by Katie Ford
But my dad is a ball of motion. He kneels by the rear of the Mercedes, the toolbox at his side as he starts rattling the back door.
“Come on, come on,” he huffs. “Open, open.”
And with horror, suddenly I realize what I’m seeing. It’s Trent in the backseat, his head lolling to one side with his eyes closed. I let out a shrill scream while running forwards.
“Trent!” is my shriek. “Oh my god!”
But a firefighter who’s just arrived on the scene physically blocks my way, his burly body like a refrigerator.
“Sorry ma’am,” he growls. “Please stay back for your own safety.”
I stand there trembling with eyes wide as my mom comes up behind me, pulling me back.
“That must be one of your friends from school, right?” Elaine asks, her voice wavering with tears in her eyes. “Come on, let’s go back to the house. You don’t need to see this.”
But I can’t tear my eyes away even as Elaine pulls me towards the safety of our home. My eyes are wide as the firefighters take over, my dad escorted to the side. And the air leaves my body as I see Trent pulled from the wreckage, all in one piece, thank god, but limp as a rag doll. Oh god. His muscular form is pale, face as white as a sheet. Those long arms dangle helplessly by his side as they hoist him onto a gurney before loading him into an ambulance. And then they’re off, wheels squealing as the red and white bolts down our suburban road.
“Come on, Janie,” says my mom firmly, pulling me within the confines of the house. “There’s nothing to see.”
But even as we step within the homey yellow kitchen, I can’t unsee what I’ve seen. Because there was a lot of blood on the pavement, pooling like ruby oil slicks. And my insides crumple because what if that was Trent’s blood? What happens to my handsome quarterback now?
CHAPTER THREE
Janie
Two weeks later …
I tiptoe down the hall, past Trent’s bedroom, and downstairs to our kitchen.
“Is he up?” I whisper softly. “Or is he still sleeping?”
My mom takes a deep breath while pulling a bubbly lasagna out of the kitchen.
“I think he’s up,” she replies softly. “Janie, honey, can you go and knock on the door and tell him that dinner’s ready?”
I nod because Trent’s been living at our house for about two weeks now. It turns out there was nothing wrong with him. Sure, he’d been shaken about within the car, but other than a bump on his head and a pretty serious bruise on his hip, he was completely fine.
But the story doesn’t end happily because Trent’s parents were in the front of the car and it was them crushed by the Mack truck. I don’t even like the visual because it’s so gory. Human beings, compressed until they’re about two feet tall with blood and guts leaking everywhere.
But that’s where the story takes a left turn because once the fatalities had been recorded, the police started asking around, and the first person they talked to was my dad.
“You know this family?” they asked.
Vincent shook his head, face pale and jowls wobbly.
“N-no, not really,” he stammered. “Their son goes to high school with my daughter, but that’s all. We saw the Lewises around at booster events and football games, but we didn’t know know them.”
The officer took all this down in his notebook, nodding.
“Can I get your phone number?” he asked smoothly. Vincent was nonplussed, but he nodded.
“Sure no problem, Officer,” he mumbled. “It’s 546-3789. Call me if you need more details.”
And the next day when his cell rang, we thought for sure that it’d be a detective following up on the horrific accident. After all, my dad had been one of the first people on the scene, and had even witnessed the Mack truck barreling into and then on top of the red Mercedes. But when Vincent hung up, his hands trembled as he turned to look at us, eyes wide and cheeks white.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” asked my mom in a concerned voice. “Is everything okay?”
Vincent dropped limply into a kitchen chair, the spindly piece of furniture shaking a bit under his portly frame.
“Things are not good,” he said slowly, “but I think we have a chance to do something about it.”
“The call was about the accident, wasn’t it?” asked Elaine, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh my god, honey, I know it’s hard to talk about. Of course if we can help in some way, we will. The Lewises were nice people, weren’t they Janie? You knew their son, right? And he was always so polite.”
This clearly wasn’t the time to tell my parents about our escapade during Biology, so I just nodded, murmuring, “Yes, they were very nice. I didn’t know Trent well, but he was the starting quarterback at school.”
Of course, football had no relevance here except that it seemed a defining feature of my handsome lab partner. And my parents didn’t notice. They nodded slowly while my dad spoke up again.
“Well, that was the hospital. It seems that Trent Lewis has no relatives. They’ve called all over the United States, and haven’t been able to locate anyone,” Vincent said in a quiet voice. “That boy is all alone.”
Elaine gasped, one hand rising to cover her mouth.
“That’s terrible!” she said. “That poor child, with no mother or father now. He’s an orphan! Is he okay? Have they told him yet?”
My father’s face was grim.
“They’ve told him because he’s conscious now and doing well, physically. The hospital wants to release him but they’re wary about releasing him to live on his own. Of course, the boy’s eighteen already. He could go home and live in his parents’ home, but the doctors don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Elaine gasped again, eyes wide.
“Of course not! That sounds terrible. They expect Trent to go home and take up residence in a place that only has sad memories? Where the ghosts of his parents wander through the rooms, so soon after their tragic deaths? Of course not. He needs to stay with friends.”
Vincent’s expression grew contemplative then.
“The question is, are we willing to be those friends?” he asked. “We didn’t know the Lewises well, but it seems this boy has no one else. No relatives on record, and the hospital doesn’t know where else to turn.”
Elaine seized my dad’s hand, and my heart swelled in my chest then. Because Vincent and Elaine are good people, and you couldn’t find more decent, honest folks anywhere else in the United States. Immediately, my mom nodded, her eyes meeting my dad’s with dignity and honor.
“Of course we’ll take the poor boy in. He needs someone, and that someone is us, Vincent. We need to do the right thing and provide a home for Trent Lewis, even if it’s just temporary. As God is my witness, we will assist a lamb in need.”
And with that my mother and father clasped hands, turning to seize both of mine as well.
“Doing the right thing is godly and good,” intoned my father.
“And recognizing the path to the Kingdom of Heaven, we shall help others by obeying your will,” said my mother.
I was silent although I bent my head while squeezing their hands. Because although both Vincent and Elaine are exceedingly devout, I myself am not. But being spiritual has always been a part of my character, and now, more than ever, I knew that opening our home to my lab partner was the right thing to do during his time of need.
So that’s how Trent came to stay with us. When my dad pulled the car into our driveway, I opened the door and waited hesitantly on the doorstep. Vincent slowly stopped the vehicle, but the doors didn’t pop open immediately. Instead, my dad got out, circled around the back of the sedan, and then opened the back door for Trent to get out.
I was shocked at first at how he looked. No longer the cocky prince with a shit-eating grin on his face. Oh, he was still handsome, but those blue eyes were haunted. And even though it’d been only two days, he was changed. It seemed he’d lost weight, his t-shirt loose on that frame. Maybe he’d e
ven shrunk a bit, taking a few inches off that six foot three frame. Was that possible?
But maybe this is what psychological trauma does to someone. Because the doctors had assured us that other than a few bumps and bruises, Trent was completely fine. But the hollows under his eyes and those gaunt cheekbones seemed to tell a different story. On the outside he was relatively okay, but his insides told a different story. This was a man who’d walked through an inferno and barely come out alive.
Trent met my eyes across the concrete before slowly taking a step forwards.
“Ouch,” he grunted. “Fuck me.”
Immediately Vincent was hoisting one of Trent’s arms around his shoulders.
“Come on Tiger,” encouraged my dad. “One step at a time.”
I should have run forwards to help them, but I could only stand there staring. This is what had happened to my cocky lab partner? The one who’d pushed me over until I collapsed so that he could get a better look at my big bottom and aching pussy? Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
But all of a sudden, I didn’t care anymore about the pushing and shoving. It seemed so trivial compared to what Trent was going through, and I flew down the drive then to grab his other arm and put it around my shoulders. Oof, the man was heavy. I’m no shrinking violet, but this guy had to have at least a hundred pounds of pure muscle on me.
“Come on,” I encouraged as Trent took another step forwards, propped up between my dad and me. “You can make it. It’s going to be fine.”
And after about ten minutes, we were safely into the house and into the spare guestroom on the first floor.
“We’ll give you some time to unpack,” said my mom kindly, dusting her hands off on her apron. “It’s been a terrible few days for you, and we’re so sorry for your loss, honey. Just holler if you need anything. We’ll be outside.”
But Trent didn’t really acknowledge my mom. He just sat on the bed in the spare guest room and nodded silently, eyes fixed on the street outside. Immediately, I ran over and snapped the curtains shut.
“Ma,” I gasped, making eyes at Elaine. “Trent can see where the accident happened from this window. Is there any place else to move him? My room even? My room looks out onto the backyard, and maybe that’d be better.”
Elaine frowned.
“Are you sure, honey?” she asked. “There are stairs to get to your bedroom and maybe that’s too much for Trent with his bruised hip.”
But my lab partner cut off my mom.
“I can make it up the stairs,” he said softly, already beginning to stand again. The man was wobbly and I rushed forwards, staggering a bit as he leaned on me heavily. “I appreciate your generosity so much.”
And that was that. Trent now sleeps in my bedroom, while I’m ensconced in the guest bedroom downstairs. I hope he doesn’t mind my room too much. Some of the décor is left over from my girlhood, including the frilly white bedspread and pink dresser. But hey, I figure that’s better than going home to the house where your deceased parents lived just days ago. Hopefully, the new environment will do him good, even if it’s feminine and girly.
And Trent’s recovered somewhat in the last two weeks. Again, he’s not really physically injured, and with my mom’s home cooking, he seems to have filled out once more. His movements have energy and those shoulders are as broad as before. In fact, he’s even started going to practice again, and I know they’re planning to start him during the football game this Friday.
The difference is his eyes. That haunted look is still there, and it makes me want to cry for the handsome man. He looks out the window sometimes before turning to look at me, and my heart always melts. What must he be thinking? What pain lances through his soul, the memory of his mother and father still fresh on his mind? Yes, all people die, but their premature passing wasn’t something that should have happened.
So my parents and I tiptoe a bit around Trent. We’re friendly and unassuming, and encourage him to participate in stuff like family game night and Sunday ice cream sundaes. And he makes an effort, he really does. He smiles as my mom dishes out the chocolate ice cream, complimenting her on the special fudge sauce she threw together as a topping. He lets my dad win at “Toodles,” a card game we made up when I was about ten years old and have played every Sunday night since. It’s dumb, kind of like a souped-up version of Go Fish, but Trent participates and smiles, bowing out so that other people can win.
Yet there’s something missing. I can feel it in my heart. It’s in the way his eyes are sometimes drawn to the front window, as if he’s re-imagining the accident. It’s in the way his big body shudders when a large vehicle rumbles by the house, as if he’s hearing that killer Mack truck again. It’s in the way his blue eyes are shuttered sometimes, lost in their own thoughts.
So when my mom asks me to go call him for dinner, I nod and ascend the stairs slowly. Sometimes Trent joins us, but sometimes not. I guess the depression can weigh him down, and it can be too much to be a part of our happy family when his own was so recently destroyed.
“Trent?” I knock softly on the door. “Dinner’s ready. I think it’s salmon and rice pilaf.”
No sound.
“Trent?” I ask again, knocking a little louder this time. Sometimes he listens to music on his headphones, and can’t hear when someone’s talking. “Dinner’s ready,” I call.
Finally, a voice sounds from inside.
“I’ll be right down,” he rumbles, and I nod satisfied. It’ll be great to see him at dinner. Although I see him at school every day now, there hasn’t been a repeat of what happened during Biology that first day of frog dissection. In fact, Trent’s been excused from the project altogether due to his trauma, leaving me pretty much me alone at the workstation. So I’m looking forward to interacting with him again because it sounds so wrong to say it, but he’s still godawful handsome. Even with the recent tragedy, there’s something compelling about the man that draws me to him like a moth to a flame. And I want to help, I do. In any way I can.
So I skip downstairs, face flushed and excited. It’ll be nice to have conversation with our handsome houseguest. Of course, my parents will be sitting right there, but it’s okay. Baby steps. One day at a time is the motto around here, and I’m jittery and nervous about seeing that gorgeous mien and powerful build.
But we start serving, and Trent doesn’t come down. We sit and clasp hands for a daily prayer, but Trent still hasn’t shown.
“Maybe we should wait,” says my mom with a worried expression. “He did say he was coming down, right Janie?”
I nod mutely, but my dad intervenes.
“It’s okay Elaine,” he says quietly, stroking my mom’s hand. “The boy’s had a hard time. Let him have some privacy. I’ll bring him a plate when he’s ready.”
And so I deflate inside, even though there’s a happy grin on my face. I chatter about this and that, about Science Club and the latest goings-on at school, with my parents nodding proudly the entire time. But I’m not listening to myself. Instead, my thoughts are upstairs with Trent. What is he doing? Why isn’t he coming down? What must he feel? And my heart beats heavily, in slow, steady thumps. Because the man must be depressed. It’s the only answer, and I wish there was something I could do to help.
After dinner, I assist my mom with the clean-up, loading the dirty plates and utensils into the dishwasher before excusing myself.
“I have a long day tomorrow,” are my words as I beat a hasty retreat. “There’s an algebra midterm, and I have a paper for Honors English due. So I gotta get on it.”
Elaine nods, still drying her hands on the dishtowel.
“Of course honey,” she says. “Don’t work yourself too hard. If you get too tired, you won’t be able to perform tomorrow.”
But once I’m in the safety of the guest bedroom, I get straight into bed because now I’m the one who’s depressed. I hadn’t realized just how much I wanted to see Trent at dinner, and his no-show was a complete downer. I wanted to hear
that deep growl, to see the cleft in his square jaw. I wanted to maybe accidentally bump knees with him under the table, or brush his fingers with mine as I passed him the veggies.
But none of that happened, and I’m all alone in my bed feeling like the world is gray and morose. With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes, willing the darkness to come over me. The math test is nothing, I have it covered. The English paper was done days ago. So lying as still as a mummy under the blankets, I will myself to sleep … and finally, my thoughts dissipate into nothingness.
CHAPTER FOUR
Janie
A sound startles me, and I sit up, pushing brown curls out of my face.
“Wha?” comes a croaky sound from my throat. “Who’s there?”
Oh ugh. I got into bed without changing my clothes or brushing my teeth last night, and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Swallowing heavily to get some moisture, I try again.
“Hello?” This time my voice comes out better. “Who’s there?”
There’s silence for a moment, but I can feel the presence of another being in the room. Fear should make me quake in the sheets right now, but instead, I’m not afraid at all because I can sense who it is. His presence is electrifying yet reassuring at once, and a shiver runs down my spine as I clutch the blanket closer to my chest.
“Trent?” I whisper softly. “Is that you?”
Slowly, the big man moves forward and out of the shadows. He emerges, those broad shoulders slightly hunched to sit on the chair next to the bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask breathlessly before slipping a glimpse at the alarm clock. “It’s three a.m.”
There’s no sound and for a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer. But then that deep voice comes.
“Couldn’t sleep,” is his low reply. “It’s been a problem lately.”
Immediately, I reach for his hands, clasping those strong fingers in my small ones.