Blind Turn

by Cara Sue Achterberg

  Her words strike me like a fist. I touch my heart where the pain is worst. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Before I can pull my thoughts together, she dismisses me.

  “Just don’t call again. I can’t talk to you.” Sheila’s voice is clipped but certain.

  I whisper, “But you’re my best friend. I can’t do this without you.”

  The phone goes dead; I put it back on the charger and stumble to my room. I crawl in my closet, shoving the piles of shoes on the floor out of the way. I press myself against the back wall and try to pull the door closed. It’s one of those folding doors. If I open or close it too fast, it comes off the track, and when I was little it used to pinch my fingers and give me blood blisters. Now the door gets hung up on the shoes, so I grab the first shoe I can reach and fling it out of the closet. It hits the dresser. The perfume bottles rattle and a framed picture of me and Sheila from last summer falls to the floor.

  The next shoe leaves a ding in the wall. I keep throwing them one by one. A stiletto from last year’s Spring Fling catches the top edge of my Marion Jones poster and leaves a tear. I throw shoes until there aren’t any left to throw. I yank the closet door closed and cry big, snotty sobs like when I was little and didn’t get my way.

  I wish I could die. My skin is too tight, and I pull at it. The buzzing in my head is deafening. It’s hard to breathe. I kick at the closet door, but the latch holds it closed, so I kick harder. The sound in my head grows louder. It rumbles through my body and barrels out my mouth. I don’t recognize the sound. It’s like it’s coming from someone else. I scream and sob, kicking at the door that finally gives as the cheap wood splinters.

  9

  LIZ

  After Kevin has gone, I take a shower. I haven’t had one in two days, but more than that, my desperation feels dirty. I will do whatever it takes to save my daughter. Even if it means cozying up to Kevin Sharp. And that makes it okay. Doesn’t it? As the water rushes over me, I sink to the floor of the tub and sob.

  Toweling off my hair, I can’t get past the feeling that nothing will ever be the same. From now on. Not for Jess, not for me, not for this town. I am about to click on the hairdryer when I hear thumping sounds coming from Jessica’s room. I pull on my robe and am halfway across the living room when I hear an awful keening, like a wounded animal. Next comes the sound of splintering wood. I fling her door open. Jess is curled in a fetal position among the wreckage that used to be her closet door. I try to reach for her, but she kicks at me. I pull the broken closet door out of the way and beg her to stop. It is as if she can’t hear me. Her foot catches me on my collarbone. The pain is instant, but I grab at her and dodge her kicking feet. Finally, I get ahold of her foot and drag her out of the closet across the carpet, still kicking, still screaming. Now she yells, “Just leave me alone! I want to die! Just leave! Leave! Now!”

  She smacks at me, but I kneel next to her and wrap my arms around her. She pushes against me, trying to get away, but I roll to my side, still clutching her. Finally, she relaxes in my arms, sobbing. We lay spooned together, both of us crying, our tears in tandem.

  “Why did this happen?” Her voice is hoarse.

  “It was an accident,” I tell her. She needs to believe this. I need to believe this.

  She goes quiet, just her breath catching in hiccups through her tears. She whispers, “Accidents happen when you spill your milk or trip over your shoelaces; not when you kill someone with your car. This isn’t an accident.”

  I hold her and let her cry. “We will get through this,” I tell her.

  A memory comes to mind. My father knocking on my bedroom door, asking me to come downstairs because I have a visitor. These are the first words he has spoken to me since the day I told him I was pregnant and I planned to marry Jake. In the living room is a nice couple, probably in their late thirties. They look vaguely familiar; they are members of our church. It takes me a few minutes of polite conversation to realize why they are here. My father wants me to give my baby to them.

  “The baby would be an answer to prayer,” the wife says.

  “She would never want for anything. We have a beautiful home, plenty of money, the nursery is already set up,” the husband says.

  “It would be the most amazing gift,” the wife tells me.

  “God works in mysterious ways,” says my father, smiling, as if my pregnancy is a good thing, not the abomination he called it only a few weeks prior.

  I pull Jess tight against me until mercifully, she falls asleep. She is not a mistake or an abomination or a killer. She is my daughter. And I will not let this take her from me.

  — — —

  The smell of bacon draws Jess to the kitchen, just like it has most Saturday mornings all her life. Only it isn’t Saturday. And everything is different. She sits at the counter with her comforter wrapped around her. I put the plate of bacon in front of her. She picks up a piece and nibbles at it.

  “There are still people out there,” she nods towards the front of the house.

  I turned the ringer off the house phone, but the reporters still call and my voicemail is full.

  “They will give up eventually.”

  I say this, and yet I fear they won’t. At this very moment, people all around town are talking about the accident. They are saying my daughter’s name in hushed tones, shocked. Or maybe not. After all, she is a ‘child of sin.’ For seventeen years, I have worked to prove my father, my church, and my town wrong, but here is the evidence. I have never thought of Jess as a mistake. What I did may have been a sin, but this child Jake and I made is not. A lot of time has passed. Maybe I am being paranoid. Maybe people are more understanding now.

  Although the way the town turns out for the Friday night football games, I am pretty certain what Jess has done, accident or not, will not be easily forgiven or forgotten. Coach Mitchell was a great man. There is not a person in this town who didn’t love him. Myself included. But I can’t think about that now. Now I have to think about protecting my daughter.

  She picks up another piece of bacon. The comforter slips, and she pulls it over her shoulders again. My cell phone rings and we both stare at it. Jake.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “How is she? I’ve just gotta run the dogs a bit and then I can come right over.”

  “There’s nothing you can do here.”

  I wipe the counter, rubbing the same spot repeatedly, trying to quell my annoyance. I know Jake wants to be the knight in shining armor, riding in to save the day, as if he could. Maybe if it was just a noisy muffler or a leaky exhaust, but this is his daughter and her heart is breaking.

  “Let me talk to Jess.”

  I know Jess can hear him ask, so I look at her, raise my eyebrows. She shakes her head and picks up another piece of bacon.

  “She can’t talk right now.”

  Whatever he says is drowned out by his dogs barking. I have to hold the phone away from my ear. A smile momentarily crosses Jess’ face as we listen to Jake yell at the dogs.

  When Jake moved out, the first thing he did was get those hound dogs. He was upset when I told him to leave, but once he discovered the trailer park in Gillam, he acted like leaving was his idea. At that point, it was past time and I think we were more relieved than anything. We had been weighed down with the shame of failing just like everyone predicted and the guilt of what it would do to Jess. We had no choice, though; we were grinding each other’s hearts into dust.

  I take the phone to my room. Close the door. I need to talk to him about what Kevin told me last night.

  “Kevin says if the DA has a solid case, we will have to consider a plea bargain.”

  “What does that mean?” />
  “It means Jess pleads guilty to a lesser charge. It could involve a hefty fine, so we need to figure out how much money we have, get appraisal letters together, stuff like that.”

  “You really think this would go away with just a fine?”

  “No!” I hiss. “But let’s assume the best for now.”

  “What does that mean?” Jake asks, clueless.

  “It means we know our daughter didn’t kill Coach Mitchell.”

  “Do we?”

  “Jake! If you don’t believe in her, who will?”

  “Look, I’m not saying she did anything on purpose, but if this accident is her fault, there will be consequences and right now I can’t figure who else could be at fault.”

  “The state has to prove she did this without a reasonable doubt. All we have to do is prove there’s a reason to doubt that Jess would intentionally do this.”

  “That doesn’t sound simple. And since when did you become Nancy Drew?”

  I pull the curtain aside from my bedroom window, checking for reporters, and ignore his dig. “Until we find out what kind of case they have, we can’t do much. But we need to figure out how we’re going to pay Kevin.”

  “You sure he knows what he’s doing?”

  “Yes. He does.” Kevin deals mostly with divorce these days, but he used to handle DUI cases. He has already told me we might want to get another opinion.

  “Maybe we should consider other lawyers. You know, ask around instead of just going with some guy who’s got the hots for you.”

  “Just call your bank and find out how much money you can access and how much you can borrow. Call your lender and find out what your trailer is worth.”

  “Whatever I have ain’t worth enough to put a dent in anything.”

  I sit down on my bed, glance at the novel I was reading only two days ago. It looks foreign to me. “Just do it, Jake. For once, step up and do what you’re supposed to do.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means Jess needs you to act like a real father right now.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to do if you’d let me come over there and help.”

  “There is nothing you can do unless you’ve got a million bucks squirreled away somewhere to pay for a Dallas lawyer. If not, then you will just have to trust Kevin.”

  “That’s not fair. There are other options. What about a public defender?”

  “We are not going to use a public defender. So far, Kevin is doing this for free, but if this drags on we have to pay him.”

  “Nothing’s free, Lizzie, the guy will want something.”

  “Leave it, will you? I am doing the best I can.” I hang up. I don’t need his help. I don’t know what Kevin wants, but I think he can help Jess. And that is all that matters here. I glare at my phone, waiting for Jake to call back. For once, he lets it go.

  “If you weren’t so busy living out your eternal childhood, maybe we could afford a real lawyer,” I say to the silent phone.

  When I return to the kitchen. Jess is still at the counter. “You ate all the bacon?”

  She shrugs and heads to her room.

  I poke my head in later to check on her, and she is cleaning up. Her clothes hang neatly in her closet. She is lining up her shoes beneath them, wearing earbuds and humming The Yellow Submarine.

  I would like to live in a submarine. That way nothing could surprise you. Little blips of the radar would alert you to danger ahead. Nothing new could come out of nowhere and side-swipe you.

  10

  JESS

  I clean up my room, not because I know it will make my mother happy, but because I’m hoping it will help me keep my shit together. My mind is still spinning and since I can’t run, I need to do something. I found an article about the accident on a website for the local paper. Reading it makes it pretty clear my life in Jefferson is toast. Mom keeps saying people will understand that it was an accident, but she’s living in la-la land because clearly, that is not gonna happen.

  BLUE89: Coach M was a great man. He changed my life. That girl who killed him should get the electric chair.

  CATGIRL: Put her in prison and set an example. All teens do this. They’re all idiots.

  MINNIEMOUSE: I’m sick of disrespectful, selfish teenagers always on their phone, never paying attention to what’s around them. She needs to be made an example of – I hope they lock her up.

  PISH1282: She’s just a stupid teenager. They do dumb things all the time. Have a little mercy.

  WALTERF: What kind of mercy do you want to extend to the Mitchells?

  BAMBI: I know the girl who did this. She goes to Jefferson and she’s a stuck-up bitch. I’m not surprised she’d do something like this.

  68573: I heard who it was, but I don’t know her. Glad I don’t. Anybody know what the charges are?

  WALTERF: Should be first-degree murder, but I heard it’s vehicular manslaughter. At least when she’s convicted they’ll lock her up and get her off the streets before she kills anybody else.

  68573: They should give her the death penalty. That’s what she deserves. Eye for eye, or in this case stupid girl for great man.

  People want me to die. Well, that’s fine. That would be perfect.

  — — —

  The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Mom and I watch a movie. I couldn’t tell you what it was about. I just keep thinking about dying. Do you just stop being? Or would you float around somewhere still feeling awful about the terrible thing you did and watching everyone? I wonder if I died if anyone other than Mom and Dad would cry at my funeral? WALTERF and BLUE89 would probably celebrate. Still, the death sentence might be better than prison. I don’t think I could survive in jail.

  I go to bed, but I can’t sleep, so I get up and google, ‘How to kill yourself.’

  Most people recommend if you don’t have a gun, jumping off a tall building would be quick. There aren’t any tall buildings in Jefferson, except the fire hall, but probably the firemen would stop me before I got to the top. Besides, I’m kind of afraid of heights and I hate that feeling when your stomach drops out from under you going downhill on a rollercoaster. I’d probably make it to the roof and throw up. I don’t think I could do it. Carbon monoxide poisoning was also suggested, but we don’t have a garage. Besides, I don’t have a car anymore.

  I could never slit my throat. Hanging yourself sounds simple, but there isn’t anything to hang from except the curtain rod, which always falls down when I slam the door too hard, so it’s probably not really an option. I could take a bunch of pills. Mom has sleeping pills she never takes because she worries she won’t wake up if something happens, like a fire or a burglar. But the advice online said you have to know how many to take or you can just end up a vegetable or brain-damaged.

  — — —

  On Thursday, the reporters out front finally give up, but no one says anything about me going to school, which is good because I’m not going. Dad shows up with McDonald’s for lunch and argues with Mom. I binge-watch stupid shows I’ve seen already, anything to try not to think. Mom goes over to the school and gets my homework, but it sits in a pile on the counter untouched. What’s the point?

  — — —

  Friday morning, early before Mom is up, I pull on my sweats and running shoes. As I open the front door, Mom calls from her bedroom.

  “Jess?”

  As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I start sprinting. My brain feels like it’s slamming around my head and the pain is loud, but I welcome it. I want to hurt. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I can hear Mom calli
ng me from the porch, but I keep running.

  I finally pull up to a slow jog on the other side of McClain Avenue. The trees line the road on either side, leaning together to form a tunnel. This time of year, it’s yellow and gold and brown, but in the spring it’s green. The familiar branches look foreign, like I didn’t just run down this road a week ago. How did this happen? I can’t stop seeing the words on the computer screen. She should get the death sentence. At least they’ll lock her up. I wish I could talk to Sheila. I tried calling again, but she didn’t pick up. I can’t imagine my life without Sheila.

  I remember the day I met Sheila. It was like someone switched on a light. I’d always been a good student, mildly popular, at least nobody hated me. I had a few friends, but when you get to middle school it’s every girl for herself. On the morning of the first day, I was in the hallway talking to Mr. Henry, the science teacher. I knew him from Morningside; he plays his guitar there on Sunday nights. He’s kind of a hippie.

  I’ve never understood why Sheila picked me. She’s probably the most popular girl at Jefferson High. Being Sheila’s best friend made me popular, too, by proximity. That first day of seventh grade, though, no one knew her. She walked right up to me and said, “Hey, I like your flip flops.” I was wearing these flip-flops I’d made at camp. They were green with pink sequins and shells glued to the straps. Sheila was tan, about the same height as me, and her hair was blond, sleek, and straight. Hair like I always wished I had instead of my sunburned brown hair that tends towards the frizzy side. Sheila wore bright pink lipstick, exactly the color of the tube my mother had taken away from me that morning. And she wore the shortest shorts I’d ever seen inside a school building. I looked at Mr. Henry to see if he would say anything about dress code violations, but he was looking over our heads at the students coming in the front doors.