“First of all,” Deb said, “I’m not the best person to tell the story. Annie went to high school with Bryce.”
“A million years ago.” Annie’s lower jaw spasmed, which briefly altered her face into something ugly.
“And Harriet was literally at the accident,” Deb said. “It happened in her front yard.”
“About fifty yards up the hill,” Harriet demurred. “I didn’t see it.”
Deb paused for either of them to pick up the story, but when neither did, she shrugged and continued.
“Bryce’s dad lived in the Yung’s house, you know, the gray cape on Wildcat that backs up to the red rocks? No? God, Jen, next weekend I am going to give you a personal tour of the neighborhood, it’s like you don’t even live here sometimes.
“Anyway, Bryce had just graduated from college a few weeks before, and was about to move to Chicago. The night was supposed to be a reunion of sorts for a bunch of them who’d gone to high school together, and they started at the Meekers’ party before moving the celebration to a classmate’s parents’ house just across Highway Five.
“Meanwhile, after the Meeker party ended, Lena went to sleep and Tim drove off to God knows where to do God knows what. When he drove back—at the same time Bryce was walking home from the house party—”
Deb pushed the tips of her fingers into the other hand’s flattened palm, to indicate the crash.
“Tim didn’t even stop. Lena woke up when she heard his car, saw the cracked windshield and managed to, I don’t know, interrogate him successfully enough that he admitted he hit something near Harriet’s. When Lena knocked on your door in the middle of the night, her eyes were like a wild animal’s. Just filled with pure grief and shock, right, Harriet?”
“It was forever ago,” Harriet said briskly.
“You told someone that, Harriet. I couldn’t make up that detail, it’s so chilling.” After a shudder, Deb continued. “Lena screamed at Harriet to call the police, that it was Tim, and you did, right Harriet? And they came for him a few hours later. He had a record, which we don’t think Lena knew—DUIs—I think even an outstanding warrant or something. The police dumped Tim in a cell and he had a heart attack that night, they think from alcohol abuse. Anyway, he died in the jail cell, only a few hours after he hit Bryce.”
“Oh my God.”
“Awful, I know. And Lena’s daughter, Rachel, fled for boarding school after that, and as far as we know, she’s never deigned to come back, not for Christmas, or her mom’s birthday or anything, she’s just frozen out Lena, and oh my gosh, Harriet are you okay? Do you need some water? There’s a cold going around, Sierra’s started just like that with the gunk in the throat and—oh, hello Lena! I didn’t hear you walk up, how are you? So glad you came! We were just talking about all your fabulous donations, weren’t we, girls?”
Deb finally stopped talking, slammed her lips together. Even in the dim moonlight, Jen could see her face flush with embarrassment.
Lena’s guilty eyes made clear she had heard, if not all of the story, the tail end.
Annie sidled close to her and squeezed her arm and started babbling something about all the boxes and Jen chimed in and then Deb said she had egg whites waiting inside to froth for the drink, and was desperate for Lena’s help with getting the spices right and it’s so cold, what are we doing out here, let’s all go inside.
Deb Gallegos’s hands were a whirl of measuring and pouring. Every few minutes she shoved a shot glass filled with test cocktail at Lena: too sweet/bland/weak?
Lena wanted to comfort her, and all of the other women, so sweetly frantic in their attempts to make her feel better. They thought they’d hurt her feelings, but she’d been riveted.
“The Story”—Lena’s story—had been reshaped into a neat little package: beginning, middle, end.
It wasn’t the first time Lena had heard a version of it. It’s a small town, Dr. Friendly had admitted in their initial consultation. I already know what you’ve been through.
In Dr. Friendly’s reverent retelling, Lena had sounded like a movie heroine: the burdened widow with an impossible choice! Her family … or the greater good?
In the gossipy neighborhood version, though, Lena had sounded more like a victim. And a little mad with grief, thanks to Harriet’s graphic detail about her wild animal eyes.
Lena felt the teensiest bit defensive hearing the part about how Rachel stormed off to the East Coast in a huff, angry at Lena for unintentionally killing her father. It made Rachel sound like some immature brat who couldn’t cope, when in truth, her anger was righteous and complicated. If they had only seen Rachel’s hysterics when Lena had dropped her off in New Hampshire.
Lena could never correct them, though. If people thought they knew The Story, it meant they had accepted it, plot holes and all.
There had been not quite four hours between when the last guest had left Lena’s party and the police officers knocked on her door looking for Tim. They were the defining moments of Lena’s life.
The fewer questions about them the better.
FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER, 12:01 A.M.
Jett the bartender was the last to go, with a fat tip in his pocket. He had nodded tiredly when Lena slipped it to him, as if in agreement that he’d earned every last cent.
Lena leaned against the front door, stepped out of her heels. Always such a bittersweet feeling when a party finally ended, a little relief, a little sadness mingled with the contentment.
She surveyed the kitchen. Alma used to say you could gauge an event’s success by the mess, in which case tonight had been epic: wineglasses and stacked dirty plates and half-empty platters covered the countertops.
Lena stole a cube of Manchego from a platter on the island and popped it in her mouth before going upstairs.
Behind the door of her room, Rachel sang along to loud music in an unselfconscious falsetto. Lena thought against knocking, did not want to ruin the carefree moment.
In her bathroom, Lena smeared cold cream on her face, carefully slipped off her dress and pulled on a nightgown, sat down at her vanity to sponge off the cream.
She heard the mechanical whir of the garage door.
Through the years she would agonize: Why hadn’t she really listened?
She’d have realized that Tim was in no position to drive, and she could have run downstairs to stop him, stop all of it.
Because Lena was too selfish to see past her own happiness to care about anyone else, too filled with thoughts of how, right before Gary had left to drive his son to meet friends, he’d said a casual I’ll call later, twisted his pinky finger around hers and held it a little too long.
She pressed in her face oil with light upward sweeps of her finger, climbed between the sheets and fell into a dreamless heavy sleep that was interrupted by the ring of her phone.
The clock said 1:15. Her heart sprinting, she fumbled the cordless receiver off its stand, pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” Lena lied. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Indulgently, she stretched her arms above her head. “What are you doing up?”
“Waiting for my son to call for a ride home,” Gary said. “Want to sneak out and wait with me?”
Lena paused.
“Don’t say no.”
Lena didn’t. She was already getting out of bed.