by Pamela Crane
I heard Avella’s voice resume, distant now, remote. “The scenery … explore it. Imagine the grass under your feet. Imagine the open sky. What do you smell?”
The more I let go of my current reality, the more I submerged into the alternate one, instead of viewing it from above. Once I dropped out of my lucid state, I felt a vibration, like electricity pulsing through me, its static drowning out Avella’s words. Then I found myself in my old front yard, and Carli was playing just outside of arm’s reach. The smell of freshly mowed grass filled my nostrils as I heard the mechanical growl of a neighbor’s lawnmower.
“You are playing with your sister. Visualize each moment. What do you see?” Avella’s soft voice broke through, conjuring up a more vivid Carli, our bickering. But I didn’t push her into the street. Instead I tapped her and fled, teasing her into a game of tag. Then I heard the squeal of tires and a spongy thump—but Carli was still standing, chasing me. The sound was from the front tires riding up over the curb, then chewing up our yard.
Then another sound, deeper this time—two thuds, one after the other, as the front bumper hit Carli, and Carli hit the ground. I ran to Carli, hearing only my own screams drowning out the car’s getaway as it smacked back down on the asphalt road before speeding away.
“Can you see the vehicle, Ari?”
I looked up and watched it drive away, a burnt orange hatchback. Like a gaping mouth, the oversized rear window reached from the roof to the bumper in my child’s-eye view, the two rectangular brake lights blinking at me.
“I see it,” I mumbled.
But the sequence of events faltered, and from the front door I viewed my mother huddled beside Carli while my father hobbled down the porch steps toward them, his limping figure blurring out of focus.
In a tidy instant the dreamscape faded, and I was back in Avella’s office staring at the ceiling. Finally I found what I’d been searching for.
And then some.
I got a mental picture of the car, but why the hell was my father limping?
Chapter 20
Ari
Eight days until dead
Since the advent of smartphones, tablets, and e-readers, I wondered if people even used libraries anymore. I hadn’t stepped foot in one in … well, shit, ever. Not being the most studious kid in the world, my local library served solely as a brick shield from windy drafts so that I could light whatever off-brand cigarette I was smoking at the time during my adolescence.
But when my Google search for information took me in circles, and I couldn’t access the local paper archives without a paid subscription, I figured it was time to see what all the library hype was about.
The Durham County Library’s aisles were pretty well marked, enough so that I could avoid talking to the grinning bald man at the help desk whose eyes followed me behind his large wire-rimmed glasses, like two fish inside a fishbowl. The way the frames slid down his oily nose made me think of sweat, and sweaty old men made me think of … well, gagging.
“Can I help you?” he nearly yelled to me across the room in a nasally voice.
I smiled stiffly, giving him a thumbs-up that I was fine. And please, please don’t ogle me like that anymore.
After wandering between floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with every subject I could imagine, I meandered to the front left corner of the building where a line of windows led into a separate room with the word ARCHIVES on it.
The door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the tap of fingers on keyboards and the whispers of huddled students presumably talking about their history project research. I knew the truth—that high school romance was in the air.
Upon entering the glass room full of periodicals, I ran my gaze along the spines of vertically arranged bound volumes until I came to The News and Observer—April 2002. Sliding it off the shelf, I set it on the table and flipped until I came to April 9 edition—the day after the accident.
It was a little disappointing, to say the least, that my sister’s death did not make the front page. No, the article took up just four column inches at the bottom right of page A-8—easily overlooked next to the newspaper’s fold; a tacky half-page ad for a tire company dominated the page. A child dies and she doesn’t even get decent news placement.
I read the article, sickened by how short it was—much like Carli’s life:
Eight-year-old Durham Girl Victim of Lethal Hit-and-Run
Durham, NC
Carli Wilburn, age 8, died Monday morning after a vehicle hit her while she was playing in her front yard with her sister at 22 Pinewood Road. Her father and mother, Burt and Winnie Wilburn, called paramedics after an unidentified car crushed Carli, causing a severe head wound and internal bleeding. Paramedics transported the youth to Durham Regional Hospital where she was pronounced dead on arrival due to her injuries.
Police investigators are currently searching for information on the make and model of the car that might lead to the apprehension of the driver.
Carli was a student at Holt Elementary, which her sister also attends. A memorial will be held April 11 at 10:00 a.m. at Cornerstone Bible Church on Guess Road.
A picture of my old stomping ground, captured in the minutes after we had already headed to the hospital, accompanied the article, showing crime scene investigators already processing evidence, and several knots of gawkers. The patch of grass where I last saw my sister alive. The tire tracks left subtle impressions in the dirt, not deep trenches. A rear-wheel drive car, maybe? My eyes traveled to the maple tree mere feet from where Carli was thrown. I looked closer, as if the image was one of those optical illusions that would pop out a clue in 3D.
A skidmark stretched up across the curb, but at an odd angle. Almost perpendicular. If it had been a drunk driver mindlessly swerving off the road, it should have been almost parallel to the curb. But this was clearly deliberately aimed. And if that was the case … was it possible I had nothing to do with Carli getting hit? Was Carli a target? And if so, why?
After folding the volume back up and returning it to its shelf, I needed a drive. Some air. And someone to talk to. I dialed Tina, but I ended up in her voicemail, leaving nothing but a hang-up. There was no one else … unless … no, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
And then I’d be damned if I did.
Fingers have a mind of their own sometimes. It happens when you’re drunk dialing. It happens when you’re emotional in the middle of the night eating from a tub of ice cream watching a sappy movie. It even happens when you’re bored out of your mind. In my case, it was happening in a moment of desperation.
I dialed Tristan up, and to my embarrassment, he answered.
“Hey, Ari.” His voice sounded sheepish or freshly woken—I wasn’t sure which.
“Hey, Tristan. I was wondering what you were doing right now.”
He paused. “Uhhh … hanging out with you, I hope?”
“Good answer. Mind if I pick you up and we go for a drive?”
“I don’t know. Last time I agreed to something like that, I ended up on the side of a back road in Oxford with no pants on. How do I know I can trust you? How do I know my virtue will be secure in your hands, or that you don’t have some kind of nefarious intent?”
Laughing at his boyish wit, I instantly lost any regret about calling him and decided he might have even charmed himself off my shit list and earned himself a speed-dial spot on my phone. I wasn’t sure if I was fickle or just incredibly lonely. Probably a little of both.
Or maybe I was just being a girl.
“Keep dreaming. I’ll see you in ten.”
**
The first few minutes in the car with Tristan felt like a stuck clock hand, ticking the same second again and again. But once I started showcasing my carpool karaoke skills, and entertained him with a game of dodge the pothole, the conversation soon flowed effortlessly—despite residual whiplash from my kamikaze city driving.
“I think the point is to try to miss the potholes.” Tristan rubbed his neck wi
th an exaggerated wince.
“Bite me,” I playfully retorted, followed by another thump! thump!
“Seriously, though, do you want to go get an alignment now, or wait until you hit every pothole in Durham? I think there’s only two left. We can swing by and hit them, then be done with this game in a jiffy.”
“You’ll be done in a jiffy,” I retorted, trailing off. I must have left my wit at home today.
“What was that?” Apparently he noticed I was off my game.
“Shut up.” But I didn’t mean a single word of it.
We laughed, we bantered, we poked fun, and yes, we even got whiplash together as I drove. It was refreshment to my lonely soul. I felt at ease with him, more so than I had any business feeling with a man I knew so little about. Something about him was just so … disarming. This could be bliss, or it could be dangerous. Who was he? Why was he in the suicide support group? What skeletons did he have jangling around in his closet, and how ugly were they? Something told me that no matter how damaged he was inside, I could love this man.
Love? What the hell was I thinking? But my malnourished heart was already leaps ahead of my more rational brain; there was no backtracking now.
I had shamefully opened up to him, going into way more detail than I should have for a first non-date. I told him about the hit-and-run driver who got away with killing my sister, and why I needed to find him, and to my surprise, he wanted to help.
“Everyone needs closure, Ari. I wanna make sure you get that.”
I snorted. “Really? That’s what the cops told me too. Instead they locked me up in juvie. Protect and serve, my ass.”
“I’m so sorry. But not all cops are bad. Their actions were probably based on what your parents were saying. And when it comes to child services, it’s not the cops who make the decisions. It’s the social worker. They clearly didn’t think you were safe in the care of your parents.”
Or that my parents were safe with me.
After all, my mother accused me of willfully killing my sister.
“Hm, I’m pretty sure all cops are self-serving pricks. But whatever. Water over the bridge, or under the dam, or whatever. As you can see, I’m not bitter.” I didn’t want to go into the nasty details of how juvie kids were pushed around, berated, loathed by those hired to look out for us. He didn’t need to see that side of me, as long as I could hide it. And I was extraordinarily good at hiding things. “So how do you expect to help me?”
“I have my methods.”
I batted my lashes and purred sultrily, “Oh, I’m sure you do, big boy.”
My mock seduction wasn’t lost on him as his smile deepened and eyebrows rose, lifting a head full of gelled exclamation points. I imagined him on stage jamming with a guitar.
“You’d be surprised what kinds of connections I have. I’ll have to tell you my secrets sometime.”
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” The flirting was running full steam ahead and I couldn’t, wouldn’t stop it. Was this what fun felt like?
“I think I already know a few of yours.”
“Oh really? Prove it.” Despite the playful repartee, my challenge was for real.
“Okay. You obviously feel responsible for what happened to your sister. You want to make amends for the past and help others heal from theirs. You’re a loner, but you don’t want to be. And you’re strong, but you should allow others to carry you once in a while.”
His words were feathery, lifted on the breeze and floating down around me.
“Oh, and you’re a terrible driver,” he added drolly.
“I am not! Everyone else is! I’m an excellent driver.” I lifted my chin with a mock snobbish air.
“I’ve never been to a chiropractor before. After today I think I need to start.”
“Oh really?” Thump! thump!
“Okay, okay! I give! I give! But seriously, your singing …”
“Oh, now I think you’re just trying to get in my pants with all this flattery,” I said, swatting at him.
“The horror!” he exclaimed. “Never. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh, let’s face it. All men really care about is getting laid.”
Tristan clutched his heart in mock insult. “You think I’m in this just for the booty? I can’t speak for the entire species, but yes, some of us ego-driven, one-track-mind males care about things other than hooking up.”
“Oh, cars. I forgot you care about cars.”
“Exactly. But don’t forget booze. Women, booze, and cars—in that order. That comprises the entire male mind. Oh, and sports. Don’t forget sports. So, women, booze, cars, and sports. Or is it women, booze, sports, then cars … I can never remember. It’s so subjective. It’s definitely one of those two, though … unless it’s not.”
“Prove you have substance. Tell me your story,” I challenged. Everyone at the suicide support group had a story. If you faced death, thought about death, yearned for death then you had something to tell. I’d yet to hear his.
“I guess I grew up with a pretty normal family. Nothing interesting about me, other than that I’m a dude who wears leather and arm bands.”
“You mean bracelets?” I teased.
“No, girls wear bracelets. Men wear arm bands. Arm bands are cool. Huge difference. Ask Johnny Depp. Anyways,” he winked as he continued, “nothing traumatic happened to me, other than that I was an outcast growing up. Got picked on a lot.”
“Probably because you wore bracelets, Tristan.”
“Shut up about the bracelets … er, I mean arm bands. Do you want to know my story or not?” He pinched my arm playfully.
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“So I didn’t have many friends growing up. We lived on a farm, so that kind of isolated me.”
“You’re a farmer?”
“Was—was a farmer. City boy all the way now. Living in that kind of isolation plays hell with a growing teen’s self-esteem. It got worse as I got older and lonelier. And my job—well, I like what I do, but I see a lot of shit in the world. It gets depressing. So I go to group to help keep my head clear. Get some perspective, y’know?”
“What is your job, by the way?” Finally I was getting to know him.
“Let’s just say I work with a lot of lowlifes.”
“Oh, so you’re in politics.”
“Heh, yeah.”
“Hey, as long as you’re not a cop, we’re cool.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Okay, Bracelets, you said you wanna help me? I’m gonna put you to the test. Help me get some answers today.”
“That I can do.” Then he winked at me. “In fact, for you I’m pretty sure I would do anything.”
And … I was smitten. Maybe he was a little smitten too.
When we pulled up to 22 Pinewood Road, Tristan laid a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“So this is it, huh? Where you grew up.”
“Yep.” I couldn’t push more than that simple word out as my throat constricted with emotion at the memories washing over me.
I parked along the street a couple cars’ lengths past where I remembered Carli getting hit. My former home hadn’t changed much, despite changing hands a couple times. Too many memories drove my parents out shortly after I left: “This was where Carli colored the wall with my lipstick. This was where Carli took her first step. This was where Carli spilled an entire gallon of milk. This was where Carli caught a spoon on fire in the microwave.”
I wondered if they had any “This was where Ari …” moments.
The white siding was a subtle gray, and the green shutters were now a blinding royal blue, but everything else, down to the pansy flowerbeds and budding rosebushes, looked the same. Even the thick maple tree out front with ARW and CLW etched into the bark still held out low branches, perfect for little legs to climb. The only difference was that it seemed much humbler—not the impressive yard and massive house that I saw from the eyes of a child. The yard was shorter, the house more
modest. It’s odd how a child’s outlook can magnify things … or perhaps an adult’s perspective sucks all the majesty out of life.
“Looks like a nice place to grow up,” Tristan said. His voice cracked, as if he, too, were afraid to disrupt the poignancy of the moment.
“It was, for a time.” My voice was hushed, distant.
Despite never leaving the same town I grew up in, I hadn’t visited this place in all that time since I had left. Carli’s ghost kept me at bay.
As we stood there in numbing silence staring at the yard, a couple ran past decked out in matching neon spandex, tiny backpacks bulging with water bottles, and patches of reflective tape all over their bodies. They looked ridiculous and utterly annoying.
“Professional runners? Is that the new trend—God-awful eye-blinding spandex? And that dude’s not even wearing a cup!” Tristan whispered after they jogged out of earshot. “I so want to punch them in the face right now.”
“Me too!” I laughed. “Though I’m a little curious why you noticed his cuplessness …”
“I wear leather pants, Ari. What do you think that’s saying?”
It was then that I realized Tristan got me. A laugh during a solemn moment—that was all me. Inappropriate laughter was my salve. A kid fell and broke his leg? I laughed … after helping him up, of course. When Mom slipped on a puddle on the ceramic tile floor? I laughed … after running to my room covering my mouth so she wouldn’t hear. I adored that Tristan could chop the head right off of the tension with one swift joke.
We had been standing for a solid couple of minutes, and I wondered if anyone was at home calling the police about two stalkers casing their house right now.
“We should probably stop staring at the house. I wonder if Mrs. Salinger still lives next door.”
“You wanna go find out?” Tristan offered. “It’s better than doing jail time for loitering here all day.”
“And share a cell with you? Hell no. Let’s go.”
We walked along the street—Tristan on the grass and me with arms spread out while tiptoeing along the curb like it was a balance beam—toward a perfect replica of my own house with no noticeable difference other than the color scheme. I knocked on the door, grateful Tristan was beside me. There was no way in hell I could ever knock on a door to the unknown and still be there when they opened it.