Chapter Seventeen

It was reported that Jane had most likely swerved to avoid hitting a deer and plunged down the hill to her untimely death. Parents had talks with their children about deer in connection with the dangers of driving. They were plentiful in Indian Springs. Better to take one’s chances hitting a deer head-on than to swerve off the road, it was thought. But this was only a guess, and nobody knew for sure. All that anyone really knew was that Jane was dead.

We all attended her memorial service—Maggie and Carly and I. Most of the school was there. We went separately with our families. Afterward, I waited to say something to Jane’s family, but I only succeeded in catching Leann’s eye. When she turned her back to me, I told my parents that I felt overwhelmed and needed to go home. It was the truth.

 

Carly’s after-school activities occupied most of her free time. I was grateful for that because I had no desire to spend time with her anymore. We saw each other occasionally, mostly at Maggie’s, where Carly would remind us we bore no legal responsibility, and nobody had any proof of our involvement.

“Leann knew I wanted to talk to her that night,” Maggie said.

“And she knows you and Jane were having problems,” I reminded her.

“It wasn’t our fault,” Carly repeated. “If anything, Jane was the instigator because she started the whole thing.”

I got up and left. After that, Carly was careful what she said around me during the rare times we were together.

 

That summer, my mother suggested I get a job, and I jumped at the chance. I was only fifteen, but I was allowed to work less than full-time with a school-approved work permit. I got a job as a checkout clerk in the drugstore where Alice and I had once swooned over a made-up, grown-up version of Grace. It seemed another lifetime. I spent most of my spare time at home, and when my parents went to visit Luke in Sacramento, I always went along.

Mom and Dad fretted at the reclusive change in my nature since Jane’s death. They encouraged me to return to church and throw myself into helping others. One Sunday, when I was sitting in the pew, only half paying attention to the sermon, I focused on the stained-glass image of Christ. A beam of sunlight hit the red robe at an angle which would normally have been breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. I thought about the driver’s side window of Jane’s car and the dark smear of blood that I knew was not mud. I got up and walked out of the church for the last time. My parents prayed for me every night, but I only wished I could tell them they were praying for the wrong person. I didn’t deserve anyone’s prayers.

 

I have very little memory of my senior year of high school. Generally, I recall that Dad improved dramatically. He’d taken a part-time job working in a local hardware store. He and Mom were already making plans to return to the field after my graduation. Mom and Dad didn’t worry about me as much anymore. I’d become an expert at hiding what was inside. Only to Maggie did I let down my guard. Only with Maggie did I have any release. Maggie was my confessor, and I hers, although we could never absolve each other of our sins.

I’d fallen out of love with Carly, if that’s what it ever really was. But Carly and I were, and would continue to be, inextricably linked like a divorced couple never able to be completely rid of each other because of their child. Our child—Carly’s and mine—was our terrible secret.

As the year drew to an end, we learned that Tim LeClerc, who would graduate first in our class, had been accepted to Harvard. Carly, who would graduate second, would be attending Yale. I would be at the University of San Francisco. And Maggie was exhibiting the first symptoms of an eating disorder.

That year, when the daffodils were still in bloom but just on the cusp of wilting, we received our first letters. Carly, Maggie, and me. Handwritten in block letters. Postmarked from San Francisco.

“Will anyone cry when you die?”