Big Fat Disaster (39 page)

Chief Taylor waits until we’re settled, pulls his notepad from his back pocket, and sets his sights on me. “This afternoon, one of your classmates, a”—he consults his notes—“Becca Schuler—and her mother, Kate, informed me that they were witnesses to the accident that took Ryan’s life. They said—”

Leah cuts him off. “
Accident
? Did you say, ‘
Accident
’? So you admit that it wasn’t suicide?”

He holds up a hand. “Now, I’m getting to that, just—”

“I
knew
it! I knew my baby wouldn’t leave me on purpose!” Leah’s voice cracks. She covers her mouth with her hand and her shoulders shake with sobs.

He watches her a moment, sighs heavily, and frowns at me.

Mom says defensively, “Wh-why are you looking at Colby like that?”

“Young lady,” Chief Taylor says to me, “would you like one last chance to be the one to tell the truth about what happened on the road that day?”

“She
told
the truth!” Mom gives me a little shove. “Didn’t you? You saw Ryan in the street and you saw the semi coming and you—
you
—tried to save him.”

I fix my eyes on the framed print on the wall above Leah’s head. It reads
Hope Will Find You
. I can feel Leah’s eyes locked on me like lasers, and I don’t dare lower my gaze to meet hers.

Mom shrieks, “Colby!
Tell them
that you weren’t the one trying to die that day!”

Chief Taylor’s voice is every bit as flat as Mom’s is hysterical. “Mrs. Denton, we need to hear Colby’s version of the events.” He pulls a ladder-back chair from Leah’s dining room table and turns it toward me. He sits heavily, and his leather gun belt squeaks a little. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and says softly, “Listen to me, sweetheart. Becca told me that you’re bound and determined to keep the circumstances of Ryan’s death a secret, and that she gave you twenty-four hours to come clean…which you have apparently opted not to do.” He shrugs. “Would have been nice if they’d spoken up sooner; I’m just glad that they came forward now.”

I lock my arms at my sides and slowly draw them across my chest. I cradle my cast and curve my shoulders in.

Chief Taylor says gruffly, “Look at your aunt, Colby. Don’t you think you owe her the truth?”

I won’t do it and he leans forward, cups my chin in his hand, and forces my face toward Leah. I close my eyes, and he gives my face a little shake.

His voice is rough. “I said, look at her!”

Mom’s voice is sharp. “Colby!”

I open my eyes, and in Leah’s cold stare, I see Ryan’s bloody face. I grit my teeth and try to swallow, but the lump in my throat makes it nearly impossible. I shake my head.

Chief Taylor releases my chin, straightens, and pulls a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolds it. “This is Mrs. Schuler’s witness statement, signed and dated today.”

He clears his throat, then reads matter-of-factly. “My daughter and I were cleaning our family’s rental property on the day Ryan Ellis died. We were finishing up and about to leave, when we witnessed Colby Denton step in front of a car, as if she was trying to get hit. The driver swerved to miss her, but circled back around and appeared to be yelling at her. We watched as Colby went back up the street toward Sugar’s bakery.

“About thirty minutes later, we saw her walk determinedly—” He pauses. “That’s the word they used, Colby:
determinedly
.”

He bumps up his eyebrows like he’s waiting for me to talk. When I don’t, he continues reading. “We saw her walk determinedly into the street and hold her arms out as if she was trying to keep her balance. She stood just at the cusp of the hill, and within moments, an eighteen-wheeler appeared. As if out of nowhere, Ryan Ellis came running from the side of the house. He barreled into Colby, knocking her clear of the semi. It happened in the blink of an eye. Next thing we knew, Ryan was lying in the road. We saw his mother when she discovered his body. There was a little blonde girl standing in the road, screaming. I took her by the hand and we found Colby just off the shoulder of the road, near a bar ditch. I placed my purse under Colby’s head and stayed with her until help arrived.”

Chief Taylor refolds the paper and slides it into his pocket, then leans forward again with his elbows on his knees. He clasps his hands as if in prayer and asks, “Is that about the way it happened, Colby?”

I bite my lip, close my eyes, and lower my head. A tear runs down my nose and lingers a moment before falling onto my forearm.

Mom shrieks, “Why did you make up that story?
Why
?”

I whisper, “I didn’t.”

She slaps the side of my head. “What did you say? Stop mumbling! Why did you make up that story?”

I sigh. “
I
didn’t.
You
did. All I did was keep it going.”

Chief Taylor asks loudly, “Mrs. Denton? Is that true? Did you
purposely
derail my investigation?”

Mom snorts. “I did
not
make up any story. Colby Diane Denton, tell him that I did not make up that story.”

My head snaps up. “Yes, you did. You said it in the ambulance, when you told the paramedic that I didn’t remember trying to save my cousin! I never told you I did.
You
decided that I did!”

Mom’s face has that melting-off-her-skull look. She latches onto my wrist, digs her fingernails in, and shakes her head. “But the police officer said…
I
never…”

“Yes, you did, Mama. I heard you.”

All eyes turn to Drew. Her voice is tiny. “I remember, Mama. You told Colby not to look at Ryan when we were getting in the ambulance. I asked you if Colby was in trouble and you said, ‘No, she can’t help it if Ryan tried to kill himself.’ Then Colby tried to talk, and you told the man in the blue shirt to help her calm down because she didn’t remember trying to save Ryan.”

Mom’s eyes are huge. She’s still got a death grip on my wrist and she looks down at her hand as if it belongs to someone else. She releases her claws and crosses her arms tightly over her chest.

Leah sobs, “How
could
you, Colby? How could you let me think that Ryan committed suicide? Why didn’t you say anything?”

My heart is pounding in my ears. No one is speaking; it’s like they’re waiting for me to make some kind of profound statement that will explain why I’m a terrible person. “It…was…I mean…Mom was…” I stop, realizing that no matter what I say, no one will understand how badly I needed my mom to be proud of me for
something
.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish it had been me. Every day, I wish I had been the one who died.” I shake my head. “That day…the Facebook page…the video of me getting dressed…and…Mom said it was all my fault because I’m so…” I sob, “I just wanted to die. I
needed
to not be here anymore.”

I reach for my mother’s hand and try to pull it into my own, but she keeps her arm locked firmly against her chest. “Please, Mom, please don’t hate me. I…I
need
you not to hate me anymore.”

Mom won’t look at me. Leah rocks herself back and forth in her chair, and Drew stares at our mother like she’s an exhibit in a museum.

Chief Taylor scribbles on his notepad for what seems like forever. At last, he stands and says quietly, “I’ll forward my findings to the medical examiner. Leah, I think it’s safe to assume that Ryan’s death will be classified as an accident.”

She nods and gets up, moves to the front door, and holds it open. “Thank you for letting me know the truth,” she says softly. “I knew it. I
knew
he wouldn’t leave me on purpose.” She closes the door behind him, then turns to us. “I’d like to be alone now.” She goes to her bedroom, and when she turns the door lock, the sound makes me jump.

Mom gets up without a word and walks out the front door. Drew follows her immediately, but I remain frozen in the same spot. I think about the promise I made Dr. Matt, and I hear his voice in my head:
“You’re not a terrible person.”

Even after I told him the truth about what happened, he didn’t seem to change his opinion of me. I shake my head. Maybe he wasn’t listening closely. If he
had
been, there’s no way he would have been so nice to me…

That sound—the waterfall of loss that I heard when the truck’s brakes stopped squealing—is coming from Leah’s bedroom. It sends me slamming into the pavement all over again and the horrifying moment I knew that Ryan was dead and I was alive.

I’ve
got
to get away from it. I work my way off the sofa and start for the front door, but stop in the hallway. I stare at Ryan’s closed bedroom door, trying to work up the courage to open it. I swallow hard, then twist the doorknob and step inside his room. I turn on the light and sit on the edge of his bed, breathe in his scent, take in my surroundings.

He never invited me into this place when he was alive.

There’s a framed photo on his desk of him and Leah. She has her arm draped around his neck and they’re both making silly faces. Another shows Ryan staring full on at the camera while Leah gazes at him with love in her eyes. My stomach clenches with pangs of jealousy. I
wish
my mom would look at me like that, but I know she never will. Especially now that she knows the truth about Ryan’s death.

I rise and close Ryan’s door quietly behind me. I step out the front door and start down the steps. Charley briefly raises her head from her place on Dad’s recliner, but lowers her head to the armrest and goes back to sleep. There’s no sign of Zeeke. He probably followed Drew home to the trailer.

I start toward it, too, but I know what awaits me: Mom’s disappointed face and more affirmation that I’ve achieved a new level of being a big fat disaster. Can’t face it.

Just can’t.

There’s still enough sunlight to see that the barn door is ajar. I open it wider and step inside, startling some birds nesting in the rafters. I duck when they fly out over my head. I straighten, and my eyes light on the solid-looking wood beam about five feet over my head. There’s a crossbeam above it…and an idea begins forming in my mind. A way I won’t have to see that look on my mom’s face anymore.

I look around for a rope. I’m not sure how to make a noose—especially with one arm in a cast—but I’ll bet if I tie it just right, it’ll break my neck as perfectly as that semi broke Ryan’s. The same crackling electricity that drives me to pig out—or to march into the center of Main Street on the prowl for a semi-truck—is in charge of me now. I’m not even thinking; my heart is racing like I’m jet fuel–powered with the idea of hanging myself.

The barn is so full of our crap that I can’t get back into the depths of it. I open the doors wide since nobody’s paying any attention to me anyway. I drag the bits and pieces of our lives that didn’t fit anywhere else out into the yard. Zeeke reappears; he and Charley sit off to the side like they’re watching a furniture parade.

I clear enough of a path to get to a workbench in the back of the barn. Next to it, dangling from a hook, is a rope. The perfect rope. It looks like the kind a cowboy uses for a lasso. I lean against the workbench and futz with it, trying to figure out how to form a noose. I’m able to wiggle the fingers on my left hand perfectly; it just takes a little while to figure out the best way to work the rope with a left arm that’s in an L-shaped cast. After a while, I give up on making a noose and loop the rope across my shoulders, pull it into position, and try to get the stiff material to loosen enough to knot.

I sigh loudly; it’s getting darker and I’m having a hard time seeing what I’m doing. I move to the doorway, dragging that long-ass rope behind me like a tail on the ground.

I glance toward the trailer and remember what it was like to look in the window at Sugar’s and wait for my mom to come talk to me…that feeling when she smiled and went to help Drew decorate her fucking day-old cookies, when I was dying inside because everyone and their brother was watching Ryan’s video of me dressing.

Fuck her. Wait’ll she finds me hanging in this barn. Bet she won’t be laughing then.

I finagle the rope into a knot, then a double knot, and check to make sure there’s not too much room between it and my skin. It reminds me of pulling my bed sheet up just under my jaw so that I can’t feel my double chin sticking to my neck. I pull the end of the rope even tighter, grunting as I do so.

I drag our end table back into the barn and place it under the beam. I step onto the wobbly table, and—

“What are you doing?”

—I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of Leah’s voice.

She steps into the barn and flips the light switch just inside the door. Harsh fluorescent light floods the small space.

Leah shrieks, “What
the fuck
are you doing, Colby?” She stomps over to me and pulls me off the table by my good arm, then stands between me and my plans. “Huh? Tell me.”

I say nothing; just look at my feet. She tries to pull the makeshift noose over my head, but it catches on my chin.

“Jesus H. Christ, Colby!” She uses both hands to loosen the knot a little and work the rope over my head, then tosses it to the ground. She wraps her beefy arms around me and sobs, “What are you thinking?”