Accidental

by Alex Richards

  “The victim’s neighbor told reporters that Carlson was a beautiful, kind, and devoted mother. ‘It’s a complete shock. We’re all going to miss her so much.’

  “The toddler, found crying at the scene and asking for Mommy, has been placed with relatives who declined to comment on the tragic accident.”

  There’s a ringing in my ears when the article ends. Every inch of me spins, sharp and fierce.

  The toddler woke up from a nap. Had we been asleep together, big and little spoons in my parents’ bed? Blankets over us, picture books at our feet?

  The toddler woke up and found … and found—

  It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve been clinging to some tiny shred of hope, but there is none. I was strong enough to pull the trigger. I did aim a gun at her heart. I did it.

  “Jesus, how awful,” Leah murmurs, her face gently tear-streaked.

  They look at me, but I can’t bring myself to look back. The two of them with their perfect families—kooky as hell, but still whole and wholesome. Raised by devoted, understanding parents, not abandoned by a junkie dad and forced upon a couple of lying geriatrics.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing as hard as I can, because I just can’t, right now. Rather than compare myself to them for the billionth time, I need to focus on this. Despite what they both must think of me. Despite what I think of myself.

  “Read another one,” I demand.

  Gabby hesitates.

  “The Fresno Bee article,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Read it.”

  She clicks it open, but I’m only half-listening, too busy torturing myself. Wondering if my mother woke up before I killed her. If our eyes met. If she begged for her life as I pulled the trigger.

  A vision of her flashes neon in my mind. Lifeless, in a sea of red. Skin turning pale. The urge to puke comes on so fast, I nearly don’t make it to the bathroom in time. Leah falls off her chair when I push past, my hands clasped tight around my mouth. The door to Gabby’s private bathroom slams shut, lasagna erupting out of me as I reach the toilet.

  “Sweetie? Are you okay?”

  “Give me a minute,” I bark through the mess.

  A few more heaves and splats, and there’s nothing left. I stumble to the sink, splashing ice-cold water against my cheeks. Over and over again. Somewhere inside me, I imagine the faint hum of a lullaby, but I can’t tell if it’s her, if the song is for me. I look back at my dripping-wet reflection. A killer with no memory of it. Without thinking, I slap my face, hard. It stings, but it feels right. What I deserve.

  “Jo, come on. You’ve been in there forever.”

  “One more second.”

  I blot my face with a towel and let the door creak open into Gabby’s bedroom. The two of them have formed a human shield of best friends staring back at me. Them versus me. It’s not the first time I’ve felt different—because of my upbringing, my weird clothes—but the way they’re looking at me now? Pity comes to mind, but something worse too. I swear to God, I see fear in their eyes.

  “Jo, are you okay?”

  “I should go.”

  “What?” Leah blocks me and I stumble, shoulders thudding against the wall. “What are you talking about? You can’t leave.”

  I open my mouth and then force it shut.

  “What?” Gabby comes closer. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I say. But they won’t stop staring at me, hunting their prey. Finally, I throw my hands up. “Admit it. Now that there’s proof, you don’t want to be friends with me.”

  “What?” Leah gasps.

  Gabby rolls her eyes. “You mean proof that you were a baby when your father put you through this?” She tucks her arm underneath mine, guiding me toward the bed. “Yeah, we’re fully aware, and we’re not going anywhere. Do you want water? Ginger ale?”

  I shake my head. Anything that goes down could come back up, and I don’t want to risk barfing on Gabby’s Pottery Barn duvet. This floral, girly-ass duvet. I’ve slept underneath it a thousand times, but it suddenly feels like steel wool on my skin. Being on this bed feels wrong, having friends feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.

  “When you were in the bathroom, I did some digging,” Gabby says delicately. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

  Something dirt-covered twinges inside me. The idle giddiness in her voice. A new circus act to follow. I roll away from them, curling onto my side. “Sure, whatever.”

  “Maybe, like, an abridged version?” Leah suggests.

  She tries to cuddle up beside me, but it only makes me think of the newspaper report. Big and little spoons before I wrapped my tiny hands around my father’s gun. I make my body stiff and unwelcoming. Maybe it’s rude, but so what? I’m doing her a favor, giving her an excuse to perch at the foot of the bed.

  Gabby starts to skim, articles exploding like popcorn on her computer screen. “We know Robert was arrested. But did he tell you the charges?”

  I stay silent, watching a streetlamp as it flickers outside.

  “Criminal storage of a firearm in the first degree,” she answers anyway. “Which basically means he fucked up big time leaving that gun out for you to find.”

  “How long did he, y’know, do time?” Leah asks, and I can’t help noticing a salacious edge to her voice.

  “It says he was sentenced to three years.” Gabby shrugs. “Could have been less, though. He could’ve gotten out in two, maybe even one. It doesn’t say.”

  “Long enough to become a crackhead,” I mutter.

  It was a joke. Well, it was vaguely supposed to be one, but I’m met with thorny silence. Both of them stare at me, clueless and flustered and achingly sad. Which only manages to double my shame. I’m not only a killer. I’ve lost my sense of humor too.

  Leah shifts uncomfortably at my feet. “Three years,” she says. “Jeez, that’s—”

  She starts nervous-rambling, breaking it down into how many months and weeks and days and how much prison food and how many license plates three years adds up to. My brain spins in another direction, though. Four coffee dates with a convicted felon. Chamomile tea in the home of a criminal, laughing at his jokes. But that isn’t the worst part. Not really, not even close. Robert went to prison for something I did. Maybe it was his gun, but I pulled the trigger. It was my fault. It makes me want to throw up all over again, but I tie my guts in a knot and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars we stuck to Gabby’s ceiling in fourth grade.

  “Holy mother.” Gabby’s elbows bang on the desk as she leans closer to the screen. “Do you know how many kids shoot people every year? Or themselves? Shit, listen to this:

  “A two-year-old in South Carolina shot and killed himself when he found a teal-colored Glock in his grandmother’s purse.

  “In Albuquerque, a three-year-old grabbed his mom’s gun off a mini fridge and shot both his parents. They didn’t die, but they got charged with child abuse.

  “After a two-year-old accidentally killed himself, the dad reached for the same gun and killed himself too.

  “When a five-year-old was looking for Easter candy, he found a gun and killed his seven-year-old brother.

  “When a four-year-old and his dad were play wrestling, a gun the dad kept in his waistband went off, shooting both in the head and killing the boy.”

  A three-year-old, a seven-year-old, a toddler, a baby.

  The stories blur together. Accidental deaths, rough and unstoppable. Now, when I squeeze my eyes shut, it isn’t my mother’s face I see, but all of ours. A dank, windowless room filled with tiny, terrified children, sobbing and devastated. Dead, or surrounded by death.

  Did we know the gun was real?

  Did it look like a toy?

  Was it a hair trigger, or tough to pull?

  Afterward, did we realize?

  Did we feel guilty?

  Are we guilty?

  A shudder rolls through me, and Leah scoots closer, not taking no for an answer. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

  When I do
n’t answer, Gabby turns off her monitor.

  Party’s over.

  Maybe that’s not what they’re thinking, but that’s how it feels.

  If I’d only listened to Gabby—simply followed her advice and ignored Robert’s letter—they wouldn’t have to be best friends with a freak show right now. That, I bet, they really are thinking.

  I shrink away from them, hugging a pillow to my stomach. In the window’s reflection, I can see Gabby mouthing something dramatically with her arms raised. Leah mimes in response, her body shifting beside me. For half a minute, the two of them bicker—because of me, about me, for me.

  “I don’t know!” I hear Gabby whisper.

  My eyelids squeeze shut, and I wish I could disappear completely.

  Then Leah says, “Hey,” in this odd, scripted way. “Want to go watch TV?”

  “Yeah,” adds Gabby, equally plastic. “I have a ton of movies downloaded.”

  I manage a lifeless shrug. “Sure, sounds great.”

  They walk toward the door, stopping when I don’t race over to join them.

  “Jo?” Gabby says. “Aren’t you coming?”

  I struggle to swallow. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t wait for me. I’ll catch up.”

  I can see Leah’s lopsided smile reflected in the bedroom window. She wants to say more, but Gabby squeezes her hand and they slink out, pulling the door shut behind them. At once, I’m both relieved and livid—abandoned, even if by choice. I grab my phone and start typing.

  Me: I finally read the article. Fresno toddler shoots mom …

  After I hit Send, I jam a tissue against my moist eye sockets. The phone pings back almost immediately.

  Robert: Are you okay?

  Me: Not really.

  Robert: Want me to call you?

  I bite my thumbnail.

  Robert: Are you alone?

  Robert: You shouldn’t be alone.

  Me: I’m at Gabby’s.

  Robert: Okay, so I won’t call?

  I flip the phone around a few times against my stomach, then sigh.

  Me: Not tonight. I’m kinda fragile. Pretty sure I’d just cry.

  There’s a pause, and I start to wonder if the concept of messy emotions scared him off. But then Robert sends a GIF of a young Leonardo DiCaprio, bawling his eyes out. An unexpected snort rumbles out of me.

  Me: Are you making fun of me?

  Robert: No!

  Robert: Sorry. I was trying to commiserate. I thought teenagers loved GIFs.

  I send a thinking-face emoji.

  Robert: Am I trying too hard?

  Keeping in theme, I reply with a GIF of Leo tilting his palm side to side.

  Robert: You sure you don’t want me to call?

  Me: No. I just wanted you to know. Everything you said was true.

  I stare out the window. Eyelids heavier than bricks, heartbeat slowing. My phone slips through my fingers as I let my eyes close, jostled open again by another text.

  Robert: I think she was asleep.

  That wakes me up. I grip the phone tighter, blinking away drowsiness.

  Me: You do?

  Robert: I really do.

  Robert: At least, I really have to.

  Me: It’s all I can think about.

  Robert: I know.

  I like that—that he knows. In a way that no one else in my life possibly can.

  Robert: You know it wasn’t your fault, right?

  Me: That’s what people keep telling me.

  Robert: People can be right.

  Me: People can be a lot of things.

  Me: Kids can be murderers.

  Robert: Don’t think like that. As your father, I forbid it.

  A second later, he sends a GIF of Oprah scowling.

  It gets a tiny smile out of me. Grateful for him to be trying so hard, after he tried so little. I pull the edge of the blanket over my shoulder, burrowing my head back against the pillows. The girls won’t miss me. In fact, they deserve a break. A chance to talk behind my back. It’s the least I can give them. I yawn again and send my favorite GIF of a baby panda falling asleep.

  Robert: Good idea. Get some rest.

  Robert: Good night, Joey.

  I insert a sleeping-face emoji and delete it. I write Good night, Dad, and delete that too. Is he even waiting for a response? Has he already turned off his phone and gone back to watching TV? Maybe I’m the only one stressing. The thing is, I know what I want to write.

  But what if he doesn’t write: I love you too?

  16

  “There you are,” Gran huffs. She holds her Bible like an infant, close to her chest. “You said you’d leave Gabby’s right after breakfast. Did you get stuck in traffic?”

  “No, I—”

  “Come on, then. Grandpa and I have been waiting for you.”

  She takes hold of my elbow, coaxing me away from the large picture windows at the back of the Baptist church. I’ve been lingering here for the past ten minutes, roasting in a room pumped hot enough to keep eighty-year-olds warm, watching a bird try to peck worms from the frozen-solid earth outside. I bite my thumbnail as Gran whisks me down the aisle. Past the Bennetts, snapping at their five unruly kids, past this chick I recognize from Santa Fe High with her perma-yawn and last night’s crumbling mascara. The only people legit happy to be here are the oldies, all decked out in their pearls and pressed suits. For them, this is the best day of the week. For me, it’s the one-week anniversary of my own personal Armageddon, and I can feel it on my skin like poison oak. Maybe church is where I deserve to be. Under God’s watchful eye, getting fire-and-brimstoned in my itchy wool dress and Docs.

  “Big crowd today,” Gran whispers over her shoulder.

  Her navy skirt whooshes against her pantyhose as she walks toward the front of the room. In the fourth row, Grandpa sits hunched and dozing, head bobbing up abruptly as Gran parks herself next to him.

  “I found her in the back,” she tells him. “Daydreaming.”

  “I was thinking,” I mutter. “I’m allowed to think.”

  “There’s my girl!” Grandpa leans around Gran and gives my kneecap a pinch. “You find a good parking spot? We got in right next to Pastor Thompson. Second best spot in the lot.”

  “Nice.” I nearly smile but then clench my jaw, resuming my scowl. He lied to me too—he’s just harder to hate. “I’m parked by the road.”

  He nods, not catching my mood shift or at least not challenging it.

  After that, the keyboardist takes her seat, and Pastor Thompson, in a boxy, gray suit, makes his way up to the pulpit. He’s morphed into a real dough boy in the past few years, but he’s still young, still giddy to be sharing his love for the Lord. And camping. Nine out of ten sermons include anecdotes about having the patience to erect a tent or how to find God’s bounty in a star-strewn sky.

  “Well, good morning!” he calls out to us. “Y’all feel like worshiping the Lord with me today?”

  Gentle nods and laughter spin out around the room. Babies cry, kids cough. The choir stands to sing the usual hymns. Pastor Thompson reads Psalm 3. We open our Bibles to Ephesians, which we’ve been studying since before Christmas—some weird bullshit about God and the Church being in love; how they’re devoted like a married couple. I don’t know. Chapter six is the last chapter, thank God, and Pastor Thompson brings the microphone to his thin lips as he reads the first few verses.

  “ ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor your father and mother—which is the first commandment with a promise—so that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on earth. Fathers, do not exasperate your children; instead bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.’ ”

  A bunch of people start amen-ing. Pastor T segues into a story about scolding his youngest son, Matt, for drawing on the walls with a Sharpie. It’s a real #same moment for the moms in the room, but all I can think about is the vers
e. God’s decree that we obey our parents. That if we could just manage to honor them, we might live long, happy lives.

  Low down in my throat, a lump takes shape. I swallow, concentrating hard on Pastor Thompson. The guilt he felt for reprimanding Matt, how God entrusted him to raise his kids right, and it’s up to both father and son to follow through. The story has a happy ending, full of understanding and recognition. He pauses to grin at his cherubic little son, fidgeting in the first row. Three years old, feet dangling off the bench as he nestles close to his mommy. Three years old and capable of honoring his parents, not killing them.

  Pastor Thompson paces, his volume increasing, mimicking the throb of my heart. My eyes unfocus, and his body becomes a metronome before the cross. Again, I think about Jesus. How He got his money’s worth, dying for my sins.

  We sing “Christ Is All I Need,” and my mouth goes dry and metallic. Sweat moistens my armpits, soaking into my bra. A pulsing-guilt kind of heat, sticky and stuck to my core. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the room only spins faster, heart lurching, breath thin. The more he talks, the more damned I feel. Judged and scorned and—something else, though. For a few unfamiliar seconds, my guilt grows weak, replaced by a nagging rage in the pit of my stomach. I mean, because, God knew, right? He saw me grab that gun and didn’t stop me from pulling the trigger.

  I mean, what kind of bullshit is that, God?

  “Amen,” people say all around me, but I can’t. A lightning bolt is too busy crashing into my soul. I gasp for air, pushing my hymnal off my knees and onto the floor.