not driving the BMW, are you?” Jill asked. She shared Deborah’s disdain for the car, albeit more for its cost than for memories of a marriage gone bad.
“I have no choice.”
“You do. I’ll be there at seven-thirty. Once you get to Dad’s, you can use his car. I don’t envy you having to tell him about the accident. He won’t be happy. He likes perfect records.”
Deborah didn’t need the reminder. The thought of telling her father made her ill. “I like perfect records, too, but we don’t always get what we want. Trust me, I didn’t plan on this. My car was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gotta go, Jill. Seven-thirty. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and looked down at Dylan. At ten, he was more of an introvert than his sister had been at that age. He was also more sensitive, a character trait exacerbated by both the divorce and his vision.
“You hit someone?” he asked now, brown eyes abnormally wide behind his lenses.
“It was on the rim road, very dark, very wet.”
“Was he splattered all over the road?” the boy asked with a hard blink.
“Jerk,” Grace mumbled from behind Deborah.
“He was not splattered anywhere,” Deborah scolded. “We weren’t going fast enough to do serious harm.”
Dylan rubbed one of his eyes. “Have you ever hit anyone before?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Has Dad?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I’m going to call him and tell him.”
“Not now, please,” Deborah said, because Greg would insist that Dylan put her on the phone and would then hassle her with questions. Glancing past Dylan at the clock, she said, “He’ll be sleeping and, anyway, you need to get dressed. Aunt Jill is coming for us.”
There was another hard blink. “Why?”
“Because the police have my car.”
“Why?”
“They have to make sure it’s in good working order.”
“Is there blood on the front?”
“No. Get up, Dylan,” Deborah said and gave him a gentle push.
He got out of bed, started for the door, then turned back. “Who’d you hit?”
“No one you know,” Deborah said and pointed toward the door.
He had barely left when Grace was hovering at her shoulder. “But he’s someone I know,” she whispered, “and someone all my friends know. And you can bet Dylan’s gonna call Dad, who’s then gonna think we can’t take care of ourselves. Like there’s someone else who’ll take care of us if we don’t, not that Dad cares. Mom, what if Mr. McKenna died on the operating table?”
“The hospital would have called.”
“What if you get a call today? I need to stay home.”
Deborah faced her. “If you stay home, you’ll have to retake the test—and miss track practice, which isn’t a great idea with a meet on Saturday.”
Grace looked horrified. “I can’t run after what happened.”
Deborah knew how she felt. When Greg left, she had wanted nothing more than to stay in bed nursing her wounds. She had a similar urge now, but it would only make things worse. “I have to work, Grace, and you need to run. We were involved in an accident. We can’t let it paralyze us.”
“What if it paralyzes Mr. McKenna?”
“They said it didn’t.”
“You can really work today?”
“I have to. People depend on me. Same with you. You’re the team’s best hope for winning the meet. Besides, if you’re afraid of people talking, the best thing is to behave as you always do.”
“And say what?”
Deborah swallowed. “What I just told Aunt Jill. That it was a horrible storm, and that the car was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I’ll flunk the bio test if I take it today. There’s another AP section I shouldn’t be in.”
“You won’t flunk the test. You’re pre-med, and you’re acing bio.”
“How can I take a test when I barely slept?”
“You know the material. Besides, once you’re in college, you’ll be taking tests on next to no sleep all the time. Think of this as practice. It’ll build character.”
“Yeah, well, if character’s the thing, shouldn’t I go with you to file the police report?”
Deborah felt a flash of pride, followed by a quick pang of conscience. Both turned to fear when she thought of the possible fallout if she let Grace take the blame. The repercussions wouldn’t be productive at all.
Very slowly, she shook her head, then held her daughter’s gaze for a moment before drawing her out of bed.
As always, it hit Deborah in the shower—the second-guessing about what she was doing. Between diagnosing dozens of patients each week, helping her father run his household without Ruth, being a single mother and having to make sensitive decisions like the one she had just made, she was often on the hot seat. Now she stood with her head bowed, hot water hitting her back with the sting of too many choices, until she was close to tears.
Feeling profoundly alone, she turned the water off and quickly dressed. The clothes she wore for work were tailored, fitting her slim frame well and restoring a sense of professionalism. Makeup added color to her pale skin and softened the worry in brown eyes that were wide-set, the adult version of Grace’s. But when she tried to fasten her hair in a clasp so that it would be neat and tidy as her life was not, it fought her. Shy of shoulder length, the dark waves had a mind of their own. Accepting that there was no going back to her orderly life, she let them curl as they would and turned her back on the mirror.
Mercifully, the rain had stopped. Sun was beginning to break through the clouds, scattering gold on trees whose still-wet limbs were just beginning to bud. Grateful for a brighter day, she went down to the kitchen, set out cereal for the kids, then phoned the hospital. Calvin McKenna was in recovery, soon to be moved to a room. He hadn’t talked yet, but he was listed in stable condition.
Reassured, she skimmed her Post-its on the fridge: pay property tax—Dylan dentist at 4—tennis camp deposit. Then she logged on to her e-mail and phoned the answering service. Had there been an emergency, she would have been called. The messages she received now—the flare-up of a chronic ear infection, a stubborn migraine headache, a severe case of heartburn—were from patients the receptionist would schedule when she arrived at eight. Her nurse-practitioner would examine the earliest to arrive.
Deborah
