In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(6)
“Just a few,” Madison promises, poking her head past me and into the hall just as my dad appears. “I’ll bring the suitcases. They’re on wheels.”
With a nod of thanks to her, he turns to me. “Are you ready? I imagine we’ll need to make a few stops along the way.”
“Yeah. Just . . . give me a minute.” When Madison hesitates to leave, I add softly, “Alone.”
She ducks her head and nods. I can’t tell if she’s hurt. To be honest, I don’t really care right now, as I maneuver around the suitcases and a box of textbooks that block my way into my room. Someone—Madison, I assume—cleaned up, stripping my bed and bagging the dirty laundry I didn’t get to. The loose change scattered over my dresser has also been collected into a small glass jar, the trash tossed.
My fingers lock over the smooth cover of my Typography textbook as I step around my packed things. I should have taken that final first thing Monday morning. My mom has already met with my professors and the dean at Michigan State. The paperwork is in place to defer my exams until August, before I’m supposed to start my senior year of classes and college ball. If I can play.
But that would mean playing on a team without Sasha.
I’ve never played on a team without Sasha. Our entire childhood was all about tossing balls and slapping pucks to each other. We came as a pair. When we both tried out as walk-ons freshman year, I accepted the idea of not playing if my best friend didn’t also make the team.
Never once have I accepted a life without him.
My mattress creaks under my weight as I sit. This is where I was meant to end up that night. Sitting here, on this bed, surrounded by these scuffed navy-blue walls, the muffled hum of voices and music filtering from the bar below, with this damn sharp-cornered textbook jabbing into my legs, while I cursed myself for not studying sooner.
Not being pulled out of my car on the side of the road, my friends’ heads having collided with pavement.
The textbook slams into the wall opposite me with a loud thud and a crack, its spine snapping. Quick footsteps rush down the hall and Madison appears in the doorway, her gorgeous face full of panic. When she sees me, her shoulders drop. “Oh, I thought you fell or . . .” She surveys the new and sizeable gouge in the drywall and then the textbook lying below, its pages fanned awkwardly. Her hands at her throat draw my attention to her long, thin neck. I’ve always found Madison’s neck especially alluring, unable to keep my mouth off of it for very long. Now, I simply stare at it, thinking how fragile the human body is.
Wondering exactly what broke Derek’s neck when he was thrown. Was it the car frame? The ground?
Madison closes a hand over the handle of my suitcase and wheels it out of the room without another word.
I last another ten seconds before I’m swallowing the saliva pooling in my mouth. Wandering into the kitchen, I pop open the fridge, in search of water. Someone’s emptied it of pizza boxes. All that’s left are a few condiments and a case of Miller Genuine Draft.
Sasha’s favorite.
I take the three steps to the kitchen sink and lean over, expecting to puke. Hoping like hell that I don’t because with all my injuries, I’ll likely pass out from the pain.
“You’ll be all right,” my mom croons softly, appearing out of nowhere. A cool hand touches the back of my neck, the chill soothing.
“How do you know that?” Because right now I’m wishing I hadn’t had my seat belt on either that night.
She offers me a pinched smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “Are you ready to go home?”
“No, but I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
Her shoulders hunch as though she has a ten-ton weight sitting on them as she pulls the trash out of the can.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I know you are,” she whispers, pushing down on the newspaper that pokes out.
“Wait.” I rush over and pull the stack out before she has a chance to tie the bag.
Three papers had been tossed. All with front pages covering the same story, none feeling real. But there’s my dad’s Suburban, the front left corner caved in, the windows all shattered. A second, smaller photo on the inset shows a hunk of twisted metal, the four linked rings—the Audi symbol—hanging off what must be the front grill.
How even one person survived in that is a miracle.
I falter over the headline, “Six Dead in College Drunk-Driving Accident.” “How can they print this?” I yell, holding up the paper in front of me. “They haven’t proven anything yet!”
My mom’s hand closes over the stack, gently tugging the papers. “You shouldn’t read those right now.”
I tighten my grasp and pull, freeing them from her fingers. Using the counter to spread out the pages, I sift through the articles until I come to a half-page picture of a teenage girl. She’s wearing a rugby jersey and she’s beaming. “Sixteen-year-old Kacey Cleary from Grand Rapids, Michigan,” the byline under the picture reads.
“It says she’s still in critical care but they expect her to survive,” my mom offers as I scan the article quickly, struggling with each new breath. According to this, they were heading home from a rugby game at a rival school near Detroit. They should have been home earlier, but they stopped for celebratory pizza.
The dead include her parents, her boyfriend, and another teenage girl. Probably her best friend. So, pretty much everyone who’s important to a sixteen-year-old.