by Roger Bruner
Not that I’d ever thought of Dad as strong—or weak. I’d never known him that well. Not emotionally. But I was determined to do something about that now.
If I ever got over my own grief—I couldn’t imagine that would ever happen—I’d do everything I could to close the gap between Dad and me. I would take good care of him and show him how much he needed me. How much we needed each other. Mom was gone, but neither of us had to feel helplessly alone.
Still, the thought of playing cook, laundress, and maid to my father made me feel far older than eighteen. The idea scared me almost senseless. Had I really matured enough to take my mom’s place in meeting Dad’s day-to-day needs? How
could I hope to run the household the way she had? Could God give me enough patience to put up with Dad’s peculiarities?
On the way home from my life-changing experiences in Mexico, I thought I could do anything within my power to build a better relationship with Dad.
But now? I felt as helpless—as powerless—as he looked and acted.
I stood as far back from the casket as I could. Wishing I could hide in my own little broken world, I stared at the cheapy watch I’d bought on the way to Santa María—now wasn’t the time to have my cell phone out—and wished everyone would go home and leave me alone. But wishing didn’t keep people from finding me, no matter how little I felt like talking with anyone.
With anyone but Aleesha or Betsy Jo, that was.
But Aleesha had gone home to Baltimore. She wept with me over the phone when I called to tell her about Mom’s death. She offered to come be with me, but I told her she didn’t need to.
I could have kicked myself for not saying, “How soon can you get here?”
And Betsy Jo? I didn’t know where she was. Even though I’d been home from Santa María more than forty-eight hours, I hadn’t heard from her. Not even a text message.
Because we’d been best friends almost since birth, her avoidance seemed out of character. If my grief hadn’t made me so self-centered, I might have worried that something was wrong with her.
Then again, Mr. Snelling didn’t mention her when he stopped by to see Dad and me the night of the accident. He came over after midnight because he saw our lights were still on. His concern had been genuine. And obvious.
Although Mrs. Snelling had already gone to bed, she sent
her condolences. At least we felt confident of their support. Their support. But not Betsy Jo’s.
I hated making comparisons, but after growing so close to Aleesha in Mexico, I couldn’t help wondering if she hadn’t become a better best friend than Betsy Jo. Aleesha wasn’t just a good Samaritan.
After drooling once more over the gorgeous flower arrangement she’d sent, I concluded she was the only one.
I wished some of the other teens had come to visitation. It’s not like they had to look at Mom’s body. They couldn’t have, in fact. In spite of the airbag’s futile attempt to protect her, the accident had disfigured her face and upper body so horribly that Dad wouldn’t even let me see her.
The mortician had done his best to reconstruct her basic features, Dad explained before insisting that I’d be better off remembering Mom the way she looked the last time I saw her. I begged him to change his mind, but he wouldn’t, and he went along with the funeral director’s recommendation to keep the casket closed during visitation.
Nobody should see Mom looking like that. Everyone should remember her the way she’d looked in life.
Although I made Dad promise to take a picture of Mom in the casket and show it to me when I turned twenty-one, the frustration was overwhelming. I just wanted to go home, bury my head under the covers, and hope I’d awaken to find that the events of the past few days had all been an unspeakable nightmare.
Maybe I’d wake up and find myself still sitting on top of the luggage cart at the airport.
Why did people say such irritating, thoughtless things to the bereaved? Didn’t they know not to resort to useless clichés? Aleesha had been different, though. When I told her not to
come, she’d said, “But I want to. I love you.”
That was all she said, because she knew she didn’t need to say more. She didn’t need to elaborate. She cried with me on the phone, and that said it all. Aleesha wasn’t the kind of girl who cried about unimportant things.
During the first hour of visitation, I must’ve heard “What a terrible loss” twenty times. Those people sounded like they were talking about their loss—not mine. Who gives a rip about you people? I just want my mom back!
I remembered a poem I’d memorized years before.
“When you give up Something you love dearly And do it willingly, They call it a sacrifice And pat you on the back. When something you love Is taken away from you And you have no choice, They call it a loss And pat you on the back. “
Those words hadn’t made sense at the time. Now they did.
At least a dozen older ladies said, “She was still so young …”
Maybe she’d seemed young to them, but she was—she had been—old enough to be my one and only mother.
Eight people—maybe ten—said, “Your mom’s at home with Jesus now.” A few said, “Our loss, Terri’s gain.” Several of them had almost sounded jealous because they weren’t the ones to leave this broken earth. One woman actually admitted feeling that way.
Her honesty had been so refreshing I smiled at her. In agreement.
Although I’d only heard, “I don’t know what the choir will be like without Terri” three times so far, most of the choir members hadn’t made it over to my little corner yet. I was bound to hear that lament plenty of times more.
In spite of their best intentions, I wanted to scream, “The choir? I don’t know what my life will be like without Mom—period. “
I lost count of the people who said, “Let me know if I can do anything for you.”
Their offers sounded kind. Sincere. But I didn’t want nonspecific help. And none of them could have done what I needed most and brought Mom back.
Maybe I shouldn’t have felt so resentful, but most of those offers came from people who could have helped without making us ask for it. After getting to know Dad better the past several days, I felt positive he would agree with me. Neither of us was apt to request anyone’s assistance.
That’s why I grinned big-time when someone handed me a large index card neatly printed with her name, address, phone number, and e-mail. Even Twitter and Facebook. Her offer was generous. “People have brought you lots of food,” she said. “That leaves you with lots of dirty dishes. I’ll pick them up, wash them, and return them to their owners for you. If I don’t hear from you in a couple of days, I’ll give you a call.”
Almost immediately after that, while still basking in the thoughtfulness of her offer, I heard the most thoughtless comment of all. From each of two different people at that.
“I know how you feel.”
Not “I can imagine how you feel” or “I can’t imagine …” or “I don’t want to imagine …”
Even if those two women had actually lost a parent in an auto accident, I’ll bet they didn’t have any reason to feel guilty about it.
But I did.
chapter seven
I need to ask you some questions about the accident,” the policeman said half an hour before the funeral service. Great timing … grrr.
When he opened his notebook—why haven’t you told us your name, sir?—I scooted closer to Dad. Although I wanted him to put his arm around my shoulder, he didn’t. So I took his hand in mine. Our hands were closer to the same size than I’d realized.
His eyes opened wide. My display of affection must have really caught him off guard.
“We need each other, Dad,” I whispered as quietly as I could. The policeman, a stranger to both of us, didn’t deserve to share that special moment, but we couldn’t control that.
Dad squeezed my hand, and I started crying. Never overtly affectionate, he’d just done s
omething warmer and more loving than I could ever remember him doing before.
“Mr. Hartlinger … Ms. Hartlinger,” the officer said, keeping his eyes on his notebook instead of making eye contact with either of us, “I’m sorry about your loss.”
Oh, yeah? Then why have you come here today right before the funeral service?
“This won’t take but a couple of minutes.”
I’d seen some of the ancient Dragnet series reruns, and this guy had that emotionless Sgt. Joe Friday “Just the facts, ma’am” tone down pat.
He started reading from his notebook. “Mrs. Hartlinger was apparently going at a high rate of speed when she hit
a slick spot on the highway, jumped a drainage ditch, and smashed into a nearby tree. She died instantly.”
As thankful as I was Mom hadn’t suffered, his deadpan—ugh! what a choice of words—description made the accident seem all too real. Unnecessarily so.
“Her cell phone was in her left hand—”
“Terri is …” Dad caught himself. “She was right-handed. So she held her phone in her left hand when she was using it.”
The officer scribbled something in his notebook. I couldn’t imagine what Mom’s handedness had to do with his investigation. In fact, I had no idea what this investigation was all about, anyhow, but I wasn’t about to prolong an already-agonizing conversation by asking.
“Does she always talk on the phone while driving?”
Does? Present tense? Yeah sure, mister. But only if they have phones and cars in heaven.
“No,” I said before Dad could answer. “She didn’t … she wouldn’t let me do it, either. She said it was against the law.”
The officer smiled at me. His need for dental work reminded me of Millie Q at Dallas/Fort Worth. I wondered if she would have seemed more sympathetic than him. Probably not.
Is that what this is all about—gathering statistics about cell phone usage and fatal accidents?
“We checked with your wireless carrier—”
Dad cocked his head.
“She was listening to voice mail at the time of the accident.”
What? You mean she might have been listening to my message when she lost control of the car?
I’d considered the possibility before—I’d fretted myself nearly sick over it—but now that I had a reason to take my fears more seriously, the muscles of my face tightened and the perspiration started dribbling down my forehead into my eyes. A major headache struck like an unexpected bolt of lightning,
and I could only imagine how red my face had turned.
I thought I’d pass out, but I didn’t. I thought I might throw up, but that didn’t happen, either. Although the amount of acid that shot upward into my throat might have been small, it gagged me so much I started coughing. I couldn’t stop for a number of minutes, and the leftover taste of bile was indescribably bitter.
I unwrapped a stick of gum as fast as I could, rolled it up, and threw it in my mouth. The sweetness neutralized the bitterness a little bit, but not enough. I hoped I could find a bottle of mouthwash—or at least a breath mint—before the service started. Maybe Pastor Ron had something in his office. Or Senior Pastor Cecil in his.
I had no idea whether criminals suffered remorse for their crimes—or how much—but I couldn’t imagine even the most penitent criminal suffering more guilt than I was. After all, I’d killed my mother by leaving that voice mail, and I couldn’t undo the damage or bring her back.
No one would ever prosecute me for my “crime,” though. No one would need to. I’d spend a lifetime punishing myself.
The cop tapped his pencil against his notebook.
“Mrs. Hartinger—”
My mom is dead. Don’t you even care enough to pronounce her name correctly? “Hartlinger,” I said. I didn’t try to hide my aggravation. “With an L. Terri Hartlinger.”
He glanced at his notebook and shrugged. “Yeah, Hartlinger. Sorry.”
If his tone was any indication, he didn’t mean, “I’m sorry I mispronounced your mother’s name. “Just, “I’m sorry you noticed, and I wish you hadn’t said anything about it. “
“Was”—he checked his notebook before trying to pronounce it again—”was Mrs. Hartlinger in the habit of exceeding the speed limit? From the testimony of several
witnesses and the physical evidence, we place her speed at about seventy-seven. That’s twelve miles over the limit for the road she was on. Drivers using cell phones sometimes accelerate without realizing it.”
I wanted to say, “So you plan to give her a posthumous speeding ticket? How about arresting her for trespassing on the property where she landed and giving her another ticket for littering by leaving her car and body there?”
But I bit my tongue and answered him as calmly as I could. “Mom was a conservative driver.” Dad seemed relieved to have me answer so many of the cop’s questions. “I don’t know about speeding up while on a cell phone, but she normally stayed under the speed limit. She was coming to pick me up from the airport, and she must have been running late.”
Officer Unknown scribbled a few more notes.
“We sometimes teased her about being a slowpoke,” Dad said. Although he was super-clean-shaven today, I couldn’t help noticing a single teardrop colliding with a single piece of stubble and splitting in two. “We often had trouble making her go the speed limit.”
“Oh.” He jotted a little more in his notebook. “What about her other driving habits?”
Dad and I looked at one another.
“What do you mean?” I don’t recall which of us asked.
“Did she drive one-handed very often? Did she have much experience driving on wet pavement? Things like that.”
“Officer,” Dad said with a degree of patience I couldn’t have faked nearly as convincingly, “my wife was an experienced driver and a good one.” He glanced at his watch. “If you have more questions, they’ll have to wait until after the funeral service. And the burial.”
Long after. Like years from now.
Officer Unknown must have caught me looking at him
resentfully. He looked me in the eye and frowned. He knew. I could tell.
That unfeeling policeman who’d never bothered to tell us his name might not have written it down in his little notebook, but he knew I’d killed Mom.
chapter eight
I got up to answer the doorbell. The number of visitors had been trickling down, although neighbors and church members still kept us well supplied with food. The lady who’d offered to wash those containers had seriously underestimated what she was in for. She’d already picked up dirty casserole dishes twice.
I looked through the peephole. Betsy Jo. Finally … Ordinarily, she and I would have hugged the instant she walked in the door, but neither of us made an effort to. It almost seemed like she was staying out of hugging distance on purpose.
“Kim …” Betsy Jo couldn’t look me in the eye. We sat down at opposite ends of the sofa. She cleared her throat. “How was your mis—?”
“You must be Betsy Jo Snelling,” a grinning Aleesha Jefferson cut off what sounded like an inappropriately timed question about the mission trip. “I’ve heard all about you, but—if we’re going to become friends—I’m calling you Jo. Life’s too short to say Betsy Jo every time.” She shook her head playfully—as if flipping her short haircut this way and that.
I knew what she was thinking. Southern girls and those two-part names. I often laughed at that myself.
Betsy Jo apparently missed the sarcastic overtones, though. She wasn’t any better at catching subtleties than Aleesha was at avoiding them, and I could tell Aleesha was just warming up.
I couldn’t blame her, though. She’d shocked the daylights out of me by showing up for Mom’s funeral after all. I’d
expected Betsy Jo to come, yet she hadn’t. No wonder Aleesha had spoken some harsh words to me about my supposedly best friend’s lack of support. “Who are—?”
“I�
�m Aleesha Jefferson. You’ve heard of me?” As if Aleesha were already a famous actor. She’d given me grief one time for saying actress.
I thought I’d crack up. Jo—I followed Aleesha’s lead about shortening Betsy Jo’s spoken name—wouldn’t have known anything about Aleesha yet unless she’d come to see me and learned about the trip.
Aleesha reached out for a handshake—she must have concluded Jo wasn’t a high-five kind of girl—but Jo didn’t reciprocate. So Aleesha reached down and fist bumped her. She didn’t let people ignore her unless she wanted them to.
Jo’s frown could have frozen the entire Atlantic Ocean. Instantly.
“Kim and I became close friends in Mexico.” Aleesha emphasized the word close.
Jo squinted at her and then looked at me. A question mark shadowed her face. Although this encounter with an outgoing stranger had obviously shocked her, I wondered if there was more to her reaction than that.
So I remained silent and waited to see what would happen. Aleesha was in control of the conversation. She had no choice. Since she’d been the only one talking so far, she just kept on going.
“I hadn’t been home from Mexico but a few hours when Kim called to tell me about her mother’s accident.”
“Aleesha cried with me over the phone,” I said, hoping to force Jo to say something about Mom’s death. “She offered to come down from Baltimore immediately to help any way she could, even though she’d only just gotten home herself.
I thanked her, but told her not to bother. As you can see, she loves me so much she ignored me.”
Yeah, Jo. I told Aleesha I didn’t need her to come because I’d have you to lean on. What happened?
“Kim was on the phone with me again when your father stopped by to express your parents’ condolences. Kim, you said Jo wasn’t with him, right?”
Aleesha’s bite was as sharp as her memory. She wasn’t about to let Jo get away with her failure to behave like a best friend.
