Blind Turn

by Cara Sue Achterberg

  Thankfully, they don’t put handcuffs on Jess. The officer opens a door on the other side of the room revealing the same courtroom where Jake and I dissolved our marriage. He holds the door open, waiting for us to enter. Jess hesitates, so Kevin takes her by the arm and escorts into the back of the courtroom. The judge is listening to the crimes of a small scruffy man wearing a Superman t-shirt. When they finish his case, he is led away in handcuffs. The officer standing by the door mutters, “So much for those superpowers.”

  A side door opens and an Assistant District Attorney comes in. It is not Bill Monroe, the ADA whose kids Jess has babysat every Friday for the last four years. I don’t know why I expected it to be him. Of course, he would have to recuse himself.

  The judge announces Jess’ name and Kevin tells her to stand. He stands on one side of her and we stand on the other. Jess is white-faced and grabs my hand. She is shaking, and I try to anchor her.

  The judge reads from a piece of paper in front of him. “Jessica Katherine Johnson, you are charged with reckless driving, a misdemeanor, and criminally negligent homicide, a felony.” He looks over his bifocals at the ADA.

  “Ah, ADA Filmore, what are your bail recommendations?”

  “The defendant is a minor in good standing in the community. The state recommends bail be set at $10,000.”

  I hear Jake let out a breath beside me. Ten thousand means we only need to come up with a thousand to make bail. We can do that. By now Kate has already wired $500 to my account and Jake and I can scrounge up the rest.

  It takes a few hours to get through all the legalities of keeping my daughter out of jail. Kevin stays with us through all of it. He is kind to Jess, bringing her soda and candy from the machine while she waits in the same tiny room where they arrested her.

  Finally, everything is finished, and we can go home. Jake drops us off at the Kline’s side yard and then drives to the front of our house as a distraction while Jess and I go in the back. When we are in, I flash the lights and Jake toots his horn goodbye. He will be back in the morning. He wanted to stay, but I insisted he go home. There is nothing any of us can do now but wait. Jess will have a preliminary hearing in one week when we will find out what the state knows, and a judge will decide whether there is enough here for a trial. That is also when Jess will have to plead guilty or not.

  — — —

  Kevin calls late in the afternoon to check on us.

  “How’re you holding up?”

  “Not very well,” I confess. Jess has been locked in her room for hours and I have been reading online about criminal law, boning up on the definitions of misdemeanors, felonies, criminally negligent homicide, and reckless driving. With every word I read, my heart sinks further. My daughter is in deep, deep trouble.

  “Is there anybody you can call? You really need a support system right about now.”

  I sigh. Graduating pregnant, while maybe not so uncommon elsewhere even then, didn’t happen in our conservative town. My friends who didn’t shun me took off for higher education and more progressive cities; the friends who did stay avoided me altogether, none of them willing to risk the judgment of the First Baptist Church deacons of which my daddy was one. After Jake moved out, I became an army of one, determined to prove to everyone that I could handle the life I had created. I worked and took care of Jess. There was little room in my life for anything else. I considered calling Avery, but the woman worked too many hours–paid and unpaid. She did not have time to come hold my hand. I wouldn’t ask it of her, even though I knew she would. In a heartbeat.

  Which leaves Kate. She would get on a plane in the next hour if I asked, only I won’t. When my father told me, “You’ve made your bed, now you can sleep in it,” I made it my mantra. I did not need him or my mother or in the end, even Jake. I have proved that again and again; I can take care of myself.

  “Not really. No. My sister is in Minnesota. I’ve been talking to her a lot.”

  “I am headed out soon and need to grab some dinner. Can I bring you and Jess Chinese? You like Chinese?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Exactly. You need to eat. What about Jess? What does she like?”

  “Dumplings.”

  “I’ll get her some.”

  Later, after Kevin arrives with dinner, I knock on Jess’ door to see if she is hungry, but she says no and shuts the door in my face. I know she is scared. I wish she would talk to me.

  We sit at my worn kitchen table under the harsh glare of the overhead light. I put the Chinese food on plates and watch as Kevin eats his lo mien with chopsticks. I hear myself talking endlessly, trying to convince him Jess is a good kid. That this is an isolated incident, a simple mistake. I want him to know Jess is worth defending. But periodically, as we talk, I am struck by how surreal this is–offering him a glass of wine, making small talk, while my daughter’s name is likely on the lips of everyone in town, blame and judgment coloring their words. People are devastated. And some are surely angry. Coach was an icon here, beloved by all. And he is gone. Because of my daughter. My precious child. I cannot imagine a scenario in which Jessica is not at fault. It was her car. And yet, she is a good kid. She would never hurt someone. But they will forgive her, won’t they?

  I try to keep the conversation focused on Jess. I tell Kevin how she has always been an honor student. How she wrote an essay on safe driving that won a contest last year. How she badgers me about using my phone in the car. He listens, but I feel like I am selling something—my daughter’s goodness. I want him to know she would never text and drive. She is not that kind of kid. But do I know that? I know her less and less lately. He nods, listens politely. Finally, he says, “I get it, Liz. She’s a good kid.”

  “She is,” I say, nodding. “I just want you to understand that.”

  “I do.” He smiles. “Look. The fact that Jess is a good kid will work in her favor, but the thing is, and this is hard to hear maybe…”

  I nod for him to continue.

  “Good kids make mistakes. I will do what I can for you. For Jess.”

  I look at him then, wanting so much to believe this virtual stranger can help us. How can one moment, one split second, alter a lifetime, split it decidedly into before and after?

  8

  JESS

  A reporter sits in her car across the street, the glow of a cellphone lights her face. Maybe she’s not a reporter, maybe she’s just some woman checking her gps directions. Maybe I’m paranoid. I watch the activity bus lumber down the street; it pauses on each block to spill out the kids who stayed after school for sports. Kids pour down the sidewalks now, heads down, hoods up, or laughing and teasing each other. Some of them look pointedly at my house. They know who lives here. They’ve all heard by now.

  Kevin Sharp is in the kitchen with Mom. From the sounds of it, they’re having a dinner date. Kevin Sharp looks sharp. Not sharp as in good-looking sharp, but full of hard edges and defined features. Even his nose is pointy. His dead father used to live in the nursing home where Mom works. I don’t really remember the old guy or Kevin Sharp, who seems to have the hots for my mom, pathetically, but I guess that’s why he’s here. I’ve conveniently gotten myself arrested and now he has an in.

  Mom was all over him today, twisting her blond hair between two fingers like she does when she’s stressed. Asking him stupid questions, thanking him over and over again. I could tell Dad was annoyed. Kevin Sharp is the anti-Jake Campbell. He wears cologne and cufflinks, talks like he’s not from Jefferson, and drives a BMW. I can’t imagine any scenario, besides my current nightmare that would have the two of them spending a day together as the
y did today. I can’t tell if Mom likes Kevin or just wants him to like her, so he’ll help me. I notice she put on makeup before he came to cover the circles under her eyes. I also notice that she laughs at his stupid jokes and agrees with him a lot more than she agrees with anybody.

  The girl in my mirror has two black eyes, one darker than the other, but both puffy and yellowing at the edges. I unwrap my bandage, unspooling it from my head to reveal stitches that look like Frankenstein’s. The bare spot on my scalp, where they shaved my hair, has freckles. They are bigger than the ones on my nose. Weird.

  I look like the villain I seem to be. I hurt all over like someone has tossed me around in a rock tumbler like the one I got for my birthday when I was eight. I turn off the light and creep back into my dark bedroom. I don’t want the reporters who come and go outside to see me. Sleep is impossible because I can’t stop thinking of Coach. I’m standing on the sidelines at the football game watching Sheila cheer as Jason runs up the field, Coach Mitchell high-fiving him as he passes. Then gym class sophomore year with Coach Mitchell. I knew him because of my dad, but that only made me more nervous. I might be able to run, but not many other physical feats come naturally. Plus, we had to change into gym uniforms and there was that whole awkward getting-dressed-as-quickly-as-possible-without-looking-at-anyone-else experience. But it turned out gym was fun. Coach Mitchell made it fun. He didn’t favor the jocks, and he never made you feel bad if you couldn’t do pull-ups. Everyone loved him, including me.

  Coach Mitchell can’t be dead. That isn’t possible. There has to be some mistake. At the police station today it was like I’d wandered onto the set of a Law & Order episode. I kept waiting for that scene change music, da-da-da-don! Never in a million, jillion years did I ever think that I would be arrested. At least they didn’t handcuff me. Mom kept saying that as if that meant it wasn’t so bad.

  The conversation in the kitchen moves to the living room, it’s louder now so I turn on my fan. What could they possibly have to talk about for two hours? Did she? Didn’t she? I couldn’t have. I hear mom laugh. I need to get out of this house. I need to talk to Sheila. Why hasn’t she called? I called her from Mom’s phone five or six times now. It always goes to voicemail immediately. It’s crazy that I can’t talk to her. I’ve talked to her every day since sixth grade. I wish I could go for a run, but my head throbs relentlessly. If I put on my sneakers and started running now, I might never stop. Just like Forrest Gump.

  I open the drawers of my desk looking for my old MP3 player and spy the flyer for the homecoming dance and a form to order letterman jackets. I lettered in track last year. All I need now is the jacket to put the letter on. Mom says the only way I get that jacket is if I give up cable for three months. I’m debating it.

  But she killed a man, I hear my mother say. Or do I only imagine it? How important is a letterman jacket, now?

  I whisper, “I killed a man. I’m a killer,” but then I say it louder. I sound like an actress on the set of a movie or one of those crime novels Mom likes to read. “I’m a killer,” I say one last time and then wad up the homecoming dance flyer and toss it at the trash can. I miss.

  How could Coach Mitchell be dead because of me? There has to be some kind of explanation. If I hit him, why can’t I remember it—why? Did he not see my car and step into the road or something? Did I swerve and try to miss him or did it happen too fast? Even if it was an accident, like Mom keeps insisting, and even if I can’t remember it—it happened. There’s no way around that. That’s the bottom line. He’s dead. For real. He went for a walk, and now he’s dead. He was probably thinking about what he would eat for dinner, or maybe about the game the night before, or maybe he was talking to his dog. The police said that’s what he was doing—walking his dog. Dad talks to Willard and Homeboy all the time. I wonder if the dog died, too. Nobody said if the dog died.

  My stomach heaves, and I run for the toilet. My room has a door to the bathroom, but the bathroom has two doors and the other goes to the living room. I keep it locked unless someone’s here. Thankfully, Mom never thought to unlock it for her date. All I need is concerned Mom and ass-kissing Kevin in here.

  I retch again and again. The orange juice I drank earlier burns my nose. Finally, there’s nothing left, so I lie down on the cool vinyl floor. I press the side of my head against the grimy floor and study the dust and hairs clinging to the side of the toilet. I cleaned the bathroom on Friday when Mom told me to, but I skipped the floor. It’s not like she ever comes in here. No one uses this one except me and Sheila, and Avery when she hangs out with mom to drink wine and talk about Morningside or that guy she dates who’s in prison. Sometimes she brings her little girl, Kimba. Sheila and Avery and Kimba don’t care if my bathroom floor is clean, so what’s the point?

  I had to do my chores on Friday before Mom said it was okay for Sheila to spend the night like I was still ten years old. Mom has this crazy drive to make me a good person. She thinks chores and community service and A’s will make us good people. Perfect people. Why she cares so much about what this town thinks of us makes no sense to me. And now it doesn’t matter, does it? All that for nothing. I’m leaving, anyway, and when I finally get out of Jefferson, I will not be back. You can count on that.

  I hear the front door close and Kevin’s wingtips click down the steps. My lawyer. Who’d have thought I’d ever need a lawyer. Crazy. This is all crazy.

  She killed a man.

  I only had Coach Mitchell for gym sophomore year. When I was a freshman, we had a long-term sub. Coach Mitchell took that year off because his wife had cancer. The school did all kinds of fundraisers to help pay for her treatment. The track team sold poinsettias to raise money. Dad donated free oil changes for the silent auction.

  Mrs. Mitchell got better. That was the town’s miracle. And Coach Mitchell went back to coaching the football team, and last year they won States. At the awards assembly in the spring, he cried when he thanked everyone. He was a good man.

  And now he’s dead.

  She killed a man.

  I wonder if now Mrs. Mitchell wishes she hadn’t beat cancer. It took a whole year to save her life and only seconds to take her husband’s.

  I hear Mom’s shower turn on, the pipes groaning into action. My clock radio glows 10:45 pm. I creep to the kitchen without turning on any lights. Mom’s phone is on the charger.

  Sheila answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” Her voice is uncertain and breathy. I wonder if she thinks I’m my mom calling her.

  “Hey,” I say. “It’s me.”

  The line echoes with silence.

  “Sheila?”

  “You shouldn’t call me.” Her voice is urgent, angry.

  “Since when?”

  Another long silence.

  “I can’t talk to you,” Sheila hisses, but then I hear her sniffle. Is she crying? “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s crazy. What happened?”

  “This isn’t my fault. Jess, you were driving. You didn’t have to look at the phone. This is on you. All on you.”

  Her words make no sense, but more than that, her anger stuns me.

  “Why are you angry with me?”

  “Jason is ripped up. It’s like he’s blaming me. You did this, not me!”

  I don’t know what to say. She’s talking to me like she hates me; it chokes my words in my throat. “I’m just…I’m so sorry. I wish I could go back…”

  “Sorry’s not enough for this. There is no going back.”

  “This is messed up. I can’t remember any of it. I never saw him. Why was Coach there?”

  “Jesus, Jess! How could you not remember?” Her shrill words hang in the air.

 
What is happening? How did my life go so completely off the rails? And Sheila, the one person who has always had my back, how could she say my name with such fury, a repulsion even?

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. Lame. I am lame and pathetic. I can’t catch my breath, but I need to ask her. I need to know. I know she is mad, but she was there and she’s all I’ve got.

  Sheila sighs. I can picture her now, dabbing at her eye makeup, even when she’s upset she stays beautiful.

  “Jason’s really mad. I told him I didn’t have anything to do with it. You can’t tell him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You can’t drag me into this.”

  “What do you mean? How are you not involved in this? You were there and I don’t remember the accident,” I say. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

  “Oh, C’mon, now you have amnesia? You were there, don’t pretend you weren’t. You were driving.”

  “I’m not pretending. I don’t remember.”

  “You really can’t remember?”

  “Honest.”

  Her voice perks up suddenly. “Oh, well, even if you did, I can’t talk to you anymore. My parents got a lawyer and he said not to talk to you. Jason would be furious if he knew I even answered this call. I can’t talk to you.”

  “But I need you. I don’t have anyone else.” I sound desperate and I am. “You can’t just decide not to talk to me. We always talk. You’re my best friend.”

  “You don’t see how big this is. You don’t see how screwed we both are. Coach is dead. It was your fault; this is so fucked up,” she explains as if she’s impatient for me to get it.

  “But why did it happen?”

  “God Jess! I don’t know. You looked at your phone! You hit him!” she shrieks.