“I’m not running away…”
“Your mother wasn’t happy.” He said this like it was some kind of revelation.
“I know that.”
“Do you? Do you know how unhappy she was? She was in agony. Unrelenting agony.”
I know.
“I know, Dad.”
“And that agony was spreading into all of us. Into you, especially. It was so hard to watch…”
“Dad—stop!” What was he even saying right now? He kept going.
“And I know you blame yourself for that day, for not bringing your sister to her playdate and not answering your phone—but it was your mother behind the wheel…”
Nic closed her eyes, listening carefully to words that somehow had a harsher tone this time.
“… it was your mother who was left to wonder about how fast she hit the brakes and turned the wheel, and whether she was driving as slow as she could have, knowing you kids were home alone and hearing the ice cream truck… You were a teenager, Nic. A busy teenager and it wasn’t your job to babysit your sister. That’s how she saw it. And she knew what other people thought about her.”
“Is that what you thought?” Nic asked him now. It sounded as though he was rendering a judgment. A guilty verdict. Isthis what her own father thought about her mother? And if it was, how much of this toxic waste had seeped into conversations meant to provide comfort and support the way a husband should?
“Nic?”
“I’m here,” Nic answered. She wanted to say more, ask more. But she didn’t know where to begin. She was too tired, head on fire now after the tears, stomach still churning.
Was this how she also felt about her mother? Did she blame her more than she even blamed herself? Did it feel good to blame her, so she could be let off the hook?
Maybe that’s what people did when something like this happened. A child run over in the driveway. A child drowned in the pool outside. A child who’d choked on a toy.That could never happen to me, to my child, because I would never be so careless the way she was. That’s why it happened.If there was fault, then there could also be prevention, the illusion of control to make life bearable.
Yes, Nic thought. It felt good to think that about her mother. That’s where the rage was coming from. Blaming her mother was the only thing that eased her own guilt, and the hatred she held for herself.
Then there were the facts. The driveway sat on a blind corner. Her mother had been slowing down to make the turn. Estimated miles per hour, under ten. Skid marks from the tires suggested they were employed immediately. The wheel turned as far as it could go—away from Annie. Her phone tucked in a briefcase. She’d come home the way she did every day. Safely, responsibly, even though her head had been full of worry.
Responsible was how she’d lived her entire life.
Until the night of the storm.
“Did we do this?” Nic asked now. “Did we secretly blame herand did she know? Could she feel it even though we said it wasn’t her fault?”
Her father took a moment to answer. Then, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I honestly don’t. I know it could have been me behind that wheel. It could have been anyone coming around that corner. But it wasn’t. It was her. And nothing we do can change that.”
Nic pressed a palm into her forehead and turned it slowly, back and forth.
Her father and his mind-numbing therapy.
Her head resumed its screaming. She had to end this call. He had to understand why she was here and let her do what she needed to do.
“I have to find her, Dad.”
He sighed again, long and hard.
“It’s not as though I’ve stopped looking. The PI is working on this every day, all day—monitoring her credit cards, social security number, passport—he’s going state by state contacting train and bus stations, airlines.”
And yet, Nic thought,he ordered that sandwich. Then he went home. Went back to work. He walked the dogs and went to the gym and fucked his mistress and then came home to watch TV in the same bed he had shared with his wife for twenty-four years.
“You want me to get over Annie and get over Mom and go to college, and now I want you to get over me looking for her. I guess that’s a draw.”
