by K. A. Tucker
We round the bend in the road and all I can see are lights. Red and blue flashing lights from the police blockade and, beyond them, the hazy glow of headlights in the fog. At least a dozen, with the hint of more approaching in the distance. More than I would expect for a Balsam County car accident, as tragic as it may be.
Keith slows the car, allowing the officers to move the barricade enough to let us through. Beyond us, cameramen and reporters fill the open lane, filming.
I frown, taking in the line of media vans with names of TV stations painted on their sides. Local stations . . . Philly stations . . . one from New York City . . . CNN? “Why are there so many news stations? Why would they be here for this?” This isn’t exactly worthy of national coverage.
“Do me a favor and pull that blanket up over your head for a minute?”
I don’t argue because hiding under a blanket sounds like a fantastic idea right now.
Keith hits a button and that odd-sounding “get out of the way” police horn blasts into the night, forcing people to the side so we can pass. After a moment he says, “You can come out now.”
I emerge to a dark, quiet road. “Keith? What’s going on?”
He hesitates, stealing a few glances my way while driving. “The guy you pulled out of the car tonight? He’s not just any guy, Cath. That’s Brett Madden.” There’s a note of reverie in his tone.
“Brett Madden,” I repeat, frowning as I pick through my thoughts. The name sounds so familiar.
Keith shoots a “come on” glare my way. “The Brett Madden. Captain of the Philadelphia Flyers?”
“The football team?”
He chuckles, his deep dimples filling his slender face. “The hockey team. The one that just swept two teams in the play-offs and is practically guaranteed to win the Cup this year. Or was, at least.” He shakes his head to himself.
“I think I heard the guys at work talking about him.”
“Likely. He got a hat trick in last night’s game. The guy’s a legend on the ice. Ask Jack about him.”
My brother, who’s at Minnesota on a hockey scholarship, would definitely have heard about him. “Okay. So he’s a hockey player.”
“No. He’s not just ‘a hockey player.’ He may be the best player the NHL has ever seen,” he corrects.
But I can tell just from Keith’s tone that there’s more. “And . . .”
“And he’s also Meryl Price’s son.”
“Meryl Price?” That’s . . . I gasp. “Oh, my God.” My body flushes as a new wave of shock washes over me. I just watched a Meryl Price movie last weekend. The one that earned her her latest Oscar.
Keith slows the car as we pass through another especially thick patch of fog. “Exactly. He’s a pretty big deal to the media.” I feel his eyes flickering to me. “And you just saved his life. So we can withhold your name, but that mess back there? You’re not going to be able to avoid it forever. They’re vultures, and your fifteen minutes of fame are coming whether you like it or not.”
I shrink into my seat, my stomach turning. “I’ve already had my fifteen minutes. I’m good.”
Keith gives me a sympathetic look. “Not like this, you haven’t.”
Chapter 4
“Mommy?”
Between my lingering shock and the throb in my wrist, I was sure I wouldn’t fall asleep, but I guess I did because when I hear Brenna’s childish voice, it hurts to open my eyes. So I don’t, simply reveling in her warm body snuggled next to mine.
Two hot little hands grip my cheeks. “Why are you in my bed?”
“Just because,” I murmur, smiling.
“Because you didn’t want me getting up and going to your bed?” It’s a nightly ritual, a half-awake girl stumbling from her room to mine, to crawl in with me for the rest of the night. I’ve gotten so used to it, I anticipate the sound of her bare feet padding across the linoleum.
Now I crack open my eyes to take in her rich brown irises up close. I have brown eyes, too, but Brenna’s are a darker shade than mine and they have a ring of hazel around the pupils. She also has an olive complexion to my pale pinkish hue, and thick waves of golden blonde locks to my poker-straight, thin ash-blonde hair. “Because I didn’t want to wait.”
I was almost two hours late getting home last night. Keith took care of paying Victoria for the extra hours—her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head when I walked through the door all covered in blood and mud—and then because it was too late to walk he drove her home, leaving me to struggle out of my ruined dress. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror before climbing into the shower and immediately regretted it. I looked like I belonged in a horror movie, the fortunate lone survivor of a massacre in the Everglades.
It wasn’t until the water running over me turned cold that the reality of what I had done hit me. Yes, I saved a man’s life. But more important, I risked leaving Brenna an orphan. I risked my life to pull a giant unconscious man—a complete stranger—out of a burning car. What if the car had exploded? I would have been incinerated trying to accomplish the impossible.
Even though, thanks to some God-granted miracle, I did accomplish it.
But first, I gave up. I had walked away, leaving him there to burn.
That’s when my forehead fell against the shower wall and the tears began, first quietly, in a steady hot stream, then mixed in with ragged sobs. I couldn’t describe my emotions at that moment, the relief and guilt so tightly entwined, both flaring for attention.
I bagged my ruined clothes and made sure all traces of the night were gone from the bathroom, a difficult feat with only one operational hand. Once I struggled into my pajamas, I decided I couldn’t wait to be close to my little girl. I couldn’t carry her into my double bed, so I slipped in behind her in her twin, pulling her slumbering hot body close to me, and struggled to keep my body from trembling as the sobs tore from my chest.
She studies me intently now, an adorable scowl line forming between her brows. “Your eyes are puffy.”
“Are they?” I smile, make my voice sound light. “I guess I’m just tired.”
The phone rings from the living room.
“I’ll get it!” she exclaims, scrambling off the end of the bed and tearing down the hall. Ever since she turned five and I told her she was old enough to answer to phone, she runs for it like a dog at the dinner bell.
I close my eyes and smile, listening to her squeaky, childish voice as she tries to sound mature.
And I thank God that I’m still here to hear it.
“It’s Grandma!” Brenna hollers.
I groan as I peel myself off the mattress, checking the clock to see that it’s just past eight. I left a message at Diamonds for Lou last night, explaining in vague terms that I fell and sprained my wrist and apologizing profusely about not being able to make it in this morning. I didn’t bother calling my mother; it was too late, anyway. I simply texted her with the same ambiguous excuse, letting her know that I wouldn’t be dropping Brenna off.
“She’s coming, Grandma . . . yeah.” Brenna’s small, naturally athletic body is curled up in the forest-green La-Z-Boy I snagged from the local Goodwill store, twirling the old-school coiled phone cord within her fingers, also from Goodwill. I may be the only person in the entire state of Pennsylvania still using a rotary phone.
How long before Brenna demands something from this century to talk to her friends on? A few years, maybe?
My throat thickens with the mental flash of a teenage version of Brenna sitting in that same chair, and for the second time in mere minutes, I thank God that I’m here to imagine that.
“Hey, Brenna, can you get me an ice pack from the freezer?”
“For what?”
I hold up my aching, mangled wrist. The night has given it time to swell even more and turn an angry mottled black and blue.
Her eyes widen in that expressive, childlike way. “What happened?”
“I fell.” I nod toward our fridge with
a whisper of “go” before the onslaught of questions start.
Taking the receiver in my left hand, I settle into the chair. “Hey, Mom.”
“Are you insane? You climbed into a burning car?” My mom’s shrill voice fills my ear, catching me off guard.
Panic sets in. Did the police release my name against my wishes? “How did you—”
“Keith was jogging by and ran into your father. He told him.”
“Oh.” I sink into the La-Z-Boy with a wave of overwhelming relief, even as I remind myself to call and yell at Keith the moment I hang up with her. What was he thinking? I’ll bet passing by my parents’ house isn’t even his usual route, especially right after a midnight shift.
But at least the reporters haven’t figured it out. Yet.
I smile my thanks at Brenna as she settles the ice pack on my lap, already wrapped in a tea towel to lessen the bite of the cold. She clambers into the small space beside me in the chair, her tongue curling out as she grins. A telltale sign that she’s proud to be helping me.
“Keith said you weren’t going to tell us?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal! Have you turned on your TV? The story is all over the news.” Before I can answer, she hollers, “Ted, turn up the volume!”
Reporters’ voices fill the background and I picture my parents, sitting at the kitchen table with their coffees in hand, already dressed for the day when most people would happily sit in their robes and enjoy a lazy Saturday morning.
All over the news. Great. I glance over at the old tube TV sitting in the corner, resisting the urge to search out CNN. While I probably don’t censor myself as much as I should in front of Brenna, she doesn’t need to be exposed to that first thing.
“I mean, seriously, your car is right there, on TV!”
“Yeah, it’s toast.” Burned toast, to be more specific. “What else have they said?”
“Just that there was a witness. But they haven’t released your name.”
“And I don’t want them to. You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“No, of course not. Keith asked us not to,” she answers with a hint of indignation in her tone. I swear, the guy walks on water as far as they’re concerned.
“Okay, good. Please, don’t. Tell anyone, I mean. Especially not Emma and Jack.”
“I wouldn’t. They’re still taking their exams. I don’t want this affecting their grades.”
It’s not an outright accusation, but I hear the hidden tone behind it. Less than an A would be due to Catherine’s recklessness. I told you so, Keith!
“I don’t want this circus in Brenna’s life.” I use my five-year-old as a scapegoat, but in reality, I can’t handle it.
“Circus?” Brenna’s eyes widen, hopeful. “We’re going to a circus?”
I shush her with a kiss on the forehead.
“Be realistic. You won’t be able to stop this, Cath.”
“I’m going to try.” Keith is right, the police don’t have to officially release my name. But word of mouth will out me, and in a town this small and connected, it’ll out me pretty damn fast. Considering who Brett Madden is, I’m afraid “circus” might be an understatement.
“I just . . . We . . . What were you thinking, climbing into a burning car? You could have died.” Her normally even voice breaks with a rare show of emotion.
“It wasn’t fully on fire . . . yet,” I mumble, closing my eyes. I can’t really fault her for her reaction. The only time I ever lose my temper with Brenna is when she’s doing something dangerous. Just imagining her with a broken leg is enough to make me want to lock her up in our house for good.
“What was on fire?” Brenna chirps next to me.
I lean away from her prying ears, hoping she can’t hear my mother through the receiver. “I wasn’t really thinking at the time.”
“Obviously.”
“Mommy! What was on fire?” Brenna tugs impatiently at my arm.
I let out a hiss of pain. “Brenna, careful!”
“Keith said you hurt your wrist but refused to let him take you to the hospital?”
I sigh, wondering how long it will take my hand to heal before I can use it to throttle my dear friend. Isn’t it against some police code to run—literally—to my parents like that? “I had to get home to Brenna. It’s just a sprain.”
“You don’t know that, you’re not a doctor. If there’s a hairline fracture, it won’t heal well. You’ll only make it worse. You won’t be able to work. Then what will—”
“Okay! Okay.” I hold up my wrist to examine it. It does look bad. “I’ll figure out something.”
“Ted! Get the keys. We’re going to Cath’s.” To me, she says, “I hope you’re dressed.”
“You don’t have to . . .” I begin but realize that she’s already ended the call.
I frown at the receiver, long after the dial tone fills our quiet living room.
The Philadelphia Flyers head coach wears a somber expression as he addresses the media, seemingly unaffected by the steady stream of flashbulbs and clicks. “The franchise’s thoughts and prayers are with the players and their families. We’ve been told that Brett is in stable condition. We pray for a speedy and full recovery for him. And Seth . . .” He pauses, his voice growing shaky, the first sign of raw emotion I’ve seen from the gruff, stony-faced man. “He was an exceptional hockey player and human being. He will be missed by everyone.”
A reporter asks a question about game one of the Eastern Conference finals, scheduled for next Friday, and if the coach thinks the team still has a real shot, even though they’ve lost arguably their two best players. My dad jabs at the Mute button on the remote before I hear the answer. “There goes our chance at the Cup.” A deep scowl settles across his weathered forehead. “Idiots and their sports cars.”
I glare at him, the mental image of the driver lying across the hood of the car still too fresh in my mind.
“Don’t tell me he wasn’t speeding,” he adds, but he has the decency to look sheepish over his callous remark.
I most certainly can’t say that he wasn’t speeding, as I told Keith last night, but that doesn’t really help matters. I tip my head back and drain the last of my coffee. At least I managed to get caffeine in my system in the five minutes it took my parents to show up at my doorstep. Besides that and telling Brenna to get dressed, I didn’t manage much else.
“I wonder if Jack is awake yet. He’ll be devastated when he sees the news.” Mom makes a beeline for the mug I just emptied and returns to the sink with it. She wasn’t inside for thirty seconds before she was running the tap for last night’s pile of dirty dishes. I’d like to think it’s solely because she realizes I’m incapable of washing them given my injury, but I know it has more to do with her psyche being unable to handle a mess. Mom is what most would call obsessive when it comes to tidiness. I think she actually has a mental condition, though it has never been diagnosed. I’ve caught her gaze drifting to a dozen different places in the past ten minutes, no doubt tallying the ways my standards are much too low for her. And my standards aren’t even that low, compared to Misty’s or even Lou’s. But I do have a five-year-old. That’s akin to housing a tornado most days.
Plus, in a house as small as mine, there’s no hiding a mess, short of stuffing it under a bed. It’s more a cottage than a house—a tiny four-room structure of seven hundred square feet, with a combined living room–dining room–kitchen as soon as you walk in and two bedrooms off the back, the bathroom sitting in between them. A front porch gives a little extra living space during warmer months, but being behind Rawley’s Pool Hall means that the view—a brick wall covered in graffiti and a Dumpster almost always overflowing—leaves much to be desired. Then again, that’s the reason we can afford the rent.
I spent months searching for a place while waiting for Brenna to be born. I looked in Belmont, and Davenport, and every other town within easy driving distance to the diner. Everywhere excep
t Balsam. While I wasn’t going to Philly, I was adamant that I’d at least stay away from here.
Belmont turned out to be too expensive for me, and not everyone is keen on renting to a single eighteen-year-old pregnant girl. But I found two decent apartments within my price range in neighboring towns. Both times, the landlords seemed willing to rent to me. I filled out the paperwork and provided checks for first and last months’ rent. Then suddenly the apartments were unavailable. It didn’t take a genius to figure out they’d realized who I was and didn’t want the hassle that they assumed would come by renting to me.
I was beginning to think I’d be homeless, and then Lou walked me over to a booth one day to introduce me to a customer named Mr. Darby, who had a tiny white-clad cottage covered in creeper vines during the summer months for rent, not far from Main Street.
In Balsam.
It’s on the outskirts, away from the well-groomed downtown core, the area designed to appeal to both tourists and the wealthier residents, which Balsam has plenty of. This part of town is for the small minority like me—locals who don’t quite fit in with the rest of the aesthetics. I took the house because I had no choice. I took it figuring I’d find something else eventually.
I guess it’s fate in a way that I’m still here, because there are definite benefits to living a four-minute drive from my parents now that we’re on speaking terms again.
“We really should get going, unless you want to be sitting in the ER all day.” My mother’s gaze drifts over my T-shirt and plaid pajama pants with a look that says, “You weren’t going to go out in that, were you?”
“I’ll be ten minutes at most.”
“Brenna, would you please bring this to Grandpa.” My mom hands Brenna a glass of water, warning in a grave tone, “Two hands and go slow.”
Brenna takes the task seriously, her steps tiny, her eyes glued to the glass, all the way across the room to my dad, who watches her with a wide, genuine grin on his face.
