The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs

by Matthew Dicks

  Caroline pulled the car over to the side of the road, skidding to a halt on the gravel shoulder. “You had no right to do that.”

  “I had every right,” Polly said. “Isn’t that the whole reason you dragged me here in the first place?”

  “Inviting Emily over for dinner was not your job. Lying to me was not your job.”

  “Well, maybe if you had done your job, I wouldn’t have had to do mine.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Caroline said.

  “Yes, it is. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it is simple. You just have to speak up for once in your life.”

  That hit Caroline like a spear through the heart.

  “I know you were trying to help, and I know I asked for your help, but it’s never okay to lie. It wasn’t fair to me or Emily or Nana.”

  “Give me break,” Polly said.

  “What?”

  “For a second there, I thought we were going to have an actual conversation. But then you switched right back into bullshit mode.”

  “That’s not bullshit mode,” Caroline said. “It’s responsible mode. It’s parent mode.”

  “No, Mom, it’s bullshit mode. You don’t have a parent mode. You have hide-under-a-rock mode and pray-things-get-better mode, but you don’t have anything close to parent mode. Just because you’re my mom doesn’t mean we can’t have an actual conversation about real things, except you can never do that.”

  “Are you kidding me? Every time I try to talk to you, you push me away. Or walk away.”

  “That’s because you never have anything to say. It’s like you’re on some loser TV show pretending to be a mom instead just being an actual person. These past two days have been the most real I’ve ever seen you in my life. I was pissed at you for letting Grace Dinali ambush me in chemistry, but at least you stood up to her mother. It was like the first time you ever went off script.”

  “You’re my daughter,” Caroline said. “Not my friend.”

  “No, because you don’t have any friends. You have Wendy, who lives on the other side of the country, and that’s it. No wonder why that bitch kicked you out of her table.”

  “I can’t believe you would throw that back at me.” Caroline’s voice was trembling.

  “Whatever,” Polly said, and threw open the car door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Walking away. Like you said I do.” Polly slammed the car door and started walking down the hill back in the direction of the high school.

  Caroline opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel. “You’re going to walk all the way back to Grandma’s house?”

  “I know the way,” Polly said, not bothering to look back.

  “Polly, it’s like five miles away. Get back in the car.”

  Polly said nothing. A second later, she pressed her phone against her ear and began talking.

  Caroline waited another minute and then climbed back into the car. She watched as Polly crested the top of a gentle slope and then disappeared like the setting sun. When she could no longer see her daughter, she turned the car around and headed in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  Caroline did not intentionally drive to the intersection of Summer and Federal streets, but she found herself there just the same.

  It took less than five minutes.

  Heading south on Summer Street past a long line of nearly identical split-level homes, Caroline pulled the car alongside the road, coming to a stop on a grassy shoulder fifty feet from where the two roads met. Summer and Federal streets joined at a three-way intersection, with Federal connecting to Summer at a not quite ninety-degree angle. Drivers heading south (in the direction that Caroline was now facing) would have to make a hard right turn on to Federal. But if they were traveling north on Summer, they would be able to make a more gradual turn, bearing left onto Federal unless there was oncoming traffic, which was exactly what Caroline had been doing on her bike that day so long ago.

  She and Lucy had been pedaling north, hoping to arrive home in time for lunch. Caroline was maybe fifty feet ahead of her younger sister, who had fallen behind on the last hill. As she approached the turn onto Federal Street, she peered over her shoulder to check for oncoming traffic. She saw Lucy, her Laura Ingalls braids bobbing in rhythm as she stood atop her pedals, pumping hard to catch up with her big sister. Her cheeks were flushed, her face was streaked with sweat, but she was smiling as she caught Caroline’s eye. She was happy. She was coming to the end of an adventure with her big sister.

  Caroline saw the yellow van cresting the far hill, a golden speck on the horizon. Plenty of time to bear left onto Federal Street before the van caught up to her, and so she did, twisting her handlebars and leaning into the turn.

  She was pedaling up a slight incline when she heard the thump and then the screech of tires, in that order. Thump then screech. An order that would come to mean so much to policemen and lawyers and a stranger who would be a stranger no longer.

  Investigators would later say that Lucy had probably not seen the yellow van, which would eventually become the speeding yellow van, when she crossed over to Federal Street. It might have been in her blind spot. Or more likely, she had simply misjudged the van’s high speed. Lucy had probably looked over her shoulder, gauged the distance, determined that she had plenty of time to cross, not realizing how quickly the van was devouring the pavement between them.

  But Caroline knew that Lucy had never taken the time to look over her shoulder to check for traffic. She had seen Caroline cross over onto Federal Street, and ten seconds later, she had followed, assuming that her big sister was looking out for her, as she had so often.

  Caroline looked and Caroline crossed so now I can cross.

  The van broadsided her, launching the pink Schwinn forward like a rocket. A second later, the screech, as the driver of the vehicle, a twenty-four-year-old woman named Katherine Paley, slammed on the brakes in a vain attempt to stop the van from running over the girl. The doctors would later say that it didn’t matter. Lucy was dead before she even hit the pavement. Her head had struck the front of the van with such force that she had died instantly. Painlessly. Probably unaware of what had even happened. Caroline wondered if this is what all doctors said about dead little girls in order to ease the family’s pain.

  Caroline turned in time to see Lucy’s body tumbling beneath the skidding van like a doll flopping around inside a dryer.

  The first scream had not been her own but that of Katherine Paley. Caroline could see the woman now, more than two decades later, still clear as day. Faded blue jeans. Purple sweater. Blond hair hanging past narrow shoulders. Sneakered feet straddling the double yellow line of Summer Street. Hands latched on to her temples as she screamed a scream that Caroline could hear to this day.

  Then her gaze shifted from the spot where Katherine Paley had been standing to the spot in the road where Lucy’s body had finally come to rest. Caroline knew that particular spot on the pavement better than any place in the world, even though she was still unable to recall the last time she had been here. That tiny patch of cracked asphalt had become the center of Caroline’s universe. Everything that she had seen and done and said since that day had spun out from that tiny spot.

  Now she could see the fifteen-year-old version of herself, dropping her bike in the middle of the road and racing over to her sister, her screams mingling with those of Katherine Paley’s to fill the air with high-pitched hysterics. Caroline had known that her sister was dead before she even reached the body. She remembered the sense of her stomach dropping out from underneath her, the sudden loss of balance, then skidding, falling, collapsing onto the pavement ten feet before reaching her sister. The first heave of breath that her lungs demanded and then the agonizing, weeping crawl across the pavement, over the double yellow line, until she finally reached Lucy’s lifeless body. She had wanted to grab her sister and hold on to her, not let anyone touch her. She wanted so desperately to believe that as long as Luc
y remained untouched by the world, the world could not take her. And at the same time she wanted to fix her sister, twist her arm back where it belonged, turn her head so that body and neck and face were properly lined up once again. She fell atop Lucy’s body, grabbed all that she could and wept, knowing that her sister was dead and that is was her fault. Would always be her fault.

  And she was weeping again now, staring at that spot in the road where she had last held her baby sister. Tears streaked her cheeks and mucus filled her nose as she whispered “I’m sorry” over and over again. A lifetime of apologies that could never make up for that ugly moment on that perfect autumn day.

  As she wept, her eyes shifted from the spot on the pavement where her sister had lain to the patch of pavement on Federal Street where she had dropped her bike. She could see that, too, now, a Huffy ten-speed, metallic blue, its front tire spinning silently, the white and red plastic bag still hanging from its handlebars. The bag would not enter her thoughts until later, once her bike had found its way home, returned by the police during those fuzzy hours after the accident. Caroline had disposed of it before anyone had time to question its existence, which was to say that she placed the bag and its contents in the spot where her mother was least likely to look. And she had been right. As far as Caroline knew, it was still sitting there today. She had hidden the bag from the police and her mother for more than two decades, but more important, she had hidden the bag from herself.

  seventeen

  Caroline was surprised to see two cars parked beside her mother’s. One was George Durrow’s minivan; she had never seen the other before. Mr. Durrow was sitting on the front porch in one of her mother’s oversized rocking chairs. Sitting beside him in an identical rocker was an older man, thin, bald and wearing a pair of large, dark sunglasses. They were drinking lemonade from tall glasses.

  “It’s Caroline? Right?” Durrow asked as Caroline mounted the porch steps. He had changed clothes. He was now wearing dress pants and a sweater, with a paisley tie peaking above the collar.

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “You’re Mr. Durrow. Right?”

  “Call me George.”

  “All right,” she said. “George, then.”

  “And I’m Spartacus,” the other man said, grinning.

  “Spartacus?” Caroline repeated. She reached out to shake the man’s hand, but he offered none in return. She reached a little closer, thinking that perhaps he was older and less mobile than he appeared. Nothing.

  “You’re trying to shake my hand,” the man said, smirking. “Aren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?” Caroline said.

  “I’m blind,” he said, seeming to hone in on her voice. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” Caroline said. “I had no idea.”

  “Nor should you,” he said, extending his hand in her general direction.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “You are?”

  “I told you. I am Spartacus.” When Caroline failed to respond, he added, “For real.”

  “Spartacus? Like from the movie?”

  “That’s his name,” George Durrow said. “I didn’t believe it either when he first told me.”

  “I don’t believe it. Show me your driver’s license.”

  Spartacus laughed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Caroline said.

  “I think it’s rude that the state won’t let me drive just because I can’t see, but that’s my lot in life. A least until Google gets those self-driving cars on the road. Did you know that in Iowa, a blind man can get a gun permit? Now that’s a progressive state. But ask your mother. The name is real.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Caroline said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Spartacus said. “You’re certainly not the first to question me. I was supposed to be an Edwin, but when I was born blind, my parents decided to go with Spartacus. They thought I needed all the help I could get. And they were hippies, so it wasn’t much of a stretch.”

  Caroline smiled.

  “I love it,” George said. “Hippies or not, it was smart of them.”

  “And your last name?” Caroline said. “Dare I ask?”

  “Bloom,” Spartacus said. “Doesn’t quite match the first, but there was no changing that.”

  “Your parents sound like a couple of interesting characters,” Caroline said.

  “They were,” Spartacus said. “They’re not with us anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m saying all the wrong things today.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Spartacus said. “I miss them dearly, but there’s nothing to be sorry about. Even Kirk Douglas will die someday.”

  “Kirk Douglas?” Caroline asked.

  “The actor who played Spartacus.”

  “Right,” Caroline said, relieved that this banter had turned her mood around. She was surprised, too. Small talk was not her forte, yet she felt at ease with these two men, even with all of her gaffs. She pulled up a chair. “So you’re here for the same reason as George?” she asked.

  “I hope not!” Spartacus said. “Is there something you want to tell me, George?”

  George laughed uncomfortably. “Penelope’s a fine lady,” George said. “But I wouldn’t dream of stealing her.”

  “Stealing?” Caroline said.

  “You didn’t know that your mother was dating?” Spartacus asked.

  “No, I knew she was dating,” Caroline said. “I just didn’t know—”

  “That her boyfriend was blind?”

  “No,” Caroline said. “That his name was Spartacus.” Another smile.

  “That’s your mother. She loves the shock value. When we first started dating, she’d have me meet her friends at lunch on some outdoor patio so my sunglasses didn’t look so out of the ordinary. And she’d make sure that we arrived before her friends, so they wouldn’t see my cane or see me walking in on her arm. Then she’d just wait until one of them was brave enough to ask if I was blind.”

  “And you went along with it?” Caroline asked.

  “Sure,” Spartacus said. “I have to admit that it made for an interesting sociological experiment.”

  “Sounds cruel to me,” George said.

  “Sounds like my mother to me,” Caroline said.

  “I can’t deny that it had Penelope written all over it,” Spartacus said. “She enjoyed screwing with people so much that I started to wonder if it was the only reason she agreed to date me.”

  “That’s Mom,” Caroline said.

  “Good thing I love her.” Spartacus Bloom loved her mother. This made Caroline surprisingly happy. It also made her wonder how much she was missing out on. “By the way,” she said, “have you seen my daughter?”

  “She got here an hour ago,” George said.

  “Really? She must’ve run. She was over by the high school when I last saw her.”

  “No,” George said, “She came with … I can’t remember their names.”

  “She wasn’t walking?”

  “No, she was in that SUV over there,” George said, pointing to the Lexus. “A family. Husband, wife, two kids.”

  “Really?” Caroline said.

  “The fella had bandages on his hands.”

  “The Labontes?” Caroline asked. “Emily and Randy Labonte?”

  “Yup, that’s them.”

  “They’re here now?” Caroline felt a weight descend upon her chest.

  “Yeah, they’ve been here almost as long as I have,” George said. “It was nice of Polly to invite me, by the way. That’s quite a girl you have.”

  “Oh, you’re here for dinner, too?”

  “Yeah,” Mr. Durrow said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “She invited me, too,” Spartacus said. “Penelope told me to stay away tonight. She said she wanted dinner with her girls. But then Polly called and told me to come right over, so here I am. Hope it’s all right.”

  “Of course it is,” Caroline said. “The more the merrier. Rig
ht?”

  And why should she mind? This promised to be a great evening. Her mother’s blind boyfriend, a parrot-grieving client, her high school nemesis, her nemesis’s possibly adulterous husband and their daughter. Plus a son Caroline had yet to meet. A perfect combination for a dinner party.

  As if reading her thoughts, Spartacus said, “Agnes is here, too.”

  “Agnes?” Caroline asked.

  “My home health aide,” Spartacus said. “She drove me here, and Polly invited her to stay. It’s going to be one hell of a dinner party.”

  That was exactly what Caroline was afraid of.

  eighteen

  It was possible that Polly was acting out of kindness and a spirit of hospitality, but Caroline didn’t think so. Her daughter was not the kind of girl to arrange a dinner party for even her closest friends. And she was never one to enjoy the company of strangers.

  Like it or not, she had to admit that Polly was doing exactly what she had been told to do. Caroline had pointed her daughter at a target and told her not to veer off course no matter what she might say. She was doing exactly that.

  It had seemed like a good plan in the confines of the car and even in the New Jersey diner, but now it was being put into practice, well, the truth was that Polly was scaring the hell out of her. Her daughter had proven herself to be more than capable of bending the world to her will, and Caroline had given her license to do so.

  Caroline was six steps into the house when she ran into Randy Labonte—literally—causing him to spill red wine across the front of his sweater.

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Randy said, reaching into a bathroom for a hand towel. “Just a case of two objects reaching the same point in space at the same time.”

  “You’re a mess,” Caroline said, taking the towel and dabbing his sweater.

  “More than you know,” Randy said.

  “I’m not making any progress here,” she said, still dabbing. “Follow me. We need to get it into the wash before the stain sets in.” She led Randy back down the hallway and through the basement door. At the bottom of the stairs, Caroline flipped a switch, brightening the darkened space. A washer and dryer were tucked away in a corner near the stairs. She led Randy over to them.