real jobs and never grew up come to hang out and talk about all the things they will never do and whether the fish are biting.

  As we turn onto our street, a truck speeds past us, swerving to avoid the news vans and reporters that line the street and crowd our driveway.

  “What the—” Jake stops himself from saying any more, but he guns the engine, blaring the horn as he makes the turn into our driveway, scattering people like birds.

  My heart races and I instinctively pull Jess to me; she stares out the windshield in shock. Jake jumps out of the truck and starts yelling and waving his arms. Camera’s flash, but people back up onto the lawn, out of Jake’s reach. One big guy who looks familiar steps forward and for a moment I think Jake is going to hit him, but then a police cruiser roars up the street. The policeman instructs everyone to move back. “Shows over folks. You need to step back to the sidewalk.” I pull Jess from the truck and hurry her into the house. Jake follows us in.

  Jess collapses on the couch and turns on the TV.

  Jake looks at her and back at me. “I’ll just hang around a little while.”

  I don’t argue. Jake steps towards me. Lowers his voice. “This isn’t good.”

  I bite back the sarcastic comment that would normally rise to my lips and wave him into the kitchen. There is no wall between the kitchen and living room, just a line of sagging pine cabinets and a stained Formica counter. This house is exactly like every other house on the street, except everybody else has at some point remodeled the interior which is straight out of the seventies-era all-one-big-room fad. So, it is not as if Jess can’t hear us, but now we at least make an attempt at being discreet.

  Jake sits at the table and gives me a knowing look, one that pulls me back to graduation day when I hid my growing belly under my gown and smiled at the people who avoided my eyes and whispered behind their programs. I shudder at the thought of Jess under such a microscope. Surely, Jefferson has evolved.

  “Now what?” he asks.

  “The lawyer will be here soon,” I tell him.

  “What lawyer? They haven’t even charged her with anything. Shit, Liz, how’re we gonna pay for a lawyer?”

  “He’s a friend,” I tell him, although I am not sure that is true. I met Kevin Sharp when his father was a resident at Morningside. His father was an elegant man, a serious Scrabble contender, and his mind never lost a step; everyone on staff loved him. He adored Kevin, bragged about him incessantly, and yet Kevin rarely visited. He was always busy. Always had some big case. His father died of an aneurysm in his sleep, and Kevin asked me out the day he came to collect his father’s things. It seemed inappropriate and I turned him down. I saw him two more times after that and each time he pressed his business card into my hand and told me to call him if he could ever do anything for me.

  So I called him, and I am really hoping he can do something for me.

  6

  LIZ

  Jake shakes his head, frowns. “Oh, I get it. This lawyer’s some guy you slept with. That’s how come he’s gonna help us? How do you know he’s even a real lawyer?”

  I don’t take the bait. Jake always looks for a fight. But this is different. We can’t fight about this. I level my eyes at him and say calmly, “Right now he’s all we’ve got.”

  The doorbell rings. Jake stands to answer the door, but I pull him aside. It’s my house. He’s the one who left and I don’t need him offending Kevin before he’s even in the door.

  When I open the door, though, it’s not Kevin Sharp, esquire. Lights flash. People crowd the porch, flinging their questions and waving microphones. “Are you Jessica Johnson’s mother? Was Jessica texting when she hit Coach Mitchell? Was alcohol involved? Has she been officially charged with anything yet?”

  I slam the door and turn to Jake who is right behind me. I am shaking and I can’t form words. He hesitates, and for a moment I think he is going to put his arms around me, but then he touches my elbow and moves past me. “Where’d that cop go? I’ll get rid of them.”

  Jess races for her room. As I dial 911, I can hear Jake. “Get off this property right now!” The reporters yell more questions, but Jake yells even louder, “Get the hell out of here!”

  The people retreat to the sidewalk, but they don’t leave. I can hear them. The dispatcher who answers my call says she will send a car.

  “They moved back, but they’re not going to leave,” Jake says.

  I am still holding my phone. Frozen. I look up at Jake, and my tears start again. I can’t seem to stop them. He takes a hesitant step toward me, but I wave him away and instead go to my room to change before our meeting with Kevin. I am still wearing my work clothes and my name badge from Morningside. Hello, my name is Elizabeth Johnson, please let me help you. I’m glad Jake is here, but I wish he would leave. I do not want to depend on Jake Johnson. I don’t want to need him.

  I wash my face and change into a clean sweater and jeans. There is no point in makeup as my tears come and go at will. Was Jessica texting when she hit Coach Mitchell? Why would they ask that? Why would they think that? Jess gives me holy hell whenever I use the phone while driving. I put my phone in my purse in the back seat when I’m driving just t
o appease her.

  I call my sister Kate. I tried to reach her from the hospital but only got her voicemail. I vaguely remember her telling me something about a camping trip. She must be home by now. Through my tears, I tell her all that has happened.

  “Should I come?” she asks.

  “No, no. There’s nothing you can do. I don’t know what will happen yet. Jess seems most upset that they shaved some of her hair and she can’t talk to Sheila. She doesn’t believe that she did this. Frankly, I can’t believe it either...Coach Mitchell is dead, Kate. Because of Jess.” My voice breaks and tears engulf me.

  Kate waits.

  “I feel so helpless. I don’t know what to say or do. It was an accident. Won’t people see that?”

  “You do remember this is Jefferson, Texas we’re talking about?”

  I know what that means. These people only see in black and white; gray is too complicated. And what if they’re right and this is Jess’ fault?

  “I wish we knew what really happened. She wouldn’t have been texting. I just can’t believe she could have done what they’re saying.”

  “She’s a teenager, Liz. I know you think the sun rises and sets because of her, but she’s just a kid. Kids do stupid things. Even smart kids.”

  She’s right. I know, but her words make me angry. Jess isn’t like other kids.

  “She wasn’t texting.”

  “I hope you got a good lawyer.”

  I don’t say anything. All I know about Kevin Sharp is he is partial to banana pudding. His father always asked for it when he knew Kevin was coming to eat with him.

  “You did get a lawyer?” Kate asks.

  “Yes. I have a lawyer. He’ll be here any minute.”