Blame the Car Ride

by Marie F. Martin

  My stiff legs needed to move. I took stock of the damage. A deep muscle pull throbbed in my left hip, and blood seeped from a large scrape on an elbow. How did I end up in a van, in the mountains, with a man who could never be more than a friend? Tears leaked, but I made no sound as I cried. Shame over my stupidity kept me silent, held in check by sheer willpower, keeping my true feelings from Randal just as he had apparently kept hidden a feud with that Vern guy.

  What was that all about?

  I wiped my cheeks and closed my eyes. Edgy and Marley would absolutely not believe I had gotten into trouble again. The longer I sat in the rank, closed air inside the van, the more I wanted out. I couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I crawled over to the door, opened it, and sat on the floor with my feet braced on the ground, breathing the fresh air.

  I should have apologized but didn’t. That might come later.

  The sounds of a truck vibrated through the forest. I stood and looked up the mountain road. Lights flashed against the trees and disappeared. It sounded closer, and then the headlights came around a curve. A dust-coated work truck with a mismatched front fender stopped close to us. By then, I stood just behind Randal’s right shoulder.

  A man approached in the beams of the headlights. He wore a cowboy hat and carried himself with the easy motion of a prime male. Dean?

  Then I could make out the face.

  I didn’t know this person.

  But Randal reached out and shook hands with the guy. “Good to see you,” he said.

  “It’s been awhile.”

  Randal nodded. “That it has.” They talked quietly for a moment, discussing the moose and how to handle getting me home and getting help with the truck. And just that quickly, they had me loaded into the strange pickup and heading down out of the mountains with the stranger.

  “Thank you for helping us.” I started the conversation. “We might’ve been in the van with a dead moose all night.”

  He shrugged. “It’s no problem. I won’t be late for work. Plenty of time to take you home and be at the logging site by daybreak.”

  I should’ve known he worked as a sawyer. He even smelled of fresh pine sawdust.

  He added, “Don’t worry about Randal. Dad probably has already gotten there with his flatbed, loaded it, and they’re headed to town.”

  “What will they do with the moose?”

  “Dad has a winch on the truck. They can handle it.”

  “Your family knows Randal?”

  “He’s been a friend for some years now.”

  His words struck me as odd. Randal had never mentioned knowing other people in the Star Meadow area besides Bev and her husband. And now, today I learned about a sister.

  Chapter 6

  T he dash clock told me it was 3:06 a.m. when the kind young man parked his dust-coated work truck with the mismatched fender in front of my house. Still shaky from hitting the moose, I wondered how he’d crushed the original fender. I didn’t ask about it, just opened the door and slid out. “Thank you for helping us.”

  He shrugged. “Like I told you, Mrs. Cooper, it’s no problem.”

  I waved as he pulled away. Such a helpful young man. I wasn’t surprised that he never told me his name. Too mountain shy, and I’d just remember him that way.

  I dug in my jacket pocket for my house key. Finally, I clutched it. Thank heavens, it had stayed tucked in the bottom when I fell out of the van. I should have put it in my pants pocket, as I’d told myself many times.

  The porch light glowed in welcome as I unlocked the door. The dark-before-dawn blackness covered everything that the streetlights didn’t reach, and I couldn’t make out anything. I stood firm and studied the depths of the night shadows. My apprehension must have been a residue of the shock from the accident. Night sounds in my safe neighborhood didn’t usually bother me.

  A rustling noise came from the left corner of the house. A figure appeared out of the gloom.

  Edgy?

  She rushed forward. “Corinne, it’s after three. Why are you just getting home?

  “We hit a moose up in the mountains. It was awful.”

  She opened her arms wide, and I stepped into them for a hug. She broke first and said, “Ask me in for a drink and tell me what happened.” She rocked a little on her heels.

  “Looks like you’ve already tasted your share. What in the world are you doing out here in the dark?”

  “Oh, bloody hell. I had a little vodka and stepped out on the porch for a last cigarette before going to bed. Seen you come home in a strange pickup and wanted to know if you’re all right.”

  “Come on, I have some cognac. I’ll give you a nightcap.”

  “Make it two.”

  As we entered the house, I asked, “Won’t Fred wonder where you are?”

  “He’s snoring to high heaven, and I can’t sleep with his buzz saw working. That’s the real reason I go for walks. Sometimes I need to get away from it.”

  “You should take Whirly with you.”

  “I’m seeking peace and quiet. The last thing I need is that dog yanking me all over.” She frowned at me. “I’m not crazy.”

  “No, but wandering around alone at night seems risky.”

  “Corinne, you’re turning into a chicken. Aren’t you the one who sits on the porch swing in the wee hours?”

  “Touché.” I filled two short-stemmed glasses halfway and handed one to Edgy.

  She wrapped long fingers with highly polished nails around her glass. The nail on her right forefinger was chipped, which was unusual. The glass wobbled a little as she raised it to her lips. “It smells good.” She downed the amber liquid like it might run away, then held the glass out for more.

  I splashed a small serving into her glass, fighting my growing concern. She’d never been much of a drinker. But tonight she seemed overwhelmed with need. Her eyes were wide, her pupils large, and her fingers stiff as she tried to balance the goblet.

  “Edgy, what’s wrong?” I slipped in the question as she fell into Mel’s overstuffed chair, the one I keep because she likes it.

  “Corinne, there’s a multitude of things wrong. Just turn on the news.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “My personal shit? You don’t want to know.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Why are you making me pry? We’ve traded worries for a long time.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m breaking.” Edgy’s voice cracked, and she locked her lips shut as if another word escaping would choke her.

  “Nothing can be this bad. Did you lose money . . . gambling?”

  Edgy’s drunken laughter sounded harsh and unnatural. “They took away my baby girl.”

  Totally confused, I asked, “What baby girl? I thought you couldn’t have children.”

  She hung her head and mumbled, “They fixed that, too.”

  Her distraught words frightened me, sounding as though she no longer cared about life. “I think we better get you home to Fred.” She needed him right now. I couldn’t guess what might happen if he didn’t calm her down.

  “Yes, Fred keeps them away.” She plunked the glass down too hard, and the stem snapped. She didn’t even notice and fled toward the door.

  “Edgy, slow down, I’ll walk with you.”

  She stopped and reached for my hand.

  I clasped it, and we ran to her house.

  Their bedroom light was on, and the front door opened when we hit the steps. Fred held his arms open and Edgy flew into them, collapsing against his strong chest. He lifted her up and carried her into their home cradled like a baby.

  Whirly barked at me like I was a demon straight from hell. I quickly shooed him back inside and shut the door behind us before he could get out again.

  Fred was already at the foot of the stairway ready to carry Edgy up to their room.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I said, gasping for breath and trying to grasp what was wrong.

  “Corinne, come with me. We’ll p
ut Edgy to bed, and then we’ll talk.”

  I squashed a hesitant feeling and followed them upstairs into their oasis. Rattan furnishings, teak wood carvings, and drapes printed boldly with island flowers adorned the bedroom. A ceiling fan sifted air downward, and then it rose again in a circular caress.

  Fred laid Edgy on the spacious bed and covered her with a throw printed with palm trees. She rolled on her side, turning her back to us. “Tell her the truth, Fred. I need one other person in this screwed-up world to know. I can’t hide the pain anymore.” Her desperate words carried to us.

  He bent over her. “Are you sure?”

  “Tell her. I want to hear every word.”

  Fred glanced at me. “I think we better sit down.” He indicated a whitewashed wicker chair beside a matching round table below the corner windows overlooking their backyard.

  I sat quickly to get off my shaky legs and crossed my arms, quite sure whatever I was about to hear would be terribly upsetting.

  Fred lowered his big body into the other chair and slumped forward, arms supported on his legs, folded hands dangling between his knees. Deep fatigue etched his face. “Our Edgy suffered the worst life has to offer when she was fourteen. She was at a family reunion and got into an argument with her mother, who went after Edgy in front of all the relatives.”

  Edgy cut in, “I should’ve fist-cuffed them all.” She hadn’t rolled to face us, but each defiant word pierced the room. “Instead, I stole my mum’s car keys.”

  Fred took over again. “Edgy’s temper got the best of her, and she ran out to the car and fired it up. She backed over her three-year-old nephew, killing him.”

  I held a hand across my mouth, afraid to let my horror become vocal.

  “In the aftermath, Edgy lost so much weight she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital and then was sent to a residential one. She spent three years there for pathological grief and self-mutilation syndrome. Poor girl would cut herself.”

  “Tell her all of it.” Edgy rolled over under the safety of her wildly colored blanket to face me. She zeroed in like she wanted to tell me herself but couldn’t. She pulled the cover up over her chin and cheeks, keeping her eyes on me to see any reactions. She reminded me of a dog waiting for scraps, making sure nothing was missed.

  Fred sighed deeply and looked at me dead on.

  I met his seriousness with my own. Edgy was truly hurting, and I wanted to comprehend his every word.

  He cleared his throat. “She was wrongly diagnosed as having Munchausen syndrome in her early twenties.” He paused, then added, “It was a misdiagnosis that harmed my girl.” Tears pooled, but he didn’t allow them to run.

  Edgy pulled the blanket from her face. “Fred, you sound like some damned brochure. Just tell her.”

  Fred glowered. “You think this is easy for me to talk about? I could beat all your relatives senseless and it wouldn’t make up for what they did to you.”

  Edgy sat up in the lotus position, ankles crossed, knees spread, keeping herself balanced. She pressed her palms down on the mattress and leaned slightly forward, focusing on me like I might disappear before she told me what she wanted me to know.

  “Is this why you wander around late at night, putting yourself at risk?” I blurted, my words coming without thought.

  Edgy lifted her chin. “You know, Corinne, you can be a self-righteous bitch, and this isn’t the time to be one.”

  I shrunk in the chair. She was right. “Will you just say what you want me to know?”

  Edgy licked her lips, studying me, waiting for control. Did I want to hear her secrets? No, but I remained in the chair, leaning forward.

  “I’ll give you the short version,” Edgy finally said. “I don’t remember all of it, or the exact order of what happened, but I want you to understand. In my early twenties, I was finally living on my own and doing okay. I even found a boyfriend. He’d come by, and we’d smoke a little pot, maybe get high on a little speed. I got pregnant.

  “One evening, he became too angry, and I called the cops. They arrested him but wanted to know when my baby was due. By then, I was seven months along. Before I knew what was happening, they did a drug test on me and called social services. Two case workers wanted to know about drug use.

  “Then they learned about my time spent at a mental clinic. I never even thought to hide my past and told them about my teenage problems with depression and guilt over my nephew’s death. After the interview, a letter arrived for me to appear at in court. Suddenly, I was being investigated. Scared the hell out of me.”

  I interrupted. “I would’ve been scared, too.”

  Edgy frowned. “Please, just let me tell you.”

  I nodded. For Edgy, I’d listen.

  “A former psychiatrist gave me a letter saying I was better and now fit to be a mother. But the judge didn’t even look at the report, just took the word of a court doctor who said I took mental anguish out on myself for sympathy. He thought I’d been isolated by my mother after the accident and again by the institution. He claimed I used self-cutting and threats of suicide for attention and was a prime candidate to fabricate or induce illness in a child for the same reasons.”

  Fred growled, “Finish it.” He sounded fed up with the whole story, like he’d heard it too many times.

  She faced me squarely, her hair stringing around her face, her arms pushing down on the mattress. “It wasn’t true. None of it! I loved my baby, loved the feel of her moving around in me. They took her away as soon as she came out, wouldn’t even let me see her.” Edgy’s head dropped for a moment, and then she looked up at me.

  “At least they told me the baby was a girl, but I already knew. I had even named her. I chose Ruth, after my grandmother and because I knew my daughter would go where I went and stay where I stayed. It was stupid, I know.” Her words rang with the ache of anguish withheld for years. “I called out her name as they carried her away.”

  Edgy toppled forward, reaching toward Fred. He caught her. She fell against his broad chest like an infant.

  His arms tight around her and his eyes meeting mine, he said, “We get along fine for months, sometimes years, then something sets her off and she gets into scrapes. She either roams for a while or goes back into an institution. I don’t know which is worse.”

  I’d never faced a problem like Edgy had, and I didn’t know how to respond except to ask a silly question. “Did my telling you about my loneliness cause you to suffer?”

  Her watery eyes widened. “Hell, no. Seeing Marley did. My daughter is close to her age, and I’ve never seen her, or found her, or known anything about her. That drives me wild, so I pop uppers and drink too much. Of course, the docs are good for some opioids. My favorite is oxycodone.” Her eyes challenged mine.

  This was the first I’d heard of pills, and she was silently daring me to judge her. “I—”

  Fred cut me off. “We need to be alone,” he said in a tone that meant now.

  I slipped silently from the room and ran down the stairs, keeping my sound to a bare minimum by landing each step on the ball of my feet. I may have been also protecting myself by stepping lightly. I didn’t want to disturb them more. Guilt knows some boundaries.

  I walked home to an empty house. I didn’t look at the shadows in the trees or sit in the swing, just hurried through the door, slammed it, and threw the dead bolt.

  I was angry at Edgy. How could we have been friends for so long and yet she’d never shared her deep pain over her daughter with me? She owed me the reason, and she would explain when she felt better or tell me why not.

  But how could I demand an answer for secret heartaches like she had endured—a dead little boy and a lost baby?

  I could never question Edgy or tell her secret.

  Chapter 7

  F or a couple of days, I self-exiled, parting company with doing anything useful. I didn’t go to the grocery store, post office, or jogging park; I just plain didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. I used to preac
h at my kids to stay busy and committed, and here I was, the poster child for the useless and withdrawn.

  It’s hard to pull out of long days filled with resentment caused by learning just how cruel life can be. I was mad on Edgy’s behalf but had no way to ease her anguish. I didn’t hear a word from her during that time, but I understood she needed time to come back from the hurts of her past. Having a baby stolen away caused a trauma I couldn’t imagine. How did one recover from a shock like she had suffered?

  It had been a hard, sad day when my premature newborn had only lived for an hour and a half. Megan Rae just couldn’t breathe on her own. That was something I could understand, but Edgy had nothing to end the need for her child, no closure, only emptiness and not knowing if she was with a good family. I wished she’d told me years ago. Sharing personal pain with a good friend somehow lessens its impact. Yet I understood that sometimes we are so wounded we can’t talk about it. I had things I had never revealed to her, too, like Marley’s abortion. That could never be told.

  This morning, a full three days later, I finally had enough oomph to go outdoors and tend the roses. Seemed as if they were the only living things I might connect with. They needed attention, and I would give it.

  Using my favorite long-handled claw, I stirred the soil under a climbing rose and pulled out some pigweed growing near the root ball. Then I poured my mixture of kelp, molasses, powdered fish, and vinegar under the bush. The smelly liquid soaked into the loosened soil with its promise of more fragrant blossoms.

  If only friends and daughters were so easily tended.

  A faint sound rustled behind me, and I quickly turned.

  Edgy emerged from around the corner of my glassed-in back porch. She looked much better than the last time I had seen her as she wobbled across the lawn on wedge heels. Her ankle-length denim skirt threatened to trip her with each uneven step crossing the lawn. A red ribbon captured her hair in a frizzy ponytail.