by Paula Stokes
“Me too.” Dad nods soberly. “Do you want to talk about it? I could make us both some coffee.”
I shake my head. My dad looks like he’s about to fall asleep and I can’t talk now anyway. My mind is full of horrible images of Brad Freeman trying to hang himself. I wonder what he was thinking about, how hopeless and alone he must have felt to try to take his own life. Because of you. Yes, because of me.
I feel dead inside, like someone scraped out my guts and replaced them with rocks. I can’t believe this is happening. A few hours ago I was laughing, I was happy.
“I’m really tired,” I say woodenly. “I think I’m going to go to sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Dad says. “But please remember that Rachael and I are here for you. And your mom is just a phone call away. Or if you need to talk to a professional, I can get a referral from someone at work.”
“Sure,” I say, but I barely hear him.
As I close the door to my room behind me, my phone buzzes with a text.
Halley: I just want you to know I’m not mad. I’m trying to convince Tazmyn to delete the picture.
Me: It doesn’t matter, but thanks.
I think of the stupid disagreement at the party, how less than an hour ago I was worried about the fact that Tazmyn took my picture with Elliott. I was afraid of being judged, of being called a #Slut.
But now someone else might die.
Suddenly being called a slut doesn’t seem very important anymore.
I lie down and pull the horse quilt up to my chin, but it’s pointless. I’m not going to be able to sleep until I know whether Brad Freeman will be okay. My laptop sits on the desk across the room, calling out to me. I stare at it for a few minutes, caught between a desperate need to know and the fear of actually finding out. Finally, I crawl out of bed and Google his name, holding my breath as the search results appear. All of the articles that pop up are at least a couple of hours old, and there’s no update on his condition. Hoping maybe Carly Freeman posted something, I check her blog, but there is only the single post setting the record straight about the alleged restraining order.
I switch over to Twitter to see if there is any up-to-the-minute news there. I wonder what people are saying, what they’re thinking. Do they feel guilty like I do? Like their rush to judge and punish a stranger contributed to yet another tragedy? I search the #BradFreeman hashtag and scan the last few tweets.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 41s
I hope #BradFreeman doesn’t make it. Another drunk driver off the roads and we won’t even have to clog up the court system to make it happen.
Quite Contrary Mary @manikmari • 2m
I know I should probably feel sad #BradFreeman attempted suicide, but I don’t. He made a choice #DallasKade didn’t get to.
Suicide Prevention @afspnational • 3m
There is always hope. You are never alone. We’re here. #StopSuicide #BradFreeman
YOUNITY FOREVER @laf0387x • 5m
Hey #BradFreeman. Burn in hell, you piece of shit murderer.
Monkey Man @boxxofmonkees • 5m
Oh look! Even #BradFreeman realized the district attorney screwed up.
The tweets go on and on, most of them dismissive or cruel. Occasionally there’s a message in support of Brad, or one reminding people that this isn’t what Dallas would have wanted, but those people are quickly ridiculed and ignored. I never realized that the number of retweets someone gets seems directly proportional to how mean their original tweet is.
I always assumed I’d go back to the internet after everything quieted down. I mean, I can’t imagine going through college without social media accounts. I’ll probably need them for some of my classes. But seeing this steady stream of hate—even now, after Brad Freeman tried to kill himself—sickens me. How can people be this hurtful?
I’m just about to log off when I notice a tweet that agrees with me:
Megz @glittergirl13 • 4m
@pxs1228 How can you say horrible things about #BradFreeman when he might not even live?
Good question, Glitter Girl. I click to expand their conversation.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 3m
@glittergirl13 Because #BradFreeman is a low-life, alcoholic wife-beater who killed a music superstar and deserves to die.
Megz @glittergirl13 • 3m
@pxs1228 He NEVER hit his wife.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 3m
@glittergirl13 How do you know?
Megz @glittergirl13 • 2m
@pxs1228 Because that’s my mother you’re talking about.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 1m
@glittergirl13 You’re Freeman’s kid? Sucks to be you. I’d kill myself if he was my dad.
Megz @glittergirl13 • 1m
@pxs1228 Oh yeah? Well I’d kill myself if YOU were my dad.
Patrick S @pxs1228 • 31s
@glittergirl13 Good thing I’m not interested in raising any white trash little brats then, isn’t it?
Megz @glittergirl13 • 11s
@pxs1228 You’re an asshole. And you’re also blocked. Buh-bye.
I click on @glittergirl13’s profile. It reads: Megan F. 13. I like horses, books, and glitter.
I open another search box and type in “Megan Freeman.” The name is way too common and over a million hits come back. I try searching for an overlap of Megan and Brad Freeman and sure enough, a couple of articles appear that were written about the accident. Brad Freeman has a thirteen-year-old daughter. One who likes horses and books, just like I do.
One who is now being picked on by strangers.
Something snaps inside me and all the fear and sadness and shame I’ve been drowning in is replaced by a new feeling—clarity.
I know what I have to do.
CHAPTER 35
The door to Dad and Rachael’s room is shut tightly.
I take in a deep breath, let it out, remind myself that this is the right thing. Then I knock gently. “Dad? Are you still awake?”
My dad comes to the door a couple of minutes later wearing scrub pants and a wrinkled T-shirt. “Gen?” He rubs his eyes as if maybe he thinks I’m a mirage. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I have to talk to you. It’s about . . . Brad Freeman.”
Dad swallows back a yawn. “Sure. Of course.”
Rachael appears at his shoulder, a V of worry etched between her brows. “Is everything all right?”
“I’ve got it,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”
They exchange a light kiss and then Dad follows me into the living room. I glance at the sofa and then turn toward the kitchen, taking a seat at the table.
“A dinner table convo, huh?” He slides into the seat across from me and drums his fingertips on the edge of his chair.
I realize my hands are shaking. I bury them in my lap. “It has to do with the accident,” I start. And then, once more, everything comes spilling out.
Just like Elliott, Dad doesn’t interrupt me. When I’m finally finished, he rubs at his temples for a few seconds. “I don’t understand,” he says. “You never lied, not even as a little kid. I remember that time you broke your mom’s vase. You could have hid the evidence or made up a story, but instead you came to find us in the backyard to confess what you’d done. So why—how, even—could you keep something this important a secret?”
“I was scared,” I admit. “By the time I got my memory back, things had already escalated. And then the charges got dropped, so I thought maybe things would settle down on their own. I know that doesn’t make it okay. But at least I can tell the truth now and try to keep from making things any worse.”
Dad rakes his hands through his hair. “Oh, Gen. Things are going to get plenty worse, for you at least. You withheld information from the police. You could be charged with a crime, and that’s even before we get to your responsibility for the car accident or . . . anything else that’s happened.” He shakes his head. “Your mom and I were so angry at this man . . .”
/> I lower my chin. “I really messed up. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” Dad swears under his breath. “When you asked me about how I managed to confess to your mother, I knew something was going on. I should have pressed you to talk to me.”
“You couldn’t have known, Dad,” I say. “This isn’t your fault. I didn’t lie because you lied. I made my own bad choices.”
He nods slowly, his expression heavy. “I understand more than most people how fear can push you into bad decisions. We just have to figure out how we can do the right thing and keep you protected—”
I pull my feet up onto the chair and wrap my arms around my legs. “I don’t want to be protected. I want to take responsibility, whatever that entails. I want people to know that Brad Freeman wasn’t responsible for the accident. I want to tell the whole truth.”
“To the police?”
“To everyone.”
“Okay. I think you’re doing the right thing.” He clears his throat. “We do need to speak to your mother before you tell anyone, though.”
“She’s going to tell me not to do it.”
“Probably,” Dad says. “But if you’re brave enough to admit what you did to the whole world, you’re brave enough to stand up to your mom.”
“I should probably go back to St. Louis so I can tell everyone in person.” When I think about facing Dallas’s parents and Brad Freeman’s family, I start to second-guess my decision again. I have no idea how I’ll be able to get the words out. And what about Freeman himself? How am I supposed to look him in the eye after I ignored his email message? Assuming he recovers and I even get that chance.
“We can probably get a flight out tomorrow and take care of everything Thursday and Friday. Then you can stay or you can come back here with me, if you want.”
“But what about your cases?”
“I can reschedule them and get one of the other guys to cover my clinic hours.”
“Thank you,” I say hoarsely.
Dad nods. “I’ll go book us a flight and then call your mom and fill her in. You should try to get at least a couple hours of sleep.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too,” he says, but I get no comfort from the words. I’ll never forget the look on his face right now, a mix of worry, disappointment, and shame.
CHAPTER 36
We’ve started our descent into St. Louis by the time I figure out exactly how I want to tell the truth. Dad recommended reaching out to one of the major newspapers across the country, but almost all of them ran articles vilifying Brad Freeman at one time or another. I don’t want to give one of those papers my exclusive.
“I think I want to tell Chris Reale the truth,” I say. “From Reale News Now.”
“I don’t know that one,” Dad says.
“He’s a smaller St. Louis news blogger, one of the only people who didn’t presume Freeman was guilty from the beginning.” I don’t remember Chris’s exact words, but I know he was one of the few online voices who withheld judgment.
“Sounds like a smart choice.”
“But I want to tell the Kades and the Freemans before I talk to any of the news people.”
Dad exhales deeply. “I don’t envy you, honey. The world is different now than it was when I was growing up. Back then if you lied about something or you caused an accident that killed someone—even someone famous—you didn’t have to see what everyone was saying about you. Now the whole world thinks they deserve to be part of your punishment. It’s scary.”
“I am scared,” I admit. “I feel like everyone is going to hate me.”
Dad pats me on the leg. “I know one guy who isn’t going to hate you,” he says. “And I suspect there will be other people who respect you for coming forward.”
I nod. It’s basically the same thing Elliott said to me. I sent him a quick text this morning to let him know I was heading back to St. Louis to deal with things. He responded right away to tell me he’d be thinking of me and to call anytime. I reach up to touch the caribou pendant hanging around my neck. I’m glad to be taking a piece of him with me. Thinking of the way he listened to my story without condemning me gives me strength. Of course, things are worse now. The morning news said that Freeman had regained consciousness and was expected to make a full recovery, but I blink back tears as I realize a second person almost died because of me.
When the intercom crackles and the flight attendants ask us to stow our tray tables and return our seatbacks to their full upright positions in preparation for landing, my stomach drops lower and lower with the plane.
When Dad and I pass through the central security area and I see my mom waiting, I’m even more terrified. Mom is a pale, elongated version of me and today she looks paler and taller than usual.
I’m expecting a lecture, but she rushes up to me and wraps me in a hug. “Genevieve, I’m so glad you’re okay.” When she pulls back from the embrace, her cheeks are wet.
Dad pats her awkwardly on the back. “How about I grab the luggage and you two get the car. I’ll meet you in the passenger pickup area?”
Mom nods at him. “Thank you, Greg.”
Dad heads for the baggage claim and Mom and I split off toward the parking garage. She wipes furiously at her cheeks as a young couple turns to watch us pass.
“Mom, why are you crying?” I ask.
“I’m sorry. I just—I should have listened to you. You tried to tell me and I ignored your concerns. I could have prevented this.”
I link my arm through hers. “You were just trying to protect me, and besides, you didn’t have all the information. I should have told you or Dad everything as soon as I remembered.”
“Yes, you should have,” Mom says fiercely. She digs a tissue out of her purse and blots at her eyes.
We fall into silence as we exit the brightly lit airport into the dim garage. I follow Mom, surprised to find the car in section Yellow P. My dad came up with that idea when I was little, so we’d never forget where we parked. I remember giggling and shouting “yellow pee!” over and over. My mom told my dad he was gross, and a bad influence on me.
“Yellow P, huh?” I say.
Mom’s expression softens slightly. “I try not to discount a good idea just because I’m not so fond of the source.”
Back at the house, the conversation about coming forward continues. Mom has reverted into “all business” mode, her tears replaced by a steely expression.
“I appreciate that you’re trying to do the right thing here, Genevieve.” She paces back and forth across the floor of our family room. “I’m just worried about how this will affect your future—med school, residency, applying for jobs. I don’t want it to ruin your life.”
“Trust me, I’ve been thinking about that for weeks. But at least I still have a life to ruin,” I say quietly. “And there are a lot of people who deserve an apology from me. I watched Brad Freeman’s daughter get bullied on Twitter last night, and it was one more terrible thing that I caused. If anyone deserves to be bullied, it’s me.”
“No one deserves to be bullied.” My mom’s lips harden into a thin line. “What if we reached out to this family, told them the truth, and then offered them monetary compensation to keep the information confidential? The newspapers made it sound like Mr. Freeman has been struggling financially. I’m sure your father and I could both contribute—”
“No. I mean, it’s great if we can cover his medical bills and stuff, but I don’t want to buy them off. I know you’re just trying to protect me,” I continue before Mom can interrupt, “but keeping this secret has been eating away at me. I might never forgive myself for not coming forward sooner. At least this way I won’t have to hate myself for anything else. And this way maybe other people will see my story and do better than I did.”
Mom’s eyes water. She nods grimly. “Well, if you’re determined to do this, let me at least speak to Vince first and see what the possible consequences will be
for us as a family.” She pulls her cell phone out of her pocket.
“Elena. Do you need to call your lawyer right—”
“Yes, Greg. I do,” Mom barks. “We need to find out if what Genevieve has done constitutes a crime. And if there’s the possibility of a lawsuit, then I would like to be prepared.”
My dad scoffs. “She didn’t cause this. If anyone needs to be sued it’s the men who assaulted him. Or those idiots online telling him he should just go die. The bullies who harassed his family and got him fired from his job.”
“I don’t mean for Freeman,” my mom says. “I mean for Dallas.”
Crap. I didn’t even think about that. Just because falling asleep driving isn’t a crime, doesn’t mean it can’t be used in a wrongful death lawsuit.
“Glen and Nora weren’t even going to file against Freeman until all the shit hit the fan,” Dad says. “They’re our friends. Do you honestly think they would go after us because our daughter fell asleep driving their son’s car while he sat intoxicated in the passenger seat?”
“We can’t be sure,” my mom says.
“He wasn’t totally wasted or anything,” I say.
“But he’d been drinking,” my dad says. “And you offered to drive because you thought it was the safer choice. Let me talk to them.”
I shake my head. “I can do it.” I hate that coming forward means making them relive Dallas’s death one more time, but they would want the world to know the truth.
Wednesday night, I practice my confession on one more person—Shannon. I call her to let her know that I’m in town and the two of us meet up at Dallas’s grave site.
We sit cross-legged on the grass in front of the stone as I catch her up on everything that’s happened. She curls the end of her dark braid around the palm of her hand as I speak. When I’m finished, she doesn’t respond right away.
“Your hair seems longer,” I say to fill the silence.
“Extensions, duh.” She kicks at the toe of my sparkly flip-flop with the edge of a strappy gold sandal. The movement causes a small stuffed bunny to roll down from the top of the pile of things people have left for Dallas.