Blind Turn

by Cara Sue Achterberg

  “How’d you know about this place?”

  “I did a stint on maintenance for the highway department.”

  Now that we’re here, away from Jefferson, I feel scared. I always thought when I left Jefferson it would be for college with a future solidly in my hands. But this feels flimsy and dangerous. I lean on the desk and hug my arms around myself, trying to get warm.

  “You cold?” asks Fish.

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah, you are,” he says. He takes off his jacket and wraps it around me. “I gotta go take a leak,” he says and slips out the door.

  I look at my watch. It’s almost nine. Mom must have gotten home by now. I just hope she doesn’t call Dad to check up on me.

  Fish reappears with a package of cheese crackers and some M&M’s from the vending machine.

  “Dinner?” he offers.

  As we share the crackers, Fish asks, “So what’s the plan?”

  “No plan,” I tell him. I wish I had a plan, a place to go, anything. All I know is I can’t go back.

  “Well, how ‘bout we catch a little sleep then. We have to be out of here by five when the guys open up.”

  Fish finds some canvas jumpsuits and spreads them out on the floor. I’m too keyed up to sleep, but I take a sweatshirt out of my backpack and roll it up for a pillow. Fish lies down beside me. He puts one arm around me, and I freeze up.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna try anything. It’s just warmer this way.”

  I scoot back against his chest. We snuggle like spoons. I whisper, “Thank you,” as tears roll down my cheeks.

  “Anytime,” Fish mumbles and hugs me closer. He’s asleep in minutes. I lay awake for hours. I listen to the big rigs drive into the rest area and idle while their driver’s nap. I imagine hiding in the back of one and letting it take me far, far away from Jefferson, Texas, where Helen Mitchell is a widow because of me and Sheila Richards is determined to make sure the whole town knows it.

  — — —

  Fish shakes me awake. “Hey, we gotta get out of here. It’s almost five.”

  It takes a minute to remember where I am. Fish lies beside me, propped up on one elbow. He smiles. His breath is terrible.

  “C’mon, let’s hit it,” he says, getting up and offering his hand. We put the jumpsuits away and turn the heat off. Back on the bike, it’s cold and Fish says we should have nicked a couple of jumpsuits. It’s too cold to ride for long, so we stop at a diner for breakfast.

  “It’ll be warmer in an hour,” Fish assures me.

  After we order, Fish says, “Look, I don’t need to know all the details, just a general idea. How far are we going? Are the cops going to be looking for you? Is your dad gonna kill me?”

  I laugh. “My dad will definitely kill you.”

  The waitress brings us coffee. I watch Fish dump nearly the entire pot of creamer in his cup.

  “That looks more like a milkshake than coffee.”

  Fish smiles. “So, what’s the 911?”

  I don’t know what to say. I look out the window and then check my watch. It’s only six. With a little luck, we still have about nine hours before anyone misses me.

  “You know that accident back in October? The one where that guy, the football coach, got hit by a car?”

  “I mighta heard something about that. I don’t get the paper. Yeah, I think a guy at Mikey’s said it was some girl who ran him over. She was texting.”

  I look out the window, watch a trucker filling his tank, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. “I was that girl.”

  Fish leans back in his seat. “Holy shit,” he says as he spears more of his pancake and chews thoughtfully. “So, are you running because they want to put you in jail?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know if they will put me in jail. My lawyer says they won’t, but it’s not up to him.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  I look back at him and sigh. “The problem is the whole town hates me. My mom follows me around asking me how I am, thinking she can fix this nightmare, and my dad acts like everything is just great. No one speaks to me at school. And even if I get thrown in jail, the Coach’s family will still sue us for millions. If I just disappear, then there’s no one to sue and maybe my mom wouldn’t have to grocery shop at midnight at the Walmart off the interstate just to avoid seeing anyone she knows.” I don’t mention Helen Mitchell and how even here I can see her sad face from the photo in the paper about Coach’s service. She has one hand on his casket and the other on her heart. She looks a million years old even though the paper said she is seventy-two.

  “Huh,” says Fish. For once, he seems speechless. He has no clever come back for such a fucked up situation.

  “Everything will be better if I’m just not there.”

  “I think your dad’s gonna freak out.”

  “Maybe at first, but then he’ll be relieved.”

  “Look, I don’t know what it’s like to have a mom or dad who gives a shit about you, but I’ve seen you with Jake. I don’t think you being gone is gonna make him relieved. You should at least let him know you’re okay.” He pulls a cigarette out of his pack and rolls it between his palms, shaking his head. “Christ, Jake is gonna skin my ass.”

  “He doesn’t have to know you’re here. You can always leave. I’m not going back, but you can go back anytime.”

  It’s slow going. We have to avoid the bigger highways because the mini-bike has a top speed of 45. We stop at a state park to use the restrooms and I study the map hanging on the side of the building. I wish we were further away. Out of Texas, at least.

  Fish appears. “Were you really texting when you hit that guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how can they sue you?”

  “Even if I don’t remember, Sheila does and for whatever reason, she’s telling everybody I did it and I don’t even care that I killed Coach Mitchell. His dog, too.”

  “There was a dog?”

  I nod. I’m crying now, I can’t help it. I thought eventually I’d run out of tears, but it never happens. Maybe if we get far enough away, I’ll feel better. Or maybe I’ll feel like this for the rest of my life. There’s one old lady at Morningside who cries all the time. Her face is chapped, and her eyes are ringed red. Mom says nobody knows why she cries. Maybe some kind of pain never goes away.

  Fish looks at the map and says, “I guess we’ll just keep going southwest until it gets warmer.”

  — — —

  We stop outside San Antonio at a biker bar, and I splurge on dinner. Fish orders a beer, and I ask for water. We watch a sit-com on the bar television. Fish has several more beers and chats up the locals.

  I go to the ladies’ room to wash the day’s grime off my face and watch the last of Jefferson swirl down the drain. By now they know I’m gone. I think of Helen Mitchell and wonder if she is alone in her old house. I see the windows lit up—two downstairs and one upstairs—the way they’ve been when I run past at this hour. Mom and Dad and even Casey say everyone just needs time, but what about Mrs. Mitchell? How much time will she need?

  When I get back from the restroom, Fish says, “The bartender said we could crash in the old rig parked out back.”

  He wheels his bike around to the back of the building and parks it behind a big rig with a flat tire next to the fence that separates the bar from the highway. He climbs up and tries the door. It opens with a creak. Fish looks around inside, and then he reaches down and pulls me up. Fish takes off his jacket and puts it on top of the filthy mattress behind the seat and we lay down on it.

 
He is asleep in minutes. I try not to think of my mom and dad. I try not to think of Helen Mitchell. I try not to think of anything. Even with Fish pressed up against me, I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

  34

  LIZ

  My head is buzzing the next morning as I get ready for my first day in Kevin’s office. It was fun to be with Avery. Ever since the accident, I have held her at arm’s length, even though I needed her more than I knew, but that is the thing about a genuine friend—no judgment. Our friendship persists no matter how crazy our lives get or how much we take each other for granted. For a few hours last night, it was like it has always been. My cheeks are sore from laughing.

  When I got home to the empty house, it all came rushing back. The mortgage papers for the house were still sitting where I left them on the counter. Kevin says we don’t have to pay him, but I am determined I will. And yet, if I go through with the second mortgage and squeeze what I can out of this house—which is admittedly not much—there will be no money left for college. I left that decision and everything else behind last night, for just a few hours. And it was heavenly.

  I am tempted to call Jess. Just to be sure Jake will really get her to school on time, but I stop myself. I am not ready to shoulder everything again just yet. I take my time and dress with care for Kevin’s office, my nerves already jangling at the idea of spending my days in such close proximity to him.

  Kevin is out when I get there, but I meet Tracey, his current secretary, who is four months pregnant and so eager to be a mom, she has her ultrasound photo framed on her desk and asks me what I think of the name Natasha for a girl before I have even taken off my coat. Kevin thinks she is coming back after her maternity leave, but Tracey tells me she has signed up for Gymboree on Thursday afternoons next fall. She is nice, but I learn more about the decorations for the nursery and where she has registered than I do about handling Kevin’s office. I will figure it out though. It does not seem too complicated.

  Despite doing nothing more taxing than proofreading contracts and making a pot of coffee (for me, Tracey is avoiding caffeine during her pregnancy), I am exhausted when I finally leave the office to pick up Jess.

  When I get to the school, she isn’t there and the school secretary says Jess didn’t come to school today. Damn Jake.

  “What do you mean Jess didn’t stay with you last night?”

  “Just what I said. I haven’t seen her.”

  “She told me she was going to your place. She said she wanted to spend time with you.”

  “That should have been your first clue.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “Did you call Sheila?”

  “Where’ve you been, Jake? Were you not at the courthouse? Sheila hasn’t spoken to Jess since the accident.”

  Still, when I hang up, I call Sheila. She is laughing as she answers.

  “Up?”

  “Sheila, this is Mrs. Johnson, I’m looking for Jess. Have you seen her?”

  “No,” she says flatly. I can hear other kids and music in the background.

  “Was she in school today?”

  “How would I know? I’m not the attendance keeper.”

  “Sheila?”

  Silence.

  “You’re a lousy friend.”

  I hang up. I call the school; Ms. Schultzman does not know anything either. “She was upset, but no more than what’s become normal for her. We talked about how hard it is to be in school. What about the boy who wrote the text? Casey? Maybe you should try him.”

  She gives me his number even though we both know it is against policy and she could get in trouble for it.

  “I haven’t seen her since I dropped her off at your house,” Casey tells me when I call.

  “She said nothing about running away?” I ask. It is the first time I name what could be happening here and I find tears catch in the back of my throat. My baby has run away. Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?

  “She was upset. I tried to tell her people will get over it. She didn’t say much.”

  I hate myself for not picking her up yesterday. I hate myself for being preoccupied with my life instead of being where my daughter needed me to be. I don’t know who else to call, so I dial Kevin. He says we need to fill out a police report. It has been over 24 hours. He will meet me at the station. I call Jake, and he says he is on his way.

  At the police station, Kevin is talking to an officer when Jake comes flying in.

  “How the hell did this happen?” he asks.

  “I told you. I thought she was with you.”

  “Jesus, Liz, how stupid can you be?”

  “Wait a minute,” says Kevin, stepping between us. “This isn’t her fault.”

  “Stay out of it! What’s he doing here, anyway? This isn’t his business!” Jake pushes Kevin aside roughly and the police officer stands up.

  “None of this will help us find your daughter. I need you all to calm down,” he says.

  Jake shakes his head, but steps back. He glares at me.

  “You’re her father?” the officer asks.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “I need to get some information from you. Have a seat,” he says and points to a chair beside his desk. “I’ve got all I need from your wife.”

  “Ex-wife,” he mutters as he sits down.

  Kevin takes my arm and leads me to a break room where we drink burnt coffee and swallow our words. I study the MOST WANTED posters and wonder who left a whole pizza minus one slice on the table. What emergency called them from their dinner?

  “God, what happens now?” I ask.

  “We let them do their job.”

  — — —

  When the officer calls us all back together, he says, “You all need to go home so you’re there if Jessica comes back. If you hear anything from her, let us know. Call anyone you can think of who she might contact. And then just sit tight. We will find her. In my experience, kids like Jess, come home. She doesn’t have a record of drug or alcohol abuse and it sounds like you both have a good relationship with her. She’s a smart kid. Hopefully, she’ll make a smart decision and come back. Meanwhile, we’ve got her picture and information in the system. Everyone will be watching for her. If she doesn’t come home, we’ll find her.”

  I wish I could believe him. I want to believe him.

  In silence, the three of us walk outside. Jake’s truck is parked in front of the station in a no-parking zone. Kevin politely backs away to let us talk.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “This isn’t your fault,” Jake says, “I know that. I was just mad and scared.”

  “I’m scared too.”

  He shakes his head. “Why would she run?”

  “I don’t know.” I shiver in the chilly air, shake my head.

  Jake leans on his truck and looks up at the darkening sky. “Jess is smart. She’ll come back. She’ll be okay.”

  I nod through my tears. Jake kisses my forehead and pulls me to him, wrapping his powerful arms around me. “We’ll find her,” he says. “I promise.”

  I don’t want to let go. I want him to be able to fix this. Finally, he releases me.

  “I’ll call you if I hear anything,” he says.

  “Me too,” I tell him.

  When I get to my car, Kevin is there, waiting. “I’ll follow you home,” he says.

  I nod, glad for his company, checking for his headlights the whole way home. At home, I call Kate. I call Avery. I even call Sheila’s mom, who is unsympathetic. “I can understand why she’d run aw
ay,” she says. “From what Sheila tells me, all the kids are upset with her.”

  Kevin makes coffee and checks in periodically with the police. There is no news. At midnight, I call my father. Kevin is sleeping on the couch, and I am drinking my fifth cup of coffee. I do not want to be sleeping if the police call. I don’t know why I call my dad. I really want my mom, but she is gone, so he is the closest thing.

  My mother could always help me figure out what to do. When schoolwork overwhelmed me or something didn’t go my way or I was upset about anything, she would say, “Let’s set the emotion aside, and make a list.” We wrote down the good and the bad, the possible next steps, and what I could control and what I could not. Even if the answer was not immediately clear, I felt better. She was so practical, never accepting my tears or my tantrums. I can imagine her now saying, “There is no point to all these tears, Elizabeth. Let the police do their job and you do yours. Save the tears until you need them.”

  The night I told them I was pregnant with Jess, my father voiced his fury and retreated to his wood shop, and my mother shook her head and cleaned up dinner. I sat at her spotless kitchen table and asked, “What do I do?”

  “You marry Jake and you raise a good child,” she said. There was no list of the pros and cons. There were no options to weigh. I knew from her face it devastated her, but true to form she held her tears. She knew my father would insist they leave. Kate coming out had been hard enough, but my pregnancy drove him further away. Looking back, I don’t know why she went with him. Did she love him? They never fought, but then they never loved, either. Night after night they sat side by side watching television. The only time I saw them touch was when we prayed at dinner—hands held around the table. “The husband is the head of the household,” she reminded me when I asked why she had to go. “We’re a different generation.”