“What does that mean? You cry a lot?”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “A shit-ton. But don’t tell anybody. I’m not that evolved.”
“Your secret is safe,” I tell him.
Seconds pass and my lip begins to tremble, tears welling up in my eyes. I swallow back the lump in my throat and will my voice not to sound fragile. “I should probably go.”
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Talk to me all night. I want us to fall asleep listening to the sound of each other’s voices.”
“What about the fire?”
“Fuck the fire. You’re more important. I’ll crank the thermostat.”
“Okay.” My stomach does that queasy clench thing again, and I bury my head in the pillow, exhaling a travel day’s worth of pent-up energy. “Tell me something. Anything.”
“Hmm,” he says slowly. “Oh! Have you looked in your backpack yet?”
“What?”
“Your backpack,” he says, his voice playful. “In the front zipper pocket.”
“Wait.” I cringe. “Are you talking about my school bag?”
“Yeah?”
I pause, waiting for him to get it. And then, he says, “Oooooh. You didn’t bring it.”
“I’m sorry!” I yelp. Then gasp. “Oh shit, what did you put in there? Tell me you didn’t get me a kitten or something.”
“What?” He snorts with laughter. “Did you want a suffocated kitten?”
“No! I’m just trying to gauge how bad I should feel for leaving my Fjällräven at home.”
“Wait, that’s how you say that word? You sound so sexy right now. Say it again.”
I clear my throat, lowering my voice. “Fee-y’all-rrrare-ven.”
“Damn,” he murmurs.
“But seriously. What the fuck is rotting in my backpack right now?”
“Well,” he croaks. “I kind of, um, wrote you a song.”
“Really?” I squeal into the phone, because, are you serious right now???
“Don’t freak out too much. It’s still rough.”
“Milo,” I say, my voice breaking. “Will you sing it to me?”
“I’m not really a singer. That was my friend, Andrew, back home. But I guess I could. Promise not to laugh?”
“Of course,” I whisper.
He clears his throat. I hear a door click shut. I picture him settling down on his bed, putting the phone on speaker, pulling his guitar into his lap. My whole body tenses. Excitement, bliss, dizziness—a royal wedding’s worth of confetti feelings.
And then, holy shit.
My boyfriend sings me to sleep with a song that will go down in history.
45
Before today, I’ve never been to a cemetery for, like, legit cemetery reasons. Once, on Halloween, in our Ghostbusters coveralls and back-strapped DustBusters, Leah convinced us to have a séance for this stranger named Agnes Carlita Reyes-Dimas because she liked the rose carvings on her headstone. Agnes’s spirit was never successfully summoned, but I can’t help thinking about her now, as a thousand headstones watch me from within the walls of the Little Rock cemetery. How close had we been that Halloween night? Minutes, seconds away from reaching Agnes on the other side?
I bite my lip and think about turning back—grabbing a bunch of vanilla-scented candles from the drugstore and setting them up around my mom’s grave. But we’re already here, my grandparents walking a few steps ahead. Gran somehow managed to remove Robert’s blood from her peach-colored dress; Grandpa’s in a navy two-piece suit. Is this what they looked like at the funeral? All buttoned-up and ironed. Was Grandpa one of those pallbearer guys? Was my father? A peppermint chill crawls up my spine as I try to picture myself in the midst of it—pigtailed and sucking my thumb, Kenny the Kangaroo dragging at my feet.
I grip a bouquet of white carnations because they’re what Gran said is appropriate. Carnations don’t feel appropriate. They feel generic. Hallmark, rather than a handwritten note.
Walking along cracks in the path makes my soul wheeze. Part of me yearns for a Xanax, or a frying pan to whack over my head, but it’s better that I don’t. My mother deserves my full attention.
“JoJo?”
I tear my eyes off a grave covered in calla lilies. My grandparents are twenty steps ahead, stopped in front of a simple, gray headstone. Heavy, dazed frowns burden their lips.
“We’re here,” Grandpa says. “It’s this one.”
I nod, hanging back at first, observing their stoic silhouettes. Hunched shoulders, heads lowered in prayer. Something like jealousy pinches the base of my spine. I envy their memories. Gran turns, maybe sensing my eyes on her back. Her own eyes glisten. With a silk handkerchief, she dabs the corners of her eyes, then motions for me.
“Come on over, sweetheart,” she says, voice strained. “Take a minute to yourself.”
“What about these?” I ask, raising the flowers.
She pats the top of the headstone and then disappears behind me. The whole rest of the world seems to vanish.
“Hi, Mom,” I say awkwardly. So awkwardly as I cradle my elbows.
Instead of looming over a weathered slab of stone, I sit beside it, crossing my legs and reaching for a tuft of brittle grass. Below her name and twenty-five years on earth, it says: Loving mother, devoted daughter, and faithful friend.
“I bet you were a great friend,” I mumble, trying not to feel too weird talking out loud to a piece of stone. “My best friends are Leah Fromowitz and Gabby Sinclair. We’ve been this, like, ridiculous threesome since kindergarten—Teddy Bear Club, marshmallow taffy crew. Gabby’s the brains, the sensible one. Leah’s all heart. I’m the weird one, I guess. The one who makes too many jokes and wears funky clothes—like this. I actually made this dress. For you, for today.”
I lean back, smoothing out the black rayon and running my hands along a gold zipper sliding at an angle from chest to hem. Mo’ Tizzy is draped over the dress, keeping me warm.
“It’s a bit more formal than I’m used to making. My style’s usually edgier. I love skirts you can spin in. One-shoulder tops are probably the easiest, and they look rad. I made the coolest mod dress with big lace pockets for Christmas. Pleats are hard, but I’m getting better.”
I sigh, glancing over my shoulder. “Gran and Grandpa brought me here. I still can’t believe it. Y’know, they didn’t even tell me about you?” I pause, tossing a big clump of grass onto my Docs. “Dad tracked me down. He blurted the whole thing out one afternoon. Like, Hey, you shot and killed your mom. Want a latte?”
A breeze picks up, and I imagine her voice. Light and soft as daisies. I imagine her asking about him, about our reunion.
“It was nice at first, getting to know him. He says he loves me, but I don’t know. It’s hard to love someone who abandoned you.”
I sniff. Gearing up, getting the nerve. The mound of grass slides off my foot as I sink closer to the ground. Fetal position, fingers tracing over her name as my lower lip quivers.
“I don’t remember any of it. I’ve tried to relive that day and how I could do something like that. But I can’t.”
I wait for a response, but her voice in my mind goes still.
“Are you mad at me?”
Yes, she whispers. And it kills me.
But this is my fantasy, my imagination. Even beyond that, I can feel the truth in my soul. A mother’s love. My mother loved me. So, instead of yes, she says, No, sweet girl. I could never be mad at you.
Hot tears saturate my eyes. I try to hold them in, blinking up at wisps of cotton-candy clouds as they brush across the sky. Somewhere inside me, a knot unties and floats up toward them.
“I saw the baby book you made for me. Gran kept it. I got to see your handwriting and learn what was important to you about me. I wish you’d had the chance to fill a hundred more pages.”
I shake my head. “I mean, no, that’s not what I wish. I wish you were still here. You have no idea how much I miss you.”
Water drizzles from my eyes, sid
eways down my temples as my body curls around her headstone.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper again. “I used to think your death was just an accident. I mean, an actual accident. Now that I know it was my fault, it’s like I can’t breathe anymore. There’s not a single second that goes by that I don’t hate myself. I think about how I could have found a gun under the bed. And then picked it up. How could I do that? How did I not know what it was?
“Did you wake up and see me? Or try to stop me? You must have been so scared,” I sob. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
I’m crying too hard to keep talking. Rough but quiet, out of respect for the dead. I want her to tell me she was fast asleep, that she didn’t feel a thing, didn’t wake up or see that it was her own daughter pulling the trigger.
A palm presses against my shoulder blade, and I gasp.
“Mom?”
“No, sweetheart. It’s your grandma.”
I look up, smearing salty tears onto the sleeve of my sweater. Gran helps me sit up and picks stray grass from my hair.
“We don’t have to leave,” she says softly. “You take all the time in the world that you need. I wasn’t sure if you were having a panic attack. If you needed me.”
It takes me a minute to control my breath. So long that Gran starts walking away.
“Don’t go,” I call after her. “I do need you.”
Her smile is faint. She kneels beside me so I can rest my head on her lap, and it feels good, the way she combs her fingers through my hair. With Gran here, I won’t talk out loud anymore, but I imagine saying all the things I still need to say. A swell of apologies and regrets.
Forever the two of us linger, Gran humming and stroking my hair. Her voice gentle as the breeze. I stare at my mother’s grave through tears, and a warm calm begins to wash over me. As if I can feel myself floating up into the sky, able to look down on the whole cemetery. From up there, everything looks peaceful. Like I really might be able to move on. My mother’s death will always be a part of me, but she doesn’t want me to carry that weight forever.
I lift my head, drying my eyes with Gran’s handkerchief.
“You ready to go?” she asks.
Before I say anything, I wait for the familiar wave of guilt to roll through me and turn toxic … but it doesn’t. I feel okay. I am settled. With a deep breath, I rise to my feet and help Gran up too.
“I’m ready.”
AUTHOR'S NOTE
In December of 2014, when most of my time was spent nursing a newborn and playing dolls with my four-year-old, I read the headline that an Idaho toddler had accidentally shot and killed his mother. Veronica Rutledge, twenty-nine, was shopping at Walmart when her two-year-old son found a 9 mm handgun in her purse and fired one bullet that went straight into her head.
It was an awful, shocking, tragic story, though nowhere near the first of its kind. Still, it stuck with me. Maybe because everything relating to kids feels so raw and magnified when you become a parent. You can’t help but think of your own kids and picture it happening to them. Maybe that’s why, after the news cycle moved on, I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about the mother, described as a kind, loving, outdoorsy person. Couldn’t stop picturing the blurred image of her son, whose name was omitted from news reports. How excruciating for the father to have to explain it. For that child to have to grow up knowing that he took his own mother’s life. What a horrible cross to bear.
I think about my own kids and how they basically forget everything. That epic meltdown my daughter had about an umbrella when she was three? No memory of it. My son’s black eye from bumping into the bed frame or our three-week trip to South Africa? Not a clue. They were too young. They forgot. For better or worse, kids forget. So, I let myself wonder. What if some of these kids have no idea what they did? What if nobody told them and they were allowed to forget?
I wondered so much that I started researching and looking for proof. But, there was none. Because, the thing is, these unnamed, blurry-pictured kids are minors. Their parents are regular people. Before this happened to them they weren’t in the news, and they weren’t in the news after. And I’m glad, because these families deserve their privacy and their anonymity.
So, instead, I wrote this book. I must have read a hundred stories of children who accidentally shot a parent, a sibling, a friend, or themselves. As of 2018, in a survey by the Journal of Urban Health, 4.6 million children were living in homes with loaded, unlocked guns. When I wrote the first draft of this book in 2016, guns were the third-leading cause of death among children. As I write this author’s note in 2020, they are the second. This is our reality. Guns are everywhere.
Johanna’s story is a what-if. One version, one sliver of maybe, because I really do hope it is a possibility. Maybe it isn’t realistic to imagine that some of these kids grow up in ignorance—and not the blissful kind, because they have still lost a loved one, may still have holes in their hearts and minds—but wouldn’t it be nice if they had the chance to grow up free from guilt?
For all the children who do know, I think about you a lot. I hope you are healing and that you have found a way to move on. I am so sorry for what you went through. I wish you peace and closure, and I wish that preventable accidents involving gun violence may one day come to an end.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Lauren Galit, you sold my book! You are truly the world’s greatest agent. Ever since our first email exchange when I wrote, “Fingers crossed that you like my book!” and you replied, “Uncross and let’s talk,” you have given me a sense of self-worth that I never dreamed possible. I am forever indebted to you and the incomparable Caitlen Rubino-Bradway. Thank you for believing in me, encouraging me, and for replying to every email, no matter how small.
The hugest of thank-yous to my brilliant editor, Mary Kate Castellani. You got this book from the moment you read it. Your keen eye and kindness have made this process a true joy. And to the incredible Bloomsbury team, heaps of gratitude to Cindy Loh, Claire Stetzer, Anna Bernard, Lily Yengle, Courtney Griffin, Erica Barmash, Valentina Rice, Jasmine Miranda, Faye Bi, Erica Loberg, Phoebe Dyer, Beth Eller, Danielle Ceccolini, Donna Mark, Diane Aronson, Christa Désir, and Bhuvaneshwari Ramaswamy, along with everyone else, as well as cover illustrator Adams Carvalho, for your creativity, hard work, and all-around awesomeness in bringing this book to life.
To my husband, Andy. You may be a “doctor,” but you are also an exceptional reader, adviser, and father. Thanks for giving me so much time to write, so many laughs, so much love, and the two best kids on earth. Trix, thank you for your fantastic comments and feedback. Harvey, if you could read, I know you would have put in your remarkable two cents too. I love you both more than anything and wish the world for you.
To my sister, India—from our occasionally matching outfits to our aching fits of laughter—BC, BU, because. I am lucky and honored to have you in my corner. To my oldest friend, Julia Ain-Krupa, thank you for listening to me cry. To Amy Hondo, for being my bestie since L&T. To Nellie Harari, for helping me breathe. To my fellow writers in the PSCWW, thank you for sharing your talent and improving mine. To my early readers—Veronica Vega at Salt & Sage Books, Janira Bremner, Carrie Esposito, and Lindsay Schlegal—I am grateful for your eyes and insights.
Thank you to the writing community. I am indebted to the support of the Roaring 20s group and calmed by the wisdom of authors like Brigid Kemmerer, Amanda Maciel, Wendy McLeod MacKnight, and Phil Stamper. And to my hypothetical legal team, Erin Smith Dennis and Ben Zemen, if I ever actually need a lawyer, I’m calling one of you.
To my parents, Claudia and Jon, you have always supported and championed me tirelessly (and I mean tirelessly—you must be exhausted). Thank you for passing on the writing gene, and for reading my work with an unbiased eye (JK—you are completely biased!). And to my UK family, thank you for cheering me on from across the pond, lo these many years.
So many amazing friends
have shared in my excitement over selling/publishing this book! Thank you to everyone in the 505 (including the town itself, and the now-defunct Baja for their amazing Frito pie), Bard (and Bard-extensions), Brooklyn Mamas, MSS, BPCS, BND, GG/S&S, and BoA. You are the people who bring me out of my shell, and, for that, I am eternally grateful.
To the countless organizations supporting commonsense gun laws, thank you for your statistics, your perseverance, and your dedication to protecting the safety of our families and communities. And to Miranda Viscoli, copresident of New Mexicans to Prevent Gun Violence—from education and murals to turning guns into gardening tools—thank you for fighting the good fight.
Lastly—and more than anything—I would like to offer my heartfelt sympathy and support to all victims of gun violence.
BLOOMSBURY YA
Bloomsbury Publishing Inc., part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018
BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
First published in the United States of America in July 2020 by Bloomsbury YA
Copyright © 2020 by Alex Richards
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Bloomsbury books may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at [email protected]
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Richards, Alex, author.
Title: Accidental / by Alex Richards.
Description: New York : Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2020.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Jo must decide whether to trust her estranged father or the grandparents who raised her but hid the truth about the way her mother died when Jo was only two.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019048182 (print) | LCCN 2019048183 (e-book)
Accidental Page 26
