Somehow, Meg had managed to set the plates on the dining room table before slowly turning back to her husband, praying she had misheard. Jacob’s downcast eyes and hollowed cheeks told her she hadn’t. He’d been feeling like this for a long time, he said quietly, suddenly absorbed in his nails.
A long time. Three words out of the blue that changed everything. Blindsided, she could only manage one word of her own: Why? He still hadn’t fully explained, at least not to Meg’s satisfaction, other than pointing out all her qualities and quirks that led to his decision. Phrases that always began, “See? This is why . . .” as though needing to justify his decision to himself.
At first, she refused to accept any blame. She kept this family humming; she picked up the pieces when his business fell apart. In her most self-reflective moments, however, Meg admitted he might be right about some things: She was too controlling. She didn’t always consult him; her default mode was critical. But those faults and shortcomings shouldn’t short-circuit a marriage that had endured as theirs had without some type of intervention, like couples counseling or maybe individual therapy. Jacob refused both.
Meg worried that he wasn’t in his right mind. Unemployment could do that to a person. She’d hoped working with Ben would lift his spirits, but if anything, Jacob’s moods had grown darker, more mercurial. She heard him sometimes, roaming around the kitchen in the middle of the night, the nocturnal rev of his truck as he drove away. He claimed he had run to the 7-Eleven for coffee when Meg questioned him in the mornings.
There was perfectly good coffee in the house, she countered. Which could only mean something else—or someone else—was percolating.
She’d pleaded with Jacob to reconsider. “How can you not fight for me? For this family?” she asked him that night and many times after.
“Things aren’t what they were.”
“Of course they’re not. We never expected your work to dry up the way it did.”
“It’s not just that. People change.” Jacob more than anyone, she thought, twirling the loose latch. He wasn’t the same Jacob she had first met, when the odds had been stacked against them and their unconventional start as a family.
His mind was made up, he said.
Mourning their disintegrating marriage, she nevertheless agreed to present a united front for Alex’s and Jack’s sakes. Meg was surprised how well Alex had taken the news, running out the door to play practice or whatever the cast did once the show was over. They parceled out their explanation to Jack in small doses.
Meg and Jacob became virtual strangers in their own house. She stopped asking him if there was someone else. Who else would want the moody bastard? Meg thought now, jerking the verticals shut against the rain. When the time came, she would be the one to start fresh, in a little town house closer to the Sound. She’d get her own promenade bench.
Maybe Shana had called by now. Passing the dining room table on her way to check her phone, she wiped the damaged tea set with the hem of her scrubs. I’m doing the best I can, Mom.
Halfway to the kitchen, she stopped. The house had grown uncommonly quiet. Meg went in search of Jack, finding him upstairs in Alex’s room, kneeling by his sister’s bed.
“Jack, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” His stricken face belied his innocence.
“Doesn’t look like nothing. What’s up?”
“Alex said I couldn’t tell. She’ll whip my butt.”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Be a good boy and show me what’s under there.”
“You have to say you made me.”
“Deal.”
“OK. Sit there.” Jack pointed to the floor, and Meg sat as instructed, shoulders tensed. If Alex had put Jack in any danger, she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Jack made a great show of raising his arms and shaking them, like a swimmer warming up on a high dive, before lifting Alex’s dust ruffle and slithering under her bed just like Angel would. Reappearing, he pushed a white plastic storage bin toward Meg, then sat back cross-legged, chin propped in his hands, watching her pounce on the box and pop off the cover.
Meg covered her mouth.
“See, Mommy. I knew you’d be surprised.”
ALEX
They were back on Route 112 in Lincoln, Camo Man and Mom Haircut still bickering about detours and road conditions. They passed a bunch of restaurants with cutesy names like Mountain Man Inn and Gnarly Gourmet. A movie theater advertised a single film, A Cabin in the Woods. Evan, Shana and Alex had seen it stoned months ago. Scary movies were always better that way. As usual, Shana acted paranoid and had to go sit in the car for a while. LOL. Alex had been up for anything that helped her to escape her memories—although her mom seemed to have the opposite intention, dragging her to that horrible therapist.
Her parents should be the ones in therapy, Alex thought now. Maybe if her dad hadn’t been such a jerk during the photo session, leaving so abruptly; if her mom had taken a single second to notice that Alex was decimated instead of abandoning her; if her parents could have for once treated her like the adult they always insisted she be and tell her the truth about what was happening to their family, she never, ever would have made the trail of lousy decisions that eventually trapped her in Logan’s backseat. And this one. Decisions that cost her everything.
Yes, Alex decided. Everything was their fault.
Beyond the Lincoln Theater, large hotels lined the road, advertising indoor pools and game rooms and free breakfasts. Billboards advised passersby to “Take Advantage of Spring Skiing Rates.” Within a few minutes, the road went from totally crowded to dead quiet. The highway climbed; they passed a turnoff for Loon Mountain Resort, “Rated Number 3 for Parks and Pipes.” Pipes. Ha. There were campgrounds carved out of the side of the road, scenic overlooks, a deserted tourist information booth. Alex’s ears began to pop from the altitude. Soon there was nothing to look at except trees, trees and more trees, an occasional rain-slicked picnic table on the side of the road.
Bored, Alex shut her eyes. The car wound round a curve. That time, even Alex felt them fishtail. She opened one eye.
Murphy hunched toward the driver’s seat. “Carl, I really think you should reconsider. There are loads of places to stay in Lincoln.”
OMG. Stay? With these two in a motel room? That was so not going to happen.
“We’ll be fine. I’m the driver, remember?” Reaching over the seat to pat Murphy’s arm, Camo Man sounded half-jokey. At the higher altitude, the rain had become sleet, the slushy mix pinging off the metal roof, glazing the windows like rock candy.
“We can still turn around, Carl. Please stop.”
“We’re almost there. Relax, will you? I’ve got this.” Camo Man’s grin filled the rearview mirror.
Defeated, Murphy sat back and tapped on her window, fake laughing to cover her fear. “Look at that. Pink gas tanks painted like pigs. Who would ever do that?” Alex didn’t even bother to look; any acknowledgment might suck her into more unwanted conversation. Carl switched on the news, music appreciation over for now, Alex grateful to Amphibian for making a chunk of the journey bearable.
The satellite signal faded in and out as they climbed, the drone of the newscaster’s voice—news and weather, news and weather—lulling Alex back to semisleep. Pig gas tanks, she thought drowsily; Jack would crack up. Guiltily, she remembered her brother’s first baseball game. She finally agreed to go just to get him the heck out of her room. Jack would be mad she wouldn’t be there tomorrow, but that disappointment she could blame on her mother.
The radio softened to static, white noise against the clink of ice overhead. Then, without warning, Murphy’s scream pierced her half dream. “Carl, watch out!” The nightmare replayed in the backseat, the seat belt straining against Alex’s chest. Only this time, every one of Alex’s senses was sharp, receptive—every nerve on high alert, absorbing and registering every sensation, each jolt.
Her eyes captured each frame, her brain a camera
recording high-speed images: first, a dark, impenetrable wall of animal before them, spindly legs supporting barrel body. Next, close-up on its cartoonlike profile. Cut to slo-mo of the steering wheel, the hand-over-hand struggle to maintain control, the car losing traction and spinning crazily.
A single line of dialogue: Carl yelling, “Hang on, everybody!”
Wide shot of the seismic shift of the car, accompanied by the soundtrack of Murphy’s and Alex’s screams and the crush of metal and glass against unyielding mass. Murphy’s side of the car slams into the moose’s legs, propelling its half-ton body heavenward, its brief flight shearing off a great chunk of the roof. Cue Alex behind Carl, jackhammers at full throttle, watching herself at the center of the scene, oblivious to the wind and ice now inside the car, eyes riveted on hooves clinging to the ridge of the gaping roof for interminable seconds before the animal slid off the car in a deadening thunk. Overhead shot of the car ricocheting off the leaden beast like a two-thousand-pound pinball, barreling across the highway into a lush wall of evergreen that mercifully softened its rocky descent.
Spent, finally, in the gulley, the car’s crippled right side rested against a cluster of pines. The mournful wail of the car horn, a final, angry spin of wheels. Then crushing silence. Fade to black.
MEG
The bin’s contents were disorganized, but there, on the floor of Alex’s room with Jack, Meg knew exactly what she was looking at: all the notes she’d ever tucked inside her daughter’s lunch since seventh grade. Napkins, Post-its, sheets from the bakery block notes they got every Christmas.
There were hundreds. Alex must have saved every single one.
They started when Alex reached puberty. Meg had done everything to prepare her daughter: the talks, the products, an entire shelf in the hall closet stocked with supplies. One day Alex came home from a soccer match paler than usual, a look on her twelve-year-old face Meg couldn’t quite read.
“You OK, honey?” She pressed a hand to Alex’s forehead.
Her period had arrived during the game, she said.
Meg played it cool. “Everything’s on the middle shelf. Let me know if I can help.”
Alex walked away from her and into young adulthood, Meg already feeling as though her daughter would need her less.
It was totally ridiculous, and yet it drove her to do something to maintain the connection between them. So each night as she made lunches, she found some scrap of paper to write on and tucked it into Alex’s.
She rifled through them now, groaning at the lameness of some. The acrostic of her daughter’s name: A—amazing! L—loving! E—excellent! X—Xtraordinary! Cheerleading before a test: Good luck on your geography quiz. Put us on the map! Every one of them signed (heart sign) Mom.
The task grew more painful after the accident; anything Meg wrote seemed trite. She wrote them anyway on the days Alex took lunch. Often it was their only communication of the day.
She had wondered what Alex thought of the notes. In five years, she had never said a word about them. But here they all were, moving Meg to tears. They must have moved Alex as well; if not, why had she kept them?
Meg sat back on her heels, letting the notes fall back into the bin, a paper chain from mother to daughter.
Confronted with Alex’s unexpected sentimentality, doubt prickled Meg’s arms. Had she made a terrible mistake sending Alex away? For months, she’d tried to crack Alex’s shell of grief. She’d given up on talking to Alex about The Birches after only that one heated conversation on the promenade. Should she have tried again? Maybe the Alex who hung on to her mother’s lunch notes might have eventually come around to the idea of a fresh start.
Meg snapped the lid on the bin. What had she done?
CARL
Eyelashes brushing cold nylon, Carl awoke to find himself splayed over the air bag. Woozy, he fought toward consciousness, pressing himself upright, registering first a persistent throb over one eye, then needles of sleet spilling through the jagged opening overhead. Beneath him, the air bag had already begun to deflate, its surface powdery under his fingers.
The girl.
“Alex.” A maelstrom of wind and sleet swallowed any response. The rearview mirror revealed only darkness. Craning his neck, he swept the backseat behind him as far as he could reach, feeling nothing. Alex had been buckled in; he had a clear memory of verifying the child locks at their last stop. But, of course, the locks would disengage when the air bag deployed.
Wincing, he reached under the air bag and unbuckled his seat belt, and with enormous effort swung his stiff body toward his door to investigate.
Behind him, the back door gaped open. Alex was gone.
The sudden movement dizzied him. He took a moment to catch his breath. Carolyn. With difficulty, he turned toward her. The jagged edges of roof overhead made it clear her side had borne the brunt of the impact. “Carolyn,” he called. She detested her first name. He never used it when they were on duty; he was unsure why he did so now.
“Carolyn. Can you hear me?” He hit the visor light. Its wan yellow glow illuminated the unnatural angle of Carolyn’s head, her eyes closed and her hand resting in a lapful of broken glass.
He swallowed. Carolyn needed help. The girl was alive, out there somewhere. She could send help, if she could make it far enough to do so. But once on her own, would that be her priority? He couldn’t be certain.
There were several variables: the length of time he’d been unconscious, the point at which (and in what condition) Alex had exited the car, the options presented to the newly freed teen. He checked his watch through blurred vision: 4:45. He’d been out for about an hour, which gave Alex a decent head start—providing she wasn’t injured or in shock. He wasn’t a religious man, but he offered an immediate intention for her safety. He would do whatever it took to find her. Straining, he pushed open his own door and stood, taking a few deep breaths before sliding into the backseat next to Carolyn, pressing two fingers into her limp wrist, willing a flutter, a reflex, any sign of life.
Getting no response, he brushed his partner’s hair aside to get to her carotid artery, where the body’s pulse was strongest. Below trembling fingers, he thought he detected a faint uneven beat.
The next moments would be critical. If there was a pulse, there might still be time. The necessary supplies were in the trunk. He patted her neck and slid away. “Hold on, Carolyn. I’m coming right back.” After feeling his way to the trunk, he located a tarp and a flashlight. Beyond the car, the beam illuminated the dense evergreen wall that had slowed the vehicle’s trajectory. On Carolyn’s side, Carl gaped at the devastation wrought by the animal: the mangled car door, the roof above it ripped from its frame.
Back on the driver’s side, he laid the tarp on the ground outside Alex’s door, standing the flashlight up like a makeshift candelabra and sliding next to his partner again. From her clammy skin, he couldn’t summon the fluttering he felt a few moments ago.
He palpated her neck. “Please, Carolyn. Hold on.” In the visor’s glow, her flag pin winked at him.
Carl sat back, mulling over the choices. Medics knew never to move accident victims, especially when there was a threat of internal injuries. But he also knew that in the absence of a pulse, he had to attempt CPR, which required laying her flat. He released her shoulder belt; untethered, Carolyn slumped toward him. Supporting her back, he maneuvered her along the backseat and onto the tarp, an effort that drenched him in sweat despite the cold. Beside her, the upturned torch cast ghoulish shadows on the sleet-heavy branches overhead.
Kneeling over her, he removed her glasses and set them on the seat above. Having cleared her mouth and airway, he began the compression sequences he’d done a hundred times, pressing on her chest, shutting off the thought of any internal damage beneath his hands, the pain he might be inflicting. One, two, three, release. One, two, three, release.
Carl sat back, imploring her chest to rise. Nothing. He repeated the compressions. Please, Carolyn. Don’t g
ive up. He lost count of the repetitions, oblivious to the sleet soaking them both and to his raging temple. He had not once regretted this decision to hire her. Until now, when the job had put her life in danger.
He had warned Carolyn about the long, unpredictable days. Across from him in the diner that day, her chin had been resolute. “I know I can do a great job for you. And also I need the money. We need the money.”
That muddled things; he couldn’t leave Jimbo’s family in need. He offered financial assistance. When she refused, he let her ride along on a couple of transports, a trial run for both. Carolyn was an astute observer, taking notes, peppering guides with questions after the drop-off. Soon after, they made things official.
One, two, three, release. One, two, three, release. He pictured Jamie’s freckled face. He had taken her mother away so often. And he would bring her back this time, as always. After everything the little girl had been through, she needed her mother. Jamie, I’m trying.
One, two, three, release. Carl thought of Jimbo, who, after leaving the service, turned down a chance to partner with him in Begin Again. He liked the precinct just fine, he said. Turned out there was a reason for that. He’d met “the one,” his burly fingers curled in air quotes: Carolyn Lawler, a twentysomething working the dispatch desk. Carl had been honored to stand up for him at their wedding in 1991.
Eleven years later, he was back at his friend’s side in church, a pallbearer alongside Jimbo’s fellow officers. After the funeral, Carl swore to Murphy she could always count on him. You can count on me now. He leaned on her chest one more time. He would not leave her to die in this frigid grave. One, two, three, release.
It was getting darker. Carl reached over Carolyn and shifted the flashlight closer. Had he imagined it, or had her chest swelled ever so slightly? Encouraged, he resumed compressions. After a few more sets, he was certain Carolyn was responding. He sat back, watching the steady rise and fall of his partner’s chest. The dashboard clock measured the passage of five minutes, then ten, of Carolyn breathing on her own. Carl’s respiration matching hers. With great care, he lifted Carolyn and laid her on the backseat, wiping her damp face with his handkerchief.
Deliver Her: A Novel Page 13
