by Paula Stokes
CHAPTER 5
The second Mom leaves, I fish Dad’s iPad out from under the covers. Dallas was a big deal. There must be articles online about the accident by now. Maybe they’ll help me fill in some of the gaps.
But first I want to email Shannon. I log into my account and am surprised to see I have over five hundred new messages. I click on my inbox. In addition to the usual spam, I’ve got several emails from Shannon and loads of messages from other kids at school. Some of them are Dallas’s friends but a lot are kids whose names I only recognize in passing. Kids from different cliques, from different grades. I used to say that everyone loved Dallas, but I’ve never seen the visual evidence laid out the way it is here.
I click on the first one, from a girl named Ciara Clark. I know she runs a Dallas Kade fan site and we’re in World History together, but we’ve never really talked.
Dear Genevieve,
I cannot even tell you how devastated I am about what’s happened. The world has lost one of the greatest performers ever. And such a sweet guy too. I feel like one of my best friends has been stolen away.
I roll my eyes. Aside from one interview about the album, I’m pretty sure Dallas and Ciara Clark never exchanged two words.
I’m praying for a speedy recovery for you. Please email me back ASAP once you get this. I’ve reserved a feature spot on the blog for an interview with you about the accident. Dallas’s adoring fans at scckadetkorps.com need you now more than ever!
Sincerely,
Ciara Clark
Founder and President of the St. Charles County Dallas Kade Fan Club
P.S. I shared your email address online because Dallas’s fans wanted to send you their prayers and condolences. I hope you don’t mind.
“Whatever,” I mutter under my breath. That explains all the spam. I click on the second email. It’s from one of Dallas’s fans just wanting to say how sorry he is. Messages three and four are more of the same. A lump starts to form in my throat. I know these people mean well, but they’re making me feel guilty for being the one who lived. After all, it’s not like the whole world would miss me if I were gone.
The next email is from a girl who lives in Oklahoma wondering if it’s okay if she sells Dallas Kade #NeverForget T-shirts online. “No idea, Tammy from Tulsa.” I delete all five messages without responding.
Two more messages appear in my inbox, both from addresses I don’t recognize. Ignoring them, I dash off a quick message to Shannon:
Thanks for the homework, you big traitor ;) Have I told you lately that I miss you? Puh-lease come visit tomorrow if you have time. And if my mom gives you any crap about me needing to rest, ask my dad to sneak you in. I’m going crazy stuck in bed. I don’t need rest. I need my best friend <3 I would call you but my phone got mashed in the accident and I’m on my dad’s iPad.
All the <333
G
I send the message and close out my email. Now, to figure out what actually happened. I type the words “Dallas Kade” into the search box. Auto-complete gives me a list of choices:
Dallas Kade death
Dallas Kade accident
Dallas Kade Try This at Home
Dallas Kade Younity
Dallas Kade singer
Sucking in a deep breath, I highlight the top option and click search.
Hundreds of results come back—way more than I was expecting. Everyone has reported on the accident already and multiple major papers have written more than one article. I click on the most recent article written by the local newspaper.
THE ST. LOUIS TIMES
Man Who Hit and Killed Dallas Kade Charged with Driving While Intoxicated
BY R. J. CRUISE, 8 hours ago
The St. Charles County Sheriff’s Department has released a report confirming that Bradley Freeman of Wentzville, Missouri, who was involved in the fatal car wreck that killed seventeen-year-old Dallas Kade, also of Wentzville, has been charged with driving while intoxicated. His BAC level was tested upon arrival at Lake St. Louis Medical Center, but the results have not been made public.
Kade was a passenger in a car belonging to him but being driven by his girlfriend, Genevieve Grace. Grace has been in a coma since the accident, but doctors are still hopeful she will recover. Kade was a senior at Ridgehaven Academy and had just released his first album. He is survived by his parents, Glen and Nora.
After three days of being unresponsive, Bradley Freeman awoke on Monday and issued a statement saying that his heart went out to the Kade and Grace families. Freeman incurred a head injury in the accident and is claiming to have no memory of the events leading up to it. This is Freeman’s second DWI charge, but possible manslaughter charges in Kade’s death are still pending. Freeman plans to plead not guilty to the DWI and says unequivocally that he was not driving drunk.
An investigation into the cause of the accident is ongoing. Anyone with information about this incident is requested to call the St. Charles County Sheriff’s Department at 636-555-1919.
Comments 1–10 of 891
jenjennjenni: how can you plead not guilty to a dwi? i mean, even if he tests the blood somewhere else and gets a different result, isn’t that still his word against the police department’s? this is bull****
Mike Clinker: This whole thing stinks of some sort of cover-up. But Freeman used to work for the county and his dad was the sheriff out there for like 20 years, so of course they’re trying not to charge him with anything serious.
Kadet4Ever: Poor Genevieve. Does anyone know if she’s going to make it?
Slytherpuff: @Kadet4Ever: I heard things were looking grim for Kade’s girlfriend, that even if she woke up she’d probably have brain damage.
pxs1228: Good to know Freeman’s heart is going out to the family of the boy he killed and the girl he almost killed. They should’ve REALLY given his heart away before he woke up, donated his organs to more deserving people.
fullgrownkademaniac: #JusticeForDallas It’s bad enough Freeman killed him, but now he’s going to lie about it. Lock up this murderer already.
Billy Blitzen: My friend was out in Wentzville that night and he remembers seeing a red truck that looked just like Freeman’s speeding and weaving erratically on Highway 70. He gave a statement to the cops.
Area51isReal: Wake up, sheeple! This was yet another event staged by our government to further its Big Brother agenda. A return to Prohibition is nearing. Mark my words.
Leftofleft: Maybe we should all chill out for a few days and let the cops do their jobs.
pxs1228: @Leftofleft: Is that you, Freeman? Let’s see you chill out when it’s your family member who gets killed and the murderer gets away with it.
I still can’t believe Dallas and I got hit by a drunk driver. I click on an older article from the morning after the accident and scroll down until I get to the details.
At approximately 1:15 a.m., Kade and his girlfriend, Genevieve Grace, were returning home from an album release party when they were hit head-on by Bradley Freeman, age 38, on Highway Z. Kade was pronounced DOA at Lake St. Louis Medical Center. Freeman and Grace remain in critical condition. Authorities will not confirm whether either driver had been drinking. Freeman has a prior DWI conviction and blood tests are pending.
I close my eyes. One-fifteen in the morning. Highway Z. That old adage about how most accidents happen within a mile of home floats back to me. Why were we even on the road so late?
I click over to a third article and skim the text. This one is from a national news blog called The Scoop. It says basically the same thing, with the addition of mentioning that both a radar detector and a six-pack of beer were found in the wreckage of Freeman’s truck.
I try to envision the truck that hit us. It doesn’t come, but suddenly I can see the road. The twists and turns that felt less familiar to me in Dallas’s car. I remember wanting to open my window, but it was raining. I remember the way Dallas’s headlights glinted off the yellow lines in the middle of the road.
&nbs
p; I click over to one more article, this one from The National Wire.
The same facts again, repeated in basically the same way. I study the pictures at the top of the post. Dallas’s publicity photo. My senior picture—controlled smile, hair extra-shiny. We’re both blond and fresh-faced. We’re so internet-friendly that we might as well be made of 1s and 0s. And then there’s Freeman. He’s not hideous or anything, but the picture they’ve used of him appears to be a mug shot. His eyes are red and the fluorescent lighting emphasizes the deep lines etched into his wide forehead. His dark beard is flecked with gray and his lips are turned down in a scowl, like he’s angry. Like he’s a bad man.
I stare at the picture, waiting for it to make me feel something. I should hate this guy, this stranger who drove drunk and killed Dallas, nearly killing me too. But as with the idea of Dallas being dead, all I feel is a numbness when I look at Brad Freeman. Like he’s not a real person. Like he’s just another actor in the world’s worst play. I wonder if he’s somewhere right now, looking at my picture and feeling numb too.
My eyes are drawn back to Dallas’s photo. Unlike me, he’s showing a lot of teeth. I remember when he got his braces off, the summer after tenth grade. He was so excited. He kept rubbing his tongue over his teeth, reaching up to feel them with his fingertips. I caught him checking out his reflection in every shiny surface we passed.
“Yeah. You’re hot now. Get over yourself,” I teased.
“You don’t get it,” he tried to explain. “Imagine wearing glasses or a bra or something for two straight years, never ever taking it off. And then finally you’re free forever.”
Back then I never thought about how short forever could be, and I’m pretty sure Dallas didn’t either. Neither one of us had ever gone to a funeral. I bet his parents have already buried him. My chest grows tight at the thought. A tear leaks out of my eye. The last time I saw Dallas, he was beginning this amazing new chapter in his life. How do you go from that to a box underground? I swallow back a sob.
The door to my room slides open, startling me so badly I almost drop Dad’s iPad on the floor. My redheaded nurse is standing in the doorway. “Hey. I brought your night nurse for our shift change report.”
An older woman with short brown hair smiles at me. “I’m Debbie,” she says.
“Hi.” I wipe at the tear, hoping neither nurse noticed it.
The nurses pass by me to get to the IV pump, where my day nurse explains something about my IVs to Debbie.
“How’s your pain?” Debbie asks. “On a scale of zero to ten.”
“Not too bad. Maybe a three or four?” I’m still thinking about Dallas in a coffin. Would he look like himself, his injuries cleverly disguised by some mortician with makeup and hair products? Or would he look like I do, bruised and broken?
My lower lip starts to tremble and I clamp down hard on it with my teeth. The nurses seem nice, and so does Dr. Chao, but I don’t want to talk to anyone here about the accident. They’re strangers—crying on them would feel weird.
“What are you looking at?” Debbie asks, gesturing at the iPad. Three faces still stare up at me from the screen. Me. Dallas. Brad Freeman.
“Just news stuff.” With shaking fingers, I hurriedly close the tab, another jolt of pain arcing through me as the images wink out of sight. Dallas didn’t survive. He’s dead. It hits me that the one person I want to talk to about everything is the person who is gone forever.
CHAPTER 6
Two days later, I’m discharged from the hospital. My mom informs me that the goal is to get me back to school as soon as possible. I’d rather finish out the rest of the semester at home while I continue to heal, but once Mom has made a decision about something, arguing is pointless.
After a weekend of watching me like a hawk, she hires a nurse named Connie to look after me while she’s at work. Connie is an older lady who changes the dressing on my leg and forces me to get out of bed every few hours. My leg still aches and every time I pass something remotely shiny I see my scarred and bruised reflection staring back at me, my hair hanging unevenly where some of it was cut away.
But honestly, that stuff doesn’t even bother me. I don’t care that I’m ugly. I don’t care that I’ve run three miles a day, five times a week, for the past five years and now I can barely walk. I just want them to let me stay in bed. I never knew how exhausting grief could be. I haven’t even cried that much since I left the hospital. The numbness has worn off and the pain has definitely found me, but it’s like my body can’t find the energy to produce actual tears.
So I just lie in bed, hour after hour, day after day, trying to make sense of what happened. I keep coming back to how unfair it is that Dallas died and the other driver and I both got to live. Brad Freeman must feel horrible. I can’t imagine what it would be like to kill someone drinking and driving. My mom sat me down before I even got a learner’s permit and told me that she realized kids drink sometimes, and that if I was ever anywhere and needed a ride home she would come get me, no questions asked. I know that must have been hard for her—she’s not a no-questions-asked kind of person. If only Freeman had called someone.
I still haven’t been able to bring myself to hate him, though. Part of me wishes I could—that I could just blame him for everything and stop caring about filling in the blanks from that night. But a bigger part of me needs answers.
And that means more pain. Just thinking about things leaves my muscles weak, my head throbbing with the endless ache that comes from concentrating too hard. I pull my covers up over my head, blocking out the light, blocking out the world. Pressing my fingertips to my temples, I once again replay each individual second of that night that I remember. I was looking for Dallas outside on Tyrell’s deck. And later, flashing lights, firefighters, and blood. But in the middle? Still nothing.
Dallas’s parents come to visit me the Thursday after I arrive home. It’s eleven a.m. and I’m tucked safely beneath the patchwork quilt my grandmother made me for my thirteenth birthday. It’s a mix of tan and turquoise squares, with images of different breeds of horses sewn between them.
Connie knocks sharply on my door. “Genevieve. You need to get up.”
I pull the quilt up over my head and hide between an Appaloosa and a quarter horse. I pretend like I’m still sleeping, even though I’ve been awake for hours. She opens the door and claps her hands so loudly that I flinch.
“Get up,” she says again. “The Kades are here.” Connie steps inside my room and closes the door behind her. “Come on. I’ll help you look presentable.”
Mom said the Kades stopped by my ICU room a couple of times before I woke up, but this will be the first time I’ve spoken to them since the accident. “I don’t need to look presentable,” I mutter. “Just stall them for a few minutes so I can brush my teeth.”
“Will do. Tyrell James called earlier too, by the way. He said to let you know he’s thinking of you.”
“Thanks.” Tyrell came to see me the day before I left the hospital. We took turns exchanging awkward condolences and then he showed me some video clips he had of Dallas from their recording sessions. I should call him back because I know he’s hurting too, but it’s hard. I’m barely keeping it together myself. I’m not sure I have much to give to another person right now.
“Call me if you need help,” Connie adds. She heads for the hallway. After she’s gone I pull a hooded sweatshirt over my pajama top and trade my bottoms for a pair of track pants. I brush my teeth and splash a little water on my face, pausing for a second to consider whether my appearance will upset Dallas’s mom. I’m still wrapping my craniotomy incision in gauze even though I don’t need to, because I don’t want to look at that big bald spot. I decide I can’t look any worse now than I did in the ICU.
I try my hardest not to limp as I make my way into the living room, where Glen and Nora Kade are sitting on our white leather sofa. I can’t remember the last time anyone sat on that. Mom and I do our limited lounging in our family ro
om at the other end of the house.
“Oh, Genevieve.” Dallas’s mom starts to cry the second she sees me, which makes me start to cry. Connie produces a box of tissues from somewhere and Nora and I each take one. Nora slouches over as she enfolds me in a gentle hug, patting me awkwardly on the back. “I’m so sorry,” we whisper at the same time. I sob into the collar of her shirt, thinking about how different she feels—smells, even—than my mom. My mom is not a sloucher. She’s also not a hugger, but if she were I’d end up with my face against the sharpness of her collarbone. I’d smell the clean scent of her fabric softener and maybe a hint of the surgical hand scrub that she uses at the hospital. Dallas’s mom smells like a mix of lavender and vanilla.
I cling to her for a few seconds as she pets the ends of my hair.
Connie sets the tissues onto our pristine glass coffee table. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she says softly.
Pulling away from Nora, I take a seat on the chaise lounge across from the sofa, another piece of furniture that’s always been more for show than actual use. The living room curtains are pulled completely closed, but I can see the occasional shadow of someone moving on the other side of them.
“Did the vultures harass you?” I ask.
When I came home from the hospital, Mom shielded me from the reporters the best she could, but I wasn’t prepared for the microphones thrust under my nose, for the barrage of questions. I shudder just thinking about it.
Dallas’s dad looks toward the closed curtains for a moment. “We’ve gotten pretty good at saying ‘No comment,’ so they weren’t too bad.” He looks back to me and clears his throat. “Look. Genevieve. We wanted to apologize for going ahead with the services for Dallas without you.”