B0160A5OPY (A) (18 page)

“And she never will,” says Mrs. Naughton, with something approaching firmness. “
We
never did.”

“No,” says Mr. Naughton, “he’s irreplaceable. But, at least we’ve still got –” I expect him to say “Luke” or “our other son”, but instead he sighs and says, “ – our memories.”

“That’s it,” I say, placing my sandwich back onto my plate and pushing back from the table.

“You’re leaving?” Mr. Naughton looks surprised.

“Yes, I’m leaving. You have a choice to make, and I’m pretty certain you don’t want me around while you discuss it.”

“A choice?” says Mrs. Naughton, looking at me in her vague, unfocused way.

Luke squeezes my leg in warning, but I shake my head at him – I can’t stop now.

“Yes. Your loss of Andrew has been considerable, painful beyond words – I see that, I understand it. But you stand to lose even more. The way I see it, you have to choose whether you’re forever going to wallow in grief and self-pity, or –”

Mrs. Naughton gasps as if I’ve slapped her. “How dare you?” she says shrilly. There is real conviction in her voice now.

“– or whether you’re going to love the son you still have. Luke is here, right in front of you. He’s alive! And he’s fabulous – strong and brave and admirable. I’m sure Andrew was a fine son, but he wasn’t the only one worth loving. You have a second chance here,” I stand up and grip Luke’s shoulder, giving him a little shake. He is staring down into his lap. His parents are gaping at me as if I’m mad. Perhaps I am. Who am I to be lecturing them?

“See
him
, celebrate
him
,
love … him!
” I end on a plea, then I place my crumpled napkin on the table and stalk to Luke’s room to grab my bag.

On my way back out, the family is still sitting in stunned silence, but Luke catches up with me halfway down the front path lined with tall lavender bushes. I reach into my bag for the envelope. I want to give him his present before I go.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” he says.

“It’s true.”

“I know, but I don’t think they want to hear the truth.”

“Well, they
need
to hear the truth.” I hear the words as I say them and my hypocrisy disgusts me.

“Perhaps. Anyway, I love you for standing up for me.”

“What?” The L word. Here? Now?

He nods and grins, like he has just heard what he said and wants to confirm it.

“Yup, I lo-”

“Stop!” I yell the word. “Don’t say it. Not yet. You don’t know everything.”

“Sloane?” He asks, puzzled.

“I said your parents need to hear the truth, but so do you …” My voice is rising with panic.

“Are you going to lecture me too, now?”

He smiles sadly and I am pierced by the thought that this may well be the last time he ever smiles at me.

“No. I’m going to tell you the truth – the whole sad, sorry, awful truth. I should have told you ages ago.”

“The truth? What do you mean?”

The smile is gone. I wish there were some way I could brace him for what’s coming, but nothing I can say will change the facts.

“Luke …” I pause, pull a head of lavender off a stalk and crumple it between my fingers; the pungent smell rises up between us. “This is what you don’t know about the accident that killed Andrew. My mother
was
the one driving, and texting, and she did accidentally run a red light. But,” I close my eyes, take a deep breath, force myself to meet his eyes again, “I was the one who saw those school kids. I was the one who wrenched the steering wheel to the side to miss them and sent the car into Andrew instead. It was me, not her, me.”

The color drains from his face. He takes an involuntary step backwards as if reeling from a blow. His eyes go wide.

“Luke, please,” I step towards him, holding out my hand. “I am so, so, sor-”

“Don’t say it. Please do not say that you are sorry.” His voice is cold and flat. “Like a word can make any of this better.”

I nod.

“You lied. You lied to me!” he rages, his eyes now filled with contempt.

“I didn’t lie, Luke, I didn’t. I just assumed you knew the whole story, that the cops had told you or you’d found out at the inquest.”

“I didn’t go to the inquest. I didn’t want to run the risk of meeting you, the girl who lived.” All the old bitterness is back. “And when you discovered I didn’t know? Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I tried.”

“Not very hard, though, did you? When exactly did you plan to tell me – never?”

“I was scared, okay? I loved you, already then, and I couldn’t face losing you.”

“Well you’re going to have to face it now!” He curses, curses again. “Just when I thought I could care again.”

He spins on his heel and starts walking towards the house, then comes back again, smashing his hand through a lavender bush, sending the mauve florets flying.

“I thought I knew you, Sloane. I thought I could trust you. But I can’t. You’re a liar and I never want to see you again! I’ve been such a fool – I knew I should have trusted my first instincts. You’ve ruined my life, ruined my parents’ lives, you took Andrew’s.”

His rage is like a hurricane coming at me full-blast, buffeting me with its force, blowing an icy chill right through the heart of me.

“Yes,” I say when he stops. “All that, yes.”

I look away from him at last, drop my head. It is suddenly dead-heavy, like it has picked up the weight of his pain.

I turn to go, then notice that I still have the envelope in my hands. The ribbon is half unraveled. I hand it to him.

“Here, this was for you – your birthday present. You might as well have it.”

He crumples it in his fist and flings it back at me; it lands on the stone path at my feet.

“Keep it,” he snarls, his face twisted into a grimace of fury. “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t need anything from you. Take it back – maybe you can change it, get something for yourself.”

I pick up the envelope.

“Some things can’t be changed, can’t be taken back,” I say.

Then I leave, walking all the way down the path and tossing the envelope into the trash can on the sidewalk outside Luke’s house.

33

Letting go

Hold it, hold it.

I stand on the sidewalk outside of Luke’s house for a long while, unsure of what to do. I know only that I must hold myself together because there’s something building inside of me. Something that wants out. A howl, or a scream. Perhaps it’s just a whimper, but I know I can’t let it out here, now. So I stand perfectly still, holding it in.

The afternoon is growing cold. A chilly, gusting breeze whips strands of hair into my face. I can’t stay here. I force myself to move my hands, to find my phone and call Ed. Then I wait some more, holding on, holding in. I stare at the russet leaves scuttling down the street. A few of them bank up against my feet. It is important to keep my mind blank. If I begin to think, then I will start to feel. So I will not think about this – not here, not yet.

I hear the door of the house open behind me and a voice calls, “Hey.”

I turn to see that Luke has stepped out, no further than the front step. His arms are folded across his chest.

Hold it hold it hold it.

“Do you need a lift home?” There is no softening in his face. This is mere duty and good manners.

I shake my head, wave my phone which I see is still clasped in my tight, white fingers. “Ed’s coming.” My voice is an unsteady croak.

He nods and goes back inside. I turn back to face the road.

I pull the threads of me in and clench them together, holding tight, standing still as a statue in the dead leaves, waiting for my lift. Not thinking.

When Ed pulls up, I wonder if I will be able to move my feet. I feel brittle, like if I move too suddenly, I might shatter.

“The roads are nice and empty. Sure you don’t want to take a shot at driving today?” he asks, as I allow myself to bend just enough to clamber into the back seat. It’s warm inside the car. It smells of pizza and a love song is playing on the radio. The iciness inside my stomach roils and begins to rise.

Hold it.

“No, just straight home, please.” My mouth is tight – my lips open just enough to let the words out. I keep the howl gated behind my teeth, locked up in my throat. I spend the journey staring out the window where trees shake themselves free of leaves.

“Nice to see you, stranger! Join us for supper?”

It’s a smiling aunt Beryl, coming into the apartment block just as I do. She follows me through the lobby towards the elevators, clutching half a dozen grocery bags in her hands. I would offer to help her, I would, but I’m afraid that if I unclench my fingers, the threads will slip loose and what is inside will escape.

Hold it. Keep holding.

“Can I take a rain check?” I force myself to say the words.

“Sure. You’ve got plans?”

Oh yeah.

I nod.

Inside the elevator, I stare at the brooch on her scarf. It’s a complicated art deco piece of onyx and marcasite. If I focus hard on each of the geometric facets of it, the tears dammed behind my eyes are forced to stay there.

“You okay, Sloane?” She looks at me worriedly.

“Fine. Really.” The doors begin to open on my floor.

Hold it, hold it, not long now.

“How about lunch tomorrow? The triplets have learned a new song at stay-and-play and they’re desperate to sing it for you. They’re such sweeties, they’ve even memorized the actions.” She starts humming the tune to “The wheels on the bus go round and round”.

“Sure. Bye.”

I have to force myself not to run for my apartment. My trembling fingers fumble with the keys. I can’t catch my breath, something is crushing my chest from the inside.

Hold it. Hold it. Just a few seconds more.

Eventually the door is open and I’m inside and it’s closed and I’m alone. I open my clenched hands, my bag falls to the floor and the threads holding me together spool loose. The shaking spreads from my hands. My legs can no longer hold me up. I hear paper tearing behind me as I slide down the hall wall and sit in a crumpled heap beneath the corkboard of pain.

Now.

And I let go.

It comes out as a soft mewl at first. But it grows, rapidly, to a deep sobbing which chokes my throat and hijacks my breathing. I cry. I cry for Luke. For what I’ve done to him and what he’s done to me. For what we had and what we’ve lost and how we’re both alone again.

And the grief expands, blossoming inside of me and overflowing. There’s no holding on or holding back now. I cry for Andrew, for that half-eaten bar of chocolate in that frozen room in that desolate house which is Luke’s home. I cry for the absence that is where our mothers used to be. And still there is more pain inside pushing its way up and out. I cry for all the stories hanging above my head, for all the pain trapped in black ink on white paper. For the burned kid, and the alligator man and the missing girl.

And for the first time since the accident, I cry for me. For my torn face, and my struggling scrap of spleen and my stiff knee. I cry for the races I will never swim, and the dad I will never have, and the mother who will never rest her hand on my forehead. For all my scars. For all the pieces of me.

And, after an age, I’m cried out. I’m drained, hollow as an empty pool.

I pick myself up and make myself move as far as the sofa, where I can lie down and sink into blessed nothingness until tomorrow. But shimmering spots dot my sight and a jagged arc of light patterned like pieces of broken mirror begins to flicker at the side of my vision. A migraine is coming, as if to remind me that the pain is not over.

34

Luke

When I come back into the house, my parents are still sitting at the table. My mother’s face is a mask of shock and outrage but, surprisingly, she’s not crying. Dad’s face is beet-red.

“Luke,” he calls as I pass, “we need to talk to you.”

“Not now,” I say.

“We need –”

“NOT NOW!”

I storm to my room and slam the door behind me, then open it again and slam it again. Harder.

Sloane lied. She hid the truth from me and I was too stupid to sense that there was something off, something not quite right.

I’ve been burned. And I swore I never would be hurt like this again. After Andrew died, I built a thick wall between me and the rest of the world. Then she came along and scaled it, and got inside of me and I dared to care again, to trust again. And now? Now it’s all ashes. Ashes and lies.

She’s left her jacket behind on my bed. I snatch it up, fling it to the floor, kick it into the corner. I’m wedged in the corner, kicking and kicking and kicking when my door opens.

It’s mom. “That female is standing out in front of our house. Why is she not leaving?”

I push past mom, stalk through the house, fling open the front door. She’s still there, on the sidewalk, her arms clutched around her middle as if holding herself together. I call out to her and she turns around. Her face is stark white against the dark red of her hair, and pinched, like she’s in pain. But I don’t care. I won’t care.

She says her driver is coming to fetch her. Fine. I hope he drives her off the end of the world.

Back in the house, mom and dad are waiting for me.

“I never ever want to see that person again,” says mom.

This is exactly how I feel. But when she adds, “A relationship with her is not good for you,” I rankle. How would she know what is or isn’t good for me? She’s been hands-off in the mothering department for a year, and now she suddenly wants back in? Why now – because the holy name of Andrew has been invoked?

“I’m so upset, I’m shaking,” mom says, holding out a hand as evidence.

Dad puts an arm around mom’s shoulders and I register that this is the first time I’ve seen them touching in forever.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he says.