And When I Die, page 13
“Whitney’s still not responding to my texts,” she murmured.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he said. “We can deal with it when we get home.”
“Well, you better back me up, because she is going to be punished.”
“Maybe her phone died.”
She cocked her head. “Are you kidding?”
“Okay, okay, you’re right. She never lets that happen.” He shrugged. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“There better be,” Lauren muttered as they joined the group at the table. “Otherwise, I’m going to kill her.”
26
RON
He needed an alibi.
Ron pounded his steering wheel, the heat of his stupidity racing through him like a missile.
He’d spent the rainy afternoon lesson planning for the coming week, jotting down notes as he thumbed through The Scarlet Letter while huddled on his saggy brown couch from college—as what to do about dinner that night seized his attention. A pepperoni pizza, a six pack, and rewatching Sense 8 from the beginning.
The perfect quiet evening at home.
Then, his door had exploded with a rapid series of knocks, intensifying to a relentless banging. He’d edged over to the door and pressed his eye against the peephole.
Her. Right outside his door.
He thought about leaving her out there, if it hadn't been for his car in the parking lot, which she’d likely seen, as well as the faded lamplight from his window.
He’d hustled her inside, hoping no one had seen them, before slamming the door behind him.
That had been his first mistake.
She’d taken an Uber as a preventative measure. Flung herself at him, swarming his senses with Bubblemint gum and strawberry shampoo. Her wild black hair. Her tight jeans. The shimmering pink quiver of her bottom lip. The drowsy, half-slits of her dark eyes. He’d allowed that tight, lithe body to squirm against him. Let her climb him like a tree.
He grabbed her, slammed her against the wall, ready. So, so ready. Who cared, who cared, who cared. Just throw her down and bang her until the sun came up. Melt into those silky legs. Bury himself in all that soft, sweet, savage hair. God, how bad did he want that.
Instead, he snapped himself back to reality, reluctantly tore himself away from those raw, greedy kisses tinged with mint. He suggested they go somewhere and talk. He made it sound like a date. Normal. Romantic. A nice, quiet meal, then come back to his house afterward.
And that had been his second mistake.
And then, they left together, heading out to his car in all that pounding, persistent rain.
Which had been mistake number three.
27
AVA
Ava’s eyes fluttered open as she allowed the scene around her to come into focus and she remembered where she was. Doctors and nurses buzzed around in hushed, syncopated movement, accompanied by beeping monitors while dizzying streams of medical jargon soared from their lips. Despite floating on a cloud of pain meds, the sensation of slamming to the ground as her wrist shattered continued to ripple through her body. She winced as she looked down at the temporary splint holding her wrist in place until someone came to set it in a cast, whenever that was.
She had a fleeting thought of searching for her phone, both for the time and to update Kyle that she had no update. However, her bladder intruded as she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to the bathroom.
A harried nurse flew past and Ava called out, stopping the woman in her tracks.
“Yeah?”
“Bathroom,” Ava mouthed.
The nurse nodded curtly and helped Ava out of bed and pointed her to the right place, before rushing off in the direction of her previous destination. She shuffled into the tiny room and quickly relieved herself, grateful that the faucet and soap dispenser only required a wave of her good hand for satisfaction. As she trudged back toward her bed, the doors to the ER slid open followed by the clatter of a gurney shouting over the low rumble of thunder and spatter of rain. She turned to see a team of paramedics zoom toward her and flattened herself against a wall as a doctor in pale green scrubs whizzed by her in pursuit of the gurney. The glimpse of an oxygen mask and strings of wet black hair splayed against the gurney’s white sheet flew past in a dizzying blur.
“What have we got?” the doctor boomed as she strapped on a pair of latex gloves.
“Minor female with multiple stab wounds. Non-responsive. Airway looks clear. Pulse ox eighty-one.”
“All right, let’s get her into curtain one, spin a crit, and start a central line.”
Ava frowned as the gurney clattered past her. Lake Forest was one of those charmed, tree-lined utopias where violent crime was trapped behind a TV or movie screen. A distant, gritty echo that plagued their neighbor to the south. Residents of Lake Forest woefully shook their heads at shootings and stabbings as they snuggled deeper into the cocoon of grand old mansions, high-tech security systems, and imposing metal gates at the end of the driveway.
Bad things just didn’t happen here.
A set of metal swinging doors swallowed the gurney and a distraught, sobbing woman, silver threads running through her wet brown hair, the front of her lightweight cream sweater soaked with blood, attempted to run after it, only to be stopped by the slight, balding security guard who gently told her to have a seat in the waiting room so the doctors could work. The woman sank into a chair, tears continuing to gush from her eyes, prompting the same nurse who’d shown Ava the bathroom to sit down next to her with a clipboard and questions. Ava had to admit, what Kyle called her nosiness, and what she termed as healthy curiosity, spurred her to edge closer in an attempt to eavesdrop, but she was only able to glean from the woman’s distressed, staccato answers that she wasn’t a relative. Within moments, a man, probably the woman’s husband, came bustling through the admit doors followed by two police officers, who pulled them to a secluded corner just out of Ava’s earshot, presumably to question them about how they came to bring this young stabbing victim into the ER on a rainy Saturday night.
She waited a few seconds before surreptitiously moving to tuck herself into a nearby nook, her eyes boring into the cops and the couple as she managed to pick up snatches of conversation about what they knew.
“Ma’am?”
Ava’s eyes shot up into the warm, questioning gaze of an older nurse. “What?” she asked, irritated.
“Did you need some help back to your bed?”
Ava grunted to herself in frustration. She wanted to know what was going on, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen.
She hoisted herself up and shook her head. “No, I can find my way back.”
The nurse did that weird thing where she hovered behind Ava, her arm encircling empty space in order to invisibly guide her back to her bed. Still, she couldn’t help but glance back a few times, hoping the girl would be okay.
28
JORDAN
At the library until around five researching her American history project. Due in two weeks. Civil Rights Act of 1964. Lots of books, microfiche, and old magazines on the subject. Yeah, the library is great. A quick stop at Left Bank for a Walking Taco and a pop. Walked the six blocks to the Zindels’ to babysit. Wasn’t really raining by that time. Anyway, she’d thought to throw an umbrella into her bag that morning. Why was she a mess? Tripped on her shoelace, fell to the ground. Fed the kids macaroni and hot dogs. Yeah, they sure can be a handful, but it was fun. Watched a movie. Frozen. Played tickle monster. Mr. Zindel brought her home.
Jordan bit her lip as she continued rehearsing what she was going to say when grilled by her mother about her day. She wished she had one of those distracted mothers who would be fine with getting only a few little details before murmuring ‘how nice’ as she went back to tapping out emoji-laden texts on her phone or posting her vacation photos to Instagram for her twelve followers. No, her mother would require the exact titles of the books she used for her research, how many pieces of ground beef were in the taco, and a detailed rundown of every scene from Frozen start to finish.
But it was okay, because she knew what to expect. Sixteen years of practice. She was ready. Her parents hadn’t talked to the Zindels for at least six months and the last four times she’d babysat for them, her mom hadn’t called Mr. or Mrs. Zindel pretending like she wanted to know how everything had gone, when really, she was checking up on Jordan. It was safe to use them as cover.
Her story was good. She just had to stick with it. Put in enough details to make it sound real, but not so many that she’d sound suspicious.
Believe in a lie deeply enough and you could easily sell it as truth.
Water splashed around her ankles as she walked up the dark, quiet road toward her house, the only one on Lenox Circle, wistful thoughts swirling through her head about her car sitting cold and alone in the garage, the keys clenched in her mother’s fist as punishment for the fight at Whitney’s party last week. She grasped the damp handle of her Longchamp bag, ready to face her mother. She came to an abrupt stop at the edge of her circular driveway, jarred by the two cars sitting on either side of the fountain. She didn’t recognize the silver Porsche, but she knew Mrs. Dean’s cream-colored Escalade, a mirror image of the one her mother drove. Jordan’s heart sped up as she continued staring at the car, her mouth dry. She must be here for one of the last-minute dinners her dad was famous for throwing. Tonight, of all nights. She hadn’t planned on this—couldn’t have planned on this. Mrs. Dean. Here. Now. The guilt seized her insides. She couldn’t face her.
Jordan took a faltering step backward, her head whipping left then right in search of a nonexistent answer.
She didn’t have a choice. She had to go inside.
And pretend like everything was fine.
29
LAUREN
Dinner proved as entertaining as always with Jay at the helm. The wine flowed freely as did his boisterous jokes and nutty stories, each one louder than the last. He could be forgiven though, as he kept them all doubled over with tears of laughter. She momentarily forgot her fatigue and anger at Whitney, who continued to be radio silent despite Lauren’s repeated text messages and occasional surreptitious phone calls away from the table, which kept going to voicemail. Even Erica, with her sly glances of adoration in her husband’s direction and overall gracious demeanor, put Lauren at ease. The tenderloin fell off the bone, the scalloped potatoes melted, the asparagus firm and tender all at once. Not that Erica ate any of it, instead consuming a lonely salad overflowing with multicolored strips of lettuce and other salad-y things. Steve and Lance set up a meeting for the coming week to discuss potentially working together on the latter’s project. Gabby was witty and charming and Lauren supplied her own card upon request.
As Lauren stepped out of the powder room on the first floor, the front door swung open and Jordan stumbled in, a sheepish look on her face. An involuntary gasp escaped Lauren’s lips, as much for the girl’s shifty, disheveled appearance—dirt and scraps of leaves clinging to the drab hoodie and baggy jeans she wore, a dried river of stain trailing down the front, her messy ponytail—as the shock of seeing her for the first time since the fight last Saturday. A week later, her earlobe still sported a thick white bandage, stitches no doubt trapped beneath the gauze. Seeing the girl stirred Lauren’s hives, as they contemplated if they should come out to wreak havoc.
The two stood in an uncomfortable standoff for a few moments. Jordan’s gaze pinned to the floor, her lips pressed into a thin line. Lauren, her mouth slightly agape as she ransacked her brain for what to say. Finally, she cleared her throat.
“Hello, Jordan,” she said, her voice stiff and cautious.
“Hi, Mrs. Dean,” Jordan responded, still staring at the floor.
Lauren couldn’t help it; as much as she wanted to scratch the girl’s eyes out and bang her head into the ground, seeing her unkempt appearance gave her slight pause. The motherly instinct always kicked in whenever a child was in distress, even if it wasn’t yours.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.
Finally, Jordan looked up, her chin trembling. “I tripped and fell in a puddle. I’ll be okay.”
Lauren nodded. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
“Mrs. Dean—I—I wanted to say um, you know, about the party … sorry.” The words rushed from Jordan’s lips in an almost indiscernible mishmash, her cheeks flaming red.
Lauren understood this was the best she could expect. There was no need to push or demand for searing, tearful, pleading atonement. None would be coming. Sometimes, you had to accept what you got instead of mourning what you never would.
“I appreciate you saying that,” she said quietly before pausing. “I think it would be nice if you called Whitney too.”
“Lauren, Steve sent me—” Erica stopped short as she flew into the foyer and saw the state her daughter was in, gasping as she marched toward her.
“Jordan, what on Earth—are you—what happened? You’re an absolute mess.”
“I tripped over my shoelace earlier and fell in a puddle,” Jordan repeated, flicking a quick, guilty gaze toward Lauren, then shifting her eyes downward just as fast.
“You went to the Zindel’s looking like that?”
“Mom, they don’t care what I look like—”
“When did you fall into the puddle?”
“I told you it was earlier—”
“Earlier when?”
“When I was walking to the Zindel’s from the library—”
Erica’s eyes narrowed. “What time did you walk over to their house from the library?”
Lauren scratched her arm, distressed to see a blueberry-sized welt had taken up residence. “Erica, I think Steve and I—”
“Jordan,” Erica plowed on, oblivious to Lauren. “What time—”
“I left the library around three then went to Left Bank because I wanted a Walking Taco—” Jordan started.
“How long were you—?”
Lauren cleared her throat. “Erica, Steve and I really need to get going. We haven’t heard from Whitney all day and—”
Erica gasped as Jordan took advantage of the distraction and bolted for the stairs, sending her mother running after her, shouting questions at the girl’s back.
“What the hell’s going on?” Jay’s voice boomed over Lauren’s shoulder as he walked up behind her.
“Jordan just got home and—Steve and I should really get going.”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Jay muttered, distracted, before screaming upstairs for his wife.
Lauren scurried to the dining room to grab Steve as they exchanged stiff, knowing glances with the clearly embarrassed Lance and Gabby. The sound of a slamming door echoed throughout the house followed by Erica huffing down the stairs, long honey blond tendrils flying away from her red face.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Jay asked, his own face scrunched in a cross of confusion and irritation.
“Steve, Lauren, thank you so much for coming tonight,” Erica said, sidestepping the question. “It was so lovely to have you. Lauren, let’s get together later in the week for a drink, talk about that lunch with the girls.”
Lauren groaned inwardly. A semi-impromptu dinner party with Steve as cover, Jay directing the proceedings, and two other guests as a buffer was one thing. Hell, even an uncomfortable lunch with their two warring daughters would be something else. However, just the two of them spinning niceties over cocktails for the better part of an hour was more than Lauren could manage.
“Sure,” she said instead, already calculating what excuse she could come up with to get out of it. “Text me.”
The protracted goodbyes commenced and finally they were on their way. The confrontation between Erica and Jordan, fraught with snarling teenage girl irritation and bewildered mother frustration, had further stoked her already squirming anxiety over the inevitable showdown with her own daughter. As she and Steve made their way home through the dark, twisty roads sodden with rain, she tried to decide what punishment the girl had coming.
30
AVA
The doctor finished setting the cast around her wrist then leaned back, satisfied with her work.
“Are we done?” Ava asked, the shock and buzz of such a freak accident having long ago worn off, her senses snapped back to life. “Can I go home?”
The loud crack of the doctor removing her rubber gloves echoed throughout the tiny exam space where she’d been sitting since one o’clock this afternoon.
“All done,” the doctor, Dr. White, said with a slight lisp as she scribbled something in her chart. “We’ll have you come back in about a month for a checkup, but it will probably be about six to eight weeks before the cast comes off. Tonight, rest, and I’ve given you a prescription for ibuprofen to get you through the next few days. Who’s driving you home?”
“Oh. I drove myself here.”
Dr. White winced. “Whoa. Wow. Okay, uh, well, since we gave you pain meds, you can’t drive yourself. Especially not in this weather. You’ll need to have someone pick you up or call a cab or Uber.”
“I’ll text my husband.”
“Good.” She slapped the medical chart shut, the ends of her ash blond hair blanching backward in response. “Any questions for me?”
Ava shook her head. “Just ready to get out of here.”
“Of course. I’ll let you get dressed, then meet you at the admit desk.”
