Massaging the Truth
“Have the police asked you any questions?” Dad asked. I was talking to him on Mom’s cell. I’d hurried down the elevator and outside the hospital so I’d have privacy in case we talked about escape and rescue plans. Happy and sad at once. Pacing back and forth.
“No. They just talked to Howard and Mom, I think.”
“That’s good. If the cops do interview you or an insurance investigator starts poking around, do not in any way suggest that you are to blame for the accident.”
“What? No, Daddy, they know. I told them all it was my fault.”
“I don’t care what you already said. Not another word to the police, the doctors, or anybody else. Okay?”
It almost felt like I had been smacked.
“You want me to lie to the police?” I said.
“It’s not lying, it’s legalese,” he said. “Sometimes we have to massage the truth to get to the truth. And the truth is that Mac ran into the street without due regard for his life or personal safety.”
“Wow. That sounds like an example of legalese.”
“This is how it has to be. Even if you told Mac to fetch the ball, which you will never again admit to doing, he made the decision to do it. Understand?”
“No.”
“Bertie, if Mac’s father sues your mom and me, we could lose everything, including your college fund,” Dad said. “So go along with the game plan, got it?”
“Can you just come here? I need you here now, Daddy. I can’t think straight.”
“No, not for another day, yet. I’m sorry.”
“Are you real-real sorry?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Talking to my dad has always been one of my all-time favorite things to do. We could cover any topic. From deep-space exploration to deep-sea diving and everything in between. He was so good at talking, he could convince me of anything. But this conversation crushed me. It hurt in unexpected places. I could actually feel pain in my hair. My toenails, too. Everything was wrong.
As Dad continued to coach me, I reached for the sunglasses atop my head so I could check in with Better Bertie, but they weren’t there. I went through my pockets. Not there, either. I rummaged through my backpack with my free hand. Nope. My panic level erupted. I needed Better Bertie. Now.
“Just so we are clear, Bertie, if this thing goes to court, I want you to say that the soccer ball landed on the other side of the street,” my dad said. “And Mac, without any encouraging and before either you or Tabitha could stop him, recklessly chased after it.”
“Please don’t keep talking about the accident, Daddy. I can’t lie, I just can’t. I’ve already got too many pimples on my soul.“
“Pimples on your what?” I could hear his voice shift into closing arguments mode. “Listen to me, Peach Pie. I know that this is adult stuff, and it’s terrible. So let me handle it. Trust me, okay? I’ve handled hundreds of accident cases. When young kids are involved, things can get complicated very quickly, especially when the doctors aren’t certain of a recovery. From now on, I need you to stay out of Mac’s hospital room.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “The Mortons don’t want me there, either.”
“Perfect. Tomorrow night I will be there, okay?” My father loved courtroom theatrics, even in real life. He’d clearly been saving this part for last. “And when I get there, I’m taking you to Carver City with me. I’m bringing you home, sweetheart!”
The world stopped.
I stopped.
The words I had literally prayed to hear since Mom and Leon and me arrived in Altoona, had finally been spoken.
I should’ve shouted with joy. I should’ve done backflips. Instead, I was worried that I had lost my sunglasses.
“Did you hear me, Bertie?” Dad asked. “Tomorrow night I am bringing you home! Doesn’t that sound good? What do you have to say?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Over the hospital’s outside speakers, a voice sounded. “Bernice Blount, please report to the first-floor nursing desk.”
“Great, Daddy. Thanks. See you tomorrow. Love you!”
Clicking end call, I dashed inside the hospital.