Nothing scandalous is happening on my phone. All it does is buzz with questions about Jacob and with alerts whenever someone posts on the brain-injury-parenting blogs I follow. People have been texting me since seven, and I wish I had something to tell them. My thoughts chase themselves, plummeting from worries about Jacob to panic about my committed marriage being exposed as a lie.
The elevator at the end of the hall opens, and Andrew and Dr. Merck step out without Jacob.
“I had the nurses hold Jacob behind so that we could have a few minutes to speak in private,” Dr. Merck says as they reach me. He motions to Jacob’s room. “Why don’t we talk in there?”
“Do you mind if we stay out here?” I ask. I’ve had enough of those four walls.
He eyes the empty hallway to make sure there’s no one around before nodding his agreement. “I’ve had a look at Jacob’s scans and already sent them over to Dr. Gervais for review, but I’m sure he’ll agree with my determination that there’s no changes in his brain activity.”
He delivers the news, then gives it a chance to settle. So many emotions surge through me—relief, fear, guilt, hopelessness, love—the list is endless, and I flip through all of them without landing on any particular one.
“He’s brain dead and the likelihood of any recovery is nil. You’ll need to decide how to proceed from here.” He says it in the mechanical way he does when he’s checking an item off his mental to-do list.
How to proceed from here? We aren’t supposed to be making any more difficult choices. Ours are done. We signed all the papers—the ones giving the team of doctors consent to withdraw his support and not provide any lifesaving measures. The risks of the procedure had been described in detail, and we’d initialed each line next to the warnings.
“What are we supposed to do?” Andrew asks.
“There’s no right or wrong answer. All parents are different, and each situation is unique,” he says in a noncommittal tone.
I look at Andrew’s pained expression and grasp his hand. Our palms stick together with sweat. Neither of us wants to ask any of the hard questions.
“When they bring him back up, we can administer pain medication if you’d like, or we can wait until he begins exhibiting symptoms and see if he needs it. His contractions might be mild, and he won’t even need the medication. The only issue with waiting is that the medication tends to be less effective if you wait until after he’s in the throes of it.”
“So are you saying it’s better to give him the medication now?” I ask.
“It’s up to you.”
If it were up to me, Jacob would get up and start walking around the room. We would gather our things and go home like none of this had happened. That’s what I want. I look to Andrew for help. He reads the agony in my eyes.
“We don’t want him to be in pain,” he says. He’s unshaven and bleary eyed from being up all night.
Dr. Merck gives us a clipped nod. “We’ll begin administering the pain medication, then.”
The elevator sounds from the end of the hallway, and an orderly steps out with Jacob. He pushes him down the hallway to us. Jacob’s orange Naruto socks poke out from underneath the blanket covering him. The floor rushes up to meet me as they get closer, and a sense of impending doom overtakes me at the thought of going back in his room. I lean against the wall, steadying myself until the world stops spinning.
“Can we take him outside?” I have no idea where the idea comes from. I just blurt it out without any thinking.
“There’d be no reason for you not to. He’s—”
I don’t wait for him to finish.
“I want to take him outside.” The urgency in my voice grows more intense. I move in front of the gurney, making it difficult for them to pass by. “We’ll take him from here,” I announce in a commanding voice.
The orderly is a big, thick guy with a large, pockmarked nose and small green eyes that he quickly shifts to Dr. Merck for approval. Dr. Merck nods his consent, and the orderly retreats like a soldier who’s just been given an order, leaving the three of us in a semicircle around Jacob’s gurney. We stare down at him. New hair grows in patches around his scar.
“Hi, Jacob, we missed you,” Andrew pipes up.
Maybe all he needs is to be out of this hospital and underneath the sky with the sun shining on his face. What if his soul left his body and is out there waiting for him in the open space? Tears work their way up my throat. “Please, can we just take him outside?”
FORTY-FOUR
KENDRA
Detective Locke came over this afternoon to go over the case, and Paul suggested I make lunch for us like he’s an old family friend, even though he’s destroyed my trust. Paul thinks it might bring us all back together again and help us share information. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’m second-guessing myself as I carry in dishes from the kitchen to the dining room, since Detective Locke has been nothing but awkward since he sat down. The food looks perfect, though. I ordered it from Cecconi’s and put it in my best serving bowls. I smile at my secret as I bring in the last dish: salmon carpaccio. Delicious. This one always gets compliments.
Detective Locke and Paul sit at each end of our long dining table, and I sit in the middle, which only makes the table seem bigger. “Let’s eat.” I plaster a charming housewife smile on my face as I pass Detective Locke the salad bowl.
He takes it from me in the same formal way he does everything. “This all smells and looks delicious.”
Paul doesn’t miss a beat. “We thought it might be easier to talk about things with the case over lunch. At least then we can be more relaxed with each other and don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing or misinterpreting what we’re saying.”
He’s way off script, but I trust him. We’ve closed enough deals together over the years. The three of us pass food around the table, commenting on each dish as it changes hands.
“How are you feeling about things with the case?” I ask even though we just spoke about it this morning. It’s different in an informal setting. Hopefully, he’ll be more open.
“Leads slow down the more time goes on, but we got a good one today.” He reaches for the water beside his plate instead of the wine and takes a sip before continuing. “The timing of our lunch couldn’t be more perfect, because we just received the full toxicology report. It looks like all three of the boys were under the influence of alcohol, cannabis, and Adderall.”
“So we know for sure the boys were on Adderall?” Paul asks like he’s having a hard time believing it.
“Without a doubt,” Detective Locke confirms. “It’s quite the epidemic at Pine Grove. I swear half the teenagers are on it.”
Including Reese, but neither of them knows that. Paul is adamantly opposed to giving kids psychotropic medication, and Reese’s ADHD diagnosis from his pediatrician about a year ago did nothing to sway him on the issue. He was convinced Reese’s academic problems were because he was stubborn and lazy, that he’d do better if he worked harder, but I didn’t agree. He was a mess when it came to anything school related, no matter how hard he tried, and I got nervous he wasn’t going to pass the high school entrance exams for Pine Grove. Siblings aren’t automatically accepted like at many of the private schools in our area, and we needed him to get in with Sawyer. I filled the prescription from his pediatrician without telling Paul or Reese. I already made the boys take a multivitamin in the morning, so he didn’t think anything of it when I added an additional pill to his morning routine. I noticed an immediate difference, and it wasn’t long before his grades reflected it.
We’re supposed to be talking about Sawyer, but all I can think about at the moment is Reese. What happens if he’s taking Adderall on top of the Adderall I’m giving him in secret? Is that why he’s been so difficult lately? How dangerous is it? I force myself to focus.
“Kids use it for all kinds of stuff. Lots of them take it during finals to help them stay focused or during SAT week so they can
stay up and study. But mostly they use it to party.” He takes a bite of the Caesar salad before reaching into the briefcase he placed next to his chair before lunch. He pulls out a stack of papers and thumbs through them. “The levels of chemicals in the boys’ systems were off the charts. They weren’t a little bit messed up—they were wasted. We might never know what happened because nothing makes sense when you’re that loaded.”
What was Sawyer thinking, playing with a gun in that condition? I can’t be too mad at him, though, because how many times did I stumble through the neighbors’ backyards on my way home from a Delta Tau party when I was the same age? We did so many stupid things, like competing over who was the best drunk driver and driving around on the outskirts of town, shooting BB guns at stop signs. We thought it was hilarious.
Detective Locke holds out the papers. “Which one of you wants to see it first?”
Paul jumps up and takes it from him. He crosses to the other side of the room and sits next to me on the bench seat so we can look at it together. He spreads the report out in front of us. All the official signatures and titles are splashed across the top like on all of the formal documents. The date reads two days ago. I point out the date to Paul without saying anything. Again, both of us talked to Detective Locke this morning, and he never mentioned anything about the toxicology report being back.
The first paragraph is a bunch of technical jargon about how the blood was drawn, transferred, and stored. Marijuana and alcohol are clearly positive even to my untrained eye. The amphetamines numbers are high from the Adderall. Nothing else spikes or dips.
“It’s safe to say drugs and alcohol played a role in the incident, probably a major one,” he says, and it’s impossible not to feel like a scolded teenager, but it could’ve happened to anyone. Well, probably not him. I don’t remember seeing Detective Locke at a single party all through high school, and there were parties that almost everyone went to, no matter what group they belonged to. How many times have I done something stupid because I was drunk? Too many to count. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t.
Why us? Is it because our lives were too perfect? I said that to Paul once when we were coming home from one of Sawyer’s soccer games at sunset and traveling down the mountains during a rare moment when the boys were getting along in the back seat. I remember squeezing his thigh and telling him, “We have the perfect life.” He smiled at me like we shared the world’s greatest secret.
Silverware clinks as the men go back to eating, but I’m too nervous to swallow food. I push it around on my plate while I work up the courage to speak. It was different when I trusted Detective Locke. “I know Paul’s mentioned the digging around that we’ve been doing on our end, and we wanted to talk to you about some of the things we’ve found.” My confidence wavers. I was so sure about things when it was just the two of us, but now I’m not so certain. “I found pictures and videos on Sawyer’s phone that hint at a sexual relationship between him and Jacob.” I hand him Sawyer’s phone—the moment I’ve been waiting for all day.
He takes it from me and taps play. The screen fills with the half-dressed image of Jacob. I wait for the realization to dawn on him, but he’s unimpressed. “Do you have any others? I’ve seen this.”
“You have?” How could he have seen this video and not suggested Sawyer and Jacob were in a relationship? Why didn’t he ask us if they were in a sexual relationship?
“It was in a buried file,” Paul adds.
“Yes, we went through all the files on his phone, even the hidden ones.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. They’ve probably seen the Instagram video too. Paul takes the phone from him and pulls up the other video. “How about this?” he asks as he hands it back.
This time Detective Locke’s forehead creases with curiosity. I grin like a kid and turn to Paul. He’s wearing a matching face.
Detective Locke taps at the screen. “Do we know who this is?”
“Libby Walker,” Paul and I say in unison.
“Is there—”
I jump in. “Paul’s gone through everything in the month before and after the accident. They’re not together in any other pictures. They don’t tag each other in anything or even like similar posts. None of their friends are in the same circles. It was probably just a random dance they shared at a party.”
He keeps blowing up Jacob’s image, trying to figure out the focus of his glare, but there’s no way to tell. His eyes reach the same conclusion as mine do every time. “As far as the pictures of Sawyer and Jacob on Sawyer’s phone, I don’t think it reveals anything meaningful or hints at a deeper relationship. Kids are much more fluid with their sexual expression and identities these days,” he says. I can’t help but feel like a prude, and it’s weird to think of myself in those terms because nobody’s ever defined me that way. “But I do find the angry expression on Jacob’s face troubling, especially given the reports of all the arguing between them. The problem is that it’s impossible to tell the focus of his fury in this picture.” He hands Paul Sawyer’s phone. “Speaking of Jacob, do we have any recent updates?”
“He’s still hanging on,” I say. And for a split second, I hate myself for wanting him to be gone.
FORTY-FIVE
LINDSEY
I absorb the air like I’m the one who’s been indoors for twenty-five days. It doesn’t matter that we’re in a back alleyway with industrial-size dumpsters lining each side. Dr. Merck brought us through a side entrance that only gets used by the janitors and cleaning crews, but he didn’t have time to think of a better plan. He’s worked in the field long enough to spot an impending breakdown, and I was a half second away from crossing over. He quickly called together all personnel for an on-the-spot meeting to work out getting Jacob outside.
Jacob lies on his hospital bed. The thick plastic rails are raised on each side like there’s a chance he might roll out. Doubled-up pairs of socks make his feet twice their normal size, but I didn’t want him to get cold in the CT machine. His scalp shows signs of pressure sores, and it makes me start crying all over again.
“Don’t put him directly in the sun,” Andrew cautions. “He’s not wearing any sunscreen.”
The last thing we need is painful burns on his exposed skin, but I can’t help myself. Maybe holding him under the sunlight will breathe life into his pale skin and limp, swollen body. I press my foot on the lever underneath and raise the back of his bed so he’s tilted up without the sun beaming directly on his face. We couldn’t do that before, but anything’s possible now that his tubes are gone. Suddenly, his body falls forward, and Andrew swoops forward to catch him. He holds him against the bed, upright. My insides are being crushed, and I don’t have to look at Andrew’s face to know his are too. I lower the bed to its half position, where his body easily rests without falling forward.
It doesn’t matter that we’re outside. There’s still not enough air getting to my lungs. I don’t want to be here. I’m not sure I can do this anymore. An involuntary sob escapes my lips.
Andrew reaches across the bed and grabs my hands. “It’s okay, Linds.”
He hasn’t called me Linds in years. She’s from another lifetime. One that didn’t include diapers and breastfeeding, meal planning, car pool, and doctor’s appointments. It only makes me cry harder. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to step foot back in that hospital. I don’t want to take Jacob in there. I just want my life to go back to the way it was before.
“We need to go home. Please, can we go home?” Tears course their way down my cheeks. “I don’t want to go through that again. I can’t. Let’s take him home and lay him in his bed. Or let him sit in the backyard underneath his tree house. Remember how happy he was when we built it?”
Andrew nods his head in agreement, his forehead lined with sweat. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Are you serious?” His response shocks me. I expected him to look at me like I’d lost my mind by suggesting such a thing. Maybe we both have,
but I can’t bring Jacob back inside, and I’m so glad he feels the same way.
“I don’t want him to die in there. Maybe he doesn’t want to either. That might be what he’s trying to tell us.” His eyes are endearing in the same way they were when he soothed the kids as babies after they had their first shots.
My heart swells with love for him. He is such a thoughtful man, and in the next instant it hits me that he might be a man who’s no longer mine.
“We could take him to the soccer field.” He spent more time there than he did at home, and he comes alive there in a way he doesn’t anywhere else.
“Let’s do it.” Andrew grins.
“Are you sure?” Neither of us has done a single impulsive thing in our lives.
He nods and tries to swallow the lump of emotions in his throat. “Let’s get out of here.”
FORTY-SIX
DANI
“Turn on the TV,” I blurt out as I rush into the living room, where Caleb’s parked on the couch working his way through season two of Sons of Anarchy. He pauses the show and looks up at me with bewilderment. “Give me the remote,” I order, too impatient to provide an explanation.
Mom hurries into the living room from the back bedroom, where she’s spent most of the afternoon reading. “What’s going on?” she asks as I fumble with buttons on the remote, trying to get the TV on the right input.
“I have no idea. Lindsey just texted and said they’re taking Jacob out of the hospital. Then two seconds later Kendra texted me and told me to turn on the TV because their story is all over the news again.”
“Where are they bringing him?” Mom asks.
“Home?” I shrug. “I can’t imagine anywhere else they’d go.”
Caleb gets up from the couch and grabs the remote from me, irritated at how long it’s taking me to pull anything up. He has the cable on almost immediately and scrolls to KTLA. I grip his bicep while we listen to the evening news anchor describe how Lindsey and Andrew decided to discharge Jacob from the hospital against medical advice. Andrew’s image swells onto the screen as they replay a clip of him standing outside of the north hospital entrance. He looks as bad as the parents of kidnapped children do when they beg for the kidnapper to bring their children home. My knees weaken. I lean into Caleb for support.
The Best of Friends Page 18
