“It’s from Cal.”
“Oh.”
“Isn’t it pretty?”
Ignoring the question, she said, “I saw him here again today, in the hall when I went to get your milk.”
“Do you think he’s still here?” I asked eagerly.
“I told him what was happening. And that it wasn’t a good day to visit.”
“Oh … I kind of wanted to talk to him.”
Again she didn’t respond, or perhaps she hadn’t heard. He’d probably left by now anyway.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be here soon.”
“Should I get dressed?”
“I guess we should wait until Dr. Murray sees you.”
“And Trina. I wanted to say goodbye.”
“I haven’t seen her since breakfast. We can leave her a message, and then you can write a nice letter when you get home,” she suggested.
I glanced down at my leg. “What am I going to wear?”
“I brought your yoga pants. They should fit over your cast.”
“How am I supposed to sit in the car?” I couldn’t seem to stop asking stupid questions.
“I’m sure they’ll let you sit sideways if that’s more comfortable.”
“Right … of course.” Tears stung my eyes and I looked away so Mom wouldn’t see.
The sound of movement and voices made me turn my head. It was Dr. Murray, his team clustered around him. This was my last examination and it bothered me that I’d leave the hospital with him thinking … well … thinking that this was me. Maybe I should say something. But what? So, as usual, I avoided any eye contact and waited for him to finish poking and prodding.
“Everything looks good,” Dr. Murray announced. “You’ll be back in next week to have those staples removed.”
I nodded.
“You’re managing to get around okay with your crutches?”
I nodded again.
Mom asked him a few more questions, then he shut the chart and looked at me. “Good luck, Libby,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, but he was already on his way out.
Mom got up and followed him. They both stopped just inside the door. She said something but I couldn’t catch it. He got out a pad and began writing as he spoke. I strained to listen. His voice was a little louder. “… need someone to talk to … psychotherapist … she’s very good …”
A therapist? For me?
Then he ripped off the paper and handed it to Mom. She folded it and slid it into her pocket.
When she came back, Dad was behind her. He looked tired, his face drawn, tie loosened. “Hey, Pumpkin,” he said, leaning over and kissing the top of my head.
“Hey, Dad.”
He smoothed some hair back from my face and attempted a smile. “Are we ready to do this thing?”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
“You should probably get dressed now,” Mom said. “I’ll put your clothes in the bathroom. Do you want some help?”
“No thanks.” What I really wanted was a few minutes alone to try and pull myself together, if that was even possible.
In the bathroom, I sat on the edge of the tub and rested my cast across the toilet. Mom and Dad were being so nice. If only they knew how it made me feel worse, how it multiplied my guilt by a thousand. I let myself have a little cry. I had to get it out before I went downstairs.
“Are you sure you don’t want some help?” Mom’s voice sounded muffled against the door.
“I’m sure.” Clumsily, I lifted myself up and began to put my clothes on. There was a lot of banging and crashing. “I’m fine,” I yelled out to reassure them. Pulling my tangled hair back into a ponytail, I took a last look at myself in the mirror. Who was this person staring back at me? My face thin and pale, eyes bloodshot, tear tracks streaked all down my face. And then it happened again, a flash, like someone taking a picture — me in another bathroom, staring into another mirror. It was the night of the party, in Tori’s bathroom. I had locked myself in there after a brutal run-in with Julia …
She leaned back on the porch rail and lit a cigarette. “Libby. Enough with the sad looks and following Nate around like a lost puppy. It’s getting kind of pathetic.”
“I am not following him around.” I wanted to scratch her eyes out. “What are you talking about?”
“You were some fun on the side. It was never going anywhere. He was only seeing you because I had some stuff going on and needed space. Once I decided I wanted him back … well — you know what happened.”
“It wasn’t like that.” I resisted the urge to stomp my foot like a three-year-old. “He told me why he was getting back with you, how he was so worried about how you were acting so crazy over your parents’ breakup, how he thought you needed him.”
She squinted at me through the smoke. “I suppose he gave you some big sob story about me trying to kill myself.”
There was something about the way she said it. “Yes,” I answered hesitantly.
“Honey,” she said, shaking her head. “Who do you think told him to say that? I mean, do I look suicidal to you? This divorce is the best thing that ever happened to me.” She ground out her cigarette with one of her designer pumps. “My dad feels so guilty he’s buying me a car.”
I was too stunned to say anything.
“Nate told me what a prude you were. He was just looking for an excuse to dump you.”
A knock on the door broke the spell.
“Just a sec!” I called. My heart thudded dully in my chest. I was so overwhelmed by my own stupidity. When Nate broke up with me I’d believed his reasons, every word he’d said, even admired his loyalty to an old girlfriend — how screwed up was that? And now, Julia’s words, I couldn’t get them out of my head. Was it really true? No. She had to have been lying. I wonder if I ever found out.
Another knock. “Come on out, honey,” Mom said.
After splashing some cold water on my face, I opened the door to see Mom, Dad, Diane, and a nurse with a wheelchair.
Diane smiled. “Hello, Libby.”
“Uh. Hello, Mrs. Edwards.” She looked totally different. I was only used to seeing her around the neighbourhood, usually waving as she jogged by our house, or gardening in her front yard. Now she looked so professional. Hair tightly pulled back into a bun, black pantsuit, crisp white blouse, high heels. If I’d passed her on the street, I’m not sure I’d have known her.
“You can call me Diane.”
“Okay.” But I knew I wouldn’t.
We all stood there for a minute, saying nothing, shifting uncomfortably.
Diane sighed. “Well, the police are waiting downstairs.”
Everyone’s eyes shot up to the clock. It was 1:55. My heart skipped one, two, three beats.
“I guess it’s time to go,” I whispered.
Chapter 10
We all crammed into the elevator. You could have heard a pin drop. I wondered if anyone else’s heart was beating as fast as mine.
Finally Diane spoke. “You let me do the talking, Libby.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have to say anything — you have the right to silence.”
“But what’s the point? They already know I was drinking and driving, that I hit someone. I’d really rather just answer their questions and get it over with.”
“I know you think that’s what you want to do, but could you please trust me on this?”
I twisted in the wheelchair, trying to get comfortable, and sighed, “Okay.”
The detectives were waiting by the hospital’s front doors. We made our way across the lobby towards them, then stopped — like there was an imaginary line drawn across the floor.
Assorted greetings were exchanged, mostly nods and glances. It seemed to go on forever, and if I hadn’t been in the middle of it I’d think I was watching an SNL skit.
Mom helped me stand and then handed me my crutches. I felt the wheelchair bei
ng whisked away from behind me.
Detective Shaw cleared his throat. “Elizabeth Thorne, I’m placing you under arrest for impaired driving causing bodily harm, and having a blood alcohol level exceeding the legal limit.”
I tightly clutched the hand grips on my crutches and kept my eyes glued to the floor.
He continued. “I’m going to inform you of your rights and caution.” Then he started reciting from memory. The beginning sounded familiar. “You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say can be used against you.” He went on to tell me I could call a lawyer of my choice. But after that, it all ran together, even though he paused every few sentences to re-explain it in simpler terms.
I knew it was important, that I should pay attention, but I just wanted him to finish. Out of the corner of my eye I could see people walking by, rubbernecking. Who wouldn’t?
“Do you understand?” Detective Shaw asked when he came to the end.
“Yes.” I didn’t.
Then he motioned towards the door. We all moved in a giant herd.
The sunlight was blinding and I had to immediately snap my eyes shut, reopening them very slowly, letting the light in bit by bit. And the air was so cold, the insides of my nose stung when I breathed. I hung back, afraid to take another step. I was shaky to begin with, and now the ground felt like it was moving under my feet. I guess it had to do with being inside for so long, my body had to readjust to being outside again.
Mom wanted to come in the police car with me, but I shook my head. I wasn’t even sure she’d be allowed. It was only a few blocks to the station and I needed to be by myself. It was getting too hard to keep on a brave face.
She wouldn’t let go of my hand and I had to pry her fingers away. “I’m okay, Mom. I’ll see you there.”
I waited for the handcuffs. None appeared.
In the car, I closed my eyes and pretended I was someplace else — the front porch at my cottage, watching the sun set over the lake. I saw that on Oprah once. People who’d been through traumatic events survived by imagining they were in a different place, that they were a different person.
“At least it stopped raining,” Detective Cooper said.
Was she talking to me? Trying to make small talk? I didn’t answer.
The drive only lasted a few minutes. Diane was waiting by the door when we pulled up.
“Here. Pass me your crutches,” Detective Cooper said as she opened the car door and helped me out.
I looked around for Mom and Dad.
“I told your parents to wait in reception,” Diane told me. “It’s a pretty small area down there. The less bodies the better.”
She stepped aside and spoke to the detectives. I heard the words no statement. Then she turned to me. “We’re going to go to processing now. It won’t take long. I’ll stay with you. When we’re done your mom and dad can take you home.”
I nodded and followed them inside, one detective in front of me, the other behind me — a criminal sandwich. We went down a long, narrow hall. It reminded me of the basement in my old junior high. The walls were cinderblock, painted white, the floor tiled. Both were badly marked and scuffed. And it smelled. If scary had a smell, this would be it.
The hall opened to a glassed-in office area. There was a small metal vent thing in the glass to talk through. All the officers wore bulletproof vests. Had anyone ever been shot down here? Was the glass bulletproof too? All of a sudden my breathing sped up, like I was running out of air.
“Is there a room free?” Detective Cooper asked the group on the other side of the glass.
An officer moved out from behind a desk and looked down the row of doors. All but one was closed. “Yeah. Take her into room three,” the officer said. “I’ll be right in.”
I didn’t move — I couldn’t seem to feel my arms and legs.
At that moment one of the doors swung open. A man stumbled out, bouncing off the doorframe then banging into the wall. He had long, greasy hair and his clothes were grungy and hanging off him. An officer followed him out. “This way, Eddy.”
Eddy stopped, swayed back and forth, and leered at me. The officer shoved his shoulder. “Keep goin’.”
Eddy shuffled off but not before hawking a giant gob of spit right by my feet.
“Let’s go, Libby,” Diane whispered.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I whispered back.
Diane put her hand on my back. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
The officer was standing beside the open door, door three, waiting for me.
I swallowed my fear, hobbled down the hall, and stepped inside the room. Diane followed me.
The room was small, not much bigger than a bathroom. There was some kind of big machine, a computer, a scale like in the doctor’s office, and that was about it. Not even a chair.
The officer pulled on a pair of purple rubber gloves. I stared at them. They seemed out of place, like they should be in a funky hair salon or something instead.
He smiled. “They’re not always purple; sometimes blue, or black.”
“Oh.”
“I’m Constable McRae.”
“Libby,” I said, not sure he meant for me to introduce myself. “Okay Libby, just over here.” He passed Diane my crutches and helped me to one end of the room. There was a piece of paper with black letters taped to the wall. Stand Here. He positioned me in front of the paper. It was curling around the edges and I could feel it touching my back. “Look into the camera,” he said pointing to one mounted on top of the computer. He didn’t say smile.
There was a flash. The image came up on the computer screen. I quickly looked away, not wanting to see it. He turned me to one side. Flash. Then the other side. Flash.
“Now I’m going to get your weight and height.”
I felt a bit like I was in a trance, blindly following his every instruction. As he helped me up onto the scale, he probably felt my body trembling. “Do you want to take a break? I can bring in a chair.”
I shook my head.
He led me over to the big machine. It had a screen at eye level, and a red glass surface below it. “I’m going to take your prints, but you pretty much do it yourself. Put down one finger at a time, roll it slowly on the red glass. It’ll come up in black and white on the screen in front of you.”
I did as he told me but my hands were shaking, and I messed some up.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Take your time.” And he steadied my hand with his.
Maybe trying to put me at ease, he enlarged one of my prints. “See here …?” he pointed. There were tiny marks all over it. “There are over 130 points on this one that make your print different from anyone else’s.”
He sounded like my science teacher, Mr. Simms — like I should find what he was saying totally fascinating. Instead I felt dizzy and sick to my stomach.
Next I had to do what he called thumb slaps — slap my thumbs on the square of red glass. Then finger slaps, palm slaps, and lastly writer’s palm. That was a side image, like the way your hand rested when you were writing. Why would they need that?
Finally, it was over. Diane helped me out of the room and sat me on a bench.
“They’ll issue your release documents now,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, as if I knew what she was talking about.
“It’s your promise to appear in court, that kind of thing,” she explained. “Then you can be handed over to your parents.”
I waited for my papers. It seemed to take long but probably wasn’t. When they were ready, I signed. My signature looked strange, like it wasn’t mine. When was the last time I wrote out my whole name?
“Let’s get you home, Libby.” Diane put the papers in a folder and slipped them into her briefcase. “You look like you’re ready to drop.”
She was right. I was a balloon that had lost all its air — deflated. I heard a snapping sound and looked up. It was Constable McRae peeling off his purple gloves. I wanted to say some
thing to him, tell him thanks for being so nice, but I hesitated too long and he disappeared back into room three.
Chapter 11
I stood inside my bedroom door, hanging off my crutches. The air was thick and still, as if nobody had been in there for a long time. My eyes swept the room. It was neat and tidy. Did I leave it this way? I wasn’t sure. The last time I’d been in here was just before the party, when Kasey was getting me all ready.
Now that I’d remembered the breakup, it seemed like my memory was okay right up until that night. But after that, a lot of the stuff was out of order and made no sense — like a badly edited movie. My plan was to play those scenes over and over in my head, hoping that eventually they’d sort themselves out, and that something new would be tagged onto the end.
Sitting on my bed, I discovered if I leaned forward enough I could close the door with my crutch. I lay back and listened for sounds of life in the house. It was eerily quiet. After about two minutes, restlessness set in. I had to get up and move around.
I hopped over to the dresser. There were a bunch of photos clipped to the mirror. There was a long skinny strip from the mall photo booth — Kasey and I had been shopping for spring formal dresses — a photo of Dad’s birthday at The Keg, Emma’s school picture, another photo of all my friends crammed into a blow-up kiddie pool. And then there was Nate. We were sitting on top of our picnic table. He had his arm around me. It had been the neighbourhood Labour Day barbeque, only a couple of months ago, but it felt like years.
I touched the picture with my fingers, then slowly pulled it off and watched it fall from my hand into the garbage can. Now the mirror didn’t look right. Balancing on my good leg I bent down, snatched up the photo, and slid it back into its spot.
My calendar hung on the wall beside the mirror. It was still open to October. I switched the page to November. It was Happy Bunny holding a TV remote. If this is a reality show, then change the channel. I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt so much like crying.
There was a light knock on the door. It opened before I could say come in. “How does it feel to be home?” Mom asked.
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