Remembering Raquel (3 page)

TUESDAY/08:43 PMEDT

GYLINDRIELLE:
Heya, Hayley.

I suppose it is a pretty crappy goal all around. Animal control would come in and destroy all the cats, cause nobody would want to adopt them for fear that they'd developed a taste for human flesh.

P.S. No way am I going to invite a boy to a dance, regardless of the century.

P.P.S. Your teaching me the chicken dance and the hokey pokey—while very thoughtful—does not qualify me to dance in public.

TUESDAY/08:50 PMEDT

COMET GIRL:
Excuse me. The chicken dance and the hokey pokey are the building blocks upon which all other dances are built. Check out MTV to verify.

As far as those cats with a taste for human flesh, maybe that girl from your school who's so big into causes could step in and rescue them after you kick the bucket—what's her name?

TUESDAY/08:51 PMEDT

GYLINDRIELLE:
Mara Ravenell

TUESDAY/08:53 PMEDT

COMET GIRL:
Yeah, her (Mara Ravenell—sounds like a Sword of Mawrth name!) She could develop a whole Save the Human-Flesh-Eating Cats Program.

TUESDAY/07:55 PMCDT

WARRIORGUY:
Hey, Gylindrielle. If I lived three or four states closer to New York, *l'd* take you to that dance. You're just the kind of girl I've been looking for!

TUESDAY/08:59 PMEDT

GYLINDRIELLE:
That's very sweet, Warriorguy.

But don't forget that after the first time you propositioned me, I read the background information you have posted on the Sword of Mawrth boards, and I know that—besides living in Warrensburg, Missouri—you're twelve years old. I'm sure that you're very cute for a twelve-year-old stalker; but this just isn't going to work out.

TUESDAY/08:04 PMCDT

WARRIORGUY:
C'mon, Gylindrielle! Being stalked by a 12-year-old stalker is better than being stalked by a 53-year-old stalker!

TUESDAY/09:09 PMEDT

GYLINDRIELLE:
Be still my heart! Warriorguy, you need to bear in mind that I do not look like my Sword of Mawrth avatar.

TUESDAY/09:11 PMEDT

COMET GIRL:
NOBODY looks like their Sword of Mawrth avatars. Manga art exaggerates everything. Even *Barbie's* boobs-to-waist ratio would improve in manga.

TUESDAY/08:13 PMCDT

WARRIORGUY:
You could post a picture of yourself as Raquel.

TUESDAY/09:14 PMEDT

GYLINDRIELLE:
Good night, Warriorguy. :)

current mood:
greatly improved—thanks

TUESDAY/09:16 PMEDT

GYLINDRIELLE:
BTW, the second-run theater around the corner is playing that animated film festival—lost track and 9:30 is the last show. Join me, Hayley?

TUESDAY/09:18 PMEDT

COMET GIRL:
Can't, cause *l* would need someone to drive me. And my parents are definitely not in a Good Mood. But enjoy!

TUESDAY/08:19 PMCDT

WARRIORGUY:
Have a great time. And think of me.

TUESDAY/09:20 PMEDT

GYLINDRIELLE:
GOOD NIGHT Warriorguy.

I keep thinking: What would have happened if I'd gone with her?

The thing is, I don't love those animation festivals the way Raquel does.

Did.

There are usually a couple of funny or moving features, a few Very Strange ones from Europe that I have no idea what they mean, and a whole bunch of really lame stuff that I'm pretty sure I get—but I'm left thinking: So what?

Then again, was my avoiding ninety minutes of animation worth Raquel's life?

Because in the end, I probably could have worn my parents down; I probably could have gotten one of them to drive me to the theater. They always liked Raquel, and they knew it was hard on us, being assigned first to different middle schools, then going to different high schools. So they
might
have driven me.

And if they wouldn't have—but I had tried—then I wouldn't feel so much that it was my fault.

Not that, if they'd said no, it would be their fault.

But...

I don't know. It's just too confusing.

I want to blame someone.

But I seem to be the only one around to blame.

Could
I have stopped whatever it was that happened from happening?

Shouldn't a best friend be able to do that?

The police say she stepped off the curb into the path of an oncoming car.

At 11:10 on a Tuesday night on Poscover Road there isn't
that
much traffic, so there was some speculation—you could tell by the way the first reports were worded—that she
may
have done it intentionally: suicide by second-party driver.

That really made me mad, because there's
no way
Raquel would have done that. She had too much respect for herself, and besides, she would never inflict that onto some poor driver, someone she didn't even know. It must have nearly killed Mr. Falcone to hear those insinuations. Finally, though, the police told him there was no reason to declare her death a suicide.

My brother, Tyler, who loves a good conspiracy, pointed out that knowing Raquel the way we do—we know she wouldn't commit suicide. But since there wasn't much traffic, we had to assume either that Raquel had been darn unlucky to step off the curb
just
as a car was coming—or that someone had pushed her.

Tyler was a good deal of the reason my parents were in a bad mood that night, so if I were inclined, I might say it was partially his fault I didn't go with Raquel to the movies.

Except that's really, really stupid.

Tyler's theory is really, really stupid, too. There were four witnesses there that night—a retired couple and a pair of college boys. None of them knew Raquel, and she wasn't the kind of girl you could take such an instant dislike to that a stranger would just push her into oncoming traffic. All four of them said the same thing, according to the police who interviewed them: They were laughing and talking about one of the animation shorts, and the next thing anybody knew, Raquel was off the curb....

I don't want to think about that part of it.

Actually, I don't want to think about any part of it, but my mind keeps going back to that moment over and over, like some kind of instant replay loop in my head.

She could have fallen. Raquel was
not
the most graceful person around.

She could have been distracted and not seen the car. Raquel could be a little spacey.

If I had been there, I might have prevented whatever happened.

If I had been there, at least I might
know
what happened.

Did I tell her that night to stay safe?

It was kind of a joke we had. Every morning as we did our getting-ready-for-the-day dance around each other in the kitchen—me on my way to work, her ready to run for the school bus—I would always say, "Have fun today. And stay safe."

Sometimes, Raquel would come back with something like "Oh drat! Why did you have to say that? Today was the day I was planning on being reckless, and now I can't. And here I was toying with the idea of letting myself get kidnapped by crazed aliens with rectal probes."

But now I'm wondering: Did I tell her that night to stay safe?

I know my words have—had—no magic power to protect her, but still, the thought that I might not have wished her well haunts me.

That I let her go out at night doesn't bother me, though I've heard the snide comments suggesting I am not a good father because my fourteen-year-old daughter was out at eleven o'clock at night. Raquel is—was—a couple weeks short of being fifteen. She was very responsible, and the theater is so close—down two well-lit blocks, around one corner, and across one street.

Across one street.

Across one damn street.

Six minutes to walk there. I know because we've walked there together countless times. Raquel loves—loved—movies. Especially animation.

It was almost 9:30 when she came running downstairs shouting, "The animation festival! It starts in eight minutes, and if I don't go now, there will
never
be another chance to see it!"

"It's a school night," I reminded her.

"I've done all my homework," she told me.

Raquel always did her homework. Sometimes on the bus or between classes the day it was due, but she always got it done. She was a good student.

"It'll be on DVD in another couple months," I said. I'd already taken my shower. I was in my pajamas and had settled down with a book and didn't want to get dressed again.

"DVD's not the same as the big-screen experience," she wheedled. "You don't have to come with me. It's only ninety minutes. I'll be home and in bed asleep by eleven-thirty." She must have seen that I was considering, because she added, sounding like her uncle Theo, the lawyer, "Whereas if you don't let me go, then I'll be grumpy and thinking about what I missed, and tossing and turning all night in my bed, and I'll end up getting
less
sleep than if you just let me go. Not to mention the strain on our father/daughter relationship." She glanced at her watch and was bouncing up and down. "They hardly show any trailers on week-nights. I'm going to miss the beginning. Please-please-please-please-
please?
"

I
must
have told her to stay safe, because she was worried about being late. I would have pointed out that they
always
show coming attractions, and that she had plenty of time to get to the theater carefully.

Her last words to me: "You're the best, Dad"—as she leaned over me in the armchair to kiss me good-bye on the forehead.

My last words to her: "Yeah, yeah"—spoken in a disgruntled tone.

My last words should have been: "Stay safe, baby girl."

It wasn't my fault.

Everyone says so. They've said it all along. The nice police officer said it that night.

None of it helps.

There are so many "what-ifs" that could have changed everything. What if Sharon's bridal shower had been at our house instead of at the maid of honor's mother's house? What if my car had a bigger trunk, so that I didn't decide it would be easier to use my husband's SUV to bring all the presents back to our place? What if I had more confidence driving that big boat? What if I had insisted on helping Kaylee's mother clean up afterward? What if Sharon had come home with me rather than spending the night at Kaylee's? What if I had paid better attention while Sharon had driven us there, so that I would have learned the way as I went
to
the shower, while it was still sort of light out, and then I wouldn't have been constantly glancing at the handwritten directions as I drove home in the dark?

I'm pretty sure I wasn't looking at the directions when I passed that little plaza. Two blocks up there was a signal light, and I remember hoping it would turn red and stop me, which would give me time to check out those directions and verify if—at the next light—I was supposed to turn right or left.