Both head and heart are full to the brim, and my brain is processing, processing, trying to make sense of it all. The laughter, the games, the feeling of being included and part of something new and a little daring. Bernie’s raw jokes. Tara’s sly humor. Lance’s arm brushing against my shoulder. His hand on mine, those eyes, the way his lips curve when he’s laughing, the blue of his eyes, and the tan of his skin.
Dangerous territory. I have no business thinking about a man this way. And if I were thinking about a man, Lance wouldn’t be the man for me to be thinking about.
What kind of man would I be thinking about, then? I ask myself as I turn the key in the ignition. Better question yet—what kind of man would be thinking about me?
And that answer brings me back to reality. Am I okay to drive? I have zero experience with alcohol and driving. How many drinks would it take to go over the limit? I stopped at the bottom of that second drink. My lips no longer tingle. I had no trouble walking to the car or getting my key in either the lock or ignition. And I certainly drank less than some of the others who have climbed into their own cars and driven away.
If I don’t drive, what then? Colville doesn’t have taxis or buses, and I will walk before I’ll call Abigail to come and get me. It’s only a few miles from the restaurant to my house. There’s hardly any traffic. I pull my car out into the street, taking it slow and extra careful, just to be safe.
I make it halfway home without incident, and when I hear a siren and see red and blue lights in my rearview, I pull over to let the cop go by, wondering if he’s responding to an accident or a crime, and hoping nobody is hurt. But the lights stop right behind me. My heart ups its tempo. I’ve never been pulled over for anything. Never had a ticket.
What did I do? I’ve been watching the speedometer, and there’s no way I exceeded the limit. I’ve carefully stopped at all of the stop signs. Abigail reminded me to renew my tabs, and I put the sticker on my license plate all by myself, a little moment of pride and satisfaction. Thomas had always taken care of these things, and it felt good to do it myself.
The officer is already at my window, and I roll it down.
He stoops to look in at me, then past me, checking out the passenger seat, the back seat, the hatch. I imagine him godlike, seeing all, even the candy bar wrapper stuffed into the cup holder in the console. I can’t see his face, which is shadowed, but his physique is more Kentucky Fried Chicken than Gold’s Gym.
His face, illuminated by a streetlight, is round cheeked and shockingly young—Abigail’s age, maybe. Certainly no older.
“Ma’am, do you know why I’ve pulled you over tonight?” Not even a hint of a smile. He is serious, a man on a mission, embodying every stereotypical policeman in every cop show I’ve ever seen.
What if he knows I was drinking? Can he smell the alcohol on my breath?
I manufacture a smile, keeping my breath shallow and my tone light. “If I knew that, Officer, I would not have done whatever it is.”
Immediately I see my mistake as his jaw tightens and his expression hardens. He is too young to be teased, fully invested in his own importance.
“Your right taillight is out, ma’am.”
Nerves and relief set me babbling. “I didn’t know that. I’ll get it fixed at once. Well, maybe not at once because I’ll need some help. And a bulb or something. Can you tell me where I would get a bulb?” When I was married, cars fell into the realm of male responsibility. Thomas got the oil changed, the tires rotated, scheduled all of the service checks a year ahead on his calendar. I wasn’t to bother my head with automobile maintenance.
The officer doesn’t answer my question. “License and registration, please.” He shines a flashlight in my eyes, so bright, and I cover them with my hands. Even so shielded, I can see the light moving as he searches the interior of my car again, as if he suspects I’m harboring some kind of contraband. Seriously? Do I look like a drug dealer?
My heart kicks up the tempo another notch. A burned-out taillight is still an infraction, and I am still in trouble. I manage to get my wallet out of my purse and find my license. But by the time I reach over to open the glove box for my registration, my hands are shaking so badly I fumble and drop everything—maintenance reports, receipts, random papers, registration, and insurance—all cascading onto the floor.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry. Just a minute, I can be so clumsy.”
I scrabble around in the dark, trying to gather them up, but my seat belt won’t let me and I have to sit up straight to disconnect the latch. It takes two tries, and by the time I finally manage to scoop up the stack, tears of humiliation and anxiety are blurring my vision and spilling down over my cheeks.
“Have you been drinking this evening?” the officer asks.
The question is ludicrous, the answer preposterous.
Because, yes, I have been drinking. I’m also the widow of a pastor. I’m supposed to be an example for the church members, the community, my daughter. I can’t get a DUI. The gossip would swamp me, embarrass Abigail.
Maybe I should beg for mercy. If I let my tears flow freely, if I play helpless, plead for another chance, maybe he’ll let me go. The words hover on the tip of my tongue. “My husband died. I’m so lost, bewildered, and confused, I don’t even know how this happened. I never drink, but I was out with friends . . .”
I sense that this officer would like that; it might soften him, give him the opportunity to play the magnanimous man in power.
But I can’t make myself do it. I’m so tired of being that woman. Instead, I square my shoulders, look directly into his eyes, and confess. “Yes, sir. I have been drinking.”
I offer no excuses. No explanations. Just the truth.
“Please step out of the car.”
He opens the door. My knees are wobbly as I swing my legs out and plant my feet on the cracked asphalt. Cold air swirls around me. Above, the sky blazes with stars. I’ve never felt so alive, so aware of the vastness of the universe and my own small place in it.
The officer calls me back to myself and the little drama I’ve driven myself into.
“I’m going to give you a field sobriety test. Do you understand what this is?”
“Yes, Officer.” I mean it politely and respectfully, am surprised by the tinge of sarcasm that sneaks into my voice. His condescension chafes. I should probably call an attorney, but where would I find one? We have several in the congregation, but I’d rather be arrested than call one of them to come rescue me.
So I consent. I follow his moving finger with both eyes, right, left, up, down. I walk in a straight line, heel to toe, turn, and come back. The whole time, I burn with humiliation. What if somebody sees me, performing like a circus monkey, spotlighted by streetlights and headlights and red and blues?
I imagine Annie, eyes bright with the pleasure of juicy gossip: “Did you hear about Elizabeth?”
Earlene, wisely resigned: “As the good book tells us, a widow left to her own devices will fall into evil.”
Kimber, shocked: “Was she really, you know, drunk?” with whispered emphasis on that last, dreadful word.
And maybe I am drunk, because as I imagine the fuss, laughter wells up inside me, as unpredictable and out of my control as the gust of wind that nudges me one direction and then another.
“Stand on one foot, please, and count to ten.”
Despite the wind, despite the looseness in my knee joints and the way my legs are shaking, I turn myself into a human flamingo. By the time I’m done, I’m shivering not just with nerves but with cold, wrapping my arms around my body to try to get warm.
“Well, you’ve passed,” the officer says grudgingly. “But I’m still going to ask you to take a Breathalyzer.”
I very nearly roll my eyes at him, as if I’m a teenager and not a respectable middle-aged widow. I’ve passed all of his tests. The drinks have worn off. This man wants me to fail, has been enjoying my humiliation. Confident now, I agree to the Breathalyzer. I’ll
be safely below the limit, and then it will be my turn to be condescending.
His expression as he reads the score signals my mistake. That’s a fist-pump face, a celebration-waiting-to-happen face.
“You blew a .08,” he says.
I stare at him, confused. “.08 is the limit, right? I’m fine.”
“You’re supposed to be below the legal limit,” he explains, his words slow and emphasized as if I’m hard of hearing or short on intellect. “At or above means you are driving under the influence.”
“What happens now?” My mouth is so dry, it’s hard to speak. I picture myself arrested, handcuffed, locked up in jail, camera footage playing on some reality TV show.
“I’m going to write you a ticket. You’ll go to court for sentencing. You’ll be required to spend a night in jail at some point, but not tonight if there’s somebody to come pick you up.”
“So I can go home?”
“Yes, but you’ll need to call somebody to take you. You won’t be driving.”
I won’t be driving for a long time, I think, the panic rising. I can’t be in the play after all. I’ll be dependent on Abigail or members of the congregation to take me everywhere, even the grocery store. I’m trapped right back in my old life, only worse.
And who am I going to call, now, tonight?
Earlene? Val? She’s at work, and I don’t know if she can slip away. Whatever I do, I won’t, can’t, call Abigail. Not after everything that has happened today between us. I take a breath, focus on immediate questions.
“What about my car?”
“It will be towed. Unless you have somebody who can pick it up for you.”
“Look, I live a few blocks from here. Can’t I just walk home and pick my car up tomorrow?”
“I can’t allow you to wander around while inebriated,” the officer says.
“I’m not exactly inebriated—”
“Call somebody, or I’ll need to take you in.”
I recognize this tone, this expression. He wears it differently than Thomas, but the two men bear a striking resemblance in this moment. He’s enjoying his moment of power. If I don’t call Abigail, he’ll get to handcuff me and stuff me into his car, all while feeling self-righteous and important. The whole idea of it sets my teeth on edge, but I did this. I drank. I drove. Now I will be punished.
Headlights come up the road, and I cringe, wondering if my car or I will be recognized. A pickup truck slows, then pulls over and stops. The door opens.
“Remain in your vehicle,” the officer barks, his hand resting on his service weapon.
“Teddy,” a familiar voice says, calm and easy. “Don’t shoot me.”
Lance gets out of the truck, looking from me to the officer and back again. “What’s going on?”
“Traffic stop,” the officer says. “Everything under control. You can be on your way.”
“You okay, Liz?” Lance asks.
My breath is tangled up around my heart. I nod. I will not cry, I tell myself. I will not, I will not. But my body doesn’t listen to me.
“You know this woman?” the officer says, his voice edged with disgust.
“I do. We spent the evening together, in fact. What’s up?” Lance saunters toward me, casual. “Problem with the car?”
“Problem with alcohol,” the cop says. “I’m writing her up for a DUI.”
Lance comes to stand beside me. He doesn’t touch me, just makes it clear by his positioning that we are an alliance. “She only had a couple of drinks over dinner. Can’t believe she’s over the limit.”
“She blew a .08.” The officer says it as if I’m a drooling derelict.
“Maybe you could test her again,” Lance suggests. “Hate to screw up the life of an upstanding citizen over a mechanical error.”
“I did pass the field sobriety thing,” I say.
“Huh,” Lance says. “Must be a quiet night, hey, Ted? Doubling up on the tests and all.”
“The Breathalyzer is more accurate.”
“But still a field test,” Lance protests. “We know there’s a margin of error. By the way, how many drinks did you have last weekend at Northern Ales? Pretty sure I saw you walk out of there and get directly into your car.”
I hold my breath, feeling the tension of unspoken threats and repercussions crackling in the air.
The officer retrieves the Breathalyzer from his car, his movements stiff. Lance nods at me, encouragingly, and I blow into the little mouthpiece again.
“Look at that. .06,” Lance says, watching. “Touchy machines.”
Two cars drive by, slowing, and I feel the gaze of unseen eyes staring.
The officer draws himself up to full height, his jaws so tight the words can barely squeeze past his teeth. “Given that you passed the field sobriety test and that Lance can vouch for your character, I’m prepared to let you off with a warning.”
Shored up by Lance’s presence and a new understanding that is growing inside me, I don’t grovel or even thank him. “So I can go now?”
“Your taillight is still out. You’ll need to leave your vehicle here either until daylight, or until it’s fixed.”
“I’ll give you a ride home,” Lance says quickly. “Okay if she moves her car off the road and into the parking lot, Ted?”
“I guess.”
My knees start shaking when I sit down and turn the key, and I’m overly aware of both men watching me. It feels like when I took my driver’s test, only the stakes are higher. Still, I manage to pull off the road and into the parking lot without incident.
I grab my purse and my phone. My script. Lance is waiting when I get out of the car. He rests an arm on my shoulder, warm and strong. “Let’s get you home. Night, Ted. Be careful out there.”
He walks me to his truck, opens the passenger door for me.
“Sorry about the clutter.” He scrambles to clear a space for my feet from a litter of empty coffee cups, bank receipts, and junk mail.
“It’s fine,” I say, and mean it. There’s something comforting about the clutter. The truck smells of coffee and sweat and hay. A good, warm smell.
As soon as we’re both in, he starts the engine, turns the heat on high.
“Ackerman’s an asshole,” he says. “You okay?”
“How do you know him?”
“I’m a volunteer EMT. We bump elbows.” Lance shifts into gear and eases us out onto the street. I watch Officer Ackerman’s car fade into the darkness.
“He was just doing his job. I shouldn’t have been driving.” Shame threatens to swamp me, all of my momentary courage dissolving. “Drunk driving is a horrible thing. I could have killed somebody.”
“You weren’t drunk. You were under the limit. Ted is known for his zeal, especially when it comes to women.”
I remember that look on the officer’s face, the similarity to Thomas, and I’m rocked by a sudden epiphany. This officer, this man, hated me because I was a woman. He enjoyed humiliating me and used his authority to do it, just as Thomas did under the authority he claimed as a man of God. He used the church and the apostle Paul as a smoke screen for his dislike, his fear, of women. Used it to wear me down, to make me smaller, to keep me in the place he assigned to me.
A truth spins in the maelstrom and floats to the surface of my consciousness, jagged, hard edged, and bloody.
Thomas stole my life because I am a woman, and I let him do it.
The edges grow sharper.
He did it to Abigail, too. I need to find a way to free my daughter from indoctrination.
I need to find a way to free us both.
“You okay?” Lance asks, glancing at me.
“Thanks for the rescue.” I’m so incredibly grateful, but I also hate feeling like a damsel in distress. Hate that now I’m indebted to him, the feeling of being a helpless woman sheltering behind a big strong man.
“My dear Lacey,” Lance declaims in shocked theatrical tones. “If anyone was rescued, it was me. I wanted only to bask in
the pleasure of your company.”
His tone eases me into laughter, but still the camaraderie and fun of the evening is ruined.
Lance drums his fingers on the steering wheel but otherwise keeps silent until he pulls up into my driveway.
“Well, this kinda sucks,” he says.
“Only kind of?” I laugh a little. “Thank you again. You have rescued me from a life of crime.”
“Look. Liz. If you were Geoff, I’d have done the same. Shit happens. Friends help each other.”
I pause with my hand on the door latch.
“So I’m not just a damsel in distress?”
“Well, if I was a hundred percent honest, it’s more fun to rescue a damsel than a bro. But if I had rescued Geoff, he’d probably be asking me if I could help him pick up the car and fix the taillight. And then, you know, maybe go get a beer.”
“I think I may not drink again. Ever.”
“Okay. A coffee, then. Geoff is extraordinarily fond of coffee.”
I can’t help laughing. I’d meant to bail the minute the pickup stopped moving, but instead we sit there looking at each other. Maybe I could go out for coffee. Not as a date, but as . . .
“Uh-oh.”
The front door opens, and Abigail stalks over to the truck and yanks open my door.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“Abigail, this is Lance. Lance, this is my daughter.” I enunciate the words, a rebuke, a reminder that we are not alone.
“Driving drunk, Mom? What were you thinking? As if this morning’s behavior wasn’t bad enough!”
“Technically, I wasn’t—”
Abigail cuts me off. “Don’t bother to try to lie to me. It was on the scanner. Everybody in town who has one is going to know that you got pulled over for driving drunk. Earlene already called and—”
“Oh God.” I bury my face in my hands.
A Borrowed Life Page 8
