Optimists Die First

by Susin Nielsen

  There were kegs at the party. Jacob had a few drinks. He didn’t think anything of it. Gord was their designated driver.

  But Gord got loaded. He could barely stand up. Frankie was pretty drunk, too.

  The three of them decided that Jacob would drive.

  It was snowing a lot when they left. Gord got in the backseat. Frankie sat up front. Jacob thought he was being careful. He made sure everyone was buckled up. He drove the speed limit.

  They’d been on the highway for about twenty minutes when it happened. Jacob thought they hit a patch of black ice, but he’d never know for sure. He just remembered losing control of the car. It hit the guardrail and spun. It flipped a bunch of times.

  Jacob lost consciousness. When he came to, he was trapped inside the ruined car, his arm pinned under a pile of crushed metal. Frankie was beside him, unresponsive.

  He couldn’t see into the back. But even if he could have, he wouldn’t have seen Gord. Gord had unbuckled his seat belt so he could stretch out and sleep. He’d been thrown through the windshield like a rag doll, landing thirty meters from the car.

  He died on impact.

  The first responders used the Jaws of Life to get Jacob and Frankie out of the car. They were taken to the hospital in the same ambulance. Jacob woke up without his arm. Frankie was paralyzed from the waist down.

  Jacob was charged with impaired driving causing death. His parents hired a really good lawyer. She argued that there were extenuating circumstances, that it could have been black ice, not driver error, that caused the crash. In the end, though, the judge found Jacob guilty and sentenced him to a year in a youth facility.

  As in jail, basically.

  Jacob didn’t tell me much about his time in juvenile detention, except to say he was on suicide watch for months.

  I guess it explained why he didn’t like to be in enclosed spaces.

  Gord’s mom started to post stuff on Jacob’s Facebook page and sent him weekly letters with Bible scripture, telling him he was going to burn in hell. She thought he’d got off too easy.

  He was released after six months, in November. His parents moved in December. They had been working on getting job transfers ever since the trial. They wanted to give Jacob a fresh start.

  Jacob deleted all his social media accounts, which explained why I hadn’t been able to find him. He told me his name never popped up in association with the accident or court case because he was a juvenile and his identity was protected.

  His parents didn’t leave a forwarding address and their phone numbers were unlisted. But Mrs. Esterhasz found them anyway. In February the letters had started arriving again.

  My brain struggled to compute everything Jacob had just told me. It was far too much to absorb. “Why did you give your friends fake names?”

  “I didn’t want you to have anything to Google.”

  “Is that why you said they both died?”

  “I guess. I don’t know.”

  “But I told you the truth about Maxine. Every last detail.”

  “Yes. But you don’t look like a monster at the end of that story.”

  The voice in my head was getting louder. If he lied about this, what else did he lie about?

  “I was afraid you’d judge me,” he continued. “You and the others.”

  “We wouldn’t have judged you.”

  He shook his head. “Not true. If I’d told you what I’d done from the start, you would have seen me in a totally different light. I wouldn’t have been Jacob. I would have been Jacob, the Drunk Driver Who Killed His Friend.” He knelt down in front of me and grabbed my hands. Ferdinand leapt from my lap. “That’s where we’re different. Maxine’s death wasn’t your fault. But with my friends…it was my fault. I’ve lived with the weight of this every day. And then I met you, and Ivan, and Koula, and Alonzo…you were all seeing the me that I was before the accident.”

  “They opened up to you, too.”

  “I know. And I listened. I got to know them. I got to know you. And in my own small way I tried to help. Do some good deeds. I tried to be like Clarence Odbody.”

  “Who?”

  “The angel who wants to earn his wings in It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  I could hear and feel my heart pounding. “So you tried to turn your new Vancouver life into the plot of a movie.”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “And the rest of us were supporting characters.”

  “No! Of course not. Look, nothing I do will take away what happened. But at least when I was focused on helping you and the others I could feel okay about myself for brief moments of time.”

  A truly awful thought struck me. “Does this mean I was a good deed?”

  What he did next broke my heart.

  He hesitated.

  “Oh my God.” The room tilted sideways. I hadn’t had a fainting spell in months and I really didn’t want to have one now.

  “Listen to me, Petula. Yes, at first, I thought I could help you get over some of your irrational fears. Help you loosen up a bit—”

  “Loosen up?” A wave of nausea crashed over me. Suddenly everything made so much sense.

  “But then I started falling for you, and all your quirks. I fell for you big-time—”

  “Why should I believe you? How can I believe you?”

  “Because it’s me. You can trust me.”

  I lost it. “Listen to yourself! You lied to me, Jacob, you lied to all of us. I mean, Jesus—you killed someone! And we had no idea. Because you’re a really good liar.” Another awful thought struck me. “Were you lying when you said you loved me?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

  “Really? You can’t? How can I trust a word that comes out of your mouth? How do I know you like the shark socks I made you? How do I know your middle name is Schlomo?” I felt the bile surge into my throat. I wasn’t going to faint. But I was going to barf. I grabbed my garbage can just in time.

  Jacob placed his hand on my back while I retched.

  “Don’t touch me. Please, just go. I need you to leave.”

  “Petula, please—”

  “Go!”

  When I finally lifted my head, he was gone.

  I didn’t go to school the next day.

  I got out of bed and went through the motions of getting ready, but once my parents left for work I crawled back under the covers. It felt like I’d been plunged into a vat of molasses. My movements were slow and sluggish. I watched a lot of daytime TV surrounded by cats.

  The school left an automated message informing my parents that I’d been absent, but I deleted it before either of them got home.

  Rachel texted. U ok?

  Koula texted, too. Bitch, what up?

  Bad flu, I typed.

  Not a peep from Jacob.

  But I heard from Shirley Esterhasz. She’d found me on Facebook and sent me a private message.

  So Jacob Cohen’s making cat videos. How nice for him that his life is moving on, while my son’s life is over. Is this who you want for your friend? Think about it.

  Part of me couldn’t blame her. I knew grief could make you do crazy things. Mean things.

  But still. I deleted her message. I changed my privacy settings. And I blocked Shirley Esterhasz.

  I also Googled Randle McMurphy and Ben Willard. Jack Nicholson played Randle McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Martin Sheen played Captain Ben Willard in Apocalypse Now.

  Of course.

  For the first time in months I searched for articles for my scrapbook and printed them.

  Mexican Man Suffers Death by Cow

  Forty-five-year-old Carlos Rodriguez was killed when a cow fell through his roof and landed on him. The cow had been lifted from a neighboring field when a tornado ripped through the region on Saturday night…

  Woman Watering Plants Plummets to Her Death

  Sixty-six-year-old Bessie Higgins kept beautiful window boxes at her seventh-story apartment i
n Manhattan. “Everyone in the neighborhood loved looking at them,” said a woman who lived across the street. But on Sunday, Bessie leaned out a little too far to do some pruning, and…

  The whole time, my mind kept running in circles with the same questions.

  Why had I ever let my guard down?

  Why had I been so gullible?

  Why had I let myself believe that Jacob was genuinely interested in me?

  Why had I believed he was an authentic human being?

  Optimism had snuck up behind me and bitten me right in the ass.

  On Wednesday I stayed home again. I was getting oddly entranced by the world of daytime TV. There was The Talk, which was not to be confused with The View; there was Let’s Make a Deal and The Price Is Right; there was high drama for shiny, blandly attractive people who were either The Young and the Restless or The Bold and the Beautiful. Watching the shows stilled the chatter in my brain.

  When the school left another automated message, I deleted it, too.

  I knew Mom would be home around four, so at three-thirty I forced myself to get out of my penguin onesie and put on normal clothes.

  She made us scrambled eggs and toast for supper. The two of us ate in front of the TV. Alice, Stanley, and Stuart Little chased each other around the room while Moominmamma watched, looking disdainful. Ferdinand and Pippi were curled up on Mom’s lap, and Anne of Green Gables was curled up on mine.

  “Can we talk about the separation?” Mom asked during a commercial break.

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. How you’re feeling…if there’s anything we can do to make the transition easier….” Ferdinand rolled onto his back and stretched, pushing Pippi out of the way. Mom rubbed his belly.

  “There is something.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want you to stop bringing home more cats. Volunteer for Feline Rescue, yes. But don’t bring any more home.”

  Mom looked startled. “I didn’t expect this from you. Your dad, yes. But not you.”

  “That’s because I’ve spent the last two years trying to please you both. But I don’t have to do that anymore.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “I love the cats, you know I do. But this—this is too much. It’s too much money. It’s too much work. I spend a lot of time cleaning up after them. I don’t think you notice how much. It’s not fair to the cats and it’s not fair to me.”

  She was quiet for a moment. I was worried she might start to cry, but she didn’t. “Okay. Point taken.”

  We got up and took the dishes into the kitchen. I was scrubbing the frying pan when she said, “Tula, are things okay between you and Jacob?”

  I wondered if she’d heard us arguing. I just shook my head.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. I really don’t.”

  She looked worried, but she didn’t push me.

  I had so many conflicting feelings, I didn’t know what to do with them. I felt terribly sorry for Jacob one moment, then furious and betrayed the next.

  And I missed him. Or at least I missed the Jacob I thought I knew.

  His silence confirmed my worst fear:

  I’d been just another good deed.

  And also.

  He’d killed a friend. Put another in a wheelchair.

  It was hard for me to wrap my brain around all of that.

  Lies or no lies, I didn’t know if I could ever look at him the same way again.

  He’d been right.

  I did judge.

  When I didn’t go to school again on Thursday, Mr. Watley called and left a message. “Hello, this is the principal at Princess Margaret Secondary, Ronald Watley.” Ronald. How had I never known his first name? “I’m concerned that Petula hasn’t been at school for three days in a row. Please call me back at your earliest convenience.”

  I deleted the message and put a reminder in my phone to call the school back at five p.m., when the office would be closed. Then I left my own message. “Hello, Ronald, this is Virginia De Wilde. Petula’s been home sick with the flu this week. My apologies for not calling earlier.”

  Rachel’s texts got more persistent throughout the day. She called a few times. Koula’s texts got angrier. They started with Where u? and ended with Bitch, answer me!!

  At three-thirty, someone buzzed the apartment. I was curled up on the couch, surrounded by cats, in the middle of another marathon session of daytime TV. A large woman was throwing a chair at another large woman on a talk show. The theme was “Is Your Husband a Serial Cheater?”

  It was far too riveting for me to bother getting up.

  —

  On Friday morning at eight, the buzzer sounded again. I was still in bed, but my parents were up and about, so I couldn’t stop them from letting the person in.

  What if it’s Jacob? I thought. I buried myself under the covers.

  “She’s in her room,” I heard my dad say from the hall.

  A moment later my door opened. “I am not letting you shut yourself off from me again, Petula. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

  Rachel.

  —

  I told her everything.

  When I was finished, she said, “Poor Jacob.”

  “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

  “I’m just saying. Imagine what it must be like for him, living with what he’s done.”

  “I guess.”

  “He hasn’t been at school, either.”

  “I kind of figured.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I’m really sorry, Petula. What a lousy week you’ve had.”

  “My mind just won’t shut up. Now I think everything he told me was a lie. Everything.”

  She got my meaning. “I don’t believe that. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s crazy about you. He couldn’t fake that.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Get a move on, girls,” Dad said. “Or you’ll be late for school.”

  “He’s right,” Rachel said.

  “I’m not going.”

  Rachel turned around and dug into her bag. When she turned back, she was wearing her Little House on the Prairie bonnet. “You know something, Mary?” she said in her best Laura Ingalls voice.

  “No…what?” I answered as Mary.

  “Life sure is a lot easier when you don’t like boys!”

  That made me laugh, just a little.

  Rachel stood up and held out her hands. “Let’s go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. I’m not leaving till you do.” She grabbed my wrists and pulled me upright. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Gross. You reek.” With the bonnet still on her head, she switched to her Nellie Oleson voice. “Half the time, you don’t even smell like a girl, Laura Ingalls! You’re either sweaty, or you stink of fish!”

  “Well, I sweat a lot and I fish a lot!” I answered, or rather, Laura Ingalls did.

  “Seriously,” Rachel said in her own voice. “Shower. Now.”

  I looked at her in her bonnet.

  I wasn’t going to blow it this time, so I did as I was told.

  —

  One good thing about being unpopular is that no one seemed to notice I hadn’t been at school all week.

  Except Mr. Watley. He spotted me as I was heading to YART. “Petula. You need to come see me after school.”

  “Okay, Ronald,” I said without thinking.

  His eyebrows shot up.

  When I walked into YART, Koula, Alonzo, and Ivan were already at the table. Koula leapt up and barreled toward me. At first I thought she was coming in for another awkward hug. But no. She slugged me really hard on the arm. “Ow!”

  “That’s for not answering my texts.” Then she slugged me again. “I was worried!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Tears sprang to my eyes. “It’s been a truly lousy time. First my parents. And Jacob—”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t.”
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  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you—”

  “Would you two cut it out,” Alonzo said. “We do. Jacob sent all of us a long email. He told us everything.”

  Oh.

  Betty stepped out of her office. She wore a bright blue suit with yellow buttons down the front.

  “Holy crap, you’re like a living, breathing ad for Ikea,” blurted Koula. Without being told, she dug into her pocket and tossed a quarter onto the table. Betty put it in the almost-full mason jar.

  “Jacob contacted me, too,” Betty told us. “We had a long phone chat earlier today.” She hooked up her laptop to the TV monitor. “He also sent me Koula’s finished video. I thought we could watch it.”

  Jacob had edited the video to “All Apologies,” by Nirvana. Koula’s signs and facial expressions had us laughing one moment, tearing up the next.

  When it was over, Betty turned up the lights. Koula grabbed a Kleenex and blew her nose. “That was really freaking good.”

  “No matter what, he’s a great storyteller,” said Alonzo.

  “And a great liar,” I said.

  “Let’s talk about that,” said Betty. “Who would like to go first? Ivan? How are you feeling?”

  Ivan had been silent until now. “Mad.” He rocked back and forth in his chair, a scowl on his face.

  “Why mad?”

  “Because he lied. Because he did something dumb.” I had the unkind thought that Ivan would never grow up to be a speechwriter.

  “Alonzo?”

  Alonzo looked at his fingernails, which were painted dark red. “I’m…I can’t compute what I know now with the guy I thought I knew. One minute I feel really angry with him. I mean, drunk driving, who does that anymore? The next minute I feel awful for him. For what it must be like to live with this. And then…then I think about his victims. The boy who died. What that must be like for the family.”

  Koula nodded. “I felt super angry when I first read his email. Like I’d just been sucker punched. For twenty-four hours I wanted to kill him. I couldn’t figure out why I was so angry, like, rage angry. So, um.” She mumbled the next part.