by Luanne Rice
“People don’t realize how fast you can lose control of the vehicle,” said Connecticut State Police spokesman Sgt. Mark Grandview. “And it’s not just kids—adults are texting, too. A large percentage of our worst crashes involve cell phones. You take your eyes off the road for a second, and you can destroy your life—or someone else’s.”
Toxicology tests were determined to be negative for both drugs and alcohol, and police do not believe that speed was a factor in the single-car crash.
“It was texting, 100 percent, pure and simple,” Sgt. Grandview said. “The message is clear: Don’t text and drive.”
Ruth Ann was recently moved to a Boston area hospital for specialized care. While previously this newspaper has withheld her name because she is a minor, we have decided to print it in the article because of a statement from her mother.
“My daughter’s life hangs in the balance because of one bad decision. She texted. If even one family can be spared our heartache, then talking about it will be worth it.”
Yes. My mother turned Roo’s phone in to the state police so they could analyze it. She had told me about this interview, but seeing it in black and white made me feel she’d thrown me to the wolves. I wanted to be furious at her, and even more at Isabel for making me tell my mom, but mostly I hated myself.
“Who put this article here?” I asked Nona, who was rummaging in her locker beside mine. “What idiot would do this? Marlene, right? Who else?”
“What’s the difference?” Nona asked, glaring at me.
“What, you too? You think I’m rotten?”
“You’re obviously the family member mentioned in the article,” she said. “You were texting with Roo?”
“You’ve never texted before?” I asked.
“Not to someone I know is driving.”
“What makes you think I knew she was driving?” I asked, desperately grasping.
“She was on her way to pick you up. God, Tilly,” Nona said. “And not only that, I had to hear about it in the newspaper, like everyone else. Couldn’t you have told me about it?”
“You could have talked to us,” Em said, walking over from her locker across the hall.
“What was there to say?” I asked, upset that even Em was lashing out at me.
“If you don’t know that, I feel sorry for you.” Nona shook her head and walked away. Em gave me a long look and followed her. I felt like crying.
Mr. Gordon had canceled second-period classes for an emergency assembly in the auditorium. I wanted to skip, but that would have made things even worse. I slunk in just as he was starting, and I sat in the last row, behind everyone. I could barely stay still, so nervous at what he was going to say. Kids were buzzing and everyone—including me—knew he was going to talk about the article.
About me and Roo.
The vice principal, Mrs. Lansing, stood onstage with Mr. Gordon, deathly looks on their faces. Teddy Messina stood behind the overhead projector, halfway down the middle aisle, while other kids from the AV club pulled down the big white screen above the stage. Usually, at assemblies like this, everyone was restless and noisy, happy to be out of class, hanging out with friends in the middle of the day.
But this morning, total silence.
I wanted to run out, leave school and never return. Slater was a few rows away; he turned around, scanning the crowd till he found me. He waved, inviting me to sit with him. I shook my head. I inched halfway out of my seat, but sat down again; bolting would only make it worse.
Newton sat off to the side, three-quarters of the way back, head down as if he didn’t want to see what might appear on-screen. Nona and Em occupied our regular seats. I looked to see if they had saved one for me, and Em had—there was an empty chair next to her.
Marlene, Debbie, Allison, and the other Marlene-o-Matics were front and center. They weren’t going to miss a minute of my takedown. I heard clicking and half turned: Isabel and friends of hers and Roo’s from photography club and the school paper were behind me, photographing the assembly. Isabel. My face turned into a knot, thinking of how she’d started this.
She caught my eye, and I looked away. Hard. I hope she knew she’d ruined my life. I found myself watching Newton. He couldn’t even raise his head. I wondered if he had read the news article, and if so, how much he despised me. I slunk down in my seat.
Mr. Gordon tapped the microphone. A yowl of feedback fed through the speakers, and he cleared his throat. He wore his usual blue blazer and plaid tie. His round tortoiseshell glasses rested on the bridge of his hawk nose, and his friendly face looked not angry, as I would have expected, but full of mourning, as if someone he loved had just died.
“By now,” he said, speaking into the microphone, “many of you have seen the news story. You might think it is, in a way, old news. Ruth Ann’s accident took place in February. But this story focuses on new information. Ruth Ann had been texting with a family member. We will not divulge her name at this time.”
A nervous buzz went up through the crowd. My muscles felt tight, poised to spring. Here it came: Whether he said my name or not, everyone knew. He was going to blame Roo, blame me. He was going to criticize us for something I already hated myself for.
Tilly, people whispered. She was texting with Tilly. What other family member would it be?
My mom was reliable Mrs. McCabe; half of them had had her in middle school. She wasn’t someone who would text while her daughter was driving. The auditorium rustled, and it felt like every single person turned to look at me. I kept my eyes down.
“Ruth Ann is not the only one to do this,” he said. “I could ask those of you in this room who have ever sent a text while driving to raise your hands—and I know, if you were being honest, most of your hands would go up. But I’m not going to ask.”
Mrs. Lansing nodded to Teddy. He dimmed the auditorium lights.
A photo of Roo from last year’s yearbook filled the screen. It was larger than life, and her huge smile touched her blue eyes, and her long, dark hair gleamed in the daylight, and you could almost feel her wanting to reach out, hug you, and invite you to go running on the beach with her.
“This is our friend, Ruth Ann McCabe,” he said. “The way she looked last spring.”
Mrs. Lansing nodded, and another photo took its place.
I gasped: It was Roo in her hospital bed. The shot was blurry, as if the person taking it had moved suddenly, as if maybe there had been too much emotion to hold the camera steady. But you could make out the fine shape of Roo’s oval face, her perfect cheekbones, and her blue eyes—open and staring in that seemingly unfocused way. And you could see her cracked lips pulled back, her mouth wide open in that silent, glacial scream.
Students whispered, groaned, wept. The sounds of choking, sniffling, and pure and utter grief filled the auditorium.
“Ruth Ann’s mother gave me that picture,” Mr. Gordon said, his voice breaking. “She loves her daughter—both of her daughters—so much, she was thinking of all the parents, all the siblings, everyone who loves a friend or family member. And she wanted to make sure all of you know that this can happen if you text and drive.”
Mrs. Lansing left the stage. I saw her shoulders shaking, as if she, too, was crying. She stood by Teddy, placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. He removed Roo’s photo and the screen glowed garish and white and blank.
“You all know Ruth Ann was brilliant with a camera,” Mr. Gordon said. “Taking pictures, especially of nature, was her passion. She planned to enter a prestigious photography contest, and she hoped to apply early decision to Yale University. Her academic record is so excellent, I can only believe she would have been admitted. There are two paths in life. The ones we take, and the ones we don’t. I am going to leave you with a few minutes of silence.” He bowed his head and took a long pause before looking up again. I saw his eyes were red. “Mrs. Lansing selected some of her favorite photos by Roo, including some that were taken the day she crashed. I would like you to watch the
m now, and realize that they represent Roo’s other path—the one that is no longer available to her because she took her eyes off the road for three seconds to send a text. Please watch.”
I had made it through okay, but him using her nickname pierced my heart, and I wasn’t sure I could stay in my seat.
The screen filled with one of Roo’s shots of a bright-red sunrise over the beach. Then a photo of the Black Hall marsh, deep green at dawn. Then a series of the full moon rising, getting higher and smaller in the sky with each shot, behind Hubbard’s Point. Ice on the river. The streetlight at the end of a curving beach road. Gold light spreading like butterscotch across the snowy marsh. The bait shop boarded up for the winter. Then a screen shot of her last text: 5 mins away.
People began to openly sob, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I inched out of my row, then tore out the back door of the auditorium.
I wanted to escape, leave school and never return. The halls were empty. This had been Roo’s school. She had been so excited for me to be a freshman and join her here. We had had just one semester and two months together before she crashed. She would never return, never be a student at Black Hall High again. I clamped my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. I ran past the office, out the door into the parking lot.
My bike was locked to the rack. Fumbling with the combination, I didn’t hear footsteps. It wasn’t until I felt hands on mine, and jumped a mile, that I realized I’d been followed out.
“Newton,” I said.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m getting out of here.”
“Roo wouldn’t want you to run off. She’d tell you to stay and face it.”
“Don’t you hate me like everyone else?”
He glared at me.
“Didn’t you read the article?” I asked, shoving him, waiting for him to blast me. “Didn’t you see those pictures? The one of her in the hospital. And her photographs, ‘the other path’?”
“Of course I saw them. And I was there when she took half the pictures. And of course I read the article.”
“And? Did you figure out I’m the family member?”
“What do you think?” he shouted.
“I think you know,” I said, shocked because I’d never heard him use that tone of voice before. “I’m the one she texted to. Three seconds that took everything she had. I did it.”
His face turned red. It almost scared me because I’d never seen him that angry before. But he didn’t move. He towered over me, a tall, skinny giant.
“I thought I had,” he whispered.
“What?”
The world stopped dead. Then a flock of geese flew overhead. Trucks from I-95, just half a mile away, rumbled noisily. The interstate and birds and wind in the branches filled the air, drowning out the silence between Newton and me.
“I thought I had done it,” he said finally.
“Done what?”
“Texted and made her crash. It’s ironic; we loved her most, and we’re the ones who sent the texts.”
“Yours were way earlier. I looked.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that, I didn’t have the exact time. I only know that I sent them knowing she was in the car; I didn’t care. I knew she was out working on her portfolio, then going to pick you up, but all I could think was, she wanted space, she wanted distance, she’s leaving me, leaving us. I wanted reassurance from her.”
“Space?” I asked.
“She was going to break up with me,” he said.
I sat down hard on the ground, looking at my feet.
“So you saved me here, Tilly. I figured I was the one who sent her off the road.”
“You weren’t.”
“I might as well have been. We don’t know exactly what happened. She sent the text to you, but she’d been reading the ones from me.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I am.”
I thought about what he had said. And remembered that one Saturday months back, when he had called our house, and Roo hadn’t wanted to take the call. And I remembered him asking me something at the hospital in New London.
“Space, really? You two?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling hoarse, my voice barely working.
“Thanks.”
“Why, though?” I asked. “You two are … Newton and Roo.”
He shook his head, a combination of sorrow and confusion. “She wanted it,” he said. “College coming up, and I don’t know. She didn’t talk to you about it?”
“Not at all.” Why hadn’t I asked her why she hadn’t wanted to talk to him that day? I suddenly felt hurt, that my sister had been considering something so big and hadn’t confided in me.
Newton had come out to try to convince me to go back inside, but that wasn’t going to happen. I saw something change in his eyes. He put his hand on my waist, steered me toward his car. I tingled just like the day he’d caught me tripping down the steps at Foley’s, just like when we’d held hands the day Roo left Connecticut in the ambulance. We got into his car, and without a word, he drove out of the parking lot. He didn’t have to tell me where we were going.
We hit the highway heading north. It took two hours to get to the outskirts of Boston, and then we got stuck in traffic. My thoughts were swirling, trying to hold on to anything but the fact he had said “loved”: We loved her most. Was loving Roo seriously the past tense for him? My gaze slid his way.
He was as awkward and gawky as ever, and his heavy glasses still slid down his nose, but looking at him this time, I felt more tenderness than I’d ever felt. His bony wrists poked out of his threadbare navy sweater, and his big stainless steel watch, a chronometer Roo had given him for his sixteenth birthday, looked gigantic on him. His Adam’s apple protruded, but instead of wanting to make fun of him and call him Ichabod Crane, as I had so often since childhood, I kind of loved it, because it was such a distinctive part of Newton.
I had a shocking thought: What would it feel like to kiss him?
I’d only been kissed one time, when I was twelve, by a summer boy at Hubbard’s Point. I barely knew him—his family had been renting a cottage for July. He lived in Hartford and was a year younger and an inch shorter than me, and we’d met flying kites after a storm. His name was Jimmy, and he was cute in a super-freckly way.
We’d gone crabbing at the end of the beach and had bluefish heads for bait, a bucket full of rock crabs, and sandy hands. We were balanced on a seaweed-covered rock, and he burped. I looked over to laugh at him, and he swooped in for the kiss.
It shocked me so much, and his sandy hand scraped my sunburned shoulder so hard it felt like sandpaper, I toppled straight into a bed of wet seaweed and accidently pulled him in with me, and barnacles scraped our legs, and he came so close to crying, his lower lip wobbled. The whole situation smelled like crabs and bluefish heads, and it wasn’t exactly romantic.
When I got home, I told Roo the whole thing. She had listened sympathetically. But as a big sister, part of her role was letting me know that as kisses went, my first didn’t pass muster. So, any time she wanted to get me going, all she had to do was say, “Jimmy.” And we’d be lost for five minutes in a combination of embarrassed and hysterical laughter. If she said “bluefish,” it could go on for five more.
Looking at Newton, I found myself imagining a much different kind of kiss. The thoughts terrified me, so I turned away, my face to the side window, watching the Boston skyline come into view. We passed Fenway Park. Baseball season had started, and there was a game scheduled that night. People had started to arrive; I tried to concentrate on memories of going to see the Red Sox with my parents and Roo, how my father had bought us hats and pennants, and how Roo and I had worn our baseball mitts, hoping to catch a foul ball.
All this way from Black Hall, we still hadn’t said a word to each other. We found a parking spot and marched in
to the medical center, through the lobby to the west wing, and up the elevator to the fourth floor.
We walked down the corridor, which had already become familiar. It was lined with private and semiprivate rooms, all filled with patients who had complex neurological conditions. When we got to Roo’s room, I was expecting the usual gut-clenching moment of guilt and regret.
Instead, I found laughter and bubbling-over joy.
My mother was there. She was still on leave of absence from school and came nearly every day; I could barely look at her, considering that newspaper interview and the fact that she’d handed over a disgusting photo of Roo to be shown at school.
“Hi, honey,” my mother said. “Hi, Newton.” She came to hug us. I hoped she noticed the major cold shoulder I was giving her, but she just gave me a harder squeeze and went back to Roo.
My sister’s bed had been cranked to a forty-five-degree angle, and she was more upright than I had seen her since the crash. She looked like a character in a futuristic movie, wearing a black cap that fit tightly over her head, almost like a Mouseketeer hat without the ears. From it ran a bundle of wires that connected to a laptop open on the tray table in front of her. Several nurses and doctors, including the austere Dr. Hill, tall and imposing with a lion’s mane of wild white hair, were clustered around Roo.
“You see, Roo—it will be as streamlined as thinking a thought and having it appear on the screen,” a young man exclaimed in an English accent, grabbing Roo’s hand. He looked about the age of a college kid, and he wore a doctor’s coat over a bright-red T-shirt with black writing on it. He had long, brown hair that waved over his eye and reminded me of a tragic English poet.
“I can’t believe it!” my mother said.
“Tim has pioneered this technology,” Dr. Hill said. “His lab is at the very forefront.”
Newton and I stood in the doorway, watching.
“She’ll be a master, right off the bat,” the young doctor, who I assume was Tim, said. “Once we get started, we’ll be on to robotics and she’ll be reaching for that camera.”
“The camera?” my mother said, sounding nervous and protective. “I’m not sure we should get her hopes up for that.”