Deliver Her: A Novel

by Patricia Perry Donovan

  Evan was shaking her. “How much time do you need to decide, anyway? I’m gonna be in deep shit.”

  “Give me a minute,” she said, flashing a smile. If she couldn’t get through Geometry 101, how would she possibly conquer marine biology? It was useless. Maybe she should just make a career out of helping Evan. It was supposed to have been one and done, her helping him. She’d barely slept the first time she hid his stuff at her house, terrified somebody would find it, even though she was positive her hiding place was foolproof. She told herself she wasn’t dealing, that she was just helping a friend—and helping herself in the process. But all along, there’d been that prickle up the back of her neck signaling her that the whole gig was just wrong.

  And now, just because of a stupid baggie of pills, her mother had decided Alex was some kind of drug addict or pill pusher. Didn’t she know Alex at all?

  “I’ll make it worth your while, Al.” Evan waved a wad of bills at her. Alex was torn. She had a serious cash-flow problem: The Millers were increasingly unreliable, and on top of that, she’d lost her job at the surf shop—for calling out once too often or just not showing up. She couldn’t remember. She hadn’t dared tell her mother; she’d have made her put in a bunch of employment applications around town so she would stay busy, occupied. Like having something to do, somewhere to go, made everything all right.

  And here was Evan, making her an offer like some kind of human ATM.

  “My father’s sweeping my room like a Law and Order detective,” he said. “If he finds anything else, he’s gonna throw my ass out.” His face was inches from hers; she could see herself in the brown pools of his eyes. “Please hold them for me a little longer?” He kissed her lightly, barely more than a peck. “Last time. I promise.”

  Alex pulled away, her pulse pounding in her ears, knocked off balance by the senior’s attention, hesitating only a second before answering him. Evan sprung off the couch and joined the group huddled around the outdoor fire pit. Larke tossed her annoyingly perfect blond hair and gazed up at Evan adoringly. Ugh. He ate it up, throwing his arm around her. A bong began to make the rounds.

  Alex rubbed her lips. Her brain knew Evan’s kiss was his way of persuading her, but still, she’d felt something. How could he go straight from kissing her to flirting with Larke? Boys were so confusing.

  Twirling her braid, Alex decided she was more than OK with this snowbirds thing being over. She hadn’t even thought about going out tonight until Evan texted her; she’d been planning to dive back into The Giver. Shana had stayed home to study, a decision that freaked everybody out, including Shana, judging from her text.

  I know, right? Aliens have taken over my body.

  Shana texted that she was turning off her phone to concentrate. As if. Alex didn’t get it. They both survived the same horrific night. How could Shana just pick up her life and go on, bouncing back like a Slinky while Alex crashed and burned?

  The truth was, Alex was bored hanging out here without Shana. And tired. Though she’d die before admitting it to her mother, she’d rather have stayed in tonight, curled up on her bed with Angel. She’d only gone out to escape her parents’ perpetual cold war. Although, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen her father in a few days. Back when he and her grandfather worked construction together, he was home every night for dinner. Now, with his tree gig, she never knew when he would reappear.

  Bitch Larke’s shrill fake laugh rang out over the chatter. Completely over this scene, Alex dug in her bag for her phone. It wasn’t that late—barely midnight. Maybe her mother could come get her, no questions asked. Then Alex might actually think about dragging herself to school the next day, connecting with Mrs. Ward again.

  She pulled up her latest stream of texts with Mommy Dearest (her mother had not found that funny at all, but it was better than Crazy Bitch or Psycho Mom, nicknames friends attached to their moms’ contacts) and sent off a new message:

  Hey can u pick me up?

  She pictured her mom sitting on the couch or her bed, her phone beside her; how happy she would be to read this message, to bring Alex home safe and sound. Her mother would drive up all bright and cheery and would pepper Alex with annoying questions on the ride home. Alex wouldn’t be surprised if her mother knew Evan’s grandparents and remembered they went to Florida for the winter. She would definitely grill Alex about that.

  Her mom must have been sitting on top of the phone, because her reply came about three-and-a-half seconds later:

  Sure. Where are u?

  All she had to do was give her mother the address, Alex thought, and she’d be on her way home. Easy-peasy.

  A burst of laughter floated from across the room. Evan and Larke looked even cozier, if that were possible. If Alex left now, any chance she had with him would go up in smoke—the smoke from the bong making its way around the fire pit. Larke was not going to rule.

  On her screen, blinking dots meant her mother had more to say.

  Alex? Where are you? Tell me address plze.

  Sorry, Mom. I’m nowhere.

  Tossing the phone back into her bag, she counted down the seconds until her mother resorted to an actual call. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr—right on cue. She felt a twinge of guilt as the barrage of repeated calls vibrated through her bag’s embroidered fabric.

  Alex walked across the room and stepped into the circle, between Evan and Larke.

  There really was no rush to leave now. No rush at all.

  MEG

  It was after midnight when Meg crawled into bed to compose her letter to Alex, nauseous with anxiety over whether she would come home tonight. If this transport came off at all, it would be a miracle. She checked her phone again: radio silence.

  Pen poised over the blank sheet, Meg wondered if Alex would even read a letter given to her under these circumstances. She never acknowledged anything Meg wrote her—not a word about the notes she had been slipping into her lunch for years. But if a letter were part of the transport plan, she would write one.

  Closing her eyes, Meg reviewed the roller-coaster ride of the past nine months following the accident—the partying, the slipping grades, Alex’s growing detachment. Like Jacob, she had at first attributed Alex’s behavior to the grief process, a natural reaction to the tragic loss of her best friend. Meg could only imagine the depths of her daughter’s sorrow. Having watched the girls grow up together like sisters, Meg herself had to avoid Cass’s street for months after, knowing she would break down into tears.

  Even now, the memory of Cass’s funeral caused Meg physical pain. Outside Kennington Funeral Home, the line of teenagers waiting to pay their respects had stretched beyond the parking lot. The girls tugged at borrowed dark skirts and jackets, sniffling and holding each other in their fresh grief, bearing flowers and stuffed animals. Standing beside Meg, Alex was silent and hollow eyed.

  The boys, so awkward at that age, years too young to know how to comfort anyone, punched each other instead as they inched closer to the entrance. Meg recognized many of them from Alex’s Sweet Sixteen. Inside, parents hung back, overcome by the specter of sorrow. Kennington extended the evening viewing hours to accommodate the throngs of mourners.

  A screen at the entrance flashed pictures from Cass’s young life: newborn in a crisp white christening dress, a cheerleader holding pom-poms aloft. Meg winced at the images capturing the girls’ friendship: soccer games, cast photos, the pair crouched at the harbor’s edge the summer Alex fell in love with the water. Meg hadn’t heard much about her dream of becoming a marine biologist lately.

  The montage spun images from Alex’s party: Cass, Alex and Shana, arms around one another in their party finery. It was the last time the three were together, just hours before they got in a car driven by Logan, Shana’s brother. Cass had absolutely begged Meg to let Alex go on that after-party Slurpee run in Logan’s car, instead of their going straight home from the party. It would only take half an hour, Cass had said. So much loss over frozen soda.

 
After the accident, blood tests showed Shana and Alex had been drinking. Cass and Logan had not. The police blamed the accident on distracted driving. Cass’s distraught parents hadn’t pursued any legal action.

  For Meg, there remained many unanswered questions. Why had it been so critical for the three girls to get in Logan’s car that night? Why hadn’t the beautiful party they had thrown for Alex (or that her dear mother-in-law Miriam had thrown, to be precise)—an event more elaborate than Meg’s own wedding—been enough for the sixteen-year-old? Why hadn’t the always-responsible Cass worn a seat belt?

  The day after, the school assembled a team of grief counselors, making them available all weekend. Alex refused to go. Days later, she spurned her parents’ overtures at the cemetery, standing alone as her friend was lowered into the ground under a mountain of daisies. Sorrow had sliced through Meg at the sight of Alex’s heaving shoulders, the tears soaking the angry stitches on her daughter’s cheek. Meg leaned on Jacob, imagining Alex now walking out of school alone instead of with an arm intertwined with Cass’s, realizing she would never again hear Cass’s giggles erupting from their kitchen or her van’s backseat.

  If these losses seared Meg with sadness, what misery must Alex have been enduring?

  Meg and Jacob had made many allowances for Alex, providing her ample time and space to grieve for her friend. Bottling her own sadness, Meg pumped coworkers for therapist recommendations for her daughter. That exercise failed miserably, as had every effort since to get Alex to open up. Nearly nine months had passed, and every time Meg broached the subject, Alex’s response was the same: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Now the time had come to talk about it and all that had happened after. The Birches was Meg’s last hope for her daughter, whatever the cost. She chewed the pen.

  Dear Alex . . .

  FRIDAY

  CARL

  Around 3:00 a.m., Carl’s BlackBerry skittered across the hotel night table with the mother’s text:

  Alex is home.

  All systems go. The girl would be good and groggy when they woke her, he thought, tapping a reply to the mother and to Murphy, reminding Meg again about the letter.

  He rose easily at five to shower and shave, leaning over the sink to trim the white O around his mouth. At 5:30 a.m., Carl and Murphy walked out of the lobby, leaving behind guests in drab business casual circling the breakfast buffet.

  Ten minutes later, Carl and Murphy idled half a block from the Carmodys’ red house. He made out the girl’s duffel on the porch, a good sign. A blue minivan warmed up in the driveway, its exhaust blasting the crust of frost below. On the lawn, daffodils pushed through stubborn snow patches.

  To the east, the Atlantic sky hinted at sunrise, salmon rays slicing steel clouds. Carl rolled down the window, inhaling the damp, cool air.

  A good day for travel.

  “Is that the mother?” Murphy pointed to the house, where the front door had opened. Carl nodded as a coatless Meg Carmody bent to slip an envelope into the duffel, then went back inside, reappearing a few seconds later, pushing a sleepy boy in pajamas toward the van. The dog circled nervously, nearly tripping the mother as she stuffed them both into the car. She clasped an adult hand extending through a back window, then returned to the porch, rubbing her arms against the predawn chill.

  Carl tested the rental’s child locks one more time, the final item on his predeparture checklist. They clicked into position faultlessly; everything functioned as it should. Adrenaline rippled beneath Carl’s skin, the familiar rush triggered by the start of a new transport. He signaled to Murphy to get out of the car.

  “Showtime.”

  In silence, Carl and his partner walked toward the waiting mother.

  ALEX

  Sometimes the dream was different. Sometimes Cass answered when Alex called, when her own stretcher rolled up alongside hers. Silly Cass, lifting the sheet from her face and sitting up, all smiles, Alex’s candelabra earrings gleaming in her ears, so perfect with the dress, reflecting light from every facet. Cass’s violet wrap draped over one shoulder like a beauty contestant’s sash.

  “Gotcha,” she would say, like some gruesome Halloween prank. “They checked me out. Said I’m good to go.” She would hop off her stretcher and walk alongside Alex’s, dangling strappy heels in one hand, clasping Alex’s hand with the other. “Happy birthday,” she’d whisper. She’d tuck herself inside the ambulance beside Alex’s mom, and at the hospital, without a trace of squeamishness, would watch the surgeon stitch Alex’s cheek with swift, clean strokes, the dark filament taut in his assured hands, the stainless-steel surgical scissors glittering under the work light.

  In this version, her parents brought them both home to Alex’s, so furious over the deceit, but so relieved they were safe. Alex would dream that she woke up the next morning and lay in bed patting her bandaged cheek and looking over at her sleeping friend. When Cass finally opened her eyes, she’d fall all over Alex with apologies, pinky-swearing, like a ten-year-old, never to do something so stupid again. Cass would turn serious, sitting up tall and looking Alex straight in the eye: “It’s OK. I forgive you.”

  Awakening from that version, Alex would feel almost human again, daring to think normal thoughts from her previous life: What’s going on today? What should I wear? On a good day, she might even get one foot on the floor before the darkness swallowed her again, reality setting in like a soaking rain: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Sometimes the dream was different. This wasn’t one of those times.

  Three sharp raps on her bedroom door: her mother’s lovely wake-up call. As if.

  “Go away. I said I’m not going.”

  Alex’s words tasted like last night. She burrowed deeper into her bed, temples throbbing, regret coursing through her like a jolt of Perk Up’s double espresso.

  Here it was, like clockwork: the daily standoff. How many times did she have to tell her mom there was nothing for her at that school—that there wasn’t one square inch of the place that didn’t remind her? She had tried again yesterday, and all it did was drive home how lost she was. And yet her own mother expected her to suck it up and go.

  A wedge of hall light sliced across her bed.

  “I said, don’t come in.” It wasn’t her mother’s fault she felt like crap. If she’d allowed her mother to pick her up last night, she could have shared some of her horrible day. Not a deep heart-to-heart. But maybe a moment on the couch, bonding over Conan’s stupid DVR’d jokes. A place to start.

  But she hadn’t let her. And now her mother approached in those clunky, horrible plastic shoes everyone wore, their stupid charms jangling. They must give the patients a headache. She peeled back a corner of the blanket. Alex heard her distinct inhale—the sniff test, her mother’s favorite morning ritual. Alex held her breath for as long as she could, until the thud of more footsteps, heavier than her mother’s and heading toward her bed, made her exhale.

  This was a new approach. Was her dad now in on the negotiation? Alex jerked the covers back over her face. Why couldn’t everyone leave her alone?

  “Alex. Wake up. I need to tell you something.”

  Even through the covers, the full-on blast of overhead light seared Alex’s lids. “Mom, please,” she moaned. “Go awaaay.”

  “I want you to meet someone.”

  Was she kidding? Who had company at this hour? “Not interested, Mother.”

  “Alex, Daddy and I love you. We just can’t live like this anymore. We want to get you the help you need.”

  Whaaaat??? Her mother’s voice sounded fake, rehearsed—like she was speaking lines in a terrible play.

  “This is Mr. Alden and Officer Murphy,” she continued. “We’ve asked them for help. They’re going to get you safely to a school in New Hampshire. I love you, honey.”

  Through the blanket, her mother dropped a kiss in the vicinity of Alex’s head.

  “Mom, wait. What?” By the time Alex raised herself on her
elbows, the plastic squeaks had faded and her bedroom door clicked shut. This was a joke. Alex crawled to the edge of her bed and peered out. Below was a pair of unfamiliar brown work boots—so close she could smell the shoe polish. Above the boots, crisply pressed khakis. She rolled over, shading her eyes against the harsh light, and a man extended a black-leathered arm toward her. A perfect O of white hair circled his mouth; in his aviator sunglasses, she saw the Day-Glo reflection of her lava lamp.

  Downstairs, the front door slammed. An engine revved and faded. Angel didn’t bark. Angel always barked when someone left. Something was seriously messed up.

  “Good morning, Alex.” The man’s voice was deep and booming, like a TV announcer. “Time to get up. My name is Carl Alden. We’re going to get you to your program.”

  “What program?”

  “The Birches. The one your parents picked.”

  “No way. I’ve seen that rehab stuff on TV.” The shows where the family guilt-trips the person into going. At the end, you find out what happened. It almost never worked out.

  Alex sat up fast, her stomach roiling, deeply regretting the tuna-sub chaser the three of them devoured in Evan’s Corvette, blasting Amphibian. It had been fun, even with bitch Larke squeezing next to Evan, forcing Alex to take the window. She would never sit in the back, no matter how crowded they were.

  “The Birches is nothing like that.” A female voice floated toward her, and a woman in glasses stepped forward. “I’m Officer Murphy. I’ll be in the car with you today.” She had a boxy mom haircut and wore all black—not cool black, but black like she didn’t give a crap: baggy pants, ski jacket over a turtleneck. Mock turtleneck. Alex squinted. Was that a fanny pack around her waist?