by Ellen Smith
The accident involved a minor.
One of the facts I ruminate on the most is that Johnathan was killed in the prime of his life. Sixteen years old, with years of school and career and love stretched out before him. As much as I wish I could give that back to him, the law prohibits rectifying crimes that involve a minor, either as the perpetrator or the victim.
Often, people who are perhaps well-meaning or perhaps not will claim that there is a good and worthy reason behind every tragedy. Some will press me to believe that Johnathan was an angel meant to be called home early or that his death must surely have inspired some new law, some spiritual awakening, some good act that made this tragedy understandable. There is none. From one man who wishes he could change his past, to those who could change theirs: seize the opportunity you have. Nothing is worth a lifetime of regret.
Chapter Eleven
MARA
Mara resisted the urge to text Will again on her walk home from the Metro station. Of course, he would be fine. He’d already called twice today to check in, and texted her in between each class.
“I know yesterday scared you. I don’t want you to worry,” Will had said each time, but his voice gave him away.
“I’m just glad to hear you’re all right,” Mara would respond. And I wish you’d tell me that you’re the one who’s scared. I wish you’d just let me comfort you.
Will hadn’t opened up to her last night, either, even when he woke up three different times with nightmares. Each time he’d gotten out of bed to drink a glass of water, or use the bathroom, or check all the windows and the chain on the apartment door. He was so quiet and moved so slowly, as if he wouldn’t wake her up. As if Mara could sleep.
Each twinge of her shoulder had felt like a condemnation. It had been pure chance that she had been the one to cross paths with Jason Mann. What if it had been Will instead? Mara flinched whenever she imagined Will in her place. Could she have helped him, the way he had helped her? Would she have had the presence of mind to press on the wound, or call 911, or hold him until the first responders arrived?
“Of course you would have,” Will had scoffed, the one time she’d spoken about it to him. “Weren’t you thinking about being premed when you were a freshman? Hell, you probably could have taken the bullets out, cauterized the wound, and made me a sling out of your jacket or something.”
Right. He probably wouldn’t have let me help him back then, either.
Thank goodness the workday was over now. Mara quickened her pace when she saw their apartment building ahead. Will had promised he was coming straight home, no staying late for a meeting. They would have dinner and then Mara was going to go to bed early, even if she couldn’t convince Will to rest. Just knowing he was safe at home with her would help.
Mara wasn’t having a great day herself. Her shoulder was twinging horribly, sending wave after wave of pain rolling down her arm. It was probably from insisting she could carry a stack of files by herself—something that counted as “exertion” even though it was such a simple task. Now that she thought of it, Mara hadn’t wanted to ask for help, either. She guessed that made her and Will even.
Mara’s stomach gurgled, reminding her that she’d taken her last pill dry. She’d need to eat something soon. Plain bread, maybe. A few more antacids.
Mara pushed open the door to the apartment building and was immediately hit by the wave of heat. Why couldn’t the building manager turn down the heat already? Mara’s stomach started doing backflips. She stopped and closed her eyes. Swallowed.
I am not going to throw up in the lobby. I am not.
She swallowed again.
“Mara? Are you all right?”
Mara recognized Mrs. Hiddleston’s voice. Usually, her downstairs neighbor was saying things like, “Would you all mind just walking a bit quieter?” or “Does your husband need to practice that instrument during the dinner hour?” Since the Hiddlestons’ dinner hour seemed to be any time from 3:00 to 7:00, it was a bit hard to avoid.
Mara opened her eyes. Mrs. Hiddleston didn’t seem irritated today, just concerned. The short gray curls that framed her face stood at attention, like miniature question marks. “Mara, dear, are you ill?”
“My stomach isn’t so good,” Mara said. She had to swallow three times.
“Let me walk you up,” said Mrs. Hiddleston. “Come along. Is the heat bothering you? Let’s get that coat off.”
For a minute, Mara’s neighbor had morphed into Grandmary. Mrs. Hiddleston fussed over her, carefully pulling off her coat and helping her up the stairs. She smelled a little like beef broth and carrots. She was probably making another pot roast, which meant Will and Mara’s apartment would smell like it for the next three days.
Mara tried not to think about food.
She concentrated on keeping her steps even with her breathing. They turned on the landing and started the last flight of stairs.
“That’s a girl. Watch your step now, honey,” Mrs. Hiddleston said, just like Grandmary would have. Only Mara’s grandmother had always smelled like Old English lavender lotion instead of pot roast, and she would have been six inches taller than Mara. Mrs. Hiddleston barely came up to Mara’s chin.
I wish Grandmary really could be here. Mara was horrified to feel her eyes watering. Now was not the time to let down her guard. She let Mrs. Hiddleston guide her around the final turn of the stairs and up to her door.
“Thank you,” Mara said with all the grace she could muster. Her keys were in the pocket of her trench coat, which was folded over her neighbor’s arm. Before she could ask, Mrs. Hiddleston had already started knocking on the door.
“Mara?” Will answered the door barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt. “Are you all right?”
“She’s a bit sick to her stomach,” Mrs. Hiddleston said. She gave Will a knowing smile and winked as she helped Mara inside. “You take care of yourself, dear.” She bustled off and the door swung closed.
“She thinks I’m pregnant.” Mara realized it as soon as she said it.
“You’d think she’d be pissed. If she can’t handle hearing us tiptoe around the apartment, why would she be excited about having a baby upstairs?”
“Who knows. Besides, there’s no baby for her to worry about.” Mara closed her eyes and swallowed again.
“Mara?”
“Can you get me some bread, please? Or crackers?” Mara had to stop and swallow again. As soon as I can stand to lie down, I’m going to bed.
Will returned with a stack of Saltines. She crunched through them slowly, waiting for relief.
“Better?” Will asked, after a few minutes had passed.
“Better.” Mara walked over to the recliner and sat.
“Okay. Um, I’ve got something to tell you. But before I do, I’m really, really sorry.”
Mara’s heartbeat sped up. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“I forgot to tell you a social worker called yesterday. Someone named Traci Bryant. Apparently, she’s the social worker assigned to our time wreck case and she needs to check in on us and see how we’re doing.”
A brief glimmer of hope. Had she called, or had Will called her? Talking to someone about the code red yesterday would probably help Will, even if he didn’t want to admit it. “That’s fine,” Mara said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. “It’s good she wants to check in. Nice of her to call to see how you’re doing after the code red.”
Will frowned for a moment, as if he was confused. “No, it’s not about the thing at school yesterday. She didn’t mention it, anyway. I guess a social worker has to come meet with us over the time wreck stuff to be sure we understand and know all our options. She said ‘community support’ a lot while we were talking.”
Disappointment flooded through Mara, followed quickly by a hot flash of irritation. “How many people are we going to have to meet over this stupid thing? Don’t we have to see that psychiatrist on Friday? Isn’t that enough?”<
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“I guess they want to be extra cautious. Anyway, I was going to tell you yesterday when you got home, but . . .”
“Well, it’s not like you had anything else on your mind.” Mara waved off his apology. “Right. So did you make an appointment with her?”
“Yeah . . .” Will said. “It’s tonight. I forgot until she called with a reminder, and that was right before you got home.”
Mara bolted upright in the recliner, sending shock waves of pain down her arm. “Tonight? When is she going to be here?”
“In an hour. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Mara said, trying to hide her annoyance. Her nap would have to wait.
At least Will handled all the last-minute clean-up, probably spurred on by his guilty conscience. Mara tried to help put the clean dishes in the cabinets and move the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, but Will shooed her away. “Go sit down for a minute. You look”—Mara shot him a look—“like you could use a rest.”
Well, at least he hadn’t said she looked terrible. Or tired. Or grumpy. All of which were true, but it was nice not to be reminded of it. Mara settled back into her recliner. She wouldn’t bother changing. She’d just wear her work clothes through the social worker’s visit, and then she’d get ready for bed.
Mara had only met with a social worker once before, back when she was in the hospital. She didn’t remember much about it. That social worker had a soft voice and said some things about trauma and coping. Beyond that, Mara’s memory went fuzzy. Most of her memories from her time in the hospital were like that.
Today, everything seemed to be happening in painful detail. The lights seemed extra bright and every sound seemed to echo. Am I getting a migraine? With all the medicine she’d taken today, she wouldn’t be surprised. Mara closed her eyes again and tried to doze off. She might have succeeded, because the next thing she knew, there was a hefty knock at the door.
The social worker had arrived with a cracked leather briefcase and a wide smile. “So nice to meet you!” she exclaimed, walking in as if she were an old friend coming for a visit. “Traci Bryant. Pleasure to meet you both.” She shook Will’s hand enthusiastically before turning to Mara.
Please don’t, Mara thought, holding her right arm tight against her side. Traci only paused for a minute before shifting her briefcase and shaking Mara’s left hand instead. “So good to see you. Thank you for making time to see me.”
Mara couldn’t help smiling back. Something about this Traci Bryant was infectious. She was a large, comfortable-looking woman dressed in black slacks and a purple-and-green patterned top. Her hair was coiled in bleached, coppery curls that stood out against her dark, almost-black skin. Mara led Traci to the couch and sat beside her. She’s wearing cologne, Mara thought. It probably wasn’t strong to anyone else, but with her pounding head, it felt like she’d taken a bath in cinnamon and spices. Mara’s stomach turned again. Don’t think about food.
I wonder who she usually meets with? Mara wondered instead. At work, Mara met survivors of every kind of trauma, from every kind of life. She usually made up a picture in her head of who a participant in the study might be after reading the file, and she was usually surprised when she met them in person. Maybe social work was like that too.
If Traci Bryant found anything about Will and Mara surprising, she certainly didn’t show it. She opened the briefcase like she was Mary Poppins getting ready to pull out a hat stand.
“Well, you’ve probably heard all you can stand to hear about timeline rectification at this point, so I’m here to talk you through your thoughts on the process.” Traci pulled out a manila file and a handful of pamphlets from her briefcase. Mara recognized half of them from the display stand at work. Living with Disabilities, Recovering from PTSD, Trauma Resources . . .
“What are these for?” Mara asked.
“Just some information on local resources. We’re fortunate to have a lot of nonprofits that support crime victims and trauma survivors. Lots of fantastic community partners.”
Mara’s shoulders dropped . “So you think we shouldn’t have a time wreck.”
“That’s not for me to decide, either way. My job is to make sure that participants make the choices that are best for them. I’m not here to push you toward a timeline rectification or away from it. I just want you to know all the options you have.”
A deep sigh escaped. The only options I’m interested in are a hot shower and a long nap. Her stomach gurgled again.
“I appreciate where you’re coming from,” Will said, taking up the cause. “But we’ve been living with this for eight years. My wife works with trauma survivors. We’ve seen all the doctors and all the specialists. There really isn’t any resource we haven’t tried.”
Mara slid a sideways look at her husband. For me, maybe. You’re still convinced you can handle PTSD on your own.
Traci nodded. “I was reading through your file before I came, and you’ve both done an impressive job of handling some very trying circumstances. Why don’t you tell me what that’s been like for you?”
The longer she talked, the more it sounded to Mara as if she were underwater. Her ears throbbed and her cheeks reddened. Not now.
Will was saying something. Mara tried to focus on his words, but she started to feel the rising warmth again and felt bile in her throat. No. Don’t.
Too late. Mara lurched down the hall to the bathroom. She barely managed to slam the door behind her before she started to throw up.
When she was done, Mara curled up on the bathroom floor with her back against the cool fiberglass tub. Her right shoulder was seizing, probably in response to how fast she’d had to move. Mara closed her eyes and breathed through each spasm. She’d clean up later. She’d do everything later. She just wanted to rest. At least her stomach, now empty, was starting to untwist.
I don’t want this to be my life anymore, Mara thought. I’m so tired. I just want to feel better.
In the back of her mind, the usual thoughts bubbled up. Maybe after I sleep, I’ll feel better. Maybe if I just remember to eat something plain with my pills . . . or if I stop eating anything dairy . . . or if I give up soda for good . . .
Or maybe the time wreck is exactly what I need.
She realized that someone was knocking on the bathroom door. “Mara,” Will called. “Mara, I’m coming in now if you don’t answer.” He pushed open the door.
“I’m sorry,” Mara whispered.
“What are you sorry for? Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
Will helped her up and gave her a paper cup of water to rinse her mouth. Mara’s head pounded, but at least sipping the water didn’t make her want to throw up again. That was something.
“Is Traci still here?” she managed.
“No. She left her card and said she hopes you feel better.”
“I’m going to clean up.”
“Nope. You’re going to bed. Let’s go.”
No point fighting, Mara thought sleepily. I’ll get up and help in a few minutes.
Her shoulder seized as she leaned back on the bank of cool pillows. Mara breathed in and out through her nose until finally, mercifully, sleep came.
Chapter Twelve
WILL
Date: April 7, 2011
To: Staff
From: Cliff
Subject: Update on Student
Dear Teachers and Staff:
I want to thank you all again for your quick response to our code red on Monday. The student’s family has contacted me to let me know that he is still in the hospital receiving psychiatric care and will likely be discharged soon. I am working with the family to determine how we can best support this student’s educational needs during his recovery. The family also wanted to share their thanks for quickly recognizing their son’s needs and getting him help while also keeping the other students out of harm’s way, so I wanted to pass that on to all of you.
—Cliff
&n
bsp; Date: April 7, 2011
To: Will Sterling
From: Cliff
Subject: Assembly
Will:
Just wanted to thank you again personally for your calm and collected response to Monday’s code red. I heard that you shared a bit about your own experience at Adams Morgan with your class. Bravo on opening up to your students about the real-life ramifications of these difficult situations. Hopefully some of them will take your words to heart.
On that note, do you have any more thoughts on sharing your story at a school assembly next week? Particularly after Monday’s events, I think it’s critical for our staff to come together and remind our students of our core values and why we work so hard to be a safe space. Let me know.
—Cliff
Will left the email checked as “unread,” even though he’d looked over it dozens of times. He should have known that his little speech to the students would get back to Cliff. Will had managed to avoid bumping in to him in the halls throughout the day on Thursday, so Cliff hadn’t been able to corner him to follow up. And now it was Friday. A day off, even if it didn’t feel much like a vacation at all.
Will braced his foot against the seat in front of him. He wished there was more legroom on the Metro. More shock absorbers too. The ride to the Bennington Building today was bumpier than usual. Beside him, Mara was sitting straight at attention, cradling her right arm in her lap. Her face was impassive, but Will noticed that she closed her eyes briefly with each shudder of the train car.
She had barely managed to wake up from her nap in time for them to make it to the Metro stop. This week had been hard on Mara—harder, Will suspected, than it had been on him. Each day she’d seemed to eat less and sleep longer.
I wish there was a medicine that could help. I wish there was a surgery or a treatment or anything.
Then Will remembered where they were going. Oh, right. There is.