“Until you get it through your head that you need to keep up with basic life tasks like this. I can’t remind you of everything. Don’t you have any type of organizational system?”
She didn’t answer. Her chin jutted out. He imagined her chanting don’t engage in her head. Just like she taught her clients.
Fuck her.
They stayed silent until he pulled past Blue Hill Avenue.
“Can we use at least this time to talk about last night and about Emma?” Maddy asked.
He glanced at her. “Seriously?”
“Is there a reason not to? We’re alone and together. Pretty rare, right?”
“I’m in a crappy mood. Right now that’s the last thing I want to talk about.”
“We lost that privilege the day we became parents.”
“What privilege?”
“The right to be in too crappy a mood to talk about our kids’ problems,” Maddy said. “That luxury is gone.”
Ben shook his head. “I think having a teenager means you’ll lose your mind if you analyze every single interaction. Face it, much as you wish for it, I am never going to turn into an angel of patience.”
“I’d be glad if we could simply be people who use kindness and understanding as our first choices—angelic wasn’t on my wish list.”
“We? You mean me, not you. I’m the one who needs adjusting, right?”
He sensed her actions. Biting her lip. Digging her nails into her skirt.
“We need awareness of what we’re doing. Both of us.” He could hear her coating every word with caution. “You were too harsh last night.”
“Harsh is called for when our daughter sneaks out of the house. Should I have given her a five-minute time-out? She’s not a little kid anymore.”
“You were practically dragging her by the scruff. You can’t do that. She’s fourteen. Fifteen before we know it. You can’t treat her like you did, Ben,” Maddy said. “Emma’s at a critical stage.”
“Can you stop criticizing me for one minute? Is everything wrong in your life my fault? Am I some sort of monster to you?”
“I’m worried. About Emma. About us.” Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Oh, Christ, not now. I came to get you. I’m here.” He pounded on the dashboard. “Isn’t that enough?”
Now she began crying in earnest. She reached over to the backseat of the car, trying to grab something.
“What do you want?” Pangs of guilt fought with irritation. He took one of those damn deep breaths she was always forcing on him. “Look. I’m sorry for yelling. Can I help you?”
She ignored him, unbuckling her seat belt and then getting on her knees to rummage around in the back of the car. The disconnected seat belt began beeping.
“Maddy, get back in your seat. That noise is driving me crazy.”
“Just one second! Here, okay?” She connected the belt and went back to trying to reach for whatever it was that she wanted. Finally she hoisted up the huge suitcase of a briefcase she dragged everywhere and pulled it onto her lap. She took out a pad. “I wrote a list of all the things I’m worried about. With Emma. Things I want to prevent.”
Drugs? Pregnancy? Tattoos? Did his wife have a magic social work formula to keep it all at bay? Did she think he didn’t care, didn’t worry? “Is this all brought on because I made the huge error of bringing our daughter home? Should I have left her on the street corner and then given her a little lecture when she snuck back in? Talked it out?”
“Please don’t be sarcastic. I’m so worried about her.”
“And I’m not? You haven’t cornered the market on parental concern, you know.”
“I don’t want to fight about this. I want to be partners.”
“Then stop making lists about my faults, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s not about you!”
A Ford Expedition barreled down the road behind them, trying to push their car out of the left lane. Humongous piece of crap. Ben sped up. A blinding force of rain pelted the windows. The rear view on this car was awful in the best weather; with sheets of water sluicing along the glass, he could barely see out the back. He set the wipers on the highest setting and then opened the window to clear the side mirror. The Expedition tailed him closer, pushing him to go faster or move over. Ben hit the accelerator, but the Expedition stayed right with him. Ben threw up his middle finger—aware the idiot probably couldn’t see it but needing the satisfaction.
The air inside him expanded, pushing rational judgment out of the way and turning his moves to sheer instinct. He tapped the Camaro’s traction-control button twice to turn on competitive drive control, and then sped up, pushing an Accord in front of him to move to the right lane. The Expedition stayed on top of him.
All caution gone, he rocketed. Competitive driving let him be in charge. No car computer slowed him from his fast moves. Ben might not be the athlete of the century, but he knew how to drive like a motherfucker. What did the kids say? Oh, yeah. I got mad skills.
The Expedition got closer, almost kissing his bumper, both of them going 45 on a road posted at 25 mph. The road opened up, and the speedometer climbed over 50, then 55, and finally hit 60, but he couldn’t lose the Expedition.
“Ben, move over!” Maddy said.
“Shut up!”
Just at the moment the guy seemed ready to ram into him, Ben suddenly pulled into the right lane.
At the same moment the Expedition moved right to pass him.
Metal scraped metal as the oversized SVU hit them hard. As Ben tried to straighten out, he hit a slick spot, hydroplaned, and the car spun out of control.
Cars ahead and to the right squealed, maneuvering away on the twisting road, as the Camaro careened toward the tree in the curve.
Maddy screamed.
He gripped the wheel as though death chased them.
• • •
He coughed.
Where was he? His rapid breaths jabbed his left side as he tried to open the jammed door. Sharp odors from the deflated air bag burned his eyes. Someone knocked on the window and peered through the glass. An old guy stood there, grizzled, his white short-sleeved shirt soaked with rain.
Sweat and salty blood trickled. He’d bitten his lower lip. Any movement brought a stab in his chest, sharp enough to make him gasp. When he turned to look at Maddy, the searing pain worsened. Shards of jagged glass marked where the passenger window had been.
She was gone. The windshield was smashed out.
“Maddy!” he screamed. “Maddy!”
All he saw as he peered out was the rain.
He lowered his jammed window as far as he could, holding his breath each time he pressed the button.
“My wife. Help me out. I gotta find her,” Ben said.
The man shook his head. “Sorry, son. Best to stay put and wait for the medics.” In his peripheral vision Ben saw hazard lights flashing. “I called 911 as soon as I saw you duking it out with that other car.”
“Reach in and unlock the door, okay?” Ben tried to turn his head, but a stab of pain held him still. Rain blew in from the open window.
“I don’t know.” The man slowly stood from his crouch. A woman leaned in.
“Don’t move. You might have internal injuries.” She pushed back wet hair on her forehead. As though offering a condolence prize, she held up a phone. “Do you want me to call someone for you? Do you want to make a call?”
Ben’s thoughts blurred. He studied the phone and the wet woman.
Nauseated and dizzy, he hung his pounding head. Raw skin on his cheeks stung where the air bag had scraped him.
He closed his eyes. Confused.
Maddy.
Sirens sounded.
The woman was still there when he opened his eyes. Earnest. Concerned. He could see her telling the story at dinner as she served the salad: And then I asked if I could call someone for him.
Everything spun.
It seemed he’d just tried closing his eyes again w
hen a husky young voice urged him to open them. A smoker’s voice. Was it fashionable for young women to smoke? He’d better keep an eye on Emma.
“Sir. My name is Evanne. I’m an emergency medical worker. Can you hear me?” The light-skinned woman’s beaded braids were pulled back into a thick blue elastic band.
“My wife,” he said. “I need to get out of here.”
“Soon. I promise. Are you allergic to latex?” When he shook his head no, she reached in and took his wrist with rubber-gloved fingers. “Can you feel that?”
Everything got hazy again.
“Yes,” he whispered. “My wife?”
“Don’t worry.” As she questioned him, a fireman wedged a bar into the door and popped it open. By the time she’d asked what Ben weighed and what day it was, he felt faint. His legs shook so violently he worried they’d hit the steering wheel.
“Don’t worry.” Evanne took his arm. “The shaking is shock. Normal after a trauma.
“My wife?” he repeated.
“She’s being cared for.”
Was she lying? Jesus, Maddy, where are you? Was she dead?
Evanne and a male EMS worker brought him onto a portable cot, where he lay, arms spread on either side of the narrow slab of foam, his exhaustion profound. Still, he struggled to his elbows, working against the searing pain, then falling back.
“You should remain flat, sir,” Evanne suggested. Ben found her throaty voice soothing.
“No. No. I’m all right.”
“Please, sir, it would be better to lie back for now.”
Lying back didn’t seem like a good idea. Already it felt as though fate had simply picked him up and thrown him on the ground.
Evanne took his pulse. She held his chin and looked into his eyes. Her breath was mild peppermint, her hands lemon-scented. Maybe she wasn’t a smoker. Ben pictured her life, showering with yellow soap, buying Life Savers, not knowing what each day would bring. Broken bodies. Guns. Him.
Ben slowly turned to look in every direction. Bright orange cones held cars back. A barely moving line of traffic crept around the accident scene. He turned his head to the left. Pain shot through his upper back.
The Expedition was about fifteen yards away. Even seated, the young driver seemed tall. He sat sideways, legs hanging out, one big hand cradling a phone, the other covering his free ear. Dark-black shades, despite the rain, covered his eyes. He appeared okay, but his front fender was smashed. Shards from the taillights were scattered over the asphalt. Expedition had his own EMT next to him. A white guy. Older. Probably didn’t smell of lemon and peppermint.
Careful, his back stiffening, something jabbing him each time he breathed, Ben twisted his head as far as possible, searching for Maddy. Flashers from three ambulances made kaleidoscopic patterns in the growing puddles.
Wet broken glass reflected in the ambulance lights.
He forced his neck to the right. Before he even knew he’d done it, he reached for Evanne’s hand.
A red briefcase, open, papers strewn over the road, had landed about twenty yards from the car. Ben felt light-headed. He squinted through the rain. Two men laid a woman on a backboard. A red sandal swayed off her right foot; her left was bare.
Dirt streaked the woman’s blood-covered blouse. The men wheeled her still body toward a waiting ambulance. As they positioned the stretcher to enter the vehicle, the woman’s face became visible.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, please, no.
Under the oxygen mask was Maddy, the gray pallor of her skin visible even through the rain.
Asleep
* * *
August
CHAPTER 7
Emma
More than anything, Emma wanted to leave the community center’s dank locker room. She’d been on edge since the morning, when an army of water rats ran along the nearby wharf. Despite the way she’d pretended to be brave with her campers, now, with the camp day over, her stomach turned in skittish little jumps, unease growing as she waited impatiently for Caro and Sammi to finish changing their clothes.
Emma inspected herself in the wavy unbreakable mirror for the umpteenth time. Her thighs appeared bigger every day and her nose looked like a missile. Her eyes were too close together. The fact that Zach even looked at her was some sort of miracle.
Of course, she didn’t have to worry about whether or why Zach liked her anymore. The way her parents were acting, it would be years before she was allowed to see him again.
Seething thoughts looped, the fury she’d put away while working with the kids returned. With camp dismissal over, she could give full rein to being angry with her idiot parents.
Emma turned to Caro. “I’ll probably never be able to leave my house again this summer.” Emma threw her backpack over one shoulder, her head suddenly pulled back as her braid got caught in the strap. “Help,” she yelled.
Caro lifted the fastening and pulled out Emma’s hair. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy having it that long?”
Emma shrugged. “Not really.” She couldn’t admit how much she loved leaning back on her mother’s legs, going into a dreamlike state as her mother slid the brush through her hair—making French braids or just bringing out the shine with a hundred strokes while they watched television.
Not that she’d ever let her do it again.
“Can you at least get ice cream with us?” Sammi pulled a tight white T-shirt over her head, muffling her tentative voice, which ended on a rising note as though questioning her own idea.
“Everyone’s meeting at Kelly’s—including Zach.” Caro gave Emma an annoying smile as she singsonged Zach’s name.
Emma shook her head. “My mother’s picking me up.”
“How long are you really grounded?” Sammi opened the wide metal doors of the community center, blinking as the wind whipped her brown hair around her face.
“I told you. Until school starts.” Hatred of her parents shuddered through her.
They walked along the beach wall. Two joggers ran by, almost knocking down a toddler gripping a plastic bucket. Afternoon sun slanted over the gritty beach, blurring the trash and gray-black tones of the sand.
“Wait with me?” Emma asked as she climbed up on the wall.
“No can do.” Caro said this as though Emma’s idea was absurd.
“How come?” Caro shouldn’t be acting so high and mighty; she should pray her mother didn’t call Caro’s about them sneaking out last night.
“You know why. The boys are waiting. Should we tell Zach to come see you here?”
Emma groaned. “Just what I need, my mother driving up and finding Zach. I can hear her now. Where do you live? What do your parents do? How much did you weigh when you were born?”
“Sooner or later she has to meet him. You’ve been going out since we started working,” Caro said. “What are you waiting for?”
Emma wanted to keep Zach to herself a little longer. Not have her mother tell Kath, and Grandma, and Aunt Vanessa, and Olivia, and every neighbor on their street that Emma had a boyfriend. She didn’t want to listen to her mother make a big deal about Zach being a sophomore, while Emma was just starting high school, or hear it become her mother’s drama: Jesus, if Emma has a boyfriend, how old does that make me? She and Kath would talk it to death until they chewed every bit of juice from her and Zach.
Anyway, Emma wasn’t exactly looking her best. Vomit traces stained her shirt from where Iggy Miller had thrown up, despite how many times she’d scrubbed the spots. “Just tell him I had to go home, okay?”
When they left, Emma rummaged in her bag until she found a pack of almonds. Her mother threw this stuff at her every morning, making sure she didn’t starve to death, as though they lived in some remote Appalachian village where she’d have to trek fifty miles for food.
God, her mother was late again. Now she wished she’d let Caro send Zach. At least she’d have something to do besides stare at stupid boys showing off—battling to be the first to knock each other from the r
etaining wall, then looking to see if Emma was watching. The doggy smell of sand they’d kicked up mixed with the odor of throw-up from her shirt. She brought her arm up to her nose and sniffed. Vomity. She brought her braid around to her face. Dried sweat.
Where was her mother?
Salty nut dust coated Emma’s mouth. She jumped off the wall and walked to the fountain in the square. Three boys about Gracie’s age took turns forcing the water pressure and spraying one other.
“Excuse me,” she said.
They turned to her with a whaddya want look.
“Do you mind?” She gestured toward the spigot.
They moved back. Slowly. She bent over the fountain, taking her time. Gross and warm, but at least the water washed the salt off her tongue.
“Emma.”
Emma turned, recognizing her brother’s screech. She wiped her mouth with the bottom of her T-shirt, puzzled at not seeing her mother’s car.
“Come on, Emma!”
She blocked the sun with her hand but still couldn’t see her mother or the car.
“Over here, darling.” Grandma Anne stepped out of her blue Volvo and waved at her over the car roof. It was her mother’s mother—if it had been Grandma Frances, she’d have thought the world had come to an end.
Emma hurried over. “What are you doing here, Grandma?”
“Mommy’s hurt,” Gracie whispered out the window, as though it were a secret.
Emma opened the passenger door and got into the empty seat. Her grandmother slid back behind the wheel.
“What happened?” Fear hit Emma in the stomach first. A small cramp had already begun.
“Put on your seat belt,” her grandmother said. “Mommy was in a car accident. Daddy also. They’re in the hospital.”
“Daddy only had a bruised chest.” Gracie held a knuckle to her mouth, talking around it. “He’s not in a room.”
“She means a bruised rib. He hasn’t been admitted.” Grandma took a deep breath. “They’re both going to be fine. Just fine.”
“How did it happen? How bad is Mom hurt?”
Accidents of Marriage Page 6