Living With Regret (5 page)

“Point taken,” he says, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “My dad drinks a lot, and I think he hates this place, which is just making it worse.”

“I’m sorry. Where did you move here from?”

“Washington.”

“Hmm, there’s probably not as much to do here.”

He laughs. “That’s an understatement. We’ve moved a lot, though, so I’m used to it.”

“What does your dad do?” I ask.

“He builds things out of wood, mostly cabinets and furniture. What about your mom? What does she do?”

I shrug. “Throws parties and stuff, I guess.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon talking about the places he’s lived and what he liked to do at each place. He also tells me the reason his dad drinks all the time is because his mom died soon after giving birth to him. Even though my mom makes me a little crazy, I can’t imagine what it would be like without her. It makes me sad, but Sam doesn’t seem as bothered. He says it’s hard to miss someone you’ve never really known, but he also admits he wishes he knew what it was like to have a mom.

After a couple hours, I hear my mom yelling my name from across the field and sit up from the spot where my body had molded itself in the grass.

“Are you going to come back out here tomorrow?” Sam asks, tucking his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts.

I smile, thinking about the possibility of hanging out with him again. He’s easy to talk to compared to other people I know. “What time?”

His expression matches mine. “How about two o’clock? My dad usually disappears into his shop by then.”

I start walking backward, finding it difficult to look away from my new friend. “Bye,” I say, finally willing myself to turn around.

“Hey, Rachel!”

I look back, noticing he hasn’t moved at all from where I left him. His smile hasn’t fallen one bit.

“Wear shorts tomorrow, and we can stick our feet in the creek.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I wave and take off running to my house with a grin on my face that hadn’t been there in a long time.

That was the first time I spent the afternoon with Sam Shea. I used to escape with Sam, but I haven’t been to the field since I was fifteen. I’ve driven past countless times, watching the trees go by in my rearview mirror. It used to be a place for me to run to when I needed to pretend that the pressures in life didn’t exist. It’s easy to see why my mind would go there again. I wish it were that easy to escape from this.

The door clicks, taking me away from my memory. That happens more than I’d like these days.

A police officer walks into my room, taking slow, hesitant steps toward the chair next to my bed. I’m not surprised he’s here … just that it took this long. I killed Cory. I’m the reason he’s never going to take another breath, and I deserve whatever I have coming, even though it scares me to death.

I’ve already condemned myself to a life in emotional prison, which might be just as bad, if not worse, than any small cell. And maybe by talking to him, I’ll be able to fill in some of the gaps in my memory. Maybe he knows something that no one else is telling me.

“Miss Clark, I’m Officer Elroy.” He stops, watching me carefully before he clears his throat and continues, “I’ve spoken to your mom, and she told me that you don’t remember anything about the night of the accident, but I need to take a formal statement. Is now a good time?”

I look away, focusing my attention out the window. Rain hits it, rolling down the glass, giving texture to the gray sky. It seems like it rains most days now, which is fitting to my mood. “Is there ever a good time for something like this?” I finally ask.

“I guess not,” he replies, grabbing my attention again. He rubs his hand along his jaw. He’s older, probably my dad’s age, and his hair is speckled with gray, a sign that he’s lived through a lot in life. “Look, can you tell me the last thing you remember, before the accident?”

Closing my eyes tightly, I recount the last memories I have of Cory. They really don’t explain much about how I got here. “The last thing I remember is sitting on Cory’s couch in his apartment. I had one more test to take before my freshman year was over, and then we were going to head back home. He was watching baseball … that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Was that the day of the party?” He scribbles in his notepad.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember talking about or going to any parties. What was the date of the accident? I don’t even know.”

“The accident was during the early hours of May seventeenth.”

I swallow, tears pricking my eyes. “Yes, it was the morning of the sixteenth. It was the last day of the semester.” I’ve forgotten almost twenty-four hours of my life. How is that even possible?

He opens his mouth to ask me another question, but the door swings open and my dad comes barreling through with his briefcase in his hand. “Rachel, don’t say another word!”

“She’s not under arrest,” the officer replies, clicking his pen a couple times.

“Not yet.” My dad’s jaw works back and forth as he stares between Officer Elroy and me. I’ve always thought my dad was handsome with his chestnut brown hair, tinted with just a touch of red, and deep green eyes, but time spent in the courtroom has weathered him over the past couple years.

“I was taking her statement.”

Dad throws his briefcase on the end of my bed, eyes full of rage as he stares at the officer. “Read me everything she said, and Rachel, if he says one thing that’s out of line, I need to know.”

I open my mouth to tell him it doesn’t matter because I don’t remember anything, but he holds his hand up to silence me. Officer Elroy repeats what I told him to perfection, appearing annoyed with the whole process. When he’s done, Dad looks at me again. “Did he leave anything out?”

“No,” I whisper, ready for this to end. Officer Elroy should just arrest me. I deserve it.

Dad nods, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. “If you have any other questions for my daughter, you’ll ask them with me by her side. Do you understand?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. Now, if you have anything further, you can continue; if not, get out.”

Elroy’s face reddens as he shakes his head. My dad is a shark, and he knows it. Everyone in town knows it. “Do you remember anything at all from the party that night?”

“No.” My voice is meek. The tension in this room is too thick. Suffocating.

Elroy glares at my dad, but his expression softens as he looks down at me. “I’m going to let you get some rest, but I’ll leave you my card in case anything comes to mind.” He pauses, nodding at my dad. “When she’s released, I’m going to want to talk to her some more. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that, though.”

I close my eyes, wishing I could disappear. That’s all I want … to go wherever Cory is and put an end to this nightmare.

“I’ll be ready for it,” Dad says, narrowing his eyes.

“Rachel, I’ll be in touch,” Officer Elroy says quietly as he stands, lightly patting my hand. He should hate me … why is he treating me like a china doll?

“Through me,” Dad remarks as Elroy disappears out the door.

Dad’s gaze stays locked on the door long after it closes. Things are uncomfortable between us; just like the other two times he’s visited since I woke up. It’s usually during his lunch break when he knows he doesn’t have much time. It’s an easy out for him. Mom says he’s worried about me, but I wonder if he’s more worried about himself and his reputation. His good name has always meant so much to him.

He glances down at his watch before giving me the attention I’ve long craved. “I need to get going. I have a case this afternoon.” He leans down, kissing my cheek. “If he, or anyone else from the sheriff’s office, comes back, you call me. Don’t say a word.”

I nod, seeing a glimpse of sympathy in his eyes. I must be imagining things, though, because that’s not what Dad’s about. He’s a dictator, not an understanding man.

“I’ll check in on you later,” he says as he starts toward the door. It’s a lie, a nicety he says every time he leaves but never follows through on. By now, he should know I see through it. More empty words … I’ve had a lifetime of those.

Before he opens the door, I yell out to him. “Dad!”

He looks back, a curious expression on his face.

“Dad, I’m scared.” My voice is low yet loud enough for him to hear. I don’t know why I choose to tell him … maybe it’s because I know he won’t do anything with my broken honesty. He doesn’t know how to deal with it.

“It’s going to be okay. I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he says, looking down at the plain white tile floors.

I wish our relationship were such that I could tell him that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s not punishment I’m afraid of … it’s life without Cory. It’s living every day wondering what happened and hating myself because I’m responsible for all of this. His death. My pain. It’s all on me.

“Okay,” I whisper, fixing my attention on the window again. It’s hopeless. Everything feels empty, and broken, and no one seems to stay long enough to help me through it.

Life is like a sealed cardboard box. Some are full of wanted treasures, but others are just empty. That’s mine. I struggled for years to remove the heavy tape and shook it in hopes of feeling something, but it’s hollow. No feeling. No hope. Just empty.

June 17, 2013

I WAS ABLE TO GET
out of bed for the first time today. It took two nurses, and more time than I’d like to admit, but I took my first shower and got to use a real bathroom. It wasn’t much, but it was the first hint of normalcy I’ve had in a while.

Now, I’m back in bed, staring at the familiar walls. This is what prison would be like … nothing to do but get lost in my own thoughts. That’s what the whole punishment is about—making you think about what you’ve done until it completely eats you up inside.

Mom’s here for her daily visit. I don’t mind it. In fact, I think I’ve talked to her more the last couple weeks than I have the last five years. It’s sad if you think about it. Some days, I wish she would stay longer than just a couple hours, but on others, I look forward to my time alone. It gives me time to sort through my emotions, to try to remember anything about the last day of Cory’s life. So far, I haven’t had any success, but it’s not going to stop me from trying.

“How are you doing?” she asks, coming to stand beside my bed.

“Tired. They let me take a shower earlier.”

“You look good.” She smiles, running my hair between her fingers.

“Must be the clean hair.”

“They say you should be able to leave in a week or so. Your ribs are healing, and the swelling in your brain has gone down.”

I nod. Maybe the news of my impending release should make me happy, but I feel nothing.

“Madison says to tell you hi. She’s been working and hasn’t been able to make it back up to see you.”

Madison doesn’t need an excuse. I know she hates me. The whole town probably hates me. Cory was the town’s golden boy. Everyone loved him. I still can’t escape the weird feeling I was left with when she did visit; like there was something she wasn’t telling me. You can sense those things when you’ve known someone for so long.

“I’ll bring you some of your clothes from home tomorrow. That might help. Did you want any books or magazines?”

Back in middle school, I used to write poetry, but I haven’t written any in a long time. When weaved right, poetry is like therapy. One line leads to another, much like a therapist leads you to finding your own truth. It’s something I really need to find my way back to right now. “There’s a pink notebook in the table next to my bed. Can you bring it?”

She smiles. “Of course. By the way, they finally sent your replacement phone.” She pulls a cell phone from her purse, handing it to me. “They even put your contacts in for you.”

I’ve been addicted to my cellphone since I got it on my twelfth birthday. Now, as I look at it, I don’t see any of its purpose. Cory’s gone. Madison hates me. It’s almost worthless.

“Thank you,” I whisper as she places it next to me on the bed.

“Well, I should be going. We’re having a luncheon at the church, and I’m in charge of the sandwiches.” She stands, pulling her purse strap over her shoulder. There’ve been days when I’ve felt she should spend more time here with me, but I understand her need to return to something normal, mostly because it’s something I crave.

Before she leaves, she adds, “The boy next door asked me about you yesterday. He was dropping off some shelves he did for me.”

The thought of him makes a lump form in my throat. “Sam?”

She nods.

“What did he say?”

Her eyebrows pull in. Pensive … that’s always how she’s felt about my relationship with Sam. “He asked how you were doing. I told him you’re as good as can be expected, given the circumstances.”

Sam’s never been the boy next door; in a literal sense, yes, but not figuratively. His dad ran a small woodworking shop out of a shed on their property, and mostly kept to himself, with the exception of his nightly trip to the town’s only bar. Sam didn’t say much about him except for he treated him all right, making sure he was fed and clothed, but he also didn’t spend the time with Sam that he needed. He’d work all day then disappear into a bottle of booze. And when Sam talked about his mom’s death, I felt that maybe my home life wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. He had it much worse. At least my family pretended to care.