In This Moment

“Well, I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but you’re doing it,” Ryan says to me as he tucks his phone into the side pocket of his bag and swigs the last of his coffee. “I’m going to drop Audrey at school on the way in, and you’re going to go get swabbed. Just to be sure.”

“You’re going to school?” I turn to her with surprise.

“Why wouldn’t I?” She jumps from her chair at the table and rinses her empty yogurt container out before tossing it into the recycling bin under the sink. I look over at Ryan. Surely she needs at least one day off, to process and talk about what we went through yesterday?

“She’s okay, Meg,” Ryan says, as I open and then close my mouth.

“I’m okay, Mom,” she reiterates, glancing between Ryan and me. “It’s not like we were the ones in the accident or anything.”

“That’s true, Aud, but it’s still a pretty scary thing to see a friend go through.” I wish I could explain how the trauma of being an observer to something so horrifying can be nearly as bad as physical bumps or bruises. Audrey is nearly the same age I was when Paige died, and I’ll never forget what it felt like to realize we weren’t invincible—that terrible things could happen at any moment. “How’s Sam doing?” She shrugs, says he’s okay. “Is there anything you want to talk about? About Jack, or the accident?” I ask, giving her arm a rub.

She slings her backpack over her shoulder, knocking my hand off her arm in the process. I tell myself she didn’t mean to do it. “Nope,” she says, then turns to Ryan. “Can we go? I don’t want to be late.”

I look at Ryan as if to say, “Can you give it a try?” but he’s busy packing up his bag and doesn’t notice.

“We can talk later,” I say to Audrey, tugging on her backpack shoulder strap so she looks at me. “Audrey?”

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. I pull her to me for a tight hug despite the resistance I feel in her lithe body. I breathe in the scent of her hair, something fruity with a hint of lavender, feeling grateful for the hundredth time since yesterday afternoon that she wasn’t the one in front of that car.

“Mom, we’ve got to go.” She pats my back a couple of times to placate me. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Ryan grabs the handles of his leather duffel bag that he takes to the gym on his lunch break and gives me a kiss. I turn at the last minute so his lips graze my cheek, and he smiles. “Meg, you know I never get sick.” It’s true. After so many years in med school and working in the hospital, Ryan never seems to catch anything.

“I’ll pick you up after school,” I say to Audrey. “We can get ice cream or something.”

She scowls. “It’s too cold for ice cream. And I don’t need a ride. I’m going to the hospital with Sam after school to see Jack.”

I frown.

“Dad said it was okay,” she says, pointing at Ryan.

“Not a good idea, Aud,” I say, not commenting on Ryan’s lax attitude. “Jack’s only just had surgery, and we don’t know where things are at. Plus, I’m sure they’re all exhausted. They don’t need company right now.”

Audrey looks perturbed in the way only a teenaged girl can. “Sam asked me to go with him. It’s fine, Mom. And Dad already said I could.”

I take a deep breath. “Well, it’s not fine with me.” Ryan sighs, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it. “I’ve asked you to come home so we can have a chat. And that can be over ice cream or hot chocolate or whatever, but we are going to talk about things. So I’ll see you in the pickup line, okay?”

She stomps her foot, the way she used to when she was little and didn’t get her way. “You are so annoying!” she shouts before slamming the door to the garage behind her with extra force.

Ryan adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, looks at me with eyebrow raised.

I sit down at the kitchen table and rest my head in my hands. “Why did you tell her she could go? I’m sure the Becketts need time alone right now. Plus, I want to talk with her about yesterday. Make sure she’s all right.”

He doesn’t respond right away, watches me closely. “Look, I know this has probably brought up a lot of stuff for you,” he says, and I peer at him through my hands. I swallow hard, know he’s talking about Paige. “But this situation is completely different. And if she wants to talk about it, she’ll talk, Meg. I don’t think forcing the issue is a great idea.”

I nod, but not because I agree. Simply to acknowledge I’ve heard him. “Tell her I’ll see her in the pickup line, okay?”

Ryan sighs again, this time with barely concealed frustration. “I think you should be prepared for things not to go the way you hope.”

The way I hope? Nothing about this is what I hoped for—but I won’t pretend like our fifteen-year-old has enough emotional maturity to process what happened yesterday on her own. I know how the aftereffects of witnessing such a tragedy can be slow to show themselves, coming out when you least expect them, and it’s my job to support Audrey, whether she wants it or not. Like my mother did for me.

“Noted,” I say to Ryan, matching his frustrated tone. “See you later.”

He starts to open the door, then turns back. “If you want to talk, I’m here, okay?”

“I know,” I reply, some of my irritation slipping away. “Hope you have a good day.”

“You, too,” he says, before heading through the door.

There have been many times I’ve missed having my mom to talk with since she died—when Audrey was a newborn and I couldn’t figure out how to get her to latch on, after what happened with Emma on New Year’s, when I sold my first house, when I caught seven-year-old Audrey stealing a pack of gum from the variety store and marched her back to confess and apologize. But it’s been a long time since I felt the pain of her loss, like someone is burning me from the inside out, and with a sob I wrap my arms around my body and imagine they’re her arms instead.

9

After a jittery, somewhat white-knuckled drive to the clinic—this is the first time I’ve been behind the wheel since the blurry drive to and from the hospital yesterday after Jack’s accident—I make a quick stop at the pharmacy for antibiotics, then go home. My plan is to spend the rest of the day before school pickup alternating between our bed and the living room couch. But by the time I get home my phone has exploded with messages and texts, and sleep seems out of the question.

Julie has sent three check-in texts and Ryan one, asking if I made it the clinic and if I mind if he plays squash after work with his colleague Jamie. My in-box has twenty-five unread messages, a dozen of which are from Tom—even though he knows I’m taking a sick day—about everything from how much wine to get for the open house to whether lilies are “too predictable.” Emma and the PTO need volunteers for the town hall meeting at Merritt High Sunday night, to kick off the school’s anti-texting-while-driving campaign. My dad sent flight details for his upcoming visit for Thanksgiving, along with a link to Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk, which he feels should be mandatory watching for Audrey.

And though I’m busy and distracted most of the day—finally sending out the open house invitation and responding to Tom’s unrelenting questions—thoughts of Jack and the accident squeeze their way into the quiet moments in-between. I’m desperate to know what’s happening but am not sure how to find out. I don’t want to bother Andrew and Alysse, plus Ryan would likely update me if he had any new information. I suppose I could text Audrey, but based on how we left things this morning, I suspect she’ll ignore me.

I try to focus on work but end up obsessing over the “what ifs” while making a cup of tea, only realizing once I take a sip I never actually boiled the water. What if Jack hadn’t stopped to tie his shoelace? What if I’d been paying closer attention, had seen Sarah’s car? What if Sarah Dunn hadn’t chosen that moment to respond to her ex-husband’s text and had kept her eyes on the road?

By the time it’s school pickup time, I’m still feeling ragged and worn out, but at least it’s a beautiful day, warm enough for only a sweater and jeans. With only one main road leading to and from Merritt High, it’s impossible not to drive right past the accident site, where signs have recently been erected, including a hand-painted one that reads, Honk if you love Jesus, text while driving if you want to meet Him. I try to keep my eyes on the road ahead, but they drift to the large pile of colorful flowers in plastic wrap situated on the edge of the curb, right near where Jack lay bleeding in the street yesterday afternoon. I’m weak when I approach the accident spot and press the gas a little more firmly to get by it all more quickly.

A minute later I drive past the semicircle driveway in front of the school and into Merritt High’s parking lot. I’ve decided Audrey and I will take a walk on the nearby trail and have a chat. The school sent an email about the crisis team they set up to talk with the students, but I know how easy it is to tell experts what they want to hear. No, Audrey needs to convince me she’s coping before I leave it alone, like Ryan suggests I should.

I’m standing by the front doors, only a few cars in the pickup line because it’s still early, holding a tray with two lattes—after much nagging, I’ve recently agreed that Audrey can drink coffee, as long as it comes with loads of milk—when I hear my name.

“Meg?”

I turn and see Andrew, in his car at the front of the pickup line. The window is down, and he’s leaning across the passenger seat.

“Hi,” I say, walking over to the car and bending down. “How are you?”

It’s a question asked out of habit, but I resist the urge to cringe because the answer is obvious. Dark shadows cup his eyes, the darkness highlighted because of how pale he looks. His hair is disheveled, some pieces sticking up, others laying flat against his head. He’s obviously been up all night.

“We’re hanging in there.” He dips his chin, and I can see him fighting to maintain an expression that backs up his words. “Want to get in? They won’t be out for another ten minutes or so.”

“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t want to. Because when I look at Andrew I see Jack, and all I can think about is my careless wave, about how Jack’s body looked flying off of Sarah Dunn’s car. Swallowing hard and forcing the image from my mind, I nudge the passenger side door with my hip and hand Andrew the tray of lattes as I get in. “Do you want one?” I ask, pointing to the tray, hoping my voice sounds steady, because inside I’m a wobbly mess. “It’s for Audrey, but honestly, I’m still not fully onboard with her drinking coffee.”

“No, thanks,” he says. “It was a pretty rough night, and I don’t think my body can take any more caffeine, to be honest.”

I nod, rest the tray on my lap, unsure what to say next as we sit quietly side by side. “So Sam’s at school today?”

“Yeah. No fever and he seems better, physically at least, so it was hard to say no when he wanted to be at school with his friends.” Now I better understand Audrey’s insistence this morning—Sam was here. “I wanted to keep him home, not just because he’s been sick...obviously.” He tries, but this time he can’t control his face, which is cracking with his new reality. I put my hand on his arm and give it a squeeze, turning slightly away from him, so I don’t start crying. “It’s hard to believe, but life just carries on, you know?”

“I know,” I say. I’m about to ask how Jack’s doing even though I’m afraid of the answer, when a tickle in my throat makes me cough. Which turns in to a full-blown coughing fit I try desperately to quell with my hot latte, unsuccessfully.

Andrew pulls a wrapped throat lozenge out of his coat pocket. “Sam says they taste like poison.” He smiles, though I notice it doesn’t reach his eyes. Still coughing I take the lozenge from his hand before quickly unwrapping it and popping it in my mouth. The eucalyptus is strong and wafts out with my breath, cool air rushing into the back of my throat.

“Thanks,” I say, the tickle subsiding. I clear my throat, steel myself to ask the question I know must be asked. “How’s Jack doing?”

His mouth drops into a frown. “Surgery went as well as expected, but he’s still critical. And he might need more surgery for his leg.” He doesn’t say anything about the paralysis, and I don’t ask. But my stomach aches, thinking about how Jack is never going to be the same now—he’s lost a part of his identity, and I can’t imagine what that does to a young person at the prime of his physicality. Meg, look what you’ve done...

“We’re heading back to the hospital as soon as I get Sam,” he adds. “I need to give Aly a break, too. She hasn’t left his room, and she’s...” His frown deepens, and I imagine what it must be like to be Alysse. To be Jack’s mother. “She just needs a break. If she’ll take it.”

Alysse Beckett is one of those woman you want to hate—successful, beautiful, somehow finds time for triathlons and charity benefits—but can’t, because she has this intoxicating way of making you feel important when you’re talking with her. We recently had a lovely chat about Sam and Audrey at a mutual friend’s barbecue, and shared a joke about how we might get to co-plan a future wedding. But even with her flawless exterior, I know there must be cracks under the surface. No one can be that perfect all the time.

“I’m sure you all need a break,” I say softly. Guilt twists in my gut. I have an overwhelming need to help them, to do something. Anything. “How can I help? Maybe bring you some meals, so you don’t have to worry about that?”

Andrew stares straight ahead, and for a moment I’m not sure my words have reached him. “That would be great,” he finally says, when he comes back to himself. “I have a feeling we’re going to be spending too much time in the hospital’s cafeteria.”

“Consider it done.” I’m pleased he’s accepted the offer. Usually people retreat in these situations—I saw it happen with my dad, when he kept saying he was fine, didn’t need help from anyone but thank you for the thought.

“We’re going to be at the hospital 24/7, at least for now, but I want life to stay as sane and normal for Sam as possible.” He looks to the school entrance, still empty, and I notice a slight shake to his voice. “I’m trying to hold it together for him, you know?” I nod as tears come to my eyes. “This is a lot for us to handle, but Sam. Well, I’m worried about him.”

I’m about to ask more about Sam, say a kind word about how hard this must be for him and Alysse, juggling the needs of their sick son with those of their healthy one, when my phone rings. I jump, look at the screen, see it’s Tom.

“Do you need to get that?” Andrew asks as I frown at the phone, wondering which of the issues in the dozen emails I sent back to Tom he’s calling about.

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