by Jamie Kain
No, I definitely wasn’t okay to drive.
“I’ll say I was driving,” David says, “so you won’t get in trouble.”
I shake my head. Whatever else he’s done, I’m not letting him take the fall for me. I know without thinking that I couldn’t live with that. “No,” I say, on the verge of tears.
“Let’s just go. There’s no real damage on the car that wasn’t already there. Let’s go before someone drives by and sees us here.”
I look down at the guy. He’s our age, blond, good-looking. I cannot believe he’s died right here, right now. I wonder about CPR. Would it help? I’ve taken a class, but in my terror I can’t remember a single thing about it. Can you give it to dead people?
There is so much blood. I think it’s coming from his head, mostly. On his face, his clothes, his hair.
It’s on me too, not sure how it got there.
I place a hand over his mouth, beneath his nose, to see if I can feel any breath, but no. He is so still, something about his face totally different from that of someone merely unconscious.
He is inanimate. Whatever made him alive has gone. In that moment, I wish I knew what his eyes looked like before his death. I have only a flash of an image of him, just as we were about to make impact, shock registering on his face. That tiny bit of horrific memory doesn’t tell me what I want to know.
I cannot think what else to do, so I stand up and look at David, trying hard not to cry, not to fall apart.
“He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do,” David says. “Come on, let’s go now while we still can.”
And so.
We go.
In the moments and hours and days that follow, we never decide upon a strategy. Our strategy is simply to pretend the accident never happened. We never speak of it out loud again.
Although I know David has checked already, I do look the next morning at the front of the car, but its old chrome bumper looks the way it always has, and the dents and the rust on the hood do not appear any different from how they did the day before.
Days and weeks pass, and the news of a hitchhiker killed by a hit-and-run at first dominates the papers and local TV, then fades when there is nothing further to say. I begin to sense that we will get away with what we have done—what I have done—but this doesn’t ease my conscience. It only makes me feel worse.
Yet what haunts me most, what consumes me day and night, invading my every thought, are the stories of Brandon himself.
A sense of guilt like the weight of a mountain settles over me. A feeling I know I will never outlive.
I find a story in the Marin IJ two days after the accident, with a picture of Brandon, his senior photo, in which he looks not quite clean-cut, but nice. His hair comes to his collar in the photo. It is wavy and dark blond, and he is smiling as if thinking of some private joke. His eyes though, his eyes are what keep me studying the photo again and again. I can see the life in them, the spark, the essence of who he must have been.
That is what I stole from him.
When I sleep, I dream about him. In my dreams he is my lover, my fiancé, my secret crush, my husband—any or all of these, depending on the particular dream. I wake up feeling in love and happy, then I realize he is gone. Not just dead, but dead because of me, and I feel worse with each waking.
So disturbed by my dreams, I am afraid to sleep.
I try to imagine his parents, his life in Boulder, Colorado, where the news articles say he was from. I think if I can reconstruct him in my mind, I will stop having the dreams, but no.
It seems so unfair that after surviving cancer, after beating the odds doctors said were nearly impossible to beat, the legacy I leave is to take someone else’s life. If I had died, Brandon would have lived. This fact plays over and over in my head, rarely giving me more than a few minutes’ relief.
It’s as if by surviving, by cheating cancer, I have paid the debt with Brandon’s life.
As time passed, David and I barely talked. I didn’t see him after he dropped me off at home the next morning. I’d slept at his place because his roommates were all out, so we could claim to have been there earlier if anyone ever asked. But no one did.
After that night I didn’t see any point in trying to make our relationship work. He wanted to be with me, but he also wanted to be with Rachel, and I wasn’t going to stick around and let him decide whom to choose. I was surprised to feel so little anguish over what I knew was the end of our relationship, but then, Brandon was lurking in the corner of my every thought.
Brandon, gone but haunting me.
I didn’t talk to anyone about the accident, or the breakup, not even Asha, from whom I had never hidden anything. And I thought David would never speak of it either.
Then came the hike with Rachel, when I learned that he had told at least one person.
Thirty-Two
Rachel
I try not to think about Krishna. I really try.
I do have other problems far bigger than him, after all. Keeping it on the down-low is like my full-time job these days. Hiding shit from AJ isn’t easy when he comes around because he’s used to girls trying to cheat on his ass.
He likes being with me because I’m different from them. But I don’t like to think of what he does with all those other girls when he gets back to Oakland. I figure me keeping something extra on the side is okay since I know he does it too, even if he doesn’t admit it.
When David was the only other guy in the picture, it wasn’t that complicated. But how the hell do I explain Krishna to AJ? I don’t, because no way he’s going to believe I’m hanging around with some celibate guy. He doesn’t even know there’s such a thing as guys not wanting to have sex. That shit doesn’t exist in his world.
These days I’ve got crazy skills for cheating. One thing’s for sure though—it’s tiresome. I just want to not have to remember what I told to who and when and why. I want to not have to sweat it every time I walk around town with someone, worrying the other guy’s going to see. That shit isn’t fun. Not one little bit.
So here’s where it all went wrong. I get a text from David while AJ is using my phone to call his brother because he got his phone shut off last week for not paying his bill.
The text says, I miss u. When will I see u again?
Motherfucking fuck fuck fuck. That’s what I think when I hear the little incoming-text-message beep.
AJ looks at it, and he gets this look on his face like somebody just ran over his dog. “Who the fuck is David?”
First I think of lying, but then he starts scrolling back through the old messages from David that I haven’t deleted in a couple days. I always go back and delete them before I see AJ, but he showed up when I wasn’t expecting him and … oh, shit, he’s going to kill me.
He’s going to kill me and David both, and maybe that’s for the best, right?
I don’t deserve to live anymore.
“Who the fuck is David?”
Then I know I’ve waited too long and nothing I say now is going to get me out of this. “He’s my, uh, my sister’s boyfriend.”
“Your sister’s boyfriend,” he mutters as he reads message after message, and I’m trying to remember what they say.
These past few days we were talking about where to meet, definitely not when Lena’s around, and I don’t want to meet him, but I never say that. But did I say anything stupid? Did I say words like love, like want, like …
“You’re fucking this guy.” He looks at me like he’s either going to smash my face or the phone or both.
Shit.
This is the part of playing with fire where I get burned, I realize as my brain fails to produce any suitable lies that might get my ass out of this spot.
“I’m not,” I say, sounding unconvincing. “He’s just been wanting to hang out a lot since Sarah died. He’s lonely.”
“Lonely motherfuckers don’t text my girlfriend how they’re missing you and shit.”
He begins typin
g a text back to David.
Oh, God.
“What are you doing?” I consider snatching the phone from his hands but suspect he will lay me out with one punch if I do, and I want to keep all my teeth.
“I’m telling this dude to come over here right now.”
“AJ! He’s grieving. What are you going to do? Kick his ass for texting me?”
“Yup.” AJ has finished typing and hits send.
Panic sets in and I have no idea how I will get out of this now. I consider running into the house and using the phone there. But AJ will surely follow me.
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” I say.
“We’ll see about that shit, won’t we?”
“I need to use the bathroom.” I head for the front door.
“Don’t even think you’re gonna go in there and call the motherfucker.”
I hear the beep of another incoming message, and I stop in my tracks.
AJ looks at the screen of my phone and smiles. “Homeboy’s gonna be here in five minutes. Damn. He must be grieving awful bad.”
I head for the door again, but AJ follows. “Can’t I go to the bathroom in private?”
“Sure. I’m just going to make sure you don’t make any phone calls while you’re in there.”
“With what? A bar of soap? You’ve got my phone, asshole.” I roll my eyes and give up the fight for now.
Inside, I close the bathroom door in AJ’s face, but he stays right there, listening and talking at me through the door. “Don’t you know you can’t play a player, girl?”
I consider climbing out the window, but what would be the point? I can’t escape AJ forever. Might as well face him down now, I guess. I sit on the toilet with my jeans around my ankles and pee to buy myself some time to think.
Maybe when David gets here, he’ll see the angry boyfriend and know it’s time to lie through his teeth. But what if his whole free-love attitude gets in the way?
Then I think, okay, so what if David does come here and AJ beats his ass? What then? Maybe it solves all my problems … gets me away from David and gives me a good reason not to keep playing with that book of matches.
But then what happens with AJ? I don’t like the idea of his dumb ass telling me who I can and can’t see. Part of me is afraid of him though. Afraid of what he’ll do when he gets mad. Then I realize again that I’m about to find out exactly what he does when he gets mad.
I sigh and flush the toilet. Glance at the window, my last chance of escape.
When I open the door again, AJ is right there in my face, leaning against the doorframe. He doesn’t move when I try to get past him. I glare up into his dark green eyes.
Before I can think what to say, the doorbell rings, and my heart sinks to my ankles.
AJ lumbers down the hallway to the foyer and opens the door, filling it with all six feet and a few inches of himself in his black leather jacket and sagging jeans. His shoulder-length cornrows give him a scarecrow appearance against the outdoor light. I can’t even see David on the other side of the door. I can only hear him say a confused “Uhhhhhh…”
“You David?” AJ asks, real cool.
“Yeah.”
“You the motherfucker ballin’ my bitch?”
No guy has ever called me his bitch before, and I feel the urge to hurl the Buddha statue sitting on the hallway table next to me at his head.
“What? What is this? Who are you?”
AJ steps aside and I finally see David, his brow all scrunched up.
“David,” I say, my voice shaky, “AJ saw your text and thinks we’ve been sleeping together, but I’ve told him we haven’t.”
This sounds even more fake out loud than it did in my head.
AJ shakes his head and steps outside onto the porch with David, who stands there like an idiot.
I want to scream at him to run, but I am also curious to see what happens next.
“I’m sorry,” David finally says. “I didn’t know you and Rachel were exclusive.”
“You mean you didn’t know she was my bitch?” AJ says, all up in David’s face now.
“Back off, man,” David says, all calm.
“Who you telling to back off?” AJ pushes David, who stumbles back and loses his balance.
He lands on his ass, and before I can do anything, AJ is on top of him, throwing punches at David’s head. All I can see is a blur of fists and black leather, and I realize I have to stop this before someone is seriously hurt. Someone meaning David.
“AJ!” I screech, but he doesn’t respond, so I hurry out the door and try to grab AJ’s fists before they make contact again with David’s now-bloody face.
“Stop! Stop it!” I yell. “You’re going to get in trouble with your PO!”
This mention of his parole officer jars AJ out of his frenzy, and I wish I’d thought of it sooner. He clambers to his feet, dusting himself off as he stands over David on the ground. “Stay the hell away from Rachel. You hear me, white boy?”
David says nothing, pushing himself up on his elbow and wiping at his bloody nose and swelling lip.
I see a flash of my future, me unable to have any fun as AJ intimidates every guy who ever comes within a mile of me. I can’t live like this, especially not when I know AJ isn’t exactly faithful over on the other side of the bridge.
In the fight, AJ dropped my phone, and I bend over to pick it up off the porch. The glass screen is shattered now. I stare at it, unable to think what to say or do.
I don’t know how my life got like this.
I should have ended it with David already.
Should have.
I should have done so many things.
“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble,” David finally says, then pauses to spit out a mouthful of blood. “I’ll let you and Rachel work out your problems on your own. You don’t need to worry about me.”
David struggles to stand up, and suddenly I don’t want to see him go. I want to run after him as he makes his way across the yard to his car. I want to climb into the passenger side and ride away from here.
But this, I know, is my problem—wanting what I shouldn’t want.
David glances up at me when he reaches the car, and I can see by the expression in his eyes that we are done. Whatever I used to see there that let me know he wanted me is gone. Probably for the best. It’s what I’ve wanted ever since Sarah’s death, right? To somehow get rid of this weird thing I have with him?
Then why do I feel such a loss now?
As he drives away, AJ is glaring after him. Then he turns to me. “Bitch, we’re through. I don’t hang with hos. You want to be a player, you go play some other chump.”
He looks at me like I’m a piece of dogshit clinging to his shoe. Then he walks out to his car in the driveway and drives away. I am numb as I watch him go. I don’t dare to call after him because I know I’m getting off lucky. He could have done to me what he’d just done to David, and I can’t say I wouldn’t have deserved it.
But now I am, without a doubt, alone, and alone is something I don’t know how to be.
Thirty-Three
Sarah
When Rachel volunteered to go on the hike with me, I should have known something was wrong. She was not a hiker or a nature lover. But here in this ever-after place, I’ve had plenty of time to play the day over and over in my mind, and I see no hint of her having intended me harm from the start.
I wanted to get out of town. I was depressed, I see now, though I didn’t realize it then.
When Rachel saw me putting on my hiking boots, she asked me if I was going to go for a hike in the nature preserve down the street from our house. I told her no, I was going to try to find a ride out to the coast, maybe borrow Lena’s car.
“I’ve got her keys for the day. Why do you want to go out there?”
“I just feel like it.”
She shrugged. “I could give you a ride.”
“You want to hike?”
“
Sure. I’ve been eating too many goddamn bagels at the coffee shop. I need the exercise.”
I hadn’t really talked to Rachel since finding out about her and David. I guess when I thought about what had happened to Brandon, my own sister betraying me didn’t matter that much. Nothing much besides my own despicable actions mattered to me in those final few weeks.
Surprising myself a little, I agreed to go with her to the coast.
I waited for her while she changed and put on a pair of hiking boots that looked like they belonged to Asha. Probably Rachel didn’t own a pair of her own, since they didn’t usually have flashy buckles or four-inch heels.
The car trip felt like a ride in a coffin. Rachel turned on the radio, fiddling with the stations since only a few came in clearly out this way, but I heard it all as if from far away. I was wrapped up inside myself, withdrawing from the conversation I knew hung in the air between us like a bad smell, because I had nothing to say.
No, not exactly true. There were so many things I could have said—should have said—but I had no energy for any of it. My thoughts moved as if through mud, and the blood pumping through my veins felt the same. I was slowing down, like a toy with a worn-out battery.
It was my first time riding along Highway One since the accident. When we neared the place where I had struck Brandon, I felt myself coiling tighter and tighter inside, the energy of the place reaching out and threatening to choke me. And me with no energy to flee from its reach.
Although my memories of the night were made hazy by fear and darkness, the exact location was easy to spot. Someone had set up a memorial near the roadside, with a cross and teddy bears and flowers.
These forlorn objects, already starting to look weathered, were out of place surrounded by the beauty of the hills and the sky all around. They signified nothing so much as how all we ever love and possess will fade to dust. All our silly belongings and attachments—they come to nothing in the end.
Brandon, an entire person wiped away from this earth in the space of a breath. All the care that went into making him, growing him, keeping him fed and safe and loved and entertained and educated. I could see his mother, holding him as a warm, hungry newborn in her arms, gazing into a new face she imagined would grow up, become a man, have children of his own, maybe even take care of her when she got old.