CHAPTER NINE

Three years later, Darla was legally blind. Severe tunnel vision prevented her from doing her job. In the gathering darkness of her RP, Darla could no longer read or watch television. She lived in a closed environment of her own making.

She often examined the secret she longed to share to absolve herself of crushing guilt. But the devastating impact her confession would have on Marie wasn’t worth relieving Darla’s burning desire to tell her secret. Nor would confession relieve her heartache.

How could she ever feel better knowing that she’d killed a child? No. Her punishment was keeping that guilt to herself. She felt the constant pain as no less than she deserved.

“All you can do is move on. Help Marie. And be a good person,” she told herself. She’d been a principal, one who’d always set a good example for her students. No more.

She would never forget, yet she craved forgiveness. That’s all she wanted. For Marie to forgive her. To forgive herself. But Darla expected to go to her own grave unforgiven, even as Marie returned to the vivacious teacher she’d been before.

Marie had hosted a retirement party last year at Darla’s home, an abode they once again shared. Jennifer Lane attended, but Darla did not confess to her, either.

The bittersweet absence of Paul was like constant sucking on a sore tooth. The mug Paul had given Darla that last Christmas had been pushed to the very back of an unused cupboard. Darla could still see it whenever she closed her eyes and felt the gap in her heart where Paul used to be.

The mug, and Marie’s vivid presence, punished Darla daily for her one act of criminal behavior in a life filled with service to her community. Even if the law said otherwise, Darla felt like a killer.

Each year, Detective Kevin Cook had visited on the eve of the anniversary of Paul’s accident, to admit he’d made no progress in the investigation.

On the third visit, Detective Cook sat on the davenport as he had that first evening so long ago. He seemed reluctant to speak, uncomfortable in his skin. “I wanted to let you know that the statute of limitations on the vehicular homicide case, assuming we could ever have proved it, expires today. We might be able to charge the driver with concealment later, but that’s not likely.”

Darla knew what this meant. Paul’s killer would never be punished now, no matter what. The knowledge didn’t comfort her.

He sat in Darla’s living room, with his little notebook on his knee, another chewed pencil poised above the pages, pleading.

Cook asked, “Have you heard anything new that might help us? It’s our last chance.”

So he knew, Darla realized. Now that she couldn’t see him, she could feel his despair. He’d known all along. He knew it was her. She should just tell him and get it over with. What did she have to lose now, anyway? She lived in a dark world that imprisoned her more effectively than any cell to which she might once have been sentenced.

Darla had imagined this moment so many times. She’d rehearsed her confession, watched Detective Cook arrest her. She imagined he would enjoy that, after all the punishments she’d meted out to him when she was his principal. She opened her mouth to say the words, but she could not force herself to speak.

An older and wiser Marie took her hand. “Thank you for coming by, Kevin. We don’t know anything more about Paul’s death. And, to be honest, it opens old wounds for you to come here every year. If you find the driver of the car, then please let us know. But otherwise, we should close this chapter in our lives and try to move on.”

Detective Kevin Cook’s expression barely changed at first. But then, Darla could feel the force of his anger overwhelm him. No, she wanted to shout, petrified now of being accused, of losing Marie, too. Leave us alone.

He stood up, replaced his hat, removed his handcuffs from his belt and opened them. Darla heard the clicking and braced herself for the steel’s cold bracelets restraining her wrists.

He said, officially, “Marie Webster, you are under arrest for second degree murder, reckless disregard of human life, in connection with the death of your son, Paul Webster.”

What was he saying? What was he doing?

He reached down and grabbed Marie’s forearm. Darla heard him click the cuffs on one wrist and then the other. She didn’t protest.

“You have the right to remain silent, anything you do say can and will be used against you… “

Darla cried out. “Marie? You didn’t kill Paul! I know you didn’t!”

No, this wasn’t possible. She knew Marie. Paul’s mother would never, ever have hurt him. When the roaring in her head subsided, she heard Marie’s soft crying.

Cook finished reciting her rights.

Marie turned to Darla and placed her wet cheek next to Darla’s own. Their tears mingled. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to be the mother you were, the woman you always thought I was. But I just couldn’t deal with it all anymore. Paul was too much. I couldn’t handle him alone.”

What was she saying? Darla had practically raised Marie and Paul both. Her Marie wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, been so calculating.

“But you were home that night.” Darla said, bewildered, uncomprehending. She’d lived with crushing guilt for three long years. How could she have been so wrong about everything?

Marie’s tone was subdued. “I went out after everyone left, to pick up another bottle of vodka. I was so happy and I just wanted the celebration to last a little longer. It was on the way back… I didn’t realize I’d hit him until it was too late. He just ran out in front of the car and I—I couldn’t stop. I got out and he was lying there and I knew that if I didn’t help him, he would die.” She whispered the last, so quietly Darla leaned forward to hear. “He would die, and I’d be free.”

Darla shook her head as if to clear it of years of debris that blocked her insight. She couldn’t accept Marie’s confession, couldn’t believe it.

“But, Paul died of a seizure. You didn’t kill him.”

Marie said nothing more. She didn’t have to.

Slowly, Darla realized that Marie must have done something to Paul in the hospital, too. Something to finish the job she’d started on the night she’d been named Teacher of the Year.

“Do you have someone you can call to help you, Mrs. Nixon?” Detective Kevin Cook asked her kindly as he escorted Marie out the front door.

Darla, bereft, tears streaming down her face, nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.

As she dialed Marie’s lawyer, Darla’s heart felt a glimmer of hope it hadn’t held for three long years.

THE END