River Road

by Carol Goodman

  There’d been a moment of silence and I had thought, I’ll just get this down while she’s quiet. And then I’d looked up—it had just been a second, hadn’t it?—and saw that it was quiet because Emmy wasn’t there anymore.

  I opened my eyes and the candle swam in front of them. I lit a match and, tilting the glass column, held it to the wick. It guttered for a moment, struggling to burn through years of dust, but I held it even as my fingers stung. I’m sorry, I said as it caught. Then I went back to the box and took out another candle, a Yahrzeit candle with a blue Jewish star on it, and a purple votive candle with a mandala. The people who had brought candles to Emmy’s shrine had held a rainbow of beliefs, but I had plucked their candles off the stone wall, extinguished their flames, and carried them away in my pockets. Later I hid them in the box under the sink like a secret drinker hiding her empties. (When I started drinking I didn’t bother to hide those.) I couldn’t bear to look down the hill and see that shrine and be reminded of the moment of silence in which I could hear my own thoughts.

  “I’m sorry,” I said aloud, lighting the Yahrzeit candle. I said it as I lit each candle in the box and set it on the desk in front of the window. When there wasn’t any more room on the desk I put the candles on the living room table and lined them along the mantel. I wasn’t seeking forgiveness. There was no forgiveness. I would forever know that my momentary lapse had led to Emmy’s death. That guilt was the flame at the center of my core. It would keep burning as long as I lived.

  When Joe came in and saw the dozens of candles burning in the room he smiled. “I guess this means you want me to come over?”

  “Yes,” I told him, giving him his smile back. “That’s exactly what it means.”

  * * *

  With the heat on, we could have gone upstairs, but we made love again in front of the fireplace in the flickering light of all those candles. We went slower this time, because of the bandages around my ribs and his fatigue from a day of searching for a boy he suspected was dead, but also because we both wanted the other to know there was no rush. That what was happening between us was real and not just the result of being thrown together by the freakish life-and-death circumstances of last night.

  I believed he meant that. And I think he believed I did too.

  We made love until the morning, until the last of the candles guttered out and was replaced with the glow of dawn in the window. I fell asleep then, the afterimage of the candles still burning beneath my eyelids turning into the red flashes on Emmy’s sneakers.

  She was running away from me across the ice.

  “Come back!” I screamed.

  She stopped. Thank God, I’m on time—

  But then a hand broke through the ice and grabbed her ankle to pull her down into the frozen water.

  I startled awake to the smell of coffee and toast. Joe was already dressed. He brought me a cup of coffee with milk and a slice of the good sourdough from our local bakery.

  “You went shopping,” I accused. “When did you have time for that?”

  “I didn’t, someone left it at your door. I think people in town are feeling bad they gave you a hard time. Like a loaf of bread makes up for treating you like a pariah—”

  “It’s how I treated Hannah Mulder,” I said. “I can understand how people felt.”

  When I looked up he was watching me. “You’re a lot more forgiving of others than you are of yourself.”

  “You’re a good detective,” I said, pulling his face down to mine to kiss him.

  When he straightened up his eyes had clouded. “Not good enough to find Troy,” he said.

  “Now who’s hard on himself?”

  He smiled. “We make quite a pair. Promise to rest today? There’s no point going out looking for Troy. I’m afraid we’ll find him when the ice on the river breaks up.”

  Emmy running across the ice. A hand breaking through to drag her down—

  “I promise I’ll stay away from the river today.”

  * * *

  I kept my promise but I didn’t stay holed away at home. I had things to do. First on my list was to visit Aleesha. She needed to know that Scully was dead. His death wouldn’t bring back Shawna but at least she would know that he wouldn’t hurt anyone else. I packed up a box before I went, straining my aching ribs in the process. I wanted very much to take another Vicodin but I couldn’t take the risk of driving under the influence so I took two Extra Strength Tylenol instead. Besides, I’d been numbing myself with alcohol for years. It was time I let myself feel.

  Aleesha was just getting off her night shift at Dunkin’ Donuts when I pulled up in front of her house. She had a wax paper bag and a large thermos, which she handed me when she saw me struggling to remove a large box from my trunk.

  “Lemme get that, Prof,” she said. “You look like you got a pain. What happened to you?”

  I started telling her the story as we carried box, bag, and thermos into her kitchen and I finished telling it at her kitchen table over sticky sweet doughnuts and hazelnut coffee.

  “Scully must’ve followed you from here,” she said. “I should’ve known he had eyes on my house. You say you saw a black-and-gold tank at the stoplight? That’s his ride, all right. You could’ve gotten killed.”

  “I would have if Troy hadn’t attacked him. He did it to save me—and probably died doing it.”

  She shook her head, her amber eyes shining in the clear yellow light of her spotless, cheery kitchen. “Maybe it was his way of evening things out for what he did to Shawna and Leia. I can’t forgive him for the part he played in Shawna’s death but I don’t figure him for a cold-blooded killer. If he did those things to Leia it was because he was scared and desperate. He’d have felt sorry. Saving you might’ve been his way of saving himself.”

  I nodded and took a sip of my lukewarm coffee, easing the tightness in my throat. “I wish there’d been a way I could’ve saved him.”

  She reached across the shiny table and squeezed my hand. “Thank you for coming and telling me about how Shawna died. It might sound funny but I’m glad to know she wasn’t alone with that bastard Scully and that Leia cared enough about what happened to try and make it right. And I’m glad Scully’s dead.” She took a deep breath, looked around her kitchen, and spied my box on the floor. “So what else did you bring me?”

  “Just some things for Isabel—they’re a little out of date. . . .”

  Aleesha squealed when she opened the box as if she were the four-year-old for whom the contents were intended. “Jasmine Barbie! Isabel loves her—and Mulan, that’s her favorite. And Cinderella and Snow White. You’ve got all the Disney Princess dolls—and Disney Princess bedding! Hey, I thought you were too feminist for this kind of stuff.”

  I laughed. “Evan said the same thing when I bought it all for Emmy but she begged for it and I have to admit that I love the stories. This was her favorite collection of fairy tales.” I held up the lavishly illustrated book to show Aleesha and noticed that there were tears in her eyes.

  “Are you sure you want to part with all this?” she asked. “Your little girl’s stuff?”

  “Yes,” I said, getting to my feet. “It will make me happy knowing Isabel is enjoying it.”

  “She’ll be over the moon,” Aleesha said. She stood up from the box and threw her arms around me. I hugged her back, gratefully inhaling the warm scent of powdered sugar and hazelnut in her hair, and then I got out of there quick, before she found the envelope at the bottom of the box.

  I stopped by Vassar Brothers next to visit Ross. He was sitting up in bed, gold-rimmed half-moon glasses perched on his nose, reading the New York Times. To my surprise and relief he greeted me with a smile and a coherent sentence.

  “Nan! My savior! I’ve been trying to call you since they took me off that blasted ventilator.”

  “You can talk,” I said, sitting down in the chair by his bed. “And you’re making sense.”

  He laughed. “The doctor says my aphasia was on
ly temporary—although I am finding it hard to finish today’s crossword, and it’s only a Tuesday puzzle! I find it all fascinating. I’m thinking of writing something about it—a writer loses his words. It’s actually made me feel . . . inspired.”

  “I’m glad nearly being asphyxiated has cured your writer’s block,” I said.

  “Abbie says it was a wake-up call—quite literally—for both of us.”

  I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow. Ross blushed. “I know, I should apologize for the other night. I don’t know what I was thinking—I thought that things were never going to work out with Abbie—but now she’s leaving Dave and we’re going to try making a go of it, gossip be damned. And if we lose our jobs . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve got money put aside. We’ll move someplace warm and I’ll write again. Abbie has a book idea she’s been wanting to get to.”

  “Everyone’s a writer,” I said drily. I found I didn’t mind the idea of him and Abbie together. They were more suited for each other than we’d ever been. “You sound . . . happy.”

  “Happy to be alive! And I have you to thank. If you hadn’t dragged me out of that garage—”

  “Do you remember how you got there?”

  “No. I’m sure I wouldn’t have done it myself. Yes, the rumors being spread about me were heinous, but I knew they weren’t true. I never slept with Leia—and you know I wasn’t driving the Peugeot when it hit her. . . . Dottie says the police think it was Troy.”

  “Yes, so it seems. . . . Are you sure you don’t remember Troy leading you out to your garage?”

  He screwed up his eyes in thought. Ross was a good storyteller. I was afraid that if he thought too hard he’d invent a story about Troy luring him out to the garage, but after a moment he shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a total blank. It may be the first time I’ve forgotten something that happened to me. I feel like I’m in an Oliver Sacks essay!”

  “The man who forgot his own story,” I said, not sure if I was disappointed or not that he couldn’t corroborate Troy’s part in the garage incident. If Troy locked me in that garage why had he saved me from Scully? Would I ever know—or would that part of the story always remain a mystery?

  On my way out I ran into Dottie. She was carrying Ross’s briefcase and a bag of grapes. “Oh, good, Nan, I’m glad I ran into you. There’s a memorial service being held in the chapel this afternoon. Nothing formal—Abbie says there will be a proper service when the students come back in January, but she wanted to gather a few of Leia’s teachers and friends together to share memories of Leia and read something she wrote. Do you think you can come?”

  “What time?” I asked.

  “Four thirty. Abbie wants to do it at sunset.”

  “I can make it. I’ll have to think about what I’ll read.”

  “I’m going to read a poem Leia wrote for me that she said was inspired by my quilts,” Dottie said.

  “Oh, that reminds me of something Leia gave me about the quilting circle she led at the prison. I’ll read that.”

  “Perfect,” Dottie said. “She was such a lovely girl. I still can’t believe Troy . . .” She shuddered and I wrapped my arms around her before the sob could overtake her.

  “You’re a good friend,” I told Dottie. “I don’t think I tell you that enough.”

  “You don’t have to,” Dottie said, hugging me back. “That’s what makes a good friend—not having to be told.”

  * * *

  I was exhausted on the ride back and my ribs had started to ache but I had one more stop to make. The Happy Acres Park was only haphazardly dug out from the storm, making it difficult to navigate the narrow, winding road to the last trailer. No path had been shoveled to Hannah’s trailer, but there were deep footprints in the snow leading up to her door. I followed them, noting that my feet fit them perfectly. I left the box on her doorstep without knocking and retraced my steps to the car. I didn’t think I could take another emotional scene. When I got in the car, though, I saw her open the door. She was wearing a pink sweatshirt with a cat printed on it. Her own cat was twining around her ankles, sniffing the box. Hannah bent down and looked in the box. Then she lifted the carton of Fancy Feast and looked up to see me. She stared at me and then nodded once, raising the carton as if raising a glass. I stretched my fingers up from the steering wheel—a truncated wave—and drove away. Toward home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The first thing I did when I got home was take a Vicodin standing at my kitchen sink, scooping water with my hand. Then I spilled the pills out in my other hand and counted them. Eight. The intern had prescribed ten, the same number that my endodontist had prescribed a few months ago when I had root canal. I’d only used two then; the bottle was still in the cupboard next to my vitamins and, I noticed, as I opened the cabinet door, the half-full bottle of Glenlivet. No wonder people got hooked on this stuff. If I wanted to I could keep taking the pills even after the pain went away. And if I told my doctor my ribs still hurt? Would he cut me off because he suspected I was getting hooked—or would he assume that a respectable college professor wouldn’t become an addict? I realized it was why no one had guessed I was an alcoholic these last few years. No one suspected a college professor as long as she showed up for class and got her papers graded and grades turned it. I’d fooled even myself.

  I slid the pills back in the bottle, resisting the urge to take another, and put it in the cabinet next to the old bottle and the bottle of Glenlivet. I stared at that tableau for a moment. I should just pour it down the drain, I told myself. If you’re serious about quitting, why haven’t you? But I didn’t. I closed the cabinet door and went upstairs to Emmy’s room. Without the Disney Princess comforter and sheets and the row of dolls on the shelves the room looked barer, but I found I didn’t mind. The thought of Isabel playing with the dolls made me feel happy.

  I went into my room and lay down on my bed. I reached for the mystery novel I’d abandoned halfway through the semester when work got the better of me, but then I noticed the bound galley of Cressida’s new book. I should really read that, I thought. Cressida had been a good friend these last few days. She hadn’t abandoned me when everyone thought I’d run over Leia, and she’d taken me in when I was half frozen. She’d told me the truth about my drinking even though she must have known I’d be angry. She’d come down to check on me after the storm. I’d always thought of her as a bit of a cold fish, but maybe I was the one who had been the cold fish. I’d taken her friendship for granted, just as I had Dottie’s. The least I could do was read her book and tell her I liked it.

  I turned it over and looked at the back cover. A searing exploration of the world of women’s prisons . . . the new Orange Is the New Black . . . luminescent prose . . . She’d gotten some great blurbs. The marketing and promotional material also looked impressive. Six-City Author Tour, National Review and Feature Attention, National Radio Campaign, Online Promotions, Online Reader’s Guide. This might really be a breakout book for Cressida. It certainly had cinched the tenure decision for her last year. I felt a sharp twinge in my side that might have been my ribs or the stab of jealousy every author is prone to. I put the bound galley back down on my night table. The Vicodin was making me sleepy. I’d read it later . . . I needed to be rested for the memorial. . . .

  I slid into sleep and onto a sheet of ice. Cressida and I were skiing on the frozen river. “You see,” she was telling me, “if you’d taught in the prison initiative like I asked you to, you’d be the one with the new book.”

  “I don’t think it works like that,” I said, trying to keep up. While Cressida was gliding along smoothly, I was slipping and sliding clumsily.

  “That’s exactly how it works. A really newsworthy back story gives you an excellent media platform. Look at how well it turned out for Piper Kerman! But it’s not too late—you can still go to prison.”

  “You mean teach at prison?” I asked, stumbling.

  “No, I don’t, Nan. I don’t think that will do it. But a fou
r- to six-year incarceration . . . I can almost guarantee you a book deal. And it will be easy. All you have to do is tell everyone you got in Ross’s car—it was right there waiting in the turnaround—and drove over Leia.”

  “But why would I do that?”

  “Jealousy. Just like you’re jealous of me.” Cressida stopped to let me catch up with her. “But you’ll never get anywhere dragging that with you.” She pointed at my feet. I looked down at my skis and saw why I was so clumsy and slow. Tangled in my skis were black hair, blood, and torn flesh—the mangled remains of Leia Dawson.

  I woke up screaming, fighting off the covers as if they were Leia’s bloody limbs. The sweat covering my body felt sticky like blood. Even when I got up and ran cold water over my hands I couldn’t get rid of the sensation that Leia’s blood and hair and torn flesh clung to me.

  It’s the Vicodin, I told myself, staring at my reflection in the mirror. If that’s the kind of dream it gave me I was staying away from it no matter how much pain I felt.

  I wanted to shower but I didn’t want to risk disturbing the bandages and causing more pain, so I took a sponge bath and dressed for the memorial, all the time reliving the awful dream. Of course it came from looking at Cressida’s bound galley and feeling jealous of her success. And then the guilt of not listening to Leia—that was what I was dragging around with me. The rest of it—Cressida’s suggestion that I could claim that I had driven the Peugeot—must come from looking at my own car in the turnaround yesterday.

  I checked my phone and saw there was a voice mail from Joe and a text. They both said that he was following a lead in Poughkeepsie and couldn’t come by until very late—did I still want him to come if it was after midnight?

  I found an emoji of a candle and sent a dozen to Joe. Then I got Leia’s “Pins” story from my desk. I brought Cressida’s galley down with me and put it on the desk while I reread Leia’s story. I read it from its first disarming line—“It’s quiet in here but not quiet enough to hear a pin drop, which is too bad because if a pin does drop we all have to stay until it is found and accounted for.”—through to its heartbreaking ending—“Some of the things they’ve done are bad, but here those bad things are only more torn patches stitched together to make something beautiful. When I look up from my sewing I don’t see a criminal, an addict, a killer—I see myself. And I know that by forgiving them I have forgiven myself.” Even though I knew that Leia had written this before Shawna’s death I couldn’t help but feel that she was asking for that forgiveness here.