“I don’t want to lose our family,” she said, and her face was pressed into Emmett’s chest, her voice muffled. “I don’t want to lose you. Please tell me you can forgive me, that you feel you can trust me again.” She lifted her head, finding his gaze.
He kissed the damp trails on her cheeks. “I’m not sure of it now,” he said, and she stiffened, but he held her firmly. “I’m not closing the door. I’m not saying I can’t forgive you. I’m saying I think we should take it slow. We should spend time together and talk more. We should face a few things, like how Jordy could be drinking so much for so long and both of us not know it, or ignore it, or whatever in the hell we were doing.” Emmett released her and left the swing. It danced on its chains. Sunlight barred the short path he paced.
He stopped in front of her, his shadow falling over her. “He could have been the one who died, Sandy. I can’t stop thinking about how we could have lost him, and I—I—it would have been my fault, because I was blind to how he was growing up, the shit he was doing. Jesus Christ, it gives me chills, nightmares. How? How did it happen? One minute he’s just a crazy little kid running around, riding hell-bent on a three-wheeler, and the next thing you know, you’re in some hospital—”
“I feel the same, Emmett. Mistakes were made. I know that.” Sandy went to him. “But we can’t live in the past. We can’t say if only this and if only that. We can only be here, where we are now. Hopefully smarter. Grateful. Counting our blessings. Talking more, like you said.” She laced Emmett’s fingers with her own. “We can be more aware, help each other.”
He looked down at her, holding her with his gaze, and it seemed to her that whatever anguish he was feeling, whatever blame and sorrow was between them, it had eased. He touched her cheek, lifted her chin, and kissed her.
He didn’t come home with her that night, nor did he come the next week, or even the one after that, but she knew he would come home one day, and that was enough.
Sandy waited in the audience with the rest of her family—Emmett, Jenna, and their parents, and Troy and Libby—for Jordy to be called on to speak. Her stomach was knotted with anticipation; her nerves jangled. He had healed a lot in the three months since the accident. His physical scars were less noticeable. He wasn’t having nightmares as often. But neither was he the same. There was a reflective quality about him, a kind of stillness, that he’d lacked before. She would catch him staring, unaware, and even though he would say there was nothing on his mind, she knew his memory of the accident, and Travis’s loss, continued to haunt him.
He needed more than Sandy’s or Emmett’s word that his life had value and meaning and purpose. That was why tonight had to work. Sandy felt his entire future might depend on how well the public-service campaign he and a handful of other marketing students had designed was received. It had been Jordy’s idea, and Sandy, better than anyone, knew the germ of it had come from the darkest corner of his grief, the need to do something not only to honor Travis but in defense of him. Jordy had told her late one night when they sat talking that whatever idea he came up with had to reflect how Travis had lived, not how he died.
Stayin’ Alive was the culmination, an endeavor weeks in the planning. Named for the old 1970s Bee Gees anthem, the student-operated, campus-based cab service he’d conceived would provide safe transportation for students who’d had too much to drink. The weekend he came home and laid out the bones of his plan, he’d been on fire. He’d talked about how he’d gotten the name first, telling Sandy the song had come into his head and wouldn’t leave. It didn’t really surprise her. Somewhere there was a video her dad had shot of her and Emmett dancing a routine to the music à la Saturday Night Fever. It had won them a high school dance-contest trophy their junior year in high school. Jordy had grown up listening to everything Bee Gees. It was kismet, he’d said. Couldn’t Sandy see it? The song was all about survival.
She looked at him now, where he sat onstage with two other students and a small number of campus officials who’d agreed to Jordy’s request to speak this evening. He was bent slightly forward, eyes fixed on the podium; his cheeks were flushed. She’d never seen him so filled with determination, and while it was gratifying that he had found a positive direction to go in, his intensity made her anxious. He seemed stronger to her than he had been before the accident; he seemed more grounded, but what if this project failed—what if he failed? He could so easily go back to his old ways. If anything, since the accident he had even more reason to drink, to let everything slide. The worry of it hovered, and not only in her mind, either. Jenna and Emmett, too, shared her apprehension. Sandy had seen it in their eyes; she sensed it now in their posture, their careful composure.
She glanced around the auditorium. It was almost two-thirds full, a larger crowd than Jordy had expected. When they’d met him earlier for dinner, he’d said he’d be happy if twenty people showed up, and elated if the number hit fifty. There were probably three times that many people assembled, and more still coming in, finding seats.
Sandy brought her gaze back to Jordy. She couldn’t tell if he was nervous. Behind him, a banner that spanned the stage area asked: DRUNK? DON’T DRIVE. STAY ALIVE. CALL CAMPUS CABBIES. IT’S FREE! and listed a telephone number. Below that was a line of smaller print. Sandy couldn’t read it from where she sat between Jenna and Emmett, but she knew what it said: IN MEMORY OF TRAVIS SIMMONS, SON, NEPHEW, BROTHER, AND BEST FRIEND, 1995–2015.
Sandy and Jenna had designed the banner, their first sister project since the accident. Sandy had been so grateful for Jenna’s help. The ground between them was still fragile, their bond so recently reestablished, she’d been afraid Jordy’s idea might tear it all over again. Instead, Jenna had cried when Jordy explained how he wanted to honor Trav. She’d loved the concept of Stayin’ Alive and had even volunteered to become a parent liaison. Emmett and Sandy had joined her, and they’d formed a parent committee that was now seven members strong. Oddly enough, they continued to run into opposition from other parents. We drank in college, they’d say. Nothing worse than a hangover ever happened.
“Something worse happened to my son,” Jenna would say. “He’s dead.”
Now the lights went down, the crowd hushed, and the opening bars of “Stayin’ Alive” played as Jordy approached the podium. A round of applause broke out, small and polite.
Sandy briefly closed her eyes. Please . . . The word rose from the floor of her mind, a prayer, as the music swelled to the chorus. She could feel the bass notes vibrate through the back of her jaw, the soles of her shoes. The audience members came to their feet, clapping loudly now to the beat. Sandy stood, too, with her family—her family that had expanded to include Libby—all of them looking up and down the row at one another, grinning, hardly daring to believe it, thrilled for the response and for Jordy, who, though he did look slightly overwhelmed, was standing tall and confident nonetheless.
The song faded; the audience sat.
Jordy gripped the podium on either side. He looked around, and Sandy smiled when he found her gaze.
Bending to the microphone, he said his name and thanked everyone for coming. Then he paused and straightened, and for a moment Sandy was scared he might walk away from it, the chance to believe in himself. She held her breath, and she sensed Jenna doing the same beside her. Sandy found her hand, and on her other side she found Emmett’s, and she felt the warmth of their reassurance and love, and it was so strong that she willed Jordan to feel it, too. And maybe he did, because he bent to the microphone again.
“Last summer,” he began, looking around at the audience, “my cousin and best buddy, Travis Simmons, and I drove drunk and crashed. I made it. Trav didn’t.”
Jenna’s grasp on Sandy’s hand tightened, but Sandy was afraid to look at her, afraid to take her eyes off Jordy.
“The thing is, it didn’t have to happen like that,” he said. “He’d be the first person to agree, too, if he was here. He’d be the one who’d want to try and prevent anything li
ke it from happening again. So, I guess in a way, that’s why I’m up here, to talk about how we can maybe save somebody else, maybe even you, or your best friend . . . ”
Now Sandy did turn to Jenna, her heart so filled with a confused mix of emotions, she thought it might burst. She touched the tears that tracked Jenna’s cheek and then took her into an embrace that was fierce with grief but also shot with joy. She felt the comfort of Emmett’s hand on her back.
“I can never see him and not think of Trav,” Jenna said in a broken whisper.
“Me, either,” Sandy whispered back.
“He’s terrific up there, though, isn’t he?” Jenna asked. She sat back, wiping her face.
Sandy nodded, swallowing, fighting for composure.
Their mother passed tissues.
Jenna dabbed her nose. “I’m really proud of him,” she said. “Maybe I could borrow him sometimes,” she added.
“He’d like that, I think,” Sandy said.
Jenna squeezed Sandy’s hand. “My borrowed son,” she said, and when Sandy looked, she was smiling.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While it’s true that writing is done mostly in isolation, the business of polishing the book that is the result is not accomplished without an entire village full of wonderful people. I’m so thankful for all of the people in my village. First, thank you to the imaginary ones, the characters who keep me company in the solitary hours, who give up their secrets to me, sometimes easily and sometimes not. Thank you to all the authors who have gone before me, who have written remarkable books about their remarkable characters that have kept me enthralled and instilled in me the fire to do the same.
Always, always, a huge and heartfelt thanks to Barbara Poelle, who is not only a fantastic agent but also an advocate, mentor, and guide. As the queen of fairy godmothers, it is her faith and encouragement, and her reminder—when I need it—of whose journey this is, that keep my focus where it should be, on writing the best book possible. B2, you are the unicorn in my closet!
A heartfelt thank-you as well to Tara Parsons. It’s hard to put into words how grateful I am for her expert guidance as an editor, and for her faith in, and support of, me and my work. Her creative suggestions at the beginning of this project helped launch it in the right direction.
I met my lovely and brilliant current editor, Kelli Martin, through a phone call, in which I felt we talked like old friends. It only got better from there. Throughout our time working together, collaborating on Faultlines, it was as if we shared a mental wavelength, our similar vision for the story was so strong. I feel so lucky to have the benefit of her keen editor’s eye.
My research for the book led me to talk at length with Horseshoe Bay Police night-shift commander John “Chip” Leake, who in a stroke of pure luck also happens to be a great neighbor. I am deeply appreciative of the time he spent sharing his experiences of the many rural highway car accidents he has encountered during his thirty-four-year (so far) career as a Texas law-enforcement officer. Huge thanks as well to my longtime critique partner, Colleen Thompson, who on my behalf has so often enlisted the help of her husband, Mike Thompson, a retired Houston firefighter. I so appreciate them both for their patience and assistance on more levels for more years and books than I can name! Thank you, too, to Dr. Elizabeth Neal for her patience in answering my questions about head trauma. With regard to law enforcement and/or medical issues covered in the novel, any inaccuracies in the story are mine and mine alone.
Thank you more than they can know to my Amazon/Lake Union team—Gabe, Michael, and Elise—who have answered my endless questions, sometimes more than once. You guys are great! And thanks very much, too, to copy editors Sara, Robin, and Jill. As the idiom goes, “The devil is in the details,” and that is so true with a manuscript. There are any number of tiny errors and mistakes, all of them crucial, which escape me, and I’m beyond grateful for these professionals and their sharp eagle eyes.
I want to thank my family: my sister, Susan; brother, John; sons, Michael and David; cousin, Kate, who came with her husband, Joe, on a surprise visit as I was nearing the end of writing Faultlines; and dear friends, Jo and Jink and others who, knowingly or not, in sharing their stories with me, have gifted me with bits and pieces to weave into my books. Please don’t ever stop talking to me! And finally, additional and special thanks to David for always being willing to listen and then give me a man’s perspective. I don’t think even he is aware of how much help his insight is!
Last, but never least, always and forever, thank you to the readers of this book and every other book in the world. Whenever I hear from you, I’m reminded all over again why I do this—for the love of sharing a story and the desire to have it touch others’ hearts, perhaps enough that they will pass it on. Sending joy to all of you is such small payment for all the joy I’ve received on my writing journey. Thank you.
READING GROUP GUIDE
The story is told from the perspectives of two women, Sandy and Libby, who appear to have nothing in common. How do you think they are different? How do you think they are similar?
As sisters, Sandy and Jenna are close, but when one of their sons causes the death of the other, their relationship is shattered. How do you think you would react in a similar situation? Would you have difficulty separating your sibling from the actions of your nephew or niece if he or she were to cause your own child to be harmed?
Jenna has sworn to keep Sandy’s secret, but then years later without warning, she breaks her promise and shares it with the rest of their family. What do you think made her betray Sandy in this way? What do you think she gained or lost from breaking the trust with her sister? Do you think Jenna had any conception of the pain she would cause?
When Emmett learns Sandy’s secret, he leaves town, excusing himself to tend to his mother, who is ill. Given the nature of the secret, do you think his reaction was reasonable or expected or wrong? Was there anything Sandy could have said or done at that point that might have changed his mind?
Imagine that as parents, involved in a similar calamity with two of your kids in an accident, you’re put in the position of choosing which one’s need for you is greater. Do you think you could make such a decision? How would you go about it?
Do you think Emmett and Sandy have had a good marriage? What are the chances their marriage will survive all they have endured?
Do you think Libby’s marriage to Beck was a strong one, a good marriage?
Early in their marriage, how did Libby’s desperate attempts to conceive a child impact the relationship between her and Beck?
What are some of the challenges that arise in marriages? How do challenges strengthen or destroy a good marriage?
Libby chooses Wyatt, Texas, as the place she wants to retire to with Beck, in part because her near-lifelong friend Ruth lives there. Do you think Libby used good judgment, basing a decision about where to live on the strength of a friendship? What factors have you used to decide where you would live?
Libby’s background is in psychology, but when Beck is unfaithful, she doesn’t need the benefit of her expertise in the field to know that taking him back means her forgiveness of him has to be bone deep or it won’t work. Could you forgive a cheating spouse? Under what conditions? Do you think certain situations involving infidelity would be unforgivable?
Libby desperately wanted a child of her own, but it wasn’t meant to be. Ultimately, when she’s asked, she chooses to involve herself with one who isn’t hers. Do you think she makes the right decision? What are your thoughts when it comes to forgiveness in her situation?
What are your feelings about underage drinking and binge drinking among young adults? How do you think colleges and high schools should address this issue? How can parents help?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 Shannon Stroubakis
Barbara Taylor Sissel writes issue-driven women’s fiction that is threaded with elements of suspense and defined by its particular emphasis on ho
w crime affects families. She is the author of six previous novels: The Last Innocent Hour, The Ninth Step, The Volunteer, Evidence of Life, Safekeeping, and Crooked Little Lies.
Born in Honolulu, Hawaii, Barbara was raised in various locations across the Midwest and once lived on the grounds of a first-offender prison facility, where she interacted with the inmates, their families, and the people who worked with them. The experience made a profound impression on her and provided her with a unique insight into the circumstances of the crimes that were committed, and the often-surprising ways the justice system moved to deal with them.
An avid gardener, Barbara has two sons and lives on a farm in the Texas Hill Country, outside Austin.
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