Blind Turn

by Cara Sue Achterberg

  “What if I don’t feel like talking to him?” Jess asks. I choose not to hear her.

  When we get there, Kevin is on the phone but waves us in. Jess prowls the office, and then finally sits down in one of the leather chairs. I follow her eyes. She is studying the two pictures on Kevin’s shelves, one of his father and one of his nephew in Florida.

  “Is that your kid?” she asks when Kevin hangs up.

  “Oh, no,” says Kevin. “I don’t have any children. That’s my nephew.”

  “Are you married?” she asks. I try to catch her eye. She is not usually so rude. But this accident has changed her. It has changed both of us.

  “Not really,” he says.

  “Either you’re married or you’re not,” she says.

  “Well, technically I’m still married, but we haven’t been together for about ten years. Just haven’t gotten around to getting the divorce.” Kevin looks uncomfortable.

  “But you’re a divorce lawyer.”

  “I know, but it’s still a lot of paperwork. I need to take care of it; I’ve just been really busy.”

  “Making lots of money,” says Jess, studying the enormous fish tank beside his desk.

  “That’s enough Jess.”

  “Okay, let’s get to it,” begins Kevin. “I want to run through some questions I have about Sheila.”

  “Sheila?”

  I sit down in the chair next to Jess and rest my arm on the back of her chair. She leans forward, away from my touch.

  “As she is the prosecution’s star witness, I’d like a better idea of who she is.”

  “She’s Sheila.”

  “Right, but what kind of person is she?”

  Jess shrugs. “She’s popular. Everybody thinks she’s cool. Her parents have tons of money and they pretty much let her do anything.” She glances at me. She knows I have never liked Sheila. Call it a premonition, but I have never trusted her, never understood what Jess sees in her.

  “Mom doesn’t like her,” she informs Kevin and I frown but say nothing.

  “Besides, your mom, how do other adults react to her?”

  Jess laughs. “Sheila knows how to work it. She can be charming—she’s good with adults. She knows how to say what they want to hear.”

  “What’s important to her?”

  “Her boyfriend Jason, for sure. And being popular. She’s really into fashion—that’s what she wants to be—a fashion designer.”

  “How are her grades?”

  “They’re okay. She’s not the best student, but she usually does pretty well.”

  “She’s been caught cheating before,” I interject.

  “But they couldn’t prove it,” Jess says.

  Kevin makes a note. I know he will follow up on that.

  “What’s her motivation for lying about this?” he asks.

  “How do you know she’s lying?” says Jess.

  “I have a suspicion,” he hesitates, then rolls a pencil between his palms before adding, “And I think you do, too.”

  Jess does not say anything. She rolls her eyes and looks away from us. Kevin makes another note.

  “Bottom line,” he says and waits for Jess to look at him again. “Do people trust her?”

  “Sheila?” Jess smiles, but it is laced with sadness, or maybe regret. She has always believed in Sheila. Every time I have said anything negative, she has come to her defense. Even now as it becomes clearer every day that her friend is not her friend.

  She shakes her head. “Not really. Most people wouldn’t.”

  “Do you have questions about the process for me? How the trial will work?”

  At this Jess sighs loudly and gives him the duh-I’m-not-three look. I know it too well.

  “I realize we are still a few months away from this, but by the time it comes you need to be solid with your answers. The DA is going to try to shake you and you need to be unshakeable.”

  Kevin comes around and sits on the edge of his desk in front of us. His hands rest on either side of him, his fingers drumming the underside of the desktop. “You’ll know the questions I will ask before I ask them, and we will practice the ones I think the DA will ask, but the important thing is to relax and just honestly answer the questions.”

  “But I don’t remember what happened,” she reminds him.

  “Then you say that. I will try to make it clear that you have never texted while driving before. That is a fact, right?”

  “Pretty much,” she says.

  “Define pretty much.”

  “I’ve looked at a text when I was stopped at a traffic light, but never while I was actually driving.”

  “Okay, but in this situation when you’re asked about texting and driving it refers to texting while the vehicle is in motion and you’re the one behind the wheel.”

  Kevin asks questions about her driving habits—how much she drives, whether she has ever had an accident, even a tiny fender bender in a parking lot, whether she talks on the phone while driving. Jess answers clearly and concisely.

  He goes through what happened on the day of the accident and she tells him everything she remembers, but then he asks about the text.

  “Do you remember how you knew the text was from Casey?”

  “I guess because I was expecting it.”

  “You were expecting a text from him specifically?”

  “Well, I guess I didn’t know it would be a text. It could have been a phone call. But he was supposed to contact me.”

  “To ask you out?”

  She nods. Blushes.

  “Do you remember specifically what it said?”

  “No.” She shakes her head.

  “Then how can you be sure you read it?”

  She does not have an answer for this.

  “Maybe your friend Sheila told you. Or you heard it online. I presume you’ve been following the scuttlebutt in the comments section of the online edition of the paper.”

  I know she has, but Jess never talks about it. I told her once she shouldn’t read it, but I can’t stop her. I read it, too. It is like some sick compulsion, showcasing the underbelly of public opinion.

  “There’s another thing, probably nothing, but I wanted to mention it.”

  “What?”

  “The local press has been bad enough, but now there is some national attention. There is a group from Dallas sticking their nose in. They are trying to make you the poster child for texting and driving. I would like to avoid that. They shouldn’t have any real influence on the case, but their presence here will raise the drama a bit. I will work to contain it.”

  “National attention would be good for business,” says Jess. She fingers the silver letter opener on Kevin’s desk.

  Kevin looks at her. “I’ll level with you. You don’t want that attention and I don’t need it.”

  Jess looks up from the letter opener. Places it back on the desk. “So, what do we do?” she asks.

  “You don’t engage with them. Not on the phone. Not at school. Not online. Hopefully, no one from the DA’s office will give them the time of day.”

  “Will I go to jail?”

  Kevin has said if that were to happen, which he doubts, it would be a minimum-security kind of place. Jess wouldn’t be with real criminals, but I don’t know how he can know that. Aren’t all criminals real? Why else would they be in jail?

  “We are a long way from that. Let’s just take this a day at a time.”

  22

  LI
Z

  “Did you lock the door?” I ask as Jess climbs into the car. It is still dark, but I want to start early. We are headed to Arizona. Tomorrow we will see my dad.

  Jess doesn’t answer me. She rolls her eyes and puts in her earbuds. The first few hours are quiet. I watch the sun come up and Jess drifts back to sleep, her head against the door. We stop for breakfast and eat in silence. It is a long drive across west Texas. I have not seen my father in person since my mom’s memorial service, and those days were a blur of meeting people and keeping Jess busy. She was only six and not much about the trip or the service was child-friendly, least of all my dad. Before that, I don’t remember a civil conversation since before I was pregnant with Jess. After they left Texas, my mom said to give him time, but time stretched from months to years and silence was easier.

  And yet, I am tired of being angry.

  Maybe I understand a little now. He had such hopes for me, and I disappointed him. When I was three, I won a poster contest at our church for my crayon drawing of Jesus and his disciples. The disciples had overly large heads and enormous smiles and I had numbered them one through twelve. That fading picture hung above our kitchen table for years. My father always pointing out that I had been able to count to twelve and ‘write the damn numbers too.’ The smile he bestowed on me each time he told a visitor about the contest was one I worked hard to earn throughout my childhood. Science fairs, honor society, honor roll, and academic awards followed. He loved to tell me I would probably be the ‘damn valedictorian.’

  But then I met Jake and being with him felt even better than winning my dad’s smiles, especially after Kate came out to the family just before she left for college. My father told her not to come home until she had come to her senses. Watching how easily he cut Kate from our lives made me suspicious of the praise he gave me; one false step and it would evaporate like summer heat rising from the pavement after a storm. Maybe I was looking for a way to disappoint him or maybe I was just testing my theory or maybe… maybe I really was in love with Jake Johnson like I told everybody.

  I missed my sister. Our house seemed somber without her jokes and her teasing. Jake was my escape. He was fun. He drove fast and laughed hard. He didn’t care about grades or college or even what he was doing next week. When I was with him, I could breathe. I was no longer holding my breath, waiting for my prize. Waiting to be good enough, to have done enough. With Jake, I could just be Lizzie. Lizzie and Jake. I suppose when my father banished my sister, I realized I could be next. Maybe I wanted to be next. So why was I driving fifteen hours to visit him now? What was I looking for?

  When I told him I was pregnant, I knew he would be upset. I knew he would be disappointed, but the silent, seething anger I was not prepared for. “Just because I’m going to have a baby, doesn’t mean I can’t go to college,” I protested.

  He shook his head, would not even meet my eye. My mother patted my hand and then got up and started supper. No one talked any more about the baby or college, only the wedding that needed to happen immediately.

  At the time, I was so filled with righteous anger—how dare my father condemn me? But now, as I think about Jess’ accident, I realize I broke his heart. He had such hopes for me; he was counting on my bright shiny future. And to him, it was gone. In my darker moments, I fear Jess’ future is gone too. And I am angry. She knew better. How could she have done this? But my anger does not affect my love for Jess. I love my daughter no matter what. My father’s love was a powerful force in my life, but until I felt its absence I did not realize his love was conditional.

  I will not let this situation drive Jess from me. I will not condemn my daughter for making one mistake, no matter how big it may be. Even if it changes the trajectory of her shiny bright future.

  When my parents moved to Arizona, I missed my mother desperately, especially when Jess was a baby and again later when Jake drifted away. I called her, but it wasn’t the same. I begged her to visit. “Your father and I are busy making our new life here,” she would say. “You can handle this, Lizzie. You’re the mother now.”

  She didn’t say it like she was rubbing my nose in my mistake; she said it because she believed in me. Losing her was like losing the compass for my world. I guess I always thought there would be time. My father would soften. We would have time to reconnect as a family. When my father called to tell me Mom had died in her sleep from the pancreatic cancer I didn’t even know she had, I was furious and told him so. “So much for your God!” I sobbed.

  “She’s in a better place,” he assured me, and while my years as a Sunday School superstar should have allowed me to, I just could not believe that.

  — — —

  It is late when I turn into the hotel parking lot. Kate is sitting on the bench outside the lobby with a coffee cup full of wine. She sets the cup down and wordlessly gathers Jess in her arms. I unload our bags and follow her to our room.

  It is too late for talk, all of us are exhausted. Kate’s flight was delayed, then canceled, and she had arrived only an hour before we did. We go directly to bed. Kate and Jess in one bed and me in the other, alone with my sad heart.

  — — —

  In the morning, Kate and I let Jess sleep and go downstairs for the Continental Breakfast of mushy apples, rock hard bagels, and cereal in little boxes.

  “The meeting at Rockridge is at one. We’ll go over the doctor’s notes and see if we can get Dad to understand his situation. Then we’ll take him to a restaurant with an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

  I look up from my coffee and nod.

  “We can’t speak with the doctor?”

  “He’s on vacation in Tahoe with his family.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “He needs a Healthcare Proxy.”

  I look at her and frown. I do not want that to be me.

  “Look, I know you don’t want to be the one to make the decisions, but it makes more sense for it to be you. In his saner moments, he still trusts you. And besides, you understand these situations. You work in a nursing home. You know more. And you’re closer.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “And if it drags on, Morningside may be the only option we have.”

  I look up, startled. How do I tell Kate it is not just the money? I don’t want him so close. Despite his numbered days, I am not ready to forgive a man who doesn’t even think he needs to be forgiven.

  “Moving him now isn’t a good idea. It might aggravate his dementia.”

  She is quiet for a moment. If anyone can understand my hesitation, Kate should. Finally, she says, “It seems sad for him to be here, all alone. He could die alone.”

  “It’s what he wanted. And Arlan Campbell gets what he wants.”

  “You know it’s not what he wanted.”

  “But it’s what he chose. Why do you care so much?”

  She shrugs. “We’re all he’s got.”

  “Right, and he threw us away.”

  “And throwing him away now makes us no better. It makes us like him.”

  Maybe Kate is right. Maybe we are just like him.

  23

  LIZ

  At one, Kate and I meet with Dad and Ms. Klinefelter, a case manager at the home. Dad’s greeting is not any more familiar than Ms. Klinefelter’s. I hug him, but he looks startled.

  “It’s me, Lizzie,” I say.

  “I know who you are.”

  After we are all seated, Ms. Klinefelter goes over the doctor’s report, noting Dad’s complaints about abdominal pain and back pain. She says the nurses reported he has been having occasional bouts of diarrhea.

  “None of their business,” scowls Dad, embarrassed to have us d
iscuss his bowel movements over coffee.

  “So, the other matter we wanted to discuss with you, Mr. Campbell, is the matter of a living will.”

  “No need,” says my father.

  “Well, since both your daughters live a distance away, it might be best to have something in writing about the measures you’d like the staff to take in the event your health takes a downward turn.”

  “If I sign that damn paper and my ticker stops, you’ll just let me die then?”

  “Dad,” I say. “She’s not talking about a heart attack. She’s talking about whether you want them to keep you alive on a ventilator with tube feeding.”

  “Like if I become a vegetable?”

  Kate says, “Exactly,” with a nod.

  “Well, I don’t want to be a damn vegetable.”

  “Why don’t we go over all the different directives,” says Ms. Klinefelter, as she scoots her chair closer and uncaps her pen.

  “Just write if I become a vegetable, shoot me.”

  Kate laughs. I shake my head.

  “We can’t do that, Mr. Campbell,” Ms. Klinefelter insists.

  In the end, Dad does not agree to much, and he only grows more irritable. Ms. Klinefelter asks about a healthcare proxy. Kate and I exchange glances.

  “I guess, for now, I can be it,” she says.

  Dad is looking out the window, not even paying attention.

  — — —

  At dinner, Dad is much better than I expected. He talks animatedly to Jess about track and her college plans. Several times she shoots me a look that says, “What the heck?” She only knows what I have told her about him, which is not much. He has never been so interested in her. She is polite and answers his questions, even asks him some of her own.

  “What do you do for fun around here?”