In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(7)
What will this do to her?
I feel the blood drain from my face. “Does she have other family?”
“An eleven-year-old sister, who’s being cared for by an aunt and uncle right now.”
Eleven years old. Just a kid. “Should we visit her in the hospital?”
“Your father has tried, but she’s not . . . accepting anyone right now.” The way my mom’s voice falters tells me there’s more to that, but I don’t push. She holds the trash bag open, waiting for me to deposit the papers. With awkward one-armed movements, I roll the papers up against the counter and tuck the bundle under my armpit instead.
If only they hadn’t stopped for pizza.
If only I had remained at home to study.
If only I had stayed sober like I was supposed to.
If only I hadn’t handed Sasha the keys.
I leave the apartment, drowning in a sea of “if only’s.”
■ ■ ■
My dad makes the familiar turn down Logan.
And my hands are trembling. That’s never happened before.
I can drive this street with my eyes closed. Forty feet in is Mr. Peterson’s rickety old fence that Sasha and I took out while riding our skateboards. Another fifty feet and I’m staring at Ms. Meddock’s big bay window, the one I shattered with a slap shot. Four doors down from that is the family home of Naomi Gomes, our babysitter and the first girl that both Sasha and I ever crushed on. The next house to that used to belong to Derek’s grandparents, until they sold and moved to Arizona.
And, at the end of this cul-de-sac, two backsplits sit side-by-side. Both of them homes I would stroll into without a second’s thought.
Until now.
Now, my gut constricts at the sight of them. The one on the left sits empty and quiet, a tomb of lifelong memories. The other hosts a steady stream of cars and somber-faced people coming to pay their respects for a tragic loss.
And it finally sinks in.
This is really happening.
Chapter 4
June 2008
“Shouldn’t you be wearing your sling?” Madison settles two cans of Coke on the coffee table amidst the stack of textbooks and dishes from lunch . . . and breakfast . . . and yesterday’s barely touched meals.
“I needed a break.” I also need a break from being a one-armed gimp, but I’m not getting that anytime soon. I can’t even kill time and dark thoughts with a damn video game. At least my face doesn’t look like it was used as a punching bag anymore and my ribs are on the mend. I’m not struggling to breathe, either. Not physically, anyway.
Stepping over a lazy Murphy—the golden Lab mix that Sasha helped me pick out at the pound eight years ago—Madison falls into the space beside me on the couch. I feel her eyes on me, searching, but I keep my attention glued to the TV screen as I cautiously settle my good arm over her shoulder. I don’t know if she’s finding any comfort in it. I sure as hell am not.
She deserves a strong chest to lean against and soak up her tears, a sounding board for her frustrations. A boyfriend who will ease her pain after losing her only brother. Not a guy who can’t meet those all-too-familiar whiskey-colored eyes for more than three seconds before ducking away.
An awkward silence hangs over us. We’re moving into a strange stage of detached grief, where everyone has begun to accept reality. It’s impossible not to. Sasha’s absence in our lives is like a gaping fissure in the middle of a bridge. How the hell do you cross to get to the other side when you’ve run out of concrete? I guess you can slap on some wood to patch it up, to help you move on. But the bridge will never be quite right—never as strong—again.
With the acceptance of that reality, a slew of worthless “what ifs” and plenty of angry “whys” have followed from my parents, from Sasha’s parents, from Madison. Even from friends.
“Why were you out partying before exams in the first place?”
“Why weren’t they wearing their seat belts!”
“Why would you do something so stupid!”
I hear the unspoken accusation in it. I was there. I was as much a part of this as Sasha and Derek. And, though I understand where they’re coming from, the words hammer me over the head until I retreat to the sanctuary of this rec room.
“Fitz and Henry texted me,” Madison says. “They’re having a party this weekend. Wanted to know if we’d come. A lot of the gang will be around.”
“I’ll catch up with them some other time.” I barely said two words to them at the funeral and I haven’t answered any of the emails or texts since then.
“Do you want help studying?” She leans forward to flip open a textbook. My mom left my books there about two weeks ago. I haven’t cracked a single cover, the very idea of school exhausting.
“Nah, I’m good. Don’t you have your own finals to make up for, anyway?”
Madison shrugs as her hand falls to rest momentarily on the half-buried newspaper. On the sixteen-year-old survivor’s face that stares out at me. I don’t feel right using her name yet.
Clearing her throat, she asks quietly, “Should we go see her?” Madison and her parents feel as much pity for the girl as I do. After all, it was her brother, their son, behind the wheel.
“I don’t know. She’s not accepting visitors right now.” Translation: When my parents flew out there to see her and the nurse informed her of her guests, the girl screamed at the top of her lungs until they had to pump a sedative into her veins. Apparently she demanded that the hospital call the police and, when the cops finally arrived, she spewed all kinds of threats of bodily harm and murder, should any of us step foot inside her room. With her body set in a cast, she can’t even move right now.