Burnt Orange

by Melody Carlson

  “Going to?”

  “Okay. I quit. I’m done. Finis.’”

  She just sighs and shrugs. “Yeah, whatever.”

  “So, are we okay then?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Then she reaches out and suddenly hugs me. “It’s just that I worry about you, Amber. It’s only because I love you, you know?”

  “I know.”

  Then she steps back and looks at me. “And you’re okay to drive home? I could give you a ride, but I have to stop by and pick up Lena first. Her car’s in the shop.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be fine. Really, it was just one shot of rum in my Dr Pepper, and it was with food. Not enough to impair anyone.”

  “Well, drive carefully anyway.”

  I nod again. But it’s like there’s this big lump forming in my throat right now, like I’m about to cry, but I really don’t want her to see me falling apart.

  “You too,” I call out as she gets into her car.

  Then I get into my car and wait for her to leave. Then I just slam my fist into my steering wheel and let loose with a scream that’s coming from some deep dark place inside me. Why am I such a mess? Why can’t I get this right? I yell at myself for a couple minutes and then suddenly remember my promise to meet Claire. Sometimes my life exhausts me.

  I exit the mall and drive down the street, and just as I’m wondering about what’s going on with Claire, I see flashing red and blue lights coming from behind me. I check my speedometer, but I’m barely going thirty. Even so, I pull over. As I do, I’m aware that I am driving under the influence, and I wonder how much one shot of rum will register on a breathalyzer test. Yet it’s almost as if I don’t care. Maybe this is what it will take to make me stop.

  But the police car just whizzes past me with siren blaring and lights flashing. Feeling like I’ve dodged a bullet, I carefully pull back onto the street. As I approach the traffic lights, I see that the police car has stopped at the intersection, and there’s another one just pulling up from the other direction. As I get closer, I see that there’s been a wreck.

  What appears to be a silver Mercedes is sitting diagonally at a corner of the intersection. All of a sudden I remember that Claire sometimes drives her mom’s silver Mercedes! I stop my car on the side of the street and, leaving the engine running, jump out and run over.

  “Stay back,” says an officer.

  “But I know her,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “The driver of the Mercedes!” I point to the silver car where two police officers are opening the passenger door and looking inside.

  “That’s my friend!” I yell at the officer as I push past him and run toward the car. “Claire!” I scream as I see her with her head bent over and an exploded air bag spread across her lap. But then she opens her eyes and looks at me. She is stunned, but she seems to be okay. And the policemen are asking if she can move. She says yes, and I feel a rush of relief. That’s when I stand up to see what it is she’s hit—or what’s left of it.

  “That Mercedes ran the red light and T-boned the Volkswagen!” a man is telling a policeman. “Must’ve been going at least forty-five miles an hour too.”

  I can tell by the rear of the car, the only part that’s still partially intact, that it’s not just a Volkswagen but also a Bug. And then I realize it’s an orange Bug—just like the one Simi drives. And I remember that she had left just ahead of me. My heart stops.

  “Simi!” I scream into the night. I rush past Claire’s car and over to the one that’s been hit, but one of the policemen grabs me now. “You need to stay back,” he says firmly. “It could catch fire!”

  “But that’s my friend!” I’m screaming at the top of my lungs. “That’s Simi Gartolini, my best friend. I have to see her!”

  “Stay back, young lady. They need to get the driver out of the car before—”

  “Simi!” I scream as he holds me back.

  Other vehicles with flashing lights and sirens are coming down the street toward us now, and soon they are prying open the passenger’s door and extracting Simi from the crumpled car. I can see them putting her on a stretcher. In that same moment, the officer who’s been detaining me becomes distracted and I break free and run over and stand behind the paramedics, peering over their shoulders to see if it’s really my best friend. I gasp when I see her. I have no doubt that it’s Simi now. I recognize her dark ponytail, still pulled back into the white barrette she always uses for work. But that’s about all that’s recognizable. Simi looks as twisted and broken as her little car, which is now starting to smoke.

  “Everyone, get clear!” yells a fireman.

  “Simi!” I scream, feeling my legs buckling beneath me, and everything begins to get blurry and then dark.

  When I regain consciousness, I look up to see the same policeman that I ran from standing over me now. “Are you okay, miss?”

  “Where’s Simi?” I sit up and look across the street to the wreck site only to see firefighters hosing down what I assume was once Simi’s little Bug, now reduced to a smoldering heap—a sad little pile of burnt orange.

  “They’re both in transit to Ashton General,” he tells me. “They should be arriving about now.”

  “I’ve got to go,” I tell him as I get to my feet.

  “I don’t think you should be driving so soon after passing out,” he warns me.

  “But I have to go.” I look for my car and then see that it’s been moved out of the way and onto a side street.

  He hands me my keys. “Your car is fine there for the time being. We’ll drive you to the hospital.”

  I sit silently in the back of the patrol car as we fly down the street with lights flashing.

  “They were both your friends?” asks the policeman in the passenger’s seat.

  “Yes.”

  And then he asks me their names. I give not only their names but their phone numbers and parents’ names as well.

  “That’s helpful,” says the policeman, and I hear him radioing this information to someone somewhere. And in my head, I am praying. It’s like some old spiritual instinct just kicked itself into gear, almost like I don’t even have to think about it, and I can tell that I’m praying with my whole heart. I’m asking God to watch over Simi—and Claire too. I know it’s the first time I’ve prayed in quite a while, yet it feels completely normal.

  And then we’re at the hospital. The police drop me at the emergency entrance, and I see the two ambulances by the door, engines running, lights still flashing, and the rear door on one of them still gaping open. And I can see splatters of blood on the floor in there and a guy who appears to be wiping it up, but it’s like there is blood everywhere.

  “Just let her be okay, God,” I continue praying as I rush into the hospital. “Let them both be okay.”

  The receptionist informs me that both victims have been admitted but that it might be a while before we know anything. She questions me on their names and phone numbers again, and I give them to her. Then I just stand there staring at the clock over her head until she suggests I go sit down in the waiting area, and so I sit down and continue to pray. I feel like I’m praying with every ounce of spiritual energy I possess, and I’m amazed that I have any. Then after a while, it occurs to me that I have a responsibility to make my heart right before God. I mean, how can I sit here begging him to fix everything when I’ve been living like a complete jerk?

  So I confess to God that I’ve blown it—blown it big-time. I confess that I’ve pushed him away and that I’ve chosen to live out my own Stupidity with a capital S. I tell him that I’m sorry—really and truly sorry—and that I’m done with all that crud, honestly and totally done. And I know this is the truth, and I know that he forgives me. I know it because it’s what I’ve been taught for as long as I can remember. If I confess my sins, he forgives my sins. I know that Jesus died so that my sins could be washed away. All I need to do is to ask.

  Okay, I know this in my head, but I have to admit that my he
art is still wavering a little, yet I want to believe this wholeheartedly.

  But I try not to think about that right now. Right now, all I want to do is ask God—beg him—to please, please, please spare my friends tonight. Okay, I know that I’m mostly praying for Simi right now. It’s not that I’m not concerned about Claire. I am, but she didn’t seem to be as badly hurt as Simi. Not only that, but I have a strong feeling that Claire is to blame for this whole thing. I feel certain that she was driving while intoxicated, and that is probably why she slammed into Simi’s car tonight.

  But somehow I feel that it’s my fault as well, even though I can’t put my finger on exactly why. But it is killing me. Oh, God, I am soooo sorry.

  twenty

  MY BEST FRIEND DIED TONIGHT. I’VE JUST HEARD THE NEWS. SHE DIED on the way to the hospital. The paramedics tried to revive her, but her injuries were just too severe. She was literally crushed by Claire’s car.

  I wish it had been me instead.

  I was with her parents and Lena when we heard the news. My parents were there too. Everyone fell completely apart. Simi’s dad is blaming himself for allowing Simi to drive his old Volkswagen Bug. I am silently blaming Claire.

  Claire’s mom and stepdad are with Claire now. It seems that she only had minor injuries and is going to be okay. No one has mentioned alcohol yet, but Lena gave me a look, and I know that she knows. I think it’s just a matter of time until everyone knows.

  We’re on our way to the hospital chapel now. My dad has taken over the official role of pastor, and he herds us like the hurting sheep we are. We huddle together in the small space. No one speaks, and finally my dad begins to pray.

  “Dear heavenly Father,” he says in a voice that’s breaking, “we don’t know why this happened tonight, we don’t know why you decided to take Simi home with you, but we do know that’s where she is right now. And as much as we love and miss her, we take comfort in knowing she is in your arms.”

  I can’t hear or process the rest of his prayer. I am crying too hard. In fact, I’m making so much noise that I decide to leave the room. I go to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall and continue to bawl. It feels like my heart is literally breaking, like my chest is splitting open and all my guts are about to come pouring out. I wonder if Simi hurt this badly tonight.

  I try to take comfort in my dad’s words, and I really do believe they’re true. I do believe that Simi is in heaven—that she’s gone straight into the arms of Jesus—but I still feel horrible. I feel that I’ve lost my best friend, which is true, but worse than that, I feel that it’s partly my fault. I feel that I could’ve done something to prevent it. That’s what’s killing me.

  “Amber?”

  I open the stall door and peer out to see Lena standing by the sink. “Are you all right?”

  I step out and shake my head no and then start blubbering again. Lena is crying too, and I almost expect her to lay into me now, to yell at me and accuse me of being partially to blame for Simi’s death. But she just opens her arms, and I fall into them.

  “It’s not your fault, Amber,” she tells me in a voice choked with tears. “I know that you think it is, but it’s not.”

  “But—but why?” I sob. “Why?”

  “We may never know completely why,” she says, “but like your dad said, we can trust that God didn’t make a mistake tonight. And Simi is with him.”

  “But—what about Claire?” I step back now and watch Lena’s face. “I’m certain she was driving under the influence.”

  Lena just nods.

  “And she caused the wreck.”

  “I know.”

  “But what you don’t know,” I continue, determined to tell someone—anyone—the truth, “is that this is partly my fault too. Claire was driving to meet me. We were going to meet at Starbuck’s to talk. She was upset about her stepdad—and—” But I fall apart again, unable to finish.

  “That still doesn’t make it your fault.” She puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “But I should’ve told Claire not to drive. I should’ve known that she’d been drinking.”

  “And you think she would’ve listened?”

  “I don’t know.” Then I realize something else. “But it was my idea to meet at Starbucks,” I say. “If I hadn’t picked Starbucks—”

  “Oh, Amber,” says Lena, “we can all think of reasons to blame ourselves. My dad is blaming himself tonight because of the Volkswagen thing. My mom thinks it’s her fault for allowing Simi to take a job where she worked at night. I feel guilty she was coming to pick me up.”

  I wipe my nose on a paper towel and take in a ragged breath. “I know,” I say. “I understand how everyone feels guilty. But I think that besides Claire, I am most to blame.”

  “Then you better take your guilt to the cross, Amber, because that’s why Jesus died. Remember?”

  I nod.

  “Simi dearly loved you, Amber, and she’d feel awful to see you torturing yourself like this tonight. Don’t you realize that you’re the main reason that Simi came to the Lord? When you started taking her to church back in middle school, her life turned completely around. And then Simi shared her faith with our parents and then with me. And, well, I think we can all be thankful to you for that.”

  I just look down at the floor. “But I miss her.”

  Lena has tears streaming down her face now. “Yeah, we all do.”

  We hug again, and I thank her. I feel a tiny bit better, but there’s this deep, awful ache inside me. It’s like a dull knife that twists and turns, and I don’t think it will ever go away.

  twenty-one

  THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS ARE NOTHING MORE THAN A PAINFUL BLUR. I am like the walking dead. My parents try to comfort me, and Lena has called to check on me a couple of times. Of course, I didn’t go to the prom on Saturday, and I think I may have scared Slater away for good—but then that was my intent.

  Mostly I just want to be alone. I need this time to work out my issues with God. But I’m not mad at him—I’m mad at me. I cannot believe what a stupid fool I’ve been. But for Simi’s sake, I am trying to forgive myself. Lena says that’s what Simi would want.

  “That’s what she wanted when she was alive,” Lena told me on the phone this morning. “For you to get your heart right with God and make better choices. And she must want that even more now.” And I am trying. But I do have a major obstacle: Claire. I haven’t spoken to her since the wreck, and I don’t know if I can forgive her—ever. It’s come out into the open that she was driving under the influence. Big surprise. Her blood alcohol level was .13, which is legally drunk. Charges are being pressed.

  But as angry as I am at her, I realize that I could’ve easily been in her shoes. There were lots of times when I set myself up to kill someone while I was behind the wheel. So did Slater, so do thousands of kids—every single day. I just read that more than seventeen thousand people were killed in alcohol-related crashes last year, and around five hundred thousand are injured annually—and a lot of these accidents are caused by drivers in my age-group. Sobering facts.

  Speaking of sobering, I had to confess something yesterday—not to a human but to God. I had to tell God that I’ve been more tempted to drink these last few days than ever before. But I know I can’t admit this to anyone else, because I know that most people would not get it, especially in light of Simi’s death.

  But I do understand why I’m so tempted. It’s because I want to escape. I don’t want to feel anything anymore. I want to numb the endless pain of living with my stupid mistakes. I remember when Simi questioned Claire specifically about this at lunch that day, and I didn’t quite get it at the time. I mean, I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to stop feeling things. Now I know.

  It’s not until after Simi’s funeral that I come clean with my parents. I tell them about how much I was drinking and sneaking around and the fake ID and everything. They are shocked, but they are also forgiving and supportive. Just the same, this is pro
bably the end of my college scholarship. As Dad pointed out, the church will not want to sponsor a student with a drinking problem. I told him that I thought it should go to someone more deserving—maybe Lisa Chan. I think I’ll be lucky to get in at the local community college, if I go at all. And right now I don’t think I really care.

  Then I call Lena and ask her if I should talk to her parents as well, to confess my involvement with Claire and how badly I’ve blown it lately, but she tells me no. She says it would only increase their pain. “It’s enough that I know about it,” she tells me. “At least for now.”

  “But I feel like I need to do something else,” I tell her. “Something to make things better or right or maybe just less painful.”

  And that’s when she asks me if I’d like to come to the counseling center and get some help, so I agree. I’m not sure how it will help, but I’m willing to do it for Lena—and for Simi.

  ***

  Two weeks have passed since Simi died, and I think I am slowly getting better. But it’s not easy. It’s like the old two-steps-forward-and-one-step-back routine, or sometimes the other way around. Lena keeps telling me that in order to heal, I need to forgive Claire, but it’s like I don’t want to hear that. It’s like my heart cannot process it—until today. Today Lena got through to me.

  “Can’t you see you’re hurting Simi?” she said.

  “How can that be?” I ask. “Claire caused Simi’s death.”

  “You told me yourself that Simi had tried to reach out to Claire, that she’d agreed to go to the prom with you guys just so that she could try to help her. And now you have a chance to make Simi’s death count for something. You could reach out to Claire for Simi’s sake.”

  And so I call Claire today. I’ve already heard the news—that she’s been charged with vehicular manslaughter and driving under the influence. And after being arrested and held briefly, she is now out on bail, but her trial is scheduled for later this summer. Naturally, it’s been the talk of the school, and naturally, Claire no longer attends—nor will she graduate with us next week.