The Whys Have It Page 3

  We need to move.

  My brain feels fuzzy.

  I’m pretty sure we hit something.

  Or someone.

  I pray to God it isn’t that.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sam

  It’s two a.m.

  She’s late.

  With my phone in my hand, I glance toward my sister’s bedroom again hoping for a change. The door is still open, the bed still made—eliminating any chance she came in without me noticing. I check my phone. My hand is shaking.

  It’s been three hours and two minutes.

  Even in the throes of heavy traffic, she should have been home by now.

  I’ve called her twelve times with no answer. She can be terrible at answering, but she’s never been this bad. The warning bells inside my head won’t stop ringing—now they’re clanging to the point that my head hurts. A text came through almost two hours ago. Stopped for food and then made a few wrong turns, on our way now. But we met Cory! The last sentence made me smile when I read it; now the words feel like a weight around my neck that keeps pulling down, down into a darkness I haven’t revisited in years. I shouldn’t have bought the tickets. I shouldn’t have let her stay. Nothing good happens after midnight.

  I tell myself to stop panicking as I chew my fingernail down to the skin. Worry doesn’t solve anything. Worst case scenarios never made anything better.

  Ten years ago my mother died.

  One year ago my father forgot me.

  Three hours ago I spoke with Kassie.

  The silence coming from everyone I love builds like stones in my chest.

  My fingernails are chewed to stubs.

  The voices won’t stop. I can’t take the pressure.

  The voices won’t stop. What has happened to my life?

  The voices won’t stop. What if everyone leaves me?

  The voices won’t stop.

  They won’t stop.

  So much time has gone by.

  Why do I keep thinking of my mother?

  CHAPTER 5

  Cory

  At first the door won’t open. It takes the bus driver, Big Jim, and me with the skinny end of a metal baseball bat I grab from the back bedroom and use as leverage to finally get the door to break free. I step out and my feet land in a ditch and there’s water…water. Water everywhere leftover from a storm. Panic fists my throat and rattles it around and my heartrate doubles, triples in speed until I remember.

  I remember.

  This isn’t then.

  This isn’t the same thing.

  Two separate incidences, set apart by a decade.

  It takes a minute for the fist to unfurl, but it does.

  Thank God it does.

  By the time we’re standing on the gravel road, my breathing has settled and blue lights flicker from a half mile away. The sound of sirens reaches our ears as the flashing lights grow closer…closer. Two…three…four. Four police cars and one ambulance pull to a stop a few dozen yards away from us. I count them as I blink at the barren landscape, at the people in front of me, at my hands, at the bus that has only one dent near the front bumper and a scratch that runs the length of my logo. The name Cory Minor is now underscored in a way that some might consider cool. A lightning bolt. A slash. I quickly count heads as band members exit the bus, then breathe in relief when everyone seems to be intact. Maybe the ambulance is unnecessary. Maybe I can send it away.

  I spot the car.

  In that solitary moment, my relief dissipates in a cloud of what-might-have-been and lands on the road next to the shattered windshield.

  Numbness takes over as paramedics descend on the scene, bringing stretchers and equipment with them. I see the Jaws of Life and freeze. Those things only appear for one reason, and I’m paralyzed with fear. Prayer chases away fear, right? I say one then two then ten as I watch them get to work. I’ve never prayed this much in my life.

  The driver’s side door is folded accordion style and won’t open at first—they tug and tug but nothing happens. Then a pop and snap and screech and the door falls away. There’s no driver that I can see, and I say another prayer of thanks. No driver is a good sign, right? My stomach drops.

  The door opens to reveal a steering wheel that rests on what used to be the back passenger seat. It’s bent at a right angle and tilted upward—no human could drive that way before, during, or after. My breathing becomes shallow. No driver is a bad sign.

  The sunroof is caved in and dangles between the two front seats, a high-pitched creak of a swinging noise pierces the quiet evening. If a head was once anywhere in the vicinity, it’s certainly been hit from the impact. My pulse trips. Definitely a bad sign.

  All windows are missing except the back one, and even it hangs ajar, only attached on the left side. I’m staring at it when something catches my eyes. A flash of red in a sea of black and blue.

  A hand. Just one hand. Red fingernails rest unmoving next to the rearview mirror. I might be able to picture them simply enjoying the breeze or waiting for a song to begin so that it can tap along to the music…if they weren’t so eerily still.

  I stumble backward. My vision swims and turns black, and I lower myself to the pavement. Head in my hands, elbows between my knees. I’m going to pass out.

  “Cory, you okay man?” Big Jim says above me. His voice is inside a canyon, a vacuum. A strong hand lands on my shoulder. “Hey, get a doctor over here to check on him!” I don’t know who he’s shouting to, nor do I care.

  I wave him away, push his hand off my arm. This isn’t about me. Yet in the worst possible ways, it is. “I’m fine. Someone please check on the passengers. Help the passengers. Do something for the passengers!” My voice rises into the night, but I can’t help it. I keep picturing those fingers…

  The scent of burning tires infiltrates the night air and makes it hard to breathe. Leaning forward, I grab a deep pull of air anyway. I just left a concert. Only a short time ago, a concert. One of the best performances of my career, despite the location of the venue. How is it that now I’m here on a back road, sitting on the ground with a throbbing headache, looking at what appears to be no valid signs of life? How did something like this happen…again? I glance up.

  Those fingers look young.

  And the shouting. There are so many noises at once, too many to differentiate in my mind. But I hear them despite the chaos—words like, breathing, found a pulse, someone move this seat, check for identification, no sign of anyone else.

  It’s the found a pulse that keeps rolling through my mind, though I can’t identify the feeling that comes with it. Not relief, not worry, not an absence of blame. It’s more like resignation—like a thanking God the girl is breathing, while at the same time wondering what kind of life she will have from this point on. Though I suppose a limited life is better than no life at all. At least that’s what I tell my still frozen self. Until someone else speaks.

  “Over here!”

  All at once people go running. Paramedics. Cops. Two men with a stretcher. Big Jim. Terry the bus driver. Even myself, feet moving through grass and mud as though they are weighted with lead and I’m a prisoner trying to move while bound and shackled.

  Everything comes to a rushing halt when a body is jostled upward and onto the stretcher.

  My feet.

  My mind.

  My heart.

  My composure.

  It’s the hair.

  The very red hair I remember seeing only two hours ago from the front row of the arena…again only a few minutes ago at the meet-and-greet.

  It’s the shirt.

  The yellow shirt.

  Why is yellow always involved?

  I stare in disbelief as her body is laid out in front of me…as her face falls to the side and settles directly in my vision.

  I recognize that shirt.

  I recognize that hair.

  I recognize that face.

  Except she’s no longer smiling.

  She’s no longer da
ncing.

  She’s no longer moving at all.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sam

  I’ve worn a path in the carpet I just vacuumed this morning. Sofa, window, front door, and back. A giant triangle with three sharp corners that match the pain shooting through my head. Some people stress in stomach aches and panic attacks. I stress in migraines that no medicine can kill. I stand from the sofa to start the pattern again and peer through a slit in the mini blinds. Kassie’s car isn’t in the parking lot. There’s no sign of anyone that doesn’t belong. I stare at the pavement, the stop sign, down the street hoping something will materialize. Nothing does.

  I check my phone again to make sure it’s on full volume. No matter how many times I check, nothing changes. It won’t ring. My headache intensifies.

  There’s no power in wishful thinking, apparently.

  Nor is there power in painful memories.

  Mom died of cancer. Kassie’s just late getting home. Stop comparing the two.

  Quit.

  I press redial again when the doorbell rings. I jump, overwhelmed by a mixture of relief and irritation—did Kassie forget her key? She’s going to be in so much trouble tomorrow after I have a chance to sleep this anxiety off. I rub the exhaustion from my right eye and fling the door open without checking to see who it is.

  “What the heck, Kassie? You’re two hours late and if you don’t come up with a good reason I’m going to—”

  I see a flash of blue.

  Sad blue. Sympathetic blue. Anxious blue.

  I drop my hand.

  Step back.

  Bump the wall.

  Police only show up to a home for one reason.

  Nothing good happens after midnight.

  Oh dear God.

  My knees are rubber. I hear them crack when I slide to the floor. My head shakes at the same pace as my hands. Back and forth, side to side. I can’t look up, because looking up will make it real. A bomb ticks inside my throat. Or maybe that’s my pulse. It’s too loud to decipher, too rapid to keep track of the seconds.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” The police officer kneels down in front of me, hat in his hands, alarm in his eyes, my heart in shreds at his feet. I’m not okay, and I can’t breathe. Someone is talking, saying no no no over and over again. Then someone is crying, angry guttural sobs. The sound hurts my ears; the pressure is worse on my chest. It takes me a minute to realize all of this is coming from me.

  “No.” My lungs push the word out, thin and meek.

  No, I’m not okay.

  No, you’re not really here.

  No, you’re not welcome.

  Get out.

  He doesn’t leave. Instead he starts talking. Some people just won’t listen.

  “Ma’am, I’m Officer Brown. Are you Mrs. Dalton?”

  Of all things, this makes me angry. I drag a hand over my mouth and glare at him. “I’m not married.” I’ll never be married. Marriage is for people who belong with people. I’m alone. I belong to no one. “I’m Sam. My name is just Sam.” My heart pounds like someone is beating against it with a fist. I take a deep breath and start coughing. I’m choking and I can’t get air. I’m going to die here, and that will be it. The end of Daltons. A blessing to the world.

  “Are you the sister of Kassandra Dalton? Of Springfield?”

  “Yes.” One word. A verdict.

  But then hope scratches the back of my mind. I wipe my eyes and look at him.

  Maybe Kassie was arrested. Maybe she was picked up for speeding. Maybe she was shoplifting. Maybe she was caught drinking and driving. I’ve never known my sister to drink, but if so I’ll ground her for life and we’ll laugh about it later. I’ll take away her car keys. Make her clean the bathroom with nothing but a toothbrush and her bitten thumbnails for the entire summer because she should know better than to drink and—

  “Ms. Dalton.” The officer steals my thoughts. I resent the interruption because I desperately want to hold onto them. “There was a wreck on Interstate 44 a couple of hours ago.”

  Hope is an evil thing, especially when mixed with delusion. A deadly cocktail served to the lost and desperate.

  Visions of punishment crumble in my hand.

  I don’t say a word, just wait for him to finish.

  The man clears his throat like he wants me to ask a question. I don’t. “Your sister and another passenger were thrown from the car. It took the rescue workers a while to find any identification. Their purses were scattered about thirty yards away from the vehicle. The registration card was no longer inside the car. That, coupled with the fact that it’s the middle of the night and they collided with a bus…”

  It’s an odd sensation the way my brain both reels and halts at his words: rescue workers…thirty yards away…no longer in the car…middle of the night…. Was Kassie involved in an accident? Or an explosion?

  A familiar ache, dull and unwelcome, wound its way down my spine.

  An explosion.

  Not again not again not again.

  No wonder I’ve been thinking of my mother.

  Tears stream down my face, like someone turned on a garden hose deep inside and pointed it straight toward my eyes. And then suddenly I’m floating, as though watching the scene from above…a mere witness to the crushing blows the woman below me has spent a lifetime trying to dodge.

  Is that what grief feels like? It’s been years since it hit this hard.

  Just when I forget, I get pummeled again.

  “Are the girls okay?” It’s a formality to ask, I know this. Police officers don’t show up to people’s home to deliver positive news.

  I hear Officer Brown’s slight, tired sigh. “Megan, the driver of the vehicle, is in very critical condition. She was transported to St. Francis Hospital, but I’m afraid her chances don’t look good.”

  But she has a chance.

  Hope surges again. I lap up that cocktail like a woman lost in the desert. If Megan is okay, maybe Kassie is too. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

  “And my sister?” Kassie is the best friend I have in the world…the only family member I have left. “What about my sister?”

  What follows is a moment of silence. A prayer. A wish. A plea for mercy. The silence is broken by the type of shuddering breath that usually precedes tragic news.

  “I’m afraid your sister didn’t survive the accident. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  And that’s the moment I shatter.

  What’s left of my life shatters with me.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sam

  My sister is dead.

  So is my mother.

  When Kassie was born, I used to pretend I was her mom. I would wrap her in a blanket, then gingerly place her in a hidden corner of the bedroom to find her—all the while fantasizing that I had simply gone for a walk in the woods and discovered a miracle baby propped against a tree, left there by a stranger who secretly wanted me to take care of her.

  It was a game of little-girl fantasy, and for two months during my eighth summer, I played the game every chance I could. At the first sign of Kassie stirring from a nap, I would tiptoe to her crib and bring her into my bedroom—taking care to avoid my mother discovering us. My mother hated the game, scolded me each time she caught Kassie lying on my carpeted floor wearing nothing but a diaper and a grin. But I loved my baby sister, could never see any cause for my mother’s concern. After all, Kassie was always happy…always well taken care of. I was, in my eight-year-old mind, my sister’s rescuer. Her savior.

  I couldn’t save Kassie this time.

  This time, I had a direct hand in harming her.

  I will forever hate myself for it.

  I bought the concert tickets. I told her she could stay for the meet-and-greet, even though it was well past her curfew and I knew better. I backed out last minute and told her to invite a friend instead. For one night, I didn’t feel like being a mother. I just wanted to be a sister, just wanted a night at home by myself to wat
ch movies, take a bath, be rid of responsibility. One stress-free night didn’t seem like too much to hope for. But nothing good happens after midnight. Hadn’t that thought nagged me a dozen times? I ignored it and indirectly killed my sister.

  I was the irresponsible one. I was the careless one. I can’t unbuy the tickets. I can’t undo my decision to let her stay. I can’t get the blood off my hands.

  I pull the blanket tighter around my shaking shoulders, curl into a ball on my bed, and shiver through the memories. After twenty four hours, they hit harder than ever.

  Yes, that’s my sister, I told the coroner.

  No, there is no other next of kin. Just me.

  Even though that isn’t entirely true.

  I’m just the only family who will cry about Kassie’s death. The only family who will care. The only family who will remember enough about her to keep any sort of legacy alive. It’s a lonely feeling to be solely responsible for the memories of so many.

  I used to fantasize about marriage and kids and white picket fences, but that dream is a dead one now. Twenty-five with nothing to look forward to. Some people have the Midas touch, other’s dip their fingers in sticky, permanent black ink. Smudged. Unlucky. A jinx who leaves evidence everywhere. I’m that person, to others and to myself. Who wants to date a girl who loses everything? When you’re that girl, it’s a risk you can’t afford to take. It would leave you standing empty-handed again.

  I shudder involuntarily at the direction my thoughts have headed and make myself stand up. There’s no escaping the darkness that has descended, and I have no illusions of it ever leaving, but there is so much to do. So many people to call. So many friends who deserve to hear the news from me. Considering the circumstances, it won’t take long for the story to make headlines. Maybe it already has.

  First I have to start with my dad.

  The news won’t register. He’ll stare at me, unable to see anything but a time that passed more than two decades ago, lost in a world that existed before me, before Kassie, even before my mother. It’s been over a year since he last lit up at the sight of my face, even longer since he remembered my name. But that doesn’t absolve me of the responsibility.