Ryan adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, looks at me with eyebrow raised.
I sit down at the kitchen table and rest my head in my hands. “Why did you tell her she could go? I’m sure the Becketts need time alone right now. Plus, I want to talk with her about yesterday. Make sure she’s all right.”
He doesn’t respond right away, watches me closely. “Look, I know this has probably brought up a lot of stuff for you,” he says, and I peer at him through my hands. I swallow hard, know he’s talking about Paige. “But this situation is completely different. And if she wants to talk about it, she’ll talk, Meg. I don’t think forcing the issue is a great idea.”
I nod, but not because I agree. Simply to acknowledge I’ve heard him. “Tell her I’ll see her in the pickup line, okay?”
Ryan sighs again, this time with barely concealed frustration. “I think you should be prepared for things not to go the way you hope.”
The way I hope? Nothing about this is what I hoped for—but I won’t pretend like our fifteen-year-old has enough emotional maturity to process what happened yesterday on her own. I know how the aftereffects of witnessing such a tragedy can be slow to show themselves, coming out when you least expect them, and it’s my job to support Audrey, whether she wants it or not. Like my mother did for me.
“Noted,” I say to Ryan, matching his frustrated tone. “See you later.”
He starts to open the door, then turns back. “If you want to talk, I’m here, okay?”
“I know,” I reply, some of my irritation slipping away. “Hope you have a good day.”
“You, too,” he says, before heading through the door.
There have been many times I’ve missed having my mom to talk with since she died—when Audrey was a newborn and I couldn’t figure out how to get her to latch on, after what happened with Emma on New Year’s, when I sold my first house, when I caught seven-year-old Audrey stealing a pack of gum from the variety store and marched her back to confess and apologize. But it’s been a long time since I felt the pain of her loss, like someone is burning me from the inside out, and with a sob I wrap my arms around my body and imagine they’re her arms instead.
After a jittery, somewhat white-knuckled drive to the clinic—this is the first time I’ve been behind the wheel since the blurry drive to and from the hospital yesterday after Jack’s accident—I make a quick stop at the pharmacy for antibiotics, then go home. My plan is to spend the rest of the day before school pickup alternating between our bed and the living room couch. But by the time I get home my phone has exploded with messages and texts, and sleep seems out of the question.
Julie has sent three check-in texts and Ryan one, asking if I made it the clinic and if I mind if he plays squash after work with his colleague Jamie. My in-box has twenty-five unread messages, a dozen of which are from Tom—even though he knows I’m taking a sick day—about everything from how much wine to get for the open house to whether lilies are “too predictable.” Emma and the PTO need volunteers for the town hall meeting at Merritt High Sunday night, to kick off the school’s anti-texting-while-driving campaign. My dad sent flight details for his upcoming visit for Thanksgiving, along with a link to Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk, which he feels should be mandatory watching for Audrey.
And though I’m busy and distracted most of the day—finally sending out the open house invitation and responding to Tom’s unrelenting questions—thoughts of Jack and the accident squeeze their way into the quiet moments in-between. I’m desperate to know what’s happening but am not sure how to find out. I don’t want to bother Andrew and Alysse, plus Ryan would likely update me if he had any new information. I suppose I could text Audrey, but based on how we left things this morning, I suspect she’ll ignore me.
I try to focus on work but end up obsessing over the “what ifs” while making a cup of tea, only realizing once I take a sip I never actually boiled the water. What if Jack hadn’t stopped to tie his shoelace? What if I’d been paying closer attention, had seen Sarah’s car? What if Sarah Dunn hadn’t chosen that moment to respond to her ex-husband’s text and had kept her eyes on the road?
By the time it’s school pickup time, I’m still feeling ragged and worn out, but at least it’s a beautiful day, warm enough for only a sweater and jeans. With only one main road leading to and from Merritt High, it’s impossible not to drive right past the accident site, where signs have recently been erected, including a hand-painted one that reads, Honk if you love Jesus, text while driving if you want to meet Him. I try to keep my eyes on the road ahead, but they drift to the large pile of colorful flowers in plastic wrap situated on the edge of the curb, right near where Jack lay bleeding in the street yesterday afternoon. I’m weak when I approach the accident spot and press the gas a little more firmly to get by it all more quickly.
A minute later I drive past the semicircle driveway in front of the school and into Merritt High’s parking lot. I’ve decided Audrey and I will take a walk on the nearby trail and have a chat. The school sent an email about the crisis team they set up to talk with the students, but I know how easy it is to tell experts what they want to hear. No, Audrey needs to convince me she’s coping before I leave it alone, like Ryan suggests I should.
I’m standing by the front doors, only a few cars in the pickup line because it’s still early, holding a tray with two lattes—after much nagging, I’ve recently agreed that Audrey can drink coffee, as long as it comes with loads of milk—when I hear my name.
“Meg?”
I turn and see Andrew, in his car at the front of the pickup line. The window is down, and he’s leaning across the passenger seat.
“Hi,” I say, walking over to the car and bending down. “How are you?”
It’s a question asked out of habit, but I resist the urge to cringe because the answer is obvious. Dark shadows cup his eyes, the darkness highlighted because of how pale he looks. His hair is disheveled, some pieces sticking up, others laying flat against his head. He’s obviously been up all night.
“We’re hanging in there.” He dips his chin, and I can see him fighting to maintain an expression that backs up his words. “Want to get in? They won’t be out for another ten minutes or so.”
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t want to. Because when I look at Andrew I see Jack, and all I can think about is my careless wave, about how Jack’s body looked flying off of Sarah Dunn’s car. Swallowing hard and forcing the image from my mind, I nudge the passenger side door with my hip and hand Andrew the tray of lattes as I get in. “Do you want one?” I ask, pointing to the tray, hoping my voice sounds steady, because inside I’m a wobbly mess. “It’s for Audrey, but honestly, I’m still not fully onboard with her drinking coffee.”
“No, thanks,” he says. “It was a pretty rough night, and I don’t think my body can take any more caffeine, to be honest.”
I nod, rest the tray on my lap, unsure what to say next as we sit quietly side by side. “So Sam’s at school today?”
“Yeah. No fever and he seems better, physically at least, so it was hard to say no when he wanted to be at school with his friends.” Now I better understand Audrey’s insistence this morning—Sam was here. “I wanted to keep him home, not just because he’s been sick...obviously.” He tries, but this time he can’t control his face, which is cracking with his new reality. I put my hand on his arm and give it a squeeze, turning slightly away from him, so I don’t start crying. “It’s hard to believe, but life just carries on, you know?”
“I know,” I say. I’m about to ask how Jack’s doing even