I jumped when my mobile rang, and I snatched it up, hoping it was Nancy or Liam, canceling the dinner. Then I remembered neither of them had my number, and when I looked at the phone, my heart sank. It was my mother again, and I let it go to voice mail.
I listened to her curt message, instructing me to call her, that she really needed to talk. A shiver of satisfaction slid down my back as I pressed the delete button. I didn’t care about what she wanted to say; I already had enough emotional turmoil dragging me in all directions. Why would I allow the person who despised me the most in the entire world make me feel even worse? She’d never forgiven me for what I did. What she didn’t know was that I hadn’t either.
THEN
ABBY
TOM WAS DEAD.
They hadn’t said so at first, but it was obvious from the looks on their faces. The nurses had kept their eyes down and their voices low, telling me over and over I’d be okay.
I’d be okay. I’d be okay? I’d never be okay again.
Tom was dead.
I was alone in my room again after my mother had been asked to leave. She’d arrived a few hours before, probably as soon as the police had told her both her children had been in an accident. I heard her screams in the corridor. “My baby’s dead! He’s dead.” Someone must have asked her to please calm down because Mum shouted, “How can I? My son is dead!”
Things went quiet for a while. I drifted in and out of consciousness for a few seconds, and when I opened my eyes Mum stood at the bottom of the bed. The sun was barely up, yet she’d pinned her hair into an elaborate bun. Her cheeks glistened with a mix of rouge and tears, but her waterproof mascara clung stubbornly to her long lashes. I noticed how her starched, white shirt had been precision pressed to the point where it could have marched around by itself. I’d always been amazed at how quickly she could get herself together, but given the circumstances it disgusted me.
“Mum,” I said. “I...I...”
“Tom’s dead.” She crossed her arms protectively over her torso, her eyes focusing steadily on mine. “He’s gone.”
“I know... I—”
“You were driving.”
“I...I think so. I can’t remember but—”
“And drinking.” She raised her chin. “Weren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Mum. Please,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t see him, Abigail. They won’t let me.”
I swallowed. “I know. I asked to see him. They said... They said he... There’s...”
“Nothing to recognize.”
I watched her eyes well up. “They gave me this.” She opened her palm to reveal Tom’s necklace, the one with the engraved dog tags I’d given him for his eighteenth birthday. It was no longer silver, but badly blackened and charred. “This is all I have left.”
I wanted to hold her, her to hold me. Feel the warmth she’d always shown Tom, and the strength that made her so independent, strong but equally cold and distant. Instinctively I held my arms out. She didn’t move.
“There’s nothing to recognize,” she repeated, her eyes hardening again. “Nothing at all, Abigail. Tom’s gone.”
“Mum, I’m—”
“He’s gone,” she whispered, as she put her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking. “Gone.”
I willed myself to disappear. Wanted the floor to crumble, taking me, the bed, the drip and the beeping machines with it. I’d fall, fall, fall. Continue falling until I vanished completely. That was what I deserved. To be gone, too. But the ground stayed firm and neither of us spoke. Mum kept perfectly still and stared at me until the doctor walked in.
“Remember me?” he said, then turned to Mum. “She was pretty out of it a while ago. I’m Dr. Raj Patel.” He held out his hand.
“Dolores Sanders,” she said, giving his hand one deliberate shake. “Abigail’s mother.”
He came over to me, bending slightly at the hips as he listened to my chest with his stethoscope. “How’s the pain?” he asked gently.
“I can’t feel anything.” I looked away. I didn’t want to see the empathy and concern in his big brown eyes. I deserved none of it.
“You were lucky,” he said quietly as he hung the stethoscope around his neck and took my pulse at the wrist.
I snapped my head around. “Lucky?”
He patted my hand. “Lucky you were ejected from the car. Lucky how you landed. And very lucky someone stopped. Otherwise you—”
“Someone stopped?” I said. “Who?”
“A young man, I think.” He cleared his throat. “The bruises will fade. The fracture in your leg will heal quickly—it was relatively easy to fix. But both legs will be badly scarred from all the lacerations. They were pretty deep. Again, you were lucky you didn’t hit an artery.”
I wanted him to stop saying I was lucky. My brother was dead because of me. How did that make me lucky? “I don’t care about scars.”
Dr. Patel nodded slowly and I noticed he had one himself, above his top lip, in the shape of a boomerang. Maybe he was Australian. I suddenly wanted to giggle. Tom would like that joke. I made a mental note to tell him before I remembered, with a sharp tightening in my chest, that I’d never be able to tell Tom anything again.
Meanwhile, the doctor had continued talking. “...so skin grafts may be a possibility in time. They do marvelous things with plastic surgery these days. You’ll be as good as new and...”
I looked away again, studied the bland, gray metallic blinds that covered the windows, noticed how immaculately clean they were. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Sterile, devoid of life and the possibility of life. I shook my head. The scars would stay.
“...so call the nurse if you need anything.” Dr. Patel squeezed my hand. “Anything at all.”
“How about a drink?” Mum said. She’d been so quiet I’d almost forgotten she was there.
“She can have water or juice,” he replied with a smile. “I’ll ask the nu—”
Mum half laughed. “What about vodka?”
Dr. Patel’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Or was it gin?” She put her hands on her hips and looked at me, her blue eyes colder than a winter’s day. “Or beer? Or wine? Maybe all of the above?”
“Mrs. Sanders, I don’t think—”
“She drank.” Mum spat the words in his direction but didn’t take her gaze off me. “My daughter drank. Then she drove and—”
“Perhaps we—”
“—now her brother, my son, is dead.”
I closed my eyes, once more demanding the floor to open up. Please open up.
“Mrs. Sanders,” the doctor said, “I understand this must be incredibly difficult for you—”
“Do you? Do you? It’s her fault.” Mum pointed at me, and the intensity in her voice surprised even me. “She killed him.”
“Mum, please.” Tears slid down my cheeks.
“It was an accident,” Dr. Patel said. “And—”
“You killed Tom,” Mum shouted at me. “You fucking killed my son.”
I’d rarely heard Mum swear. It sounded so ugly coming from her mouth. But that was nothing compared to the look of rage and absolute revulsion on her face. She didn’t need to tell me she hated every single bone in my body, begrudged every breath I took, wished it were my charred remains in the morgue. She didn’t need to tell me. And I wished it were me, too.
“You need to leave, Mrs. Sanders,” the doctor said as he put a hand on her arm, firmly guiding her toward the door. “Now.”
I watched as Mum regained some of her composure, shaking off his grip, taking deep breaths, her mask of perfection sliding over her face once more.
“Oh, don’t worry, Doctor,” she said with a terse smile. “I’m leaving.” She strode toward the door, then turned, her face ashen, her lips tight. “I’ll
never forgive you for this, Abigail. Never.” And then she left, the click-clacking sound of her heels following her down the corridor.
Dr. Patel raised his eyebrows, exhaled deeply and gave a tentative smile. “Your mother will come around. We’ve seen this before, unfortunately. But she’ll forgive you. She needs time.”
I let go of the breath I’d been holding as if it were a life jacket, and immediately felt like I was drowning again. “Yeah.” I gave a halfhearted nod. “I’m sure you’re right.” It was easier than telling him he was wrong. Easier than trying to explain the complicated relationship my mother and I had endured.
Dr. Patel opened his mouth to say something else, so I turned my head, focusing on the cleanliness of the metallic blinds again. After a few seconds I heard the door shut quietly, and I was alone.
* * *
“Abby? Abby?” The voice was gentle, quiet, familiar.
“Tom?” I said, eyes half open, trying to focus on the shape next to me. “Tom?”
“It’s me, baby. It’s Liam.” His voice sounded different, hoarse, and I noticed he’d been crying. “It took me ages to find you. Oh, baby, look at you.” He kissed me softly on the cheek, his fingers cupping my face. “Look at you. I’m so sorry.”
“Tom,” I whispered. “He’s...he’s...”
“I know,” Liam said as he tried to wrap his arms around me but stopped when I let out a soft moan. “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry, Abby. I’m so sorry.”
I cried again. “I...I don’t remember anything.”
He pulled away slightly. “What do you mean? You know me, Abby, I’m your—”
“No, I meant about last night.” I took a deep breath. “It’s all fuzzy.”
Liam swallowed, then blinked and quietly said, “What do you remember?”
I covered my eyes with my palms for a second, trying to magic the memories back into my head. “You and me in the shower. Tom calling about Sophia.” I paused. “Picking him up and going to Humpty’s. I...I think I wanted to go to Red’s, but he said no. He wanted to go home.”
“And then?”
“That’s it. That’s all I can remember.” Tears streamed down my cheeks, their dampness pooling in my ears. “Then...nothing... Nothing until I woke up here.” I searched his face, tried to figure out what he was thinking, then I frowned and reached for the swollen bruise on his forehead. “What happened to your face?”
Liam shifted in his seat. “Abby, I—”
With a sharp knock on the door, two police officers wearing sullen expressions stepped into the room. “Abigail Sanders?” the tall one with ginger hair said. The dark purple bags under his eyes made me think he hadn’t seen a bed in weeks.
“Yes.” My voice sounded small and pathetic, and I was sure they could hear my heart pounding against my ribs like an increasingly manic drum solo.
“I’m Officer Cook.” He pointed toward the other man, who was significantly shorter, his smooth skin an indication his police career was a recent thing. “This is Officer Marsh. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Can’t it wait?” Liam said. “She’s been through a lot.”
“I appreciate that,” Cook said slowly. “But the doctor cleared her for questioning, and sooner is better than later.” He turned to me, and I tried to disappear into my pillow. “We understand the passenger in the car was your brother, Thomas?”
“Tom,” I whispered. “He hates being called Thomas.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Miss,” Marsh said. “Very sorry.”
I swallowed, thinking again I didn’t deserve any sympathy. Punishment—that’s what should be on the menu. Now, and for every single one of my days to come.
“Sir,” Cook said to Liam. “Could you wait outside, please?”
“Liam’s my boyfriend,” I said, grabbing hold of his arm. “Please let him stay.”
“Uh, shouldn’t you have a lawyer?” Liam said as he eyed the policemen.
Cook and Marsh looked at each other, then at me.
“I don’t need a lawyer, Liam,” I said quickly. “There’s nothing to hide.”
“Abby, you don’t—”
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
Cook cleared his throat. “What can you tell us about last night?” he said, pulling a notebook from his pocket.
I burst into a monologue, trying to get everything I could think of out of my head. Tom calling me about Sophia and the beer crate incident. Me telling Liam I’d take Tom out for some drinks instead of the three of us going out. Liam not minding the change of plans. “He’s a wonderful boyfriend,” I said, looking at Liam, the certainty of him now being too good for me wrapping itself around my neck, gently starting to squeeze. “If only I’d asked you to come out with us.” I tried swallowing the lump in my throat. “You’d never let me drive if I was off my face. Never.”
“Abby...” Liam held my hand, but I couldn’t return the pressure from his fingers.
“It’s our birthday tomorrow,” I said as I rubbed my eyes, trying to squeeze the tears back in. “Tom’s and mine.”
“You’re twins?” Marsh said gently.
“No. Tom’s a year younger. It’s his twenty-first.” Liam squeezed my hand again as I continued. “And his present is hidden away at the back of my cupboard.” I swallowed once more. “A Viking cue. The Stars and Stripes one. Tom loves—” I stopped, blinked. “He loved America.”
The tears were impossible to hold back this time. Liam handed me another tissue, and I continued my ramblings. I told them about us having beers at the pub, playing a few games of darts, me suggesting we go to Red’s, him asking the barman to rack up another round of B-52s instead. “Tom almost slid off the stool, and I laughed so hard I almost pe—” I exhaled, thinking everything had seemed hilarious last night. Right up until this morning, when somebody I’d never met before, their hands stuffed deep into the pockets of their white lab coat and a grave expression on their face, told me my baby brother was dead.
My shoulders shook and Liam stroked my hair. “Nothing’s ever going to be funny again,” I sobbed. “Nothing.” After a few moments I looked up at the policemen, ready to submit to their judgmental, contemptuous stares. Instead I saw empathy in their eyes and looked away.
“So you’d agree you had a fair amount to drink?” Cook’s voice was even, his eyebrows raised, his pen poised, ready to permanently record all my deadly sins.
“Yes, but I can’t remember exactly how much,” I whispered and looked down at my hands. “I never drink and drive.” My eyes met Cook’s again. “Never.”
“I’m afraid it only takes the once,” he said. “And the blood test showed an alcohol level well over the limit.”
I started sobbing again, salty tears running into the corners of my mouth as I said, “How could I be so stupid? I’m such a bloody idiot.”
“What else do you remember?” Cook’s gentle question pulled me from the edge of the deep black hole I was staring into in my mind, wishing it would suck me into oblivion. “What about leaving the pub?”
“No.”
“Or the drive?”
“I can’t—”
“You were on Liverpool Road, heading to Hutton. Where Tom lived.”
“Nothing,” I said as I looked at Cook and registered his half frown. “I don’t even remember getting in the car. I’ve tried, honestly I have.” I closed my eyes until the click of someone’s tongue made my temper flare out of nowhere. “I’m not lying,” I said loudly as I looked at the policemen and lifted myself up. “I’m not. The doctor called it, uh, he said...”
Cook clicked his pen, and I realized that was where the sound had come from. “Retrograde amnesia,” he said, and I sank back down onto my pillow.
“What’s that?” Liam said. “Is it serious? Please tell me it’s not—”
“No, it mean
s I can’t remember anything before or after the accident,” I said. “Dr. Patel thinks it’s because I went through the windshield.” I blinked. “On the way to hell.”
Cook cleared his throat and looked at Liam. “And where were you, sir?”
“He was packing his stuff.” I started to cry. “We’re supposed to move in together.”
Marsh looked at us both. “Do you remember if you drove anyone else?”
My hands dropped to my sides as if they’d instantly filled with lead. “Was there somebody else in the car?” My heart sped up, and I wiped my palms on the blanket. The possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“Well—”
“Please,” I croaked. “Please say there was nobody else.”
“No, Abby,” Cook said. “Nobody else in the vehicle. Nobody else involved.” I took a deep breath, tried to slow my racing heart as he continued. “But we’re curious about one thing. Why was Tom in the back seat?”
“Abby,” Liam said. “I—”
“Liam,” Cook said firmly as he held up a hand. “Let her answer the question.”
My eyes flooded with tears. “Tom had a thing about sitting in the front passenger seat,” I whispered. “He always insists...insisted on getting in the back.”
“Why?”
I held my breath for a second. “He’s done it since we were kids. Never wanted to sit in the front. Always said he felt safer in the back. I used to tease him all the time, but he didn’t care. That’s Tom for you. Stubborn as hell.”
As Cook scribbled something in his notebook I forced my memory again, trying to make the little pieces I could almost, almost grab hold of fit together. “What happens now?”
They looked at each other, and Marsh spoke softly. “Our specialists have attended the scene, and they’re trying to work out what happened.”
“How?” Liam said. “If nobody else was there?”
“Tire marks on the road, positioning of the car and so on,” Cook said. “We’ll also make an appeal for witnesses to come forward. We’re not expecting much, but we’ll talk to the young man who stopped and helped. See if he remembers anything.”
The Neighbors Page 11
