Until It Fades

by K. A. Tucker

  Relief swells inside me, and for the first time since she’s started talking, my smile feels genuine. “He coughed and lifted his head. I saw him do it, so I ran back and started screaming at him to pull his leg free, hoping he’d hear me. And somehow he did, and I had both of his legs out of the car, so I wrapped my arms around his waist and started pulling.”

  Kate holds her hand up. “Let’s stop right there for a moment, because I want to make sure viewers understand this.” She turns to look at the camera. “Brett Madden was not in a pickup truck, or an SUV, or one of those vehicles you need to climb into. He was in a ’67 Corvette. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but the last time I was in a Corvette, I could barely haul myself out of it, it was so low to the ground.” She has a light comedic flair that makes her stand out from other prime-time newscasters, even when she’s reporting on difficult topics.

  “My dad said something along those lines,” I agree with a giggle.

  She turns back to me. “How on earth did you get him out?”

  I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. One moment I was tugging on him, and the next we were tumbling backward into the ditch. I figure he came to and gathered some last-minute strength.”

  Kate focuses on Brett. “Is that what happened? Can you explain it?”

  “No, I can’t explain it. With my injuries, the likelihood that I suddenly lifted myself out is close to nil.”

  “So, you’re saying . . .”

  “I don’t know how she did it, but . . .” He turns to meet my eyes with such intensity, I feel a furious blush burn my cheeks. I drop my focus to my hands. “I owe Catherine my life.”

  A deafening silence lingers in the air. An intentional pause from Kate, I suspect, before she goes on. “So, by all accounts, you shouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

  His leg presses against mine in a discreet—to everyone but me—move. “No. I should never have made it out of that car alive.”

  “And what does it feel like to know that? Has it changed your perspective?”

  He uses the trick he taught me and inhales deeply. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve come to terms with it yet. I was so used to rolling out of bed in the morning with nothing but an upcoming game or practice to focus on. That’s where I put all my energy. The game was everything to me. Now I open my eyes and I replay that one night in my head, and I tell myself that the pain in my leg is nothing, that I should be six feet in the ground, so I don’t have a right to be upset if . . .” His voice drifts and he swallows. “I’ve been given a second chance to live that one of my best friends didn’t get. I need to make the most of it.”

  Kate Wethers’s face fills with sympathy, and I can’t tell if it’s staged or sincere. “So, you and Seth Grabner were quite close off the ice, too, then.”

  Another hard swallow. “I’ve made a lot of good friends over the years. But Seth was one of those guys I instantly knew would be around long after we retired. Losing him . . . there’s a giant hole in my life.” Brett’s voice has turned husky. It’s all I can do not to reach out and take his hand, to try to offer him some sort of comfort. I settle on pressing my thigh against his, a returned sign of affection.

  “I think your team would say there are two giant holes on the ice, not having you and Seth Grabner on there with them. By the time we air this interview, the Flyers will have played game four of the Eastern Conference Finals and may be out of the play-offs. What has it been like, sitting on the sidelines and watching them struggle?”

  “A hundred times more painful than this.” He haphazardly waves toward his casted leg. “I want to be out there, helping them. They’ve all worked hard and they deserve to win.”

  Kate’s brow pinches just a touch. “While alcohol wasn’t a factor in the accident, the police report says that speed was. This has caused quite a stir with sports fans and the media who feel that the accident was preventable and that the nearly one hundred and twenty-five million dollars tied up in contracts to you two should have guaranteed more responsibility on your part. How do you feel about that?”

  Brett dips his head forward, pausing a moment. He must have expected that question to come up, as difficult as it is. “There are many things I wish I could go back and change about that night, but I can’t. I’m truly sorry if we let people down.”

  Anger flares inside me. He almost died. One of his best friends did die, and all people seem to care about is winning a stupid trophy.

  And he’s actually apologizing for not being able to give it to them.

  I feel the overwhelming urge to defend him, my mouth going so far as to open, ready to blast fans.

  And then Kate turns to the camera. “We’ll be right back in a few minutes to talk more with Brett Madden and Catherine Wright about this incredible story.” There’s a pause, and then Kate calls out, “I could really use a water, please, Margaret?” Her assistant scurries over with a bottle of Evian.

  I force myself to take a few breaths and calm down. “Are you okay?” I ask, sensing his mood shifting.

  “Yeah.” The couch sinks under Brett’s weight as he leans closer to me. “You’re doing great.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “He’s right. You are,” Kate interrupts through sips. “And we’re halfway through. When we jump back on, we’re going to talk more about you, Cath. About your current life, about your daughter. I know”—she holds up her hand before I have a chance to object—“we’ll keep it brief and vague.” Her knowing eyes meet mine. “And we’ll talk a bit about your past, too.”

  I nod wordlessly.

  She waves to Rodney, and he begins the countdown again.

  “And five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

  Kate does her little opening spiel again, and then turns to me. “Catherine, you didn’t exactly walk away from the accident unscathed, did you?”

  “No.” I hold up my wrist, the bruising more pronounced under the lighting. “When Brett and I fell into the ditch, I must have sprained my wrist. It’s a lot better, though. Another week and I should be back to normal.”

  “But your car wasn’t so fortunate.”

  I smile sheepishly. “No. Because of the fog, I pulled up right behind the Corvette, hoping that my headlights would help me see. And then it caught fire and spread to mine before the fire department could put it out.”

  “So you’ve lost your car.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, but my parents lent me the money to buy a new one, so I can get to and from work. I really appreciate it.” I add that last piece more for them than anyone else.

  “You’re a waitress at a local diner, is that right?” Kate makes it sound like she’s not entirely sure, which I know is not the case. I’d bet that her research team handed her a full dossier on me for the drive over.

  “Yes.”

  She frowns. “Hard to work as a waitress with a sprained wrist, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “I’ve had to take some time off.”

  “Do you have any concerns about losing your job because of this?”

  I smile. “No. Luckily, I have an amazing boss, so I think I’ll be okay.”

  “When you can actually work again. But what are you going to do until then? I mean, you’re a single parent to a little girl. You have bills to pay.”

  “Money is the last thing Cath needs to worry about,” Brett cuts in, adding, “as stubborn as she’s being about accepting help from me.”

  I roll my eyes before I can stop myself.

  Kate’s soft chuckle fills my little house. “Brett is one of the highest paid NHL players and a son of Hollywood royalty. Surely you’ll let him at least buy you a new car, Catherine.”

  I turn to shoot a questioning frown his way, whispering, “Did you put her up to that?”

  Forgetting that I’m wearing a microphone, so they likely caught that.

  Brett’s hands go up in surrender. “See? I’m not the only one who thinks it’s completely ridiculous that you wouldn’t let me help.”

&
nbsp; “Tell me, Catherine, is there a specific reason you won’t accept Brett’s offer?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right. It’d be like me profiting from the accident.”

  “So, if he replaced your old car with an identical—”

  “Loud, rusty, falling-apart Grand Prix with no horn and two hundred thousand miles on it, then yes, I suppose that would be fine.” I smile, realizing how absurd that sounds. “I’m happy I was there and able to get him out.” My throat begins to swell with the very thought of not sitting here next to him, his leg pressed against mine, feeling his warmth. Of how tragic it would have been for the world to lose a person like him.

  “But you can understand why he feels he owes you, right?”

  “I guess I just feel like, in a way, I’m the lucky one here, for being in the right place at the right time to help him, and to get to know him after. If he’s going to be in my life, I want that all to be because he wants to, not because he feels obligated.”

  Oh, my God. The moment I pause, I desperately wish I could take everything I just said back. I’ve made myself sound like a woman who’s crushing on Brett Madden.

  Even if I am, I don’t want anyone knowing about it. Especially not him.

  A tiny smile of satisfaction flickers across Kate’s face, and then, thankfully, she’s whisking the conversation off in another direction. “Catherine, tell me something,” Kate leans forward, until she’s perched at the very end of my rickety wooden chair. If she’s uncomfortable, no one would ever know. “You wouldn’t allow the police to release your name after the accident. You kept your identity hidden for a week, even from the Madden family, who were desperate to meet the woman who saved Brett’s life. Why?”

  I’m sensing this is the segue into talking about Scott Philips. “I didn’t want all the media attention that I knew it would bring.”

  Her eyes narrow. “And did that have anything to do with what happened in 2010, with your high school teacher?”

  I swallow, and remind myself that I’ve already been through this and I came out on the other side. And avoiding it won’t make it go away now. “Yes.”

  She leans back in the chair. It creaks, and I panic momentarily, imagining it breaking apart and Kate Wethers falling flat on her ass in my living room. I wonder if they’d edit that part out. “For viewers who are unaware, seven years ago you claimed that you were involved in an intimate relationship with your art teacher, Scott Philips. You were seventeen and he was thirty. He was arrested on charges of corruption of a minor, but the charges were dropped not two weeks later when you recanted your statement. The district attorney claimed that there was not enough evidence to take this case to court, even though the police report showed evidence of text conversations between you two, as well as an eyewitness report of Scott Philips waiting in his car outside your home in the middle of the night.”

  Kate pauses for a few seconds. I’m noticing that she does that when she’s about to ask a question where I have to talk a lot.

  “Can you tell us a bit about this teacher in your own words?”

  “Wow.” I can’t help the nervous giggle. “I haven’t talked about him in a really long time.” I feel a nudge against my leg. Brett, trying to get my attention.

  “You okay?” he mouths, worry in his eyes.

  No. I smile and nod.

  “Just, anything. What was he like as a teacher, for starters?”

  “He never felt like a teacher to me. Not like all the other ones. He was more like an older friend, someone I could talk about music and books and art with. Everyone called him Scott in class. He was attractive and flirty.”

  Kate’s eyebrows raise. “Flirty?”

  “He had this smirk that girls in school talked about. A lot of girls liked him.”

  “And he liked you.”

  I drop my gaze to my hands. What can I say that won’t get me into trouble? “I thought so.”

  “You exchanged texts, did you not?” She adds, as if to reassure me, “The police had proof of them. One of Scott Philips telling you how beautiful you were.”

  I nod. Scott claimed that the text telling me I was beautiful was innocent in intention but extremely poor judgment on his part. I seemed like a girl with low self-esteem. He was only trying to boost it.

  “And then your mother followed you as you were sneaking out one night and witnessed you climbing into a car driven by him. She was the one who filed the report with the police.”

  Another nod. Scott claimed that he was on his way home from a friend’s house and saw me walking down the street, so he pulled over. His friend corroborated it, though much later on it became common knowledge that that friend was in Philly that night. Ironically, at a Flyers game.

  “How did you feel when she did that? Were you angry with her?”

  Brett’s hand slides against my thigh ever so subtly, and I know he’s checking to see if I’m okay with this, if I want Simone to intervene.

  But I remember what my mother told me about saying what I need to. “I was crushed. I didn’t see it the way she saw it. I only saw a man I loved and wanted to be with. I hated her for a very long time because of it.”

  “You say you loved him. Did he ever make you feel like he might have reciprocated those feelings?” She seems to be choosing her words carefully.

  This is where it gets dicey. What do I say? Yes, he told me that he loved me on more than one occasion and I’m tired of denying it, of allowing the lie that he and his family cultivated to go on. Of allowing Scott Philips to get away with it. But to admit that means opening doors I had no intention of ever opening again.

  I choose my response just as carefully. “When I gave my statement to the police, I was terrified. I didn’t know I had any choice but to tell them everything. It was spring break, and a week later when school started, I was called into my principal’s office. He’s the one who told me that I was considered a victim and that, if I recanted, the charges against Scott would be dropped. I didn’t want Scott to go to jail, so I recanted my statement.”

  Kate Wethers’s expression tells me that I was right, that I don’t need to answer her question directly to tell her everything she needs to know. “Your principal was Scott Philips’s father, was he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he know you loved his son?”

  “It seemed like it, but I can’t speak for him.”

  “So, to summarize . . . Scott Philips was charged and released on bail, and his father—the principal—calls you, the seventeen-year-old victim, into his office and persuades you to recant your statement so the charges against his son can be dropped.”

  I hesitate. I never told my mother about that meeting with Mr. Philips. She assumed someone had talked to me, convinced me to recant, but I never told her who. I didn’t want to give them more ammo to use against Scott. At the time, I was thankful for the out his father had given me. “Basically. Yes.”

  “Why would you agree?”

  “Because I loved Scott.”

  She nods softly. “And did anyone else witness this meeting?”

  “The secretary saw me go in, but she wasn’t actually in the room.”

  Kate heaves a deep breath, the first time she’s done that this entire interview. “So, fast-forward a bit. The charges are dropped and Scott Philips returns to teaching in your school. Did you talk to him?”

  I shake my head. “He never came back to teach my class.”

  “And the local newspaper published an article on him not long after, basically painting you as this vixen who used her irresistible wiles to try and lure this thirty-year-old man into temptation with sexy clothes and relentless flirting. Of course they didn’t name you, but I would assume that everyone knew who you were?”

  “I think that’s safe to assume, yes.”

  She pauses and looks at me searchingly. “Did you feel like you were guilty of trying to seduce Scott Philips?”

  I flush at the word. I’m still ash
amed for the way I acted with him, though it wasn’t as people made it sound. “You mean . . . did I wear tight jeans to class? Yes, I guess I did. Were my T-shirts fitted? Yeah, probably. Though I don’t honestly know how much that could have helped . . .” I look down at my A-cup chest as if to make a point.

  Did I just draw attention to my underwhelming breasts on national television?

  Heat crawls up the back of my neck as I giggle nervously. “Oh, God. Please edit that part out.”

  “No, please keep that part in,” Brett counters with a chuckle, earning my gentle elbow against his ribs. But his playful sense of humor brings with it a sense of relief for me. I can get through this with him by my side.

  “Did you ever talk to Scott Philips again?”

  I hesitate. “I went to his house to see him, once. He told me to leave. So I left.” I sigh. “I was seventeen and in love and foolish. I made a lot of bad choices.”

  “I don’t know any teenagers who don’t make a lot of bad choices, to be honest. Most of them just get away without it being the talk of the town. It sounds like a lot of people were less than impressed with you for the entire ordeal. What was life like for you in 2010?”

  “Not easy. Not for me or my family.”

  “Not everyone made it so hard for you though, did they?”

  I smile. “My boss, Lou from Diamonds, didn’t. Her husband’s great, too. They’re like family to my daughter and me. And the man who rented this house to me, he’s been very nice. He’s only raised the rent once since we moved in, and barely.”

  Her face softens. “You became pregnant with your daughter a few months after this incident, correct?”

  “Seven months later.” I swallow. “That’s right.”

  “And you had moved out of your family’s home by then.”