Текст книги "My Life Next Door"

Автор книги: Huntley Fitzpatrick

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“He could have died. What if he’d died, Mom? The father of eight children. What would you do then?”

“He didn’t die. Clay called the police from the pay phone at Gas-and-Go that night. We didn’t just ignore the whole thing.”

“But you are ignoring the whole thing. That’s exactly what you’re doing. Mrs. Garrett is pregnant. Now they’re going to have another baby and Mr. Garrett won’t be able to work! What’s wrong with you?” Mom jerks the vacuum cleaner cord out of my hands, winding it into tight coils. “Well, there you go.

Who has that many children in this day and age? They shouldn’t have had such a large family if they couldn’t afford one.”

“How is Jase even going to go back to school this fall if he has to replace his dad at the store?”

“There, you see!” Mom says sharply. “It’s just like Clay told me. It all comes down to your feelings for this young man. This is all about you, Samantha.”

I stand there, incredulous. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me!” She folds her arms and looks at me pityingly. “If I had accidentally hit someone you didn’t know, a stranger to you, would you be acting like this? Would you be asking me to give up my entire career because of something that’s going to cause some temporary challenges for someone?” I stare at her. “I hope I would. I think I would. Because that’s the right thing to do.” Her exhalation of disgust ruffles a few strands of her tidy hair. “Oh spare me, Samantha. The right thing to do is so easy to see when you are seventeen years old and don’t have to make any big decisions. When you know that no matter what you do, someone will take care of you and fix everything. But when you’re grown up, the world is not that black and white, and the right thing doesn’t have a tidy little arrow pointing to it. Things happen, adults make decisions, and that’s the bottom line.”

“The bottom line is that you hit a man and drove away—” I start to say, but the shrill of Mom’s cell phone interrupts.

She checks it, then says, “Here’s Clay now. This conversation is over. What’s done is done and we’re all going to move on.” She snaps the phone open. “Hello, sweetie! No, I’m not busy. Sure, just let me go into the office and get that.”

Her heels click on the tile down the hallway.

The corner of the kitchen is still covered with lemons and tiny crystal shards.

I slump back onto the stool, resting my cheek on the cool granite of the countertop. I’ve armed myself for days to talk to my mother, going over things in my head, the clearest arguments I could make. Now I’ve made them all, but it’s like the entire conversation didn’t even exist, like it just got swept up and put away.

That night I climb out my window, perching in my old accustomed spot. Despite all the years I sat in this same place alone, now it feels strange and wrong to be without Jase. But he’s at the hospital again.

Through the Garretts’ kitchen window, I can see Alice doing dishes. The rest of the house is dark. As I watch, the van pulls into the driveway. I wait for Mrs. Garrett to climb out, but she doesn’t. She sits there, staring straight ahead until I can’t watch anymore and climb back into my room.

Nan said things just come my way without me lifting a finger.

It’s never felt like that to me, but I’ve always been able to get what I really wanted if I worked hard enough.

Not now.

No matter how hard I try, and I’ve never tried so hard for anything, I can’t make things better at the Garretts’. Worst of all, things with Jase are stressful. I offer to be the coach when he trains. “If your dad had the workouts written down, I can read them and call them out to you.”

“They were all in his head. So thanks, but I’m all right.” Dusty from delivering lumber, Jase turns on the faucet over the cluttered sink and splashes water on his face, then ducks his head to drink, accidentally knocking a half-full glass of milk off the counter. When it crashes onto the floor, instead of picking it up, he gives it a kick that sends it ricocheting across the linoleum, scattering milk.

Alarm grips the back of my throat, metallic-tasting. I go over and put my hand on his shoulder. His head is down and I can see a muscle in his jaw twitch. His arm is unyielding beneath my fingers and he doesn’t look at me. The leaden fist around my throat tightens.

“Dude!” Tim calls from the backyard, where he’s vacuuming the pool. “The frickin’ thing’s blowing out the dirt into the pool instead of sucking it in. Can you do your thing?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll fix it,” Jase calls back without moving.

“What would anybody do around here without you?” I say, going for a light tone. “Everything would be broken.”

He snorts without any humor. “Kind of already is, isn’t it?” I move closer, rest my cheek against his shoulder, rubbing his back.

“How can I help?” I ask. “I’ll do anything.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Sam. Just…” He turns away, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe…

just…give me a little space.”

I back toward the kitchen door. “Right. Sure. I’ll head home for a while.” This doesn’t feel like us at all. I hover in the doorway, expecting…I’m not sure.

Instead he nods without looking at me and bends to mop up the spilled milk.

When I get home, where it’s still and clean and hushed, all the outdoor sounds muffled by the central air, I climb upstairs, feeling as though I’m pushing through water or wearing shoes made of lead. I sit down abruptly halfway up, lean my head back against the step above me, shut my eyes.

A thousand times since this happened, I’ve been about to blurt out the whole story, unable to stop myself, unable to keep something this big inside from Jase. Every time, I’ve bitten my tongue, stayed silent, with the thought: If I tell him, I’ll lose him.

Tonight is when I know.

I already have.

Late that night, there’s only one dim light shining in the living room. Mom likes the overhead ones, so I know right away it’s not her. And I’m right. Clay’s sitting in the big armchair by the fireplace, shoes off, this big golden retriever at his feet. Mom is curled up on the couch, fast asleep, her hair tumbling out of her careful bun, draping over her shoulders.

Clay jerks his chin in the direction of the dog. “Courvoisier. I call him Cory. Pure bred from champions. He’s old now, though.”

Indeed, the muzzle that rests on Clay’s bare foot is white with age. Cory raises his head at my entrance, though, thumping a greeting with his tail.

“I didn’t know you had a dog. Mom’s asleep?” I ask, stating the obvious.

“Long day. Meet-and-greet at five a.m. at General Dynamics. Then we had a speech at Republicans for Change and dinner at the White Horse Tavern. She’s a pro, your mama. Just keeps going and going. She’s earned her rest.” He stands up and pulls the woven beige throw from the top of the couch, covering her.

I start to turn away, but he stops me, hand on my arm. “Have a seat, Samantha. You’re burning the candle at both ends too. How’re those Garretts doing?”

How can he even ask that question, in his calm way? “Not well,” I say.

“Yeah. A tough break.” Clay picks up his wineglass and takes a casual sip. “That’s the thing about a one-man business…all riding on luck.”

“Why do you even pretend to be sympathetic about this?” I ask, my voice unexpectedly loud in the quiet room. Mom twitches in her sleep, then snuggles her head into the pillow. “Like what happened is some sort of act of God, not something you were involved in? Like you even know what they’re going through?”

“Y’all don’t know much about me, do you?” He takes another swallow of wine, reaching down to stroke Cory’s head. “I know better than you ever will what it’s like to be poor. My daddy ran a service station. I did the books. Our town was so small, you hardly needed a car to get from one end to the other.

And folks in West Virginia are what you might call naturally frugal. A lot of months he didn’t make enough to pay his employees and draw a salary himself. I know all about being broke and having your back against the wall.”

His eyes are suddenly intent on mine. “And I’ve left that far behind. Your mom’s the real ticket, with a bright future. I won’t let some teenager with a grudge take that away from her. Or me.” Mom stirs again, then curls up, almost in a fetal position.

“You need to distance yourself from that family,” Clay adds, his voice almost gentle. “And you need to do that now. Otherwise things are going to come out that shouldn’t come out, hormonal teenagers not being known for their discretion.”

“I’m not my mother,” I say. “I don’t have to do whatever you say.” He leans back against the chair, blond hair falling across his forehead. “You’re not your mama, but you’re not stupid either. Have you taken a good look at the books for the Garretts’ store?” I have, we all have, Tim and me and Jase, working on them. Math-challenged as I am, the numbers don’t look good. Mr. Garrett would be clicking his pen furiously over them.

“Did you happen to notice the contract from Reed Campaigns? Your mom is using Garrett’s for all her yard signs, her billboards, her visibility flags. That’s a helluva lot of lumber. She wanted to go with Lowe’s, but I told her picking a local business looks better. That’s steady cash flow for the store, straight on through November. Not only that, but the Bath and Tennis Club is using Garrett’s. Your mama’s suggestion. They’re adding on a new wing for an indoor pool. Cash that goes straight into the store. Cash that could go away with a comment or two. Green wood, sloppy workmanship…”

“What are you saying? If I don’t break up with Jase you’ll, what, pull those contracts?” In the glow of the light, Clay’s blond hair shines angel-fair, nearly the same color as Cory’s. He looks tidy and innocent in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his eyes big and blue and frank.

He smiles at me. “I’m not saying anything, Samantha. Just stating the facts. You can draw your own conclusions.” He pauses. “Your mama’s always telling me how smart you are.” Chapter Forty-four

Early in the morning the next day, I cross the short distance from my yard to the Garretts’ to find Jase.

As I walk up the driveway, I can hear him whistling. It almost makes me smile.

His tan legs and worn Converse are visible first, sticking out from beneath the Mustang. He’s lying on his back, Duff’s skateboard under him, working on the underbody. I can’t see his face, and I’m glad. I’m not sure I can do this if I can see Jase’s face.

He recognizes my step, though. Or my shoes.

“Hey, Sam. Hi, baby.” His voice is cheerful, more relaxed than it’s been in days. He’s at peace, doing something he’s good at, getting away from everything else for a while.

I swallow. My throat feels thick, as though the words I have to say have snarled into a choking ball.

“Jase.” I don’t even sound like myself. Kind of appropriate, since I’d rather not think this is me at all. I clear my throat. “I can’t see you.”

“I’ll be out in a sec. I just have to tighten this up or all the oill will drain right out.”

“No. I mean I can’t see you anymore.”

“What?” I hear the crack of metal against bone as he sits up, forgetting where he is. Then he slips out from under the car. There’s a smudge of black oill on his forehead, an angry red spot. It’ll bruise.

“I can’t see you anymore. I can’t…do this. I can’t babysit George or Patsy or see you. I’m sorry.”

“Sam—what is this?”

“Nothing. I just can’t do it. You. Us. I can’t do it now.” He’s standing close to me, so tall, so near I can smell him, wintergreen gum, axle grease, Tide-clean clothes.

I take a step back. I have to do this. So much has already been ruined. I have no doubt Clay meant what he said. All it takes is remembering the look on his face when he talked about leaving his past behind, his implacable voice telling Mom to back up and drive away. If I don’t do this, he’ll do whatever it takes to ruin the Garretts. It won’t take much. “I can’t do this,” I repeat.

Jase shakes his head. “You can’t do this. You have to give me a chance to fix whatever it is I’ve done.

What have I done?”

“It isn’t you.” The oldest, weakest breakup excuse in the world. And, here, the most true.

“This isn’t you! You don’t act like this. What’s wrong?” He takes a step toward me, his eyes shadowed with concern. “Tell me so I can fix it.”

I fold my arms, stepping farther away. “You can’t fix everything, Jase.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t even know it was broken. I don’t understand. Talk to me.” His voice lowers. “Is it the sex…did we go too fast? We can slow down. We can just…Anything, Sam. Is it your mom? Tell me what you need.”

I turn away. “I need to go.”

He wraps his fingers tightly around my upper arm to stop me. My whole body seems to shrink, as though I’m folding smaller into my skin.

Jase stares at me incredulously, then drops his hand. “You, like, don’t want me to touch you? Why?”

“I can’t talk anymore. I have to go.” I have to get away before I can’t do this, before I blurt out everything, no matter what will happen about Mom and Clay and the store. I have to.

“You’re just going to walk away—like that? You’re leaving it this way? Now? I love you. You can’t.

…”

“I have to.” Every word feels like it’s strangling me. I turn away and head down the driveway, trying to walk calmly, not to run, not to cry, not to feel anything at all.

I hear quick steps as Jase follows me.

“Leave me alone, ” I toss over my shoulder, picking up my pace, racing to my house as though it’s some refuge. Jase, who could easily catch up or outrun me, falls back, leaving me to wrench open the heavy door and stumble into the foyer, and then curl into a ball, pressing my hands to my eyes.

I expect to be called to account for this. Alice ringing my doorbell to beat me up. Mrs. Garrett coming over with Patsy on her hip, angry at me for the first time ever. Or George showing up, big-eyed and bewildered, to ask what’s going on with Sailor Supergirl. But none of that happens. It’s as though I don’t make a ripple as I drop off the face of the earth.

Chapter Forty-five

I’m not the one who was hit by a car. I’m not the one who has eight children and is expecting another.

I’m not Jase, trying to hold it all together while thinking of selling the thing that gives me peace.

Waking up every morning and feeling like pulling the covers over my head gives me a kick of self-hatred. I’m not the one this happened to. I’m just some girl with an easy life and a trust fund. Just like I told Jase. And yet I can’t get out of bed.

Mom is extra-cheerful and solicitous these days, blending my smoothie before I have a chance to, leaving little packages on my bed with cheery Post-it notes. “Saw this cute top and knew it would look great on you.” “Bought some sandals for myself and knew you’d love them too!” She doesn’t say anything about me sleeping till noon. She ignores my monosyllabic conversation, amping up her own to fill the silences. Over dinner, she and Clay chatter away about getting me an internship in Washington, D.C., next summer, or maybe something in New York, fanning out the possibilities in front of me like paint chips

–“How lovely this would look on your future!”—while I poke at my chowder.

No longer caring what Mom will say, I give notice at the B&T. Knowing Nan is just a few yards away, radiating anger and resentment through the walls of the gift shop, makes me feel sick. It’s also impossible to concentrate on watching every swimmer at the Olympic pool when I keep finding myself staring fixedly at nothing at all.

Unlike Felipe at Breakfast Ahoy, Mr. Lennox doesn’t get belligerent. Instead he argues when I give him my notice and try to hand him my clean, neatly folded suit and jacket and skirt.

“Oh now, Ms. Reed! Surely…” He glances out the window, takes a deep breath, then goes over and shuts his office door. “Surely you don’t want to make this Precipitous Choice.” I tell him I have to, unexpectedly touched by how flustered he is. He pulls a small paisley silk handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me. “You have always been an excellent worker.

Your work ethic is unparalleled. I would hate to see you Retire Impulsively. Is there…perhaps…a Delicate Situation on the job which makes you uncomfortable? The new lifeguard? Is he making Unwelcome Advances on your Person?”

Part of me wants to giggle hysterically. But Mr. Lennox’s large brown eyes, magnified by his glasses, radiate sincerity and concern.

“Do I need to Have Words with Someone?” he asks. “Is there something you need to Get off Your Chest?”

If you only knew.

For a moment, the words crowd into my mouth. My mother nearly killed the father of the boy I love and now I’ve broken his heart and I can’t tell anyone. My best friend hates me for something she did and I can’t fix it. I don’t know who my own mother is anymore and I don’t recognize myself and everything is terrible.

I imagine pouring all those words out to Mr. Lennox, who was flustered by not knowing the right hour for a lumber delivery. There’s no way.

“It’s nothing about the job. I just can’t stay here.”

He nods. “I accept your resignation with Great Regret.”

I thank him. As I turn to go, he calls, “Ms. Reed!”

“Hm?”

“I do hope you will continue to swim. You may keep the key. Our Arrangement for your training stands.”

Recognizing this for the gift it is, I say, “Thank you.” And leave before I can say more.

With no schedule, no babysitting or breakfast shift or lifeguard gig, days and nights bleed into one another.

I can’t settle down during nights and spend them roaming the house restlessly or watching Lifetime movies, where everyone is worse off than I am.

Why don’t I call my sister?

The answer is, of course, that I do. Of course I do. She knows this situation from the inside out, knows Mom, me. Knows it all. But here’s what happens when I call: Straight to voicemail. My sister’s husky voice, her deep-from-the-belly laugh, so familiar and so far away. “Got me. Or not, really. You know what to do. Talk to me! I may even call you back.” My imagining: Tracy out on beach, bright blue eyes squinting against the sun, having that carefree summer she told Mom she’d earned, phone in Flip’s pocket, or switched to off, because what was the big deal. Their perfect summer. I open my mouth to say something, but snap the phone shut.

The strangest part? Mom used to notice if I had a nearly invisible stain on my shirt, or hadn’t conditioned my hair enough, or if my morning routine deviated in some miniscule way: “You always have a smoothie before work, Samantha. Why are you having toast? I’ve read that a change in a teenager’s routine could be a red flag for a drug habit.” But now? Clouds of pot smoke could be unfurling under my door and that probably wouldn’t stop the blizzard of Post-it notes that are her primary form of communication these days.

Please pick up my silk suit at the dry cleaner. Toile chair in study has stain, apply OxiClean. Will beout very late tonight; turn on alarm when you go to bed.

I’ve quit all my jobs and become a recluse. And my mother doesn’t seem to notice.

“Sweetheart! Good timing,” Mom says jovially as I drag myself into the kitchen in response to her Yoo-hoo, Samantha, I need you. “I was just showing this nice man how I make my lemonade. Kurt, did you say your name was?” Mom asks the man seated at our kitchen island after waving cheerfully at me with the lemon zester.

“Carl,” he responds. I know him. He’s Mr. Agnoli, who takes the photographs for the Stony Bay Bugle.

He always photographed the winning swim teams. Now he’s in our kitchen, looking starstruck by Mom.

“We thought a quick piece about the state senator at home would be great along with pictures of her making lemonade. A metaphor for what she can do for the state,” Mr. Agnoli tells me.

Mom turns around and checks the sugar/water mixture melting on the stove, enlightening Mr. Agnoli about how it’s the added lemon zest that really does the trick.

“I’m going back upstairs,” I say, and do so. Maybe if I can just sleep for a hundred years, I’ll wake up in a better story.

I’m jolted awake by Mom jerking on my arm. “You can’t doze the day away, sweetheart. I’ve got plans.” Everything about her looks the same as always: her smoothly uptwisted chignon, her faultless makeup, her calm blue eyes. I’m in a backward version of the way I felt after Jase spent the night. When big things happen to you—shouldn’t they show on your face? Not on Mom’s, though.

“I took the whole day off.” She’s rubbing my back now. “I’ve been so busy, neglecting you, I know. I thought maybe we could go get facials, maybe—”

“Facials?”

She pulls back a little at the sound of my voice, then continues in the same lulling tone, “Remember how we used to do that, the first day of summer vacation? It was a tradition and I skipped right over it this year. I thought I could make it up to you, we could go out to lunch afterward—” I sit up abruptly. “Do you really think that’s how it works? I’m not the one you need to make it up to.” She walks over to the window overlooking the Garretts’ lawn. “Stop this. It’s not doing any good.”

“Maybe if I could understand why not, Mom.” I haul myself out of bed and stand next to her at the window, looking down on the Garretts’ house, the toys in the yard, the inflatables floating in the pool, the Mustang.

Her jaw tightens. “The truth? Fine. I never enjoyed it when you and Tracy were small. I’m not like that woman over there—” She gestures out the window in the direction of the Garretts’. “I’m not some broodmare. I wanted children, sure. I was an only child growing up, I was always lonely. When I met your father with his big family, I thought…But I hated the mess and the smells and the constant distractions. As it turned out, he’d had enough of all that growing up too. So he took off to be a boy again, and left me two little babies. I could have afforded ten nannies, and you just had the one, and she only came in during the weekdays. I got through that time. Now I’ve finally found a place for myself.” She reaches out, takes hold of my upper arm again, jogging it, as though she’s trying to wake me up all over again. “You want me to give that up?”

“But—”

“I work so hard, have worked hard for longer than you can even remember. I’m supposed to pay penance for the rest of my life for one night where I was able to relax and have a good time?” Another arm-shake. Her face is very close to mine.

“Do you really think that’s right, Samantha?”

I don’t know what’s right anymore. My head hurts and my heart feels nothing but numb blankness. I want to reach into her argument and pick out the thread that’s wrong, but it all seems like a tangle.

I still watch the Garretts, relieved when I see signs of normalcy—Alice lying in a lawn chair tanning or Duff and Harry having a squirt-gun fight. But watching doesn’t give me the feeling it used to—at once hopeful and calming, that there were worlds other than my own, where extraordinary things could happen.

Now it feels like I’m exiled, back in Kansas with all that color bleached to black and white.

I try hard to skirt around memories of Jase, but they’re everywhere. I found one of his shirts under my bed yesterday and stood there with it in my hand, frozen in amazed horror that I hadn’t noticed it—and Mom hadn’t either. I shoved it to the back of my own shirt drawer. Then I pulled it out and slept in it.

Chapter Forty-six

I’m walking up our driveway, one of the few times I’ve cast my shadow outdoors, when I feel a touch on my shoulder and turn around to see Tim.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, grabbing hold of my hand.

“Leave me alone.” I yank it away from him.

“The hell I will. Don’t you pull that ice queen bullshit with me, Samantha. You dumped Jase with no explanation. Nan won’t say jack shit about you except that you aren’t friends anymore. Look at you—you look like hell. You’re all skinny and pale. You don’t even look like the same girl. What the fuck’s happening to you?”

I take out my key to unlock the door. Despite the heat of the day, it feels like it’s made of stone, so heavy and cold in my hand. “I’m not going to talk to you, Tim. It’s none of your business.”

“Screw that too. He’s my friend. You were the one who brought him into my life. He’s made things better. There’s no way I’m going to stand by and watch you crap on him when his world is already messed up. He’s got enough to deal with.”

I open the door and drop my purse, which also feels as though it’s made of lead. My head hurts. Tim, of course, king of no mercy, follows me right in, letting the door slam shut behind us.

“I can’t talk to you.”

“Fine. Talk to Jase.”

I twist to look at him. Even that movement feels painful. Maybe I’m slowly turning to stone myself.

Except that then things wouldn’t hurt so much, would they?

Tim looks at my face and the anger in his fades, replaced by concern.

“Please, Samantha. I know you. This is not how you act. This is how crazy, messed-up girls into power trips act. This is how assholes like me act. I’ve known you since you were little, and you were put together then. This doesn’t make any sense. You and Jase…you two were solid. You don’t just walk away from that. What the fuck is up with you?”

“I can’t talk to you,” I repeat.

His cool gray eyes scan slowly over my face, measuring. “You’ve gotta talk to someone. If not Jase, if not Nan…I’m sure not your ma…Who’re you gonna to talk to?” Just like that, I start to cry. I haven’t cried at all, and now I can’t stop. Tim, clearly horrified, glances around the room as though hoping someone, anyone, has come in who can save him from this sobbing girl.

I slide slowly down the wall and keep crying.

“Shit, stop it. It can’t be that bad. Whatever it is…it can be solved.” He crosses to the kitchen island, pulling a length of paper towel off the porcelain holder, thrusting it toward me. “Here, wipe your eyes.

Anything can be fixed. Even me. Listen, I enrolled to work toward my GED. I’m gonna move out. My friend Connor from AA has this apartment over his garage, and I’m gonna live there, which means I don’t have to deal with my folks anymore, and I can…Here, blow your nose.” I take the scratchy paper and blow. I know my face is red and swollen and now that I’ve started crying, I think it’s very possible I won’t ever be able to stop.

“That’s it.” Tim pats me awkwardly on the back, more like he’s trying to dislodge something stuck in my throat than comfort me. “Whatever’s going on, it’ll be okay…but I can’t believe ditching Jase is gonna help.”

I cry harder.

With a resigned expression, Tim shears off more paper towels.

“Can I…?” I’m now doing that hiccupping thing that comes after too much sobbing, making it difficult to catch my breath.

“Can you what? Just spit it out.”

“Can I move in with you? To the garage apartment?”

Tim goes still, his hand frozen in the act of wiping my eyes. “Wha-at?” I don’t have enough breath—or maybe courage—to repeat myself.

“Samantha—you can’t…I’m flattered, but…why the hell would you wanna do something like that?”

“I can’t stay here. With them next door and with Mom. I can’t face Jase and I can’t stand to look at her.”

“This is about Grace? What’d she do? Tell you she was yanking your trust fund if you didn’t ditch Jase?”

I shake my head, not looking at him.

Tim skids down against the wall next to me, stretching out his long legs, while I’m crouched in this small hunched circle, knees to chest.

“Spill, kiddo.” He looks me in the face, unblinking. “Hit me. I go to meetings now, and you wouldn’t believe the shit I’ve heard.”

“I know who hurt Mr. Garrett,” I squeeze out.

Tim looks incredulous. “Fuck me. Really? Who?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Are you freakin’ crazy? You can’t keep that a secret. Tell the Garretts. Tell Jase. Maybe they can sue the bastard and get millions. How’d you find out, anyway?”

“I was there. That night. In the car. With my mom.”

His face blanches under his freckles, making his hair stand out like flame.

Silence falls between us like a curtain.

Finally Tim says, “I picked the wrong day to give up amphetamines.” I stare at him.

“Sorry. Airplane joke. I’m immature. I know what you’re saying. I just don’t really want to know what you’re saying.”

“Then go.”

“Samantha.” He grabs at my sleeve. “You can’t keep quiet. Gracie committed a fucking crime.”

“It would ruin her life.”

“So you’ll let her ruin theirs?”

“She’s my mother, Tim.”

“Yeah, and your ma screwed up big-time. Because of that you’re trashing Jase’s life and Mrs. G’s and all those kids’? And your own…? That’s just fucked up.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Go over there—look Jase in the eye and say, ‘Sorry—you know that person you couldn’t believe existed, the one who would hit someone and drive away? She’s your next-door neighbor. She’s my mom.’”

“He deserves to know.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Nope, I sure as hell don’t. This is not exactly something I’ve run into. God, I need a smoke.” He pats at his shirt pocket but comes up empty.

“It would destroy her.”

“I could really use a drink right now too.”

“Yeah, that would help,” I say. “That’s what happened. She’d had too much wine and she was driving and—” I bury my face in my hands. “I was asleep, and there was this awful thump.” I look up at him through my fingers. “I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Aw, kid. Aaah, shit.” Gingerly, Tim wraps an arm around my shaking shoulders.

“Clay told her to keep going, to back up and drive off and…she did.” I hear my voice breaking, still incredulous. “Just like that.”

“I knew that guy was scum,” Tim spits. “I knew it. Worst frickin’ type too. Smart scum.” We sit there in silence for a few minutes, our backs against the wall. Then Tim repeats, “You have to tell Jase, tell him all that.”

I shove my fists against my cheeks. “She’d have to resign and she might go to jail and it would all be because of me.” Now that I’m finally talking, the words are tumbling out of my mouth in a rush.

“No. No, kid. Because of her. She did the wrong thing. You’d be doing the right one.”

“Like you did the right thing with Nan?” I say quietly.

Tim’s eyes flick to mine, widening. He tilts his head, staring at me, and then realization crystallizes on his face, and he reddens, looks down at his hands.