Grace’s voice went up a notch. “How can they be done?”
“They’ve asked their questions.”
“Asked you, not me. What did you tell them?”
“I said we were driving home in the rain, visibility was terrible, and Mr. McKenna ran out from nowhere. They’ll have to go back along the road in the morning to see if there’s anything they missed that the rain didn’t get. I’ll file a report at the station tomorrow and get the car. Where’s Dylan?”
“He went to bed. He must have thought you were home. What do we tell him, Mom? I mean, he’ll know something happened when he sees your car missing, and besides, it was Mr. McKenna. This is such my luck that it was my teacher. I mean, like, I’m so bad at American history, people will think it was deliberate. What do I tell my friends?”
“You are not bad at U.S. history.”
“I shouldn’t be in the AP section. I don’t have a prayer of placing out when I take the test in June. I suck.”
If she did, it was news to Deborah. “You tell them that we couldn’t see Mr. McKenna in the rain, and that we weren’t going very fast.”
“You keep saying we.”
Yes. Deborah realized that. “I was the licensed driver in the car. I was the one responsible.”
“But I was the one at the wheel.”
“You were my responsibility.”
“If you’d been driving, the accident wouldn’t have happened.”
“Not true, Grace. I didn’t see Mr. McKenna, and I was watching the road as closely as if my own foot was on the gas.”
“But it wasn’t your foot on the gas.”
Deborah paused, but only for a minute. Slowly, she said, “The police assume it was.”
“And you’re not telling them the truth? Mom, that’s lying.”
“No,” she said, sorting it out even as she spoke. “They drew their own conclusion. I just haven’t corrected them.”
“Mom.”
“You’re a juvenile, Grace,” Deborah reasoned. “You were only driving on a permit, which means that you were driving on my license, which makes me responsible. I’ve been driving for twenty-two years and have a spotless record. I can weather this better than you can.” When Grace opened her mouth to protest again, Deborah pressed a hand to her lips. “This is right, sweetie. I know it is. We can’t control the weather, and we can’t control what other people do. We were compliant with every law in the book and did our very best to stop. There was no negligence involved on our part.”
“What if he dies?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does? That’s murder.”
“No,” Deborah argued, though the word murder gave her a chill, “it would be vehicular homicide, but since we did absolutely nothing wrong, there won’t be any charges.”
“Is that what Uncle Hal said?”
Hal Trutter was the husband of Deborah’s friend Karen, and while neither he nor Karen were actually related to the Monroes, they had known the children since birth. Their daughter, Danielle, was a year ahead of Grace.
Deborah saw Karen often. Lately, she had felt more awkward with Hal, but that was a whole other story.
“I haven’t talked with him yet,” she told Grace, “but I know he’d agree. And anyway, Mr. McKenna is not going to die.”
“What if he’s crippled for life?”
“You’re getting carried away with this, Grace,” Deborah warned, though she harbored the same fears. The difference was that she was the mother. She couldn’t panic.
“I saw his leg,” the girl wailed. “It was sticking out all wrong, like he fell from the top of a building.”
“But he didn’t fall from the top of a building. He is definitely alive, the nurse just told me so, and broken bones can be fixed.”
Grace’s face crumbled. “It was awful. I will never forget that sound.”
Nor would Deborah. She could still hear it—that thud—hours after the fact. Seeking purchase, she clutched Grace’s shoulders. “I need a shower, sweetie. I’m chilled, and my legs are filthy.” Keeping an arm around the girl, she walked her up the stairs and down the hall. In addition to the three children’s rooms, the third for a last child that Deborah and Greg might have had, there was a family room that had built-in desks, a sofa, matching armchairs, and a flat-screen TV. After Greg left, Deborah had spent so many nights here with the kids that she finally just moved into the third bedroom.
Grace was biting her nails again by the time they reached her door. Taking the hand from her mouth, Deborah looked at her daughter for a long, silent moment. “Everything will be fine,” she whispered before letting her go.
The texting had stopped before her mother got home, for which Grace was grateful. What could she tell Megan? Or Stephie? Or Becca? My mom is taking the blame for something I did? My mom is lying so I won’t be arrested? My mom could go tojail if Mr. McKenna dies?
Grace had thought the divorce was bad. This was worse.
Deborah had hoped that the shower would calm her, but warm, clean, and finally dry, she could think more clearly, and a clearer mind simply magnified what had happened. The sound of the rain didn’t help. It pounded the roof much as it had the car, and she remembered another night, the one when her mother had died. It had been pouring then, too.
Creeping into Dylan’s room, she knelt by the bed. His eyes were closed, dark lashes lying on cheeks that wouldn’t be smooth much longer. He was a gentle child with more than his share of worry, and while she knew that there were cures for his vision problems, her heart ached.
Not wanting to wake him, but helpless to leave without a touch, she moved her hand over his sandy hair. Then she went to her room, slipped into bed, and pulled the covers to her chin. She had barely settled when she heard Dylan’s steps, muted by the old slipper-socks that he wore every night. They were the last pair Ruth Barr had knit before her death, too big for him at first, now stretched so thin that they were about to fall apart. He refused to let Deborah throw them out, saying that they kept his Nana Ruth alive. In that instant, Deborah needed her mother, too.
“I tried to stay awake ’til you got home,” he mumbled.
Pulling him toward her, Deborah waited only until he set his glasses on the nightstand before tucking him in next to her. He was asleep almost at once. Moments later, Grace joined them, crawling in on the other side. It was a snug fit, though preferable to lying awake alone. Deborah reached for her daughter’s hand.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” the girl whispered, “not at all, the whole night.”
Deborah turned her head in the dark and whispered back, “Here’s the thing. We can’t rewind the clock. What happened happened. We know that Mr. McKenna is in good hands and that if there’s any change, we’ll get a call. Right?”
Grace made a doubtful sound but said nothing more. In time her breathing lengthened, but she slept in fits and starts. Deborah knew because she remained awake for a long time after that, and for reasons that went well beyond the drumming of rain on the roof. She kept seeing that striped running suit, kept feeling the jolt of impact.
Sandwiched between the children, though, she knew she couldn’t panic. After her marriage ended, she had made a vow. No more harm to the kids. No … more … harm.
The phone rang at six the next morning. Deborah had