Keep Me in Your Heart

by Lurlene McDaniel

  “Here’s my favorite,” Christina said. She held up a pale blue twinset that perfectly matched her eyes. “I’m going to wear it for a very special occasion.”

  “Which will be …?”

  “Don’t know yet. But when you see it on me, you’ll know it’s a special day.”

  Trisha’s thoughts floated back to the present. Again she asked, “Why is Cody being sent to Chicago?”

  “He’s had a massive head injury. Chicago is better able to take care of him because the hospital has a special head trauma unit.”

  Trisha’s heart seemed to contract. “How bad is he hurt? Tell me, Mom … please tell me.”

  Her mother hesitated but finally said, “He has a couple of broken ribs. And his face and arm needed stitches.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  Her mother paused.

  “What else? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “He’s in a coma, honey.”

  Trisha felt all the air go out of her lungs. “A coma? What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, no … Not Cody, not Cody.” Hot tears pooled behind her eyes.

  “Please don’t get upset. It won’t help you.”

  “Me? I don’t care about me. I’ll be fine. But Cody …” She cried just thinking about him far away in a hospital, without her by his side. “Please tell me everything.”

  “I was standing with his parents and heard what the doctor told them. He said that comas are nature’s way of protecting the brain. Cody could wake up tomorrow.”

  “I want to be there when he wakes up.”

  “We have no way of knowing when that will be. But I’ll take you to see him just as soon as you’re able.”

  “But what if he doesn’t wake up?”

  “They’re doing everything they can for him, Trisha. Don’t dwell on the negatives.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “You will. Just as soon as you’re able to travel.”

  “I want to see him now.”

  “That’s not possible, honey.” Her mother kissed her forehead. “Pray for him. Think good thoughts for him. That’s all you can do right now.”

  “Can I call his mother?”

  “Tomorrow. There’s time enough for that tomorrow.”

  Trisha lay quiet for a while, concentrating on the vision of Cody’s face. His smile lit up his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. She loved it when he came up behind her in the halls, put his arm around her shoulder, and whispered in her ear, “Who loves you, babe?”

  And she’d say, “Have we met?”

  And he’d say, “Don’t tell me you’re spoken for. Am I going to have to take some guy out before we can live happily ever after?”

  And she’d say, “No. You’re the one I want.”

  “Forever?”

  “Forever.”

  Trisha’s eyelids grew heavy, but she fought sleep. She still hadn’t heard about Christina. She clenched and unclenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms, psyching herself up to hear the news. “And Christina, Mom? How’s Christina?”

  “You know, there’ll be plenty of time to talk tomorrow. You should get some rest now. I’ll go find Dr. Joyce and see if I can take you home.” Her mother stood.

  “Wait.” Trisha caught her arm, her heart hammering hard. “Tell me about Christina. I don’t want to leave here until I know. If she’s really bad, I want to see her before I go.”

  Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, but she held Trisha’s gaze without blinking. “I didn’t want to tell you this tonight. I wanted to wait until you were rested, stronger.”

  Trisha felt new tears forming in her eyes and braced herself for what was to come, for what she could not change.

  “Christina died at the scene, Trisha,” her mother said. “Chrissy’s dead.”

  Seven

  Deep down, Trisha had known all along. She had felt it in her soul. When had she first suspected it? Perhaps when she’d been lifted into the ambulance and seen the dark shapes in the ditch. Or when she’d glimpsed the stretcher along the wall, the sheet pulled up to cover the human being beneath it. Her subconscious had seen it in the graceful shape of the arm, the limp fingers, the curve of the hand. Trisha had known on some primal inner level that of the four of them, someone had not survived.

  Tears clogged Trisha’s throat, yet she wept without making a sound. She might have choked had her mother not shaken her and made her cough and take a ragged breath. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so very, very sorry.”

  Trisha turned and pressed her face into her mother’s stomach, her sobs muffled against her mother’s clothes. Her mother held her tight and stroked her back. Together they cried until Trisha was so exhausted that her body sagged, almost as lifeless as her friend’s. How could it be true? How could Christina, so full of life hours before, be dead and gone? And what of Tucker? He must know by now too.

  She thought about what he must be going through if he knew. What was it like for him, knowing that he had been driving the car that killed the girl he loved?

  “You don’t have to go to school today, Trisha.”

  “Yes, Mom, I do.” While she hobbled awkwardly on her crutches, gathering her books for her backpack, Trisha never looked at her mother standing in the doorway of her room. “And this would go a whole lot faster if you’d help me out a little,” she added, feeling frustrated.

  “Why is it so important for you to head off to school less than two days after your accident? It’s only Monday. Your teachers will understand if you stay out for the entire week. There’s no need to rush back.”

  “I can’t stay out. I have to go. Because of Christina.” She almost broke down just saying the name.

  She’d come home from the hospital early Saturday morning, gone to bed, and slept until almost two in the afternoon. She’d awakened with a start, wondering why her parents had let her sleep so late. As she moved, pain shot through her. Only then did she remember what had happened. She’d gotten up, found the crutches the ER issued her, and made it down the hallway to the bathroom. When she saw herself in the mirror, she almost fainted.

  Her hair had been cut away and a large bald spot shaved where black stitches crisscrossed part of her head. Her face was swollen, her lip bulged, and the area under her left eye was bruised black. Dried blood was caked in her hair and on her neck. She was Frankenstein’s monster.

  Too sore even to begin cleaning up, she returned to her room. She thought about calling Christina’s mother, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Later, she had been relieved when her mother had told her that she had called, but that Christina’s family had left a message on their answering machine saying, “We are not taking calls at this time, but we appreciate your condolences. Please give us a few days alone with our grief.” No one was home at Cody’s house when she called, but later that night, his mother, Gwyn, returned Trisha’s message. “How is he?” Trisha asked, emotion filling her voice.

  “He’s still in a coma,” Gwyn said. “But he’s breathing on his own. That’s a good thing.” Her voice quivered. “I just want him to wake up.”

  “Did they tell you when he might?”

  “They don’t know. They said comas can be healing to the brain. Cody’s head has suffered a severe injury and the coma is a way for it to rest and recover.”

  “I want to see him so badly.”

  “And I didn’t want to come home and leave him there,” Gwyn said. “But I have to take care of Jennifer and Pete.” Those were Cody’s siblings. “We’ll all go to Chicago tomorrow and visit. He looks so pitiful in the bed. He can’t speak. He can’t even open his eyes.”

  The picture was too much for Trisha to bear. “Maybe I can come too.”

  “Wait a while,” Gwyn said. “Maybe he’ll wake up in a day or so. Then you can come. How are you, anyway?”

  Trisha told her about her injuries, finishing with “I look terrible, but I’m all right. I mean, compared t
o Cody and to—” She stopped herself as tears welled.

  “Yes, yes. I know. I think of Christina’s family all the time. I know Julia and Nelson are devastated.” Gwyn was silent, then added, “I’ll call you the minute there’s any change in Cody. In the meantime, take care of yourself.”

  By Monday, the swelling on Trisha’s face had gone down and she could cover the ugly bruising around her eye with makeup. With little fanfare, she’d chopped off her hair. She found a knit hat she liked, which she wore brim down. Struggling into jeans and a sweater, she prepared to go to school.

  “I really wish you’d take another few days off,” her mother said, helping Trisha down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Charlie looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table and jumped to his feet. “Here, take my chair.” He pulled it out so that she could sit. “Want my cereal? I only took a couple of bites.”

  “No thanks.” She tried to smile at him, but her lip throbbed too much.

  “You must eat something,” their mother said. “I won’t let you leave until you eat breakfast.”

  Food was the last thing Trisha wanted, but she didn’t want to give her mother an excuse to keep her home. “Can I have toast with peanut butter? And maybe some milk.”

  As her mother set to work, Trisha let Charlie prop her crutches against the wall. “You going to school?” he asked. “You can stay home if you want. If it was me, I’d stay home.”

  “I’m not you.”

  The morning paper was spread across the table, open to the local news section. Christina’s pretty face smiled from a photo and the headline read: Mooresville Teen Dies in Crash; Three Injured. Trisha all but stopped breathing when she read the word dies.

  “I told you to put that paper away!” Her mother barked at Charlie.

  He looked panic-stricken and reached for the paper. Trisha stopped him. “Don’t. Please. I—I want to read it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie mumbled.

  “It’s not your fault,” she told him.

  She picked up the paper. At the bottom was a photograph of rescue personnel and police standing around a car resting on its squashed roof. Had a news reporter been at the scene? Trisha didn’t remember. With difficulty, she read the article:

  A seventeen-year-old Mooresville High School student was killed Friday night in a one-car accident on State Highway 2, just outside the city limits, when the car she was a passenger in left the road, crashed through a fence, and overturned. Christina Eckloe, daughter of Nelson and Julia Eckloe, was transported to Memorial Hospital, where she died of injuries sustained in the wreck.

  Two other passengers, Trisha Thompson, 17, and Cody McGuire, 17, and driver Tucker Hanson, 18, were transported to Memorial, where Ms. Thompson and Mr. Hanson were treated and released. Mr. McGuire was transferred to Chicago for treatment of head injuries. Mr. Hanson was driving the vehicle, but police have not charged him, and the investigation into the accident is ongoing.

  The Reverend Jonathon Stiles, pastor of the church Miss Eckloe and her family attended, spoke on behalf of the family, saying, “Christina was a warm and wonderful girl. She was loved and admired by the whole community and will be greatly missed.” (See obituary on page 7.)

  Trisha stopped reading. Her hands shook so hard that she couldn’t hold the paper steady. “Would you turn it to page seven?” she asked Charlie.

  He glanced up at their mother, who gave a resigned nod.

  In the obituary section, Christina smiled from her senior picture. Trisha noted the particulars about Christina’s funeral listed beside the photo. “The visitation’s tonight,” she said with a start, looking hard at her mother. “Weren’t you going to tell me? Were you going to let me miss it?”

  “Of course not.”

  Trisha didn’t believe her. “And the funeral’s Tuesday. Were you going to let me skip that too?”

  “There’s time—”

  “Time? Time for what? She’s dead, Mother. My best friend’s dead and you weren’t even going to let me go to her funeral.”

  “That’s not true—”

  Trisha cried out and swept the paper from the table. She struggled to her feet. “I hate you! I hate all of you!”

  Charlie looked dumbstruck. Their mother rushed over to Trisha and caught her by the arms. “Stop it! We would have never let you miss the funeral. We only wanted to protect you. Now get ahold of yourself.”

  Trisha dissolved into heartrending sobs. Her mother cradled her. “She’s gone, Mama. She’s gone forever. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

  Her mother didn’t answer, and Trisha knew there was no answer. Christina was dead. In two days she’d be buried. She’d be put into the hard cold ground, never to see the world again.

  “Why don’t you lie down?” her mother said.

  Trisha pulled away. “I’m going to school,” she said. “Someone has to be there for Christina today. And if you won’t take me, I swear, I’ll walk every step of the way.”

  She didn’t have to walk. Her mother got her to the front entrance; as Trisha slowly made her way through the halls, groups of kids parted like field grass to let her pass. They stared. Ordinarily, the stares and whispers would have made her feel self-conscious. Today she didn’t. Because today, it wasn’t about her. It was about Christina. She heard the name spoken as she passed, from voices filled with tears. She didn’t say a word to anyone because she didn’t trust her voice.

  Heading toward her locker, she rounded a corner. A teacher stepped in front of her. “Trisha, you’re back so soon?”

  No, Mrs. Dodge, I’m only a figment of your imagination. “Yes, Mrs. Dodge. I couldn’t stay home. Not today.”

  “It’s all so tragic. I’m glad you weren’t hurt any worse.”

  Any worse than my heart being ripped in half?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dodge.”

  “And Cody? How’s he doing?”

  He could have died too, Mrs. Dodge. We were all just a heartbeat away from dying in the accident like Christina.

  “His doctors don’t know yet.” Trisha wished the woman would go away.

  “We’re going to have a memorial service in the gym on Friday,” Mrs. Dodge said. “We decided at an emergency faculty meeting this morning. We think it will give the school a chance to pay their respects to Christina and gain closure. Since you knew her best, we thought you might like to say a few words. Can we count on you, Trisha?”

  A service? A rally? A send-off? Are you joking? Trisha felt numb. “I—I guess I could.”

  “I told the staff it would be all right to ask you.” Mrs. Dodge turned. “We’re all sorry, Trisha. She was a wonderful girl.” Mrs. Dodge patted Trisha’s shoulder and walked off.

  Was. Used to be. Once upon a time. Christina was past tense. Trisha’s chest felt as if a heavy weight were pressing into it. She went lightheaded. The floor began to spin. She dropped her crutches. A hand grabbed her. She looked up into Tucker’s grief-stricken face.

  “Let me help you,” he said.

  She had no choice—her knees had started to cave in. Without warning, a wail rose from her throat. Tucker put his arms around her, and they stood in the hall clinging to one another, crying. A group of students held hands and closed ranks around them, as if to shield them from the tentacles of a monster they could not escape.

  Eight

  Trisha and Tucker were taken to the guidance counselor’s office by a teacher who found them crying together and believed they should “take it easy” and that perhaps they had returned to school too soon after their “ordeal.” And that maybe meeting with Mr. Chambers might help them “get a handle” on their emotions. Trisha wanted none of it. She felt bad about breaking down so publicly, but she didn’t want her mother called. And she didn’t want to talk to Mr. Chambers about it either.

  To Mr. Chambers’s credit, he didn’t push either Trisha or Tucker to talk. He brought them both colas from the drink machine and, after a few minutes of making sure neither
Trisha nor Tucker was hysterical or totally undone, he left them alone. Trisha hadn’t seen Tucker since the night of the accident. He wore a large, flesh-colored bandage on his right temple where his head had struck the windshield. There was another bandage on his forearm; Trisha saw it under the edge of his sleeve. His eyes were red-rimmed. He had cried. She had seen Charlie cry, but he was a kid and Tucker wasn’t. She thought better of Tucker because he had cried instead of clinging to some stoic macho code.

  “How are you doing?” Tucker spoke first.

  “Not so good. How about you?”

  “The same. My parents didn’t want me to come to school today.”

  “My mom wanted me to stay home too.”

  “My dad thinks everyone’s going to blame me. Do you blame me, Trisha?”

  She didn’t know how to answer him. His expression was one of pure torture, but truth was, he had been driving the car. She thought hard before saying, “I don’t remember much about the accident, you know. It’s mostly just impressions—a flash here and there, pictures that keep rolling around inside my head that I can’t quite pin down.”

  “ ’Cause I couldn’t stand it if you thought it was my fault. I wouldn’t blame you, but I couldn’t stand it.”

  “The paper didn’t say much about the accident. Did you read the story?”

  “I read it. The police told us there’ll be a coroner’s inquest into the accident. That’s where they’ll decide if it was an accident or a reckless homicide.” His voice broke. “What if it’s ruled a reckless homicide, Trisha? What if they say it was my fault? That Christina’s dead and Cody’s in a coma because I was driving recklessly?”

  She heard his pain and his fear. She couldn’t believe how life had changed so quickly for them. She wanted to tell him it would be all right, but she couldn’t. Something kept nibbling at the edges of her mind, some memory about the night of the accident that couldn’t get out. She hated the blank spaces in her head. They gave her a headache. “I guess you’ll have to go with whatever they say,” she told him. And thought, and deal with the consequences.