by Max Henry
“Jared saved it for me,” she explains between mouthfuls. “At the start, I couldn’t face anything that would remind me of it, so I’d bin the paper when it was delivered before I even unrolled it from the plastic. He fished it out and clipped that for when I was better.”
I run my eye over the column as she speaks.
“He said he saved it at first because he thought it might make me see that I did everything I could.” She pauses, waiting for me to finish.
The article outlines in brief detail the events that led to her daughter, Taylah’s, death. An innocent enough day, by the looks of things, that ended in tragedy when her daughter ran down the driveway to the open road and was struck by a car. The woman under investigation wasn’t Cammie, as I’d first assumed; it was the driver of the car that hit her little girl.
“But then this one came out.” She slides the next sheet of newsprint across to me. The article’s a fair sight longer. “He never looked at or spoke to me the same after that.” Her eyes fixate on the printed letters, her thoughts clearly somewhere else. Or maybe they’re here, trapped in a nightmare that came to life a long time ago.
Mother accused of neglect after toddler’s death
“Shit, Cam.” I pull the article closer, setting my fork down on the side of my plate.
She continues with her meal in silence as I read the words that damn her involvement beyond any shadow of a doubt.
“It was an accident,” she whispers as I reach the end. “It’s not as though I set it all up, planned it, or did any of it knowing what would happen. How was I to know?”
“You say that, and yet you still blame yourself?”
Cammie pushes her plate aside, setting both elbows on the table so she can cover her face with her hands. “Because I should have been more careful, Duke. I should have thought about it when I took the cold and flu medicine.”
My appetite lost, I lean back in my seat and pick the article up to read it again. According to the report, Cammie was on a nightly dose of prescribed medication for insomnia at the time. After taking additional drugs for a head cold during the day, the ingredients reacted and left her drowsy and unable to be roused when she fell asleep. Her daughter—their daughter—opened the front door and made her way to the road where the accident with the car occurred. The driver was cleared of the charges of careless driving causing death considering the open road speed limit, and the hedge that obscured the driveway meant she had no chance of reacting in time to avoid the collision.
“Cammie.”
“What?” she moans, still hiding behind her hands.
“Look at me.”
A moment passes where I wonder if she’s going to up and walk out, yet she finally drops her hands with a sigh revealing bloodshot eyes.
“Are you listening?”
She nods.
I hold her gaze, make sure I don’t blink, and say, “It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”
Her nostrils flare, those perfectly sculpted brows twitching as she slowly but surely begins to shake her head. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“I think I do.” My knife and fork hit the plate with more force than I intended as I slice into the nearly cold roast. “You were a mother trying to feel well enough to care for the child she loved above anything else. Also, a mother who needed sleep to function. Nothing unusual, Cam. Nothing to feel bad about.”
Her jaw hangs as she stares at me finishing my meal. A few choked sounds come out, but other than that, I’ve got her.
This time she walks out. Her chair scrapes across the floor as she rises with a huff, abandoning her unfinished dinner to stride from the room. Using the side of my finger, I wipe up the last of the gravy, not wasting an ounce of this meal while I give her a moment. Her frustrated howls echo down the hallway as I stand, and then clear the table, carrying both plates to the kitchen to begin the clean-up.
I don’t even get as far as retrieving the dishwashing tools from the pantry before a telltale crash has me heading through to the hallway. Glass litters the timber floor, the shards catching the spill of light from the living room. I look to the left in time to catch Cammie as she reaches up and yanks another picture off its hook, lifting the treasured memory over her head before throwing it to the floor with a roar.
“Hey!”
The third and final picture resists, its wire caught up on the brass hook. Taking care not to get broken glass in my foot, I step over the carnage and take her forearms in my hands. “Stop, Cam.”
“Let go of me!” She snarls, a cornered dog looking for a way out.
“No.” My hands tighten, her skin bunching in my hold. Fuck, I’m probably bruising the woman, but like hell I’m walking away from this when I’m partially responsible for starting it.
Fuck my curiosity. Fuck her mother, too, for validating the idea in my head. Why the hell would she want me to crack this case of shit open if this is the reaction it gets? Surely she knows how much talking about it upsets Cammie? What parent would willingly inflict pain on their child like this?
One who wants change.
I know that process all too well, don’t I?
“Just let me do this,” Cammie moans as she wilts in my hold, her knees hitting the floor. “I need to do this.”
“No, you don’t.” I loop one arm under hers, hefting her to her feet. “All you’re going to do is regret this in the morning.” She doesn’t fight me when I guide her away from the mess and toward her bedroom. “I get you’ve got to work through it, but destroying the things you have left isn’t the answer.”
Her breath hiccups as I set her down on the edge of her bed. The room is exactly as I guessed: white and grey. A calming space for a woman who’s nothing but frenetic chaos on the inside.
“Can I trust you to get into your pyjamas if I leave you alone?”
She nods, already removing the tie from her hair.
“Good. Now where’s your dustpan? In the fridge?”
She chuckles, exactly as I’d hoped.
“No, you muppet. It’s in the hall cupboard.”
Of course. “Get changed, Cam. I’ll be back in ten.”
She rolls onto her back as I step out and pull the door shut behind me. Soft sniffles filter through the wall as I kneel and rescue the prints from the mess on her floor. My chest tightens as I take stock of the images properly for the first time. I’d looked before, but never looked at what the images contained.
A woman surrounded by love.
A mother whose world was complete.
A perfect stranger’s life before it was torn away in the blink of an eye.
Just like mine.
SEVENTEEN
First Corporal Piata looked at the envelope in his hand, at the torn edge that signified the contents had been checked over and approved to go through the internal mail to reach the base in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere.
He hated dust. Hated it when he was home and renovating the old state house that he’d managed to buy with his wife before he re-deployed six months ago. Hated it even more now that the fucking stuff was ingrained in every pore of his body. It wasn’t even sand, like you got on the beaches at home; they were the fine granules that stuck to your nose hairs when you were sandblasting an old car. The gritty, unforgiving kind.
He pulled the scarf that permanently sat around his neck over his mouth and nose, and pushed the exit door to cross over to the mess hall. His unit had rolled in a little under an hour ago, most of the men heading straight to wash away as much of the road grime as they could before filling their guts with the basic fare the kitchen served night after night.
The evening was cool, nothing unusual for the desert. But something else lurked in the lazy breeze that made dust devils in the yard. Something unsettling.
His gaze dropped to the letter again as apprehension took hold of his throat. He hated being the bearer of bad news, had resented it since he was the one to let his mum know that Uncle Benny had passed away at the local RSA after a heart att
ack. Grief was an unforgiving bride, sweeping in and taking you for all you had.
And the guy who had an imminent wedding date with the bitch? Yeah, he didn’t deserve this. It was always the good ones who seemed to lump all the bad luck.
“Just in time, you fat bastard,” his buddy called out as Piata stepped into the hall and shook his scarf off.
“Yeah, bro. Another five minutes and I bet you would have eaten all the vanilla pudding, hey?”
Fuck, he hated this. Duke was his best mate, his buddy who kept the miserable assholes laughing when the reality of life in the desert got them down. He was so happy, so unaware that in less than sixty seconds his whole world would change.
“I, uh, I picked this up for you, man.” Piata handed the envelope over; staying close for the fallout he knew would come.
Shit, Duke could take all the hate and rage out on him if he so wished, and he’d stand there and take it, because fuck it, wasn’t that what best mates were for?
“What is it?” his buddy asked, lifting the torn edge. “You read it, you dirty dog?”
“Nah, man, but I was warned what’s in it.”
All traces of humour slid from Duke’s face, his arse hitting the table behind him as he stared at Piata. “What, bro?”
“Read it.” Piata jerked his chin at the envelope, wishing he hadn’t stopped by the admin building. Maybe then he wouldn’t have felt obligated to take the job. Maybe then somebody else would have. But isn’t bad news the kind of thing you’d rather get from a friend?
Duke slid his finger between the edges of the envelope, pulling out the single sheet of paper from inside. He unfolded it, smoothing the creases as he began to read.
Fuck—why didn’t somebody phone this one in? Piata understood how things worked, knew that calls on the Sat-phone were few and far between. Especially when they couldn’t be sure who was listening in while they were stationed in the middle of nowhere. But shit, this kind of news by letter? What fucking year was it? 1954?
“Bro, tell me this is some sick joke.” Unshed tears rimmed Duke’s eyes as he held the sheet of paper between them. “You fuckers getting in early for my birthday?”
Piata said nothing, just shook his head at his best mate.
“Tell me!” Duke roared, throwing the letter down. “Say it, you fucking cunt! ‘This is a joke, Duke.’ Say it!”
He wished he could. He wished more than anything the words “drunk driver” and “Duke’s wife” had never been said to him in the same sentence, but they had, and all he could do now was stay with his best friend while he rode out the storm.
“It’s real, bro.” Piata reached out, placing a hand on his mate’s shoulder and squeezing hard. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know you loved her.”
Duke’s eyes rolled back as he stared at the ceiling, trying to compose himself. “Them, man. Them. She was pregnant.”
Fuck.
EIGHTEEN
Cammie
Duke knocks on the door as I settle in bed with my back against the headboard. “You decent?”
“Yeah. Come in.”
He opens the door cautiously, his gaze averted anyway. “I brought you something that might help with the eyes.” He circles the index finger on his free hand at my face.
I watch with keen interest as he sets a coffee mug wrapped in a tea towel down on the nightstand. Four spoon handles protrude from the ice-chilled water that fills the mug.
“What do I do with it?”
He grins, tipping his head slightly. “You’ve never done this before?”
“Would I ask if I had?”
He huffs out his nose, picking out two ice-cold teaspoons. “Lean your head back and shut your eyes.”
I do as I’m told, grumbling, “This sounds like the start of a bad prank.”
Arctic metal encases my eyelids. “Fuck me, Duke! You could have warned me.” My hands shoot up in front of me, colliding with one very warm, very hard body.
“Trust me, it works to reduce the puffiness. My mum used to do it all the time when we were kids.”
“All the time?” I can barely stand doing it once. “Did she enjoy it that much?” I joke.
“No,” he states in such a tone that I can imagine his blank face as he does. “Dad enjoyed making her cry that often, though.”
Damn … Didn’t see that coming. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” His weight shifts onto the edge of the bed. “Take these off me, yeah?”
I reach up, a little more cautious this time, and fumble around until I have the handles in my grasp. Duke’s hands slide out from under mine, yet his weight stays on my bed. Interesting.
“When they warm up, swap them for the other ones, and then repeat until the water isn’t cold enough to cool them down anymore.”
“And this will get rid of my red eyes?”
“Mm-hmm. Stops the swelling so you don’t wake up tomorrow looking like you’re allergic to bees.”
“Gee, thanks,” I deadpan.
He sits silently for a while, so quiet that I edge one of my legs across until it bumps into what I assume is his butt.
“I’m still here,” he murmurs.
Three little words, and he seals the hole in my heart. I barely know this guy from Adam, and yet he’s managed to make more progress towards helping me get closure than my family has in the past three years.
The spoons warm, and I peel them off to change them over, blinking as the light hits my adjusted retinas. Duke reaches out and takes the spoons from me, exchanging them for the cold ones.
“You can hit the hay, if you like,” I say. “I’ll be okay now.”
He seems as though he’s about to take the subtle hint, yet instead he places his hands over mine and gently guides the spoons to my eyes. “Ten more minutes to be sure can’t hurt.”
Why the hell couldn’t Jared have been this awesome? Maybe there’s truth to the saying that anything worth having is also worth waiting for? Because I feel as though I’ve waited a lifetime for a man like Duke.
“You know, I was thinking while I got changed that we could rearrange the living room,” I say.
“Why?” His weight shifts a little farther onto the mattress, his leg pressed against mine.
“I thought if I shifted the sofa by the window around to face the other one, and then shunted them both to the wall, it would make a little cave for you to sleep in. A safe space.”
He doesn’t say a thing.
My heart thunders in my ears, my other senses heightened while my sight is trapped in the dark. Panic engulfs me when I wonder if I made him mad. But then again, he hasn’t left. His leg still presses on mine, his weight still causing the mattress to dip and me to lean toward him.
I swallow, the spoons warm, and yet the fear of what I’ll find if I take them away forces me to keep them in place. My tongue sweeps across my lips, words failing me as I fight for what to say to accept I probably overstepped the mark making his problem mine like that.
Turns out I don’t need to say a thing at all.
The bed rolls as he moves. I prepare for him to leave, for the click of the door as he goes.
I don’t prepare for warm lips to press against my own. I sure as hell don’t prepare for the way his gentle caress makes my heart skip a beat, or how I lean forward to keep the connection a little longer as he pulls away.
Wow. Totally didn’t predict that.
The spoons hit the bed as I blink rapidly, willing my eyes to stop their ridiculous burn at the sudden intrusion of light.
Duke sits still as a statue, watching me as I re-join the room.
“Are you going to say something?” I whisper.
“I don’t know what to say.” His brow furrows, his eyes almost alarmed.
“Shit, Duke. You sure know how to make a girl feel awkward.”
I look away as he falters for words, and focus on the inane task of swapping the spoons over. If he’s not sure how he feels about what he just did, then why
did he? I didn’t ask him to kiss me. I don’t think I did anything to instigate that kind of situation. What the hell is his deal?
“Cam,” he says, strong and sure.
“What, Duke?” I spin my heated gaze to him, maddened that he’s gone and made what was already a tense night worse.
“You didn’t stop me.” He frowns. “You should have stopped me.”
“I should have stopped you?” I roll my eyes, slapping the cold spoons over them immediately after. “Is that all you’re thinking right now?” I snap, aware I probably look like a lunatic going off my chain at him with spoons over my eyes. “You think it was up to me to stop you?” I huff, growing madder by the second. “Newsflash, buddy. It’s the twenty-first century. Men should be able to control themselves without blaming their lust on the girl involved.”
He ignores my rambling, and continues with his lame protest. “Why didn’t you push me off?”
Heat rushes through my body, settling low in my abdomen at the thought of why. “Because”—I swallow— “I liked it.”
He doesn’t say anything, simply hums as though the idea interests him.
“Let me guess,” I say. “That makes me a hussy, allowing some stranger to come on to me in my own bedroom.” I laugh, feeling the need to steer this somewhere a little more light-hearted. “Jeez, Duke. If you wanted a comfier place to sleep, you could have just said you changed your mind about swapping for the bed.”
He doesn’t laugh with me, not even a snort. Think I’ll stay behind these spoons forever.
“You talk too much. You know that?”
Well aware, buddy.
“You keep shit in weird places,” he continues, “and you eat rat-shit kids food that has no real nutritional value for you.”
“Anything else?” I drone.
“You hold on to ghosts that keep you isolated from everyone who loves you, and you drive like a fucking maniac.”
I sigh, resting my head against the headboard. “You know, this isn’t doing anything to help make me feel better about myself.”