going to die.”
“What if he’s crippled for life?”
“You’re getting carried away with this, Grace,” Deborah warned, though she harbored the same fears. The difference was that she was the mother. She couldn’t panic.
“I saw his leg,” the girl wailed. “It was sticking out all wrong, like he fell from the top of a building.”
“But he didn’t fall from the top of a building. He is definitely alive, the nurse just told me so, and broken bones can be fixed.”
Grace’s face crumbled. “It was awful. I will never forget that sound.”
Nor would Deborah. She could still hear it—that thud—hours after the fact. Seeking purchase, she clutched Grace’s shoulders. “I need a shower, sweetie. I’m chilled, and my legs are filthy.” Keeping an arm around the girl, she walked her up the stairs and down the hall. In addition to the three children’s rooms, the third for a last child that Deborah and Greg might have had, there was a family room that had built-in desks, a sofa, matching armchairs, and a flat-screen TV. After Greg left, Deborah had spent so many nights here with the kids that she finally just moved into the third bedroom.
Grace was biting her nails again by the time they reached her door. Taking the hand from her mouth, Deborah looked at her daughter for a long, silent moment. “Everything will be fine,” she whispered before letting her go.
The texting had stopped before her mother got home, for which Grace was grateful. What could she tell Megan? Or Stephie? Or Becca? My mom is taking the blame for something I did? My mom is lying so I won’t be arrested? My mom could go tojail if Mr. McKenna dies?
Grace had thought the divorce was bad. This was worse.
Deborah had hoped that the shower would calm her, but warm, clean, and finally dry, she could think more clearly, and a clearer mind simply magnified what had happened. The sound of the rain didn’t help. It pounded the roof much as it had the car, and she remembered another night, the one when her mother had died. It had been pouring then, too.
Creeping into Dylan’s room, she knelt by the bed. His eyes were closed, dark lashes lying on cheeks that wouldn’t be smooth much longer. He was a gentle child with more than his share of worry, and while she knew that there were cures for his vision problems, her heart ached.
Not wanting to wake him, but helpless to leave without a touch, she moved her hand over his sandy hair. Then she went to her room, slipped into bed, and pulled the covers to her chin. She had barely settled when she heard Dylan’s steps, muted by the old slipper-socks that he wore every night. They were the last pair Ruth Barr had knit before her death, too big for him at first, now stretched so thin that they were about to fall apart. He refused to let Deborah throw them out, saying that they kept his Nana Ruth alive. In that instant, Deborah needed her mother, too.
“I tried to stay awake ’til you got home,” he mumbled.
Pulling him toward her, Deborah waited only until he set his glasses on the nightstand before tucking him in next to her. He was asleep almost at once. Moments later, Grace joined them, crawling in on the other side. It was a snug fit, though preferable to lying awake alone. Deborah reached for her daughter’s hand.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” the girl whispered, “not at all, the whole night.”
Deborah turned her head in the dark and whispered back, “Here’s the thing. We can’t rewind the clock. What happened happened. We know that Mr. McKenna is in good hands and that if there’s any change, we’ll get a call. Right?”
Grace made a doubtful sound but said nothing more. In time her breathing lengthened, but she slept in fits and starts. Deborah knew because she remained awake for a long time after that, and for reasons that went well beyond the drumming of rain on the roof. She kept seeing that striped running suit, kept feeling the jolt of impact.
Sandwiched between the children, though, she knew she couldn’t panic. After her marriage ended, she had made a vow. No more harm to the kids. No … more … harm.
The phone rang at six the next morning. Deborah had been sleeping for less than three hours, and the press of her children made her slow to react. Then she remembered what had happened, and her stomach clenched.
Fearing Calvin McKenna had taken a turn for the worse, she bolted up and, reaching over Dylan, grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said her sister. “I figured your alarm would be going off soon. Mack Tully was just in here. He said you hit someone last night.”
“Oh. Jill.” Relieved, Deborah let out a breath. She and her sister were close, though very different from each other. Jill was thirty-four to Deborah’s thirty-eight, blonde to her brunette, five-two to Deborah’s five-six, and the maverick of the family. Despite two long-term relationships, she hadn’t married, and while Deborah had followed their father into medicine, Jill flat-out refused to take any science courses. After one post–high school year as a baker’s apprentice in New Jersey, then a second year in New York and four more as a dessert chef on the West Coast, she had come back to Leyland to open her own bakery. In the ten years since her return, she had expanded three times—all to her father’s chagrin. Michael still prayed she would wake up one day, go back to school, and do something real with her life.
Deborah had always loved her little sister, even more in the three years since their mother had died. Jill was Ruth. She lived simply but smartly, and, like her bakery, she exuded warmth. Just hearing her voice was a comfort. Talking with Ruth on the phone had conjured the smell of warm, fresh-baked bread. Talking with Jill on the phone conjured the smell of pecan-topped sticky buns.
The image soothed the rough edges of fear. “It was a nightmare, Jill,” she murmured tiredly. “I had just gotten Grace, and it was rainy and dark. We were driving slowly. He came out of nowhere.”
“Was he drunk?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t smell anything.”
“Vodka doesn’t smell.”
“I couldn’t exactly ask him, Jill. He wasn’t talking.”
“The history teacher, huh? Is he badly hurt?”
“He was operated on last night, likely to put a pin in his hip.”
“Marty Stevens says the guy is odd—a loner, not real friendly.”
“Serious is the word, I think. He doesn’t smile much. Did Marty say anything else?”
“No, but Shelley Wyeth did. She lives near the McKennas. She said his wife is weird, too. They don’t mix much with the neighbors.” There was a brief pause. “Wow. You actually ran someone down. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Deborah was a minute reacting. Then she said, “Excuse me?”
“Have you ever been in an accident before?”
“No.”
“The rest of us have.”
“Jill.”
“It’s okay, Deborah. This makes you human. I love you all the
