Caroline’s story ruined South Carolina and Tennessee, and had the steam to destroy future states as well. Stories could be thieves. I wanted to do something besides drive, but we needed to get home and switch cars. I rolled down the window and leaned into the air. Across from me, Becky did the same. A tunnel of wind wreaked havoc on her bangs and my curls. Neither of us said a word. We didn’t have to.
She hated those kids who hurt Caroline, and I hated them too.
I wanted to hurt them.
For one long minute I imagined MMA versions of Becky and me beating those college kids with tennis rackets until they were unrecognizable. And then I pulled over and hurled Shoney’s bacon and eggs into the weeds.
When I was driving again, I said Caroline’s name.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she said, her voice mildly threatening.
I was sorry, but that wasn’t what I planned to say. I didn’t know what I planned to say. Not only had an atrocious thing happened in the wake of the bombing, she’d adopted that atrocity as truth. The ghosts of those roommates had placed a razor in her hand this morning. The ghost of an enemy had whispered, “Be ashamed. Be ashamed. Be ashamed.” The ghost of Simon had wrapped her brain like jellyfish tendrils—long and poisonous—saying, This was your fault.
Was there really anything I could say to that?
I wanted to tell her to stop. To explain that life didn’t have to be toxic because she dated a bomber in high school. I wanted to shove Rudy’s free writing into her hands and demand that she see the whirlwind of dates and heartbreak, and how no one thought of him as Crystal Abernathy’s ex anymore. Surely, if Caroline waited, no one would think of her and Simon together. Listening to her attackers was like getting the story of your life from the front page of the National Enquirer.
Caroline didn’t need two-cent wisdom for a million-dollar problem. She needed something better than words, better than an argument.
All I could hope was this trip would heal her insides.
That was what Stock said in episode 41. He had a do-rag on his head and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. He’d looked into the camera and said, “Empathy is the antidote of hate, people. I can’t bring anybody back to life, but if I can bring life back to people through honoring everyone injured by this tragedy, well, I’ll have done my job.”
I prayed then, because my gran says God is a doctor at heart. Dear God, save her insides. Bring life back.
And then I was quiet some more, and so was everyone else.
Maybe they were praying too.