Page 28 of Drive Me Wilde

"West? How is he? Is it bad? I mean—shit—is he in a coma or something? What happened. Was it an accident, or did he hit something?"

Weston frantically wipes the wet hair out of his eyes. "Fuck, I don't know, Indi. Stop pelting me with so many questions. Mom just said he was in an accident." He pauses and swallows hard. "She was crying."

I slump back against the seat hard. My mom doesn't cry easily. When Sparky, our dog, had to be put down because of cancer, all of us, Dad included, were bawling, but Mom just went on with her day, talking cheerily to a friend on the phone and then finishing a crossword she'd started in the morning.

The hospital is ten miles away, and it seems to take forever to get to the emergency parking lot. I haven't been to the small community hospital since Dad drove Weston to the ER after he crashed on his skateboard and ended up with a concussion. The lot is mostly empty, but there's an ambulance parked in front of the emergency doors. The sight of the ambulance sends another deep shudder through me.

"Do you think Dad came in by ambulance?" I ask. It's a stupid question, but I'm trying hard to visualize him walking in holding a cloth or something to a superficial cut on his head, something that would just require stitches and that would ensure we would all be at home tonight hearing his story and laughing about it over burgers.

Weston doesn't answer my question. His face is grim as we get out of the truck. The rain has slowed to a drizzle. I'm shaking hard from the cold and the fear. I expect a flurry of activity, a newly arrived accident victim would cause some chaos, doctors and nurses dashing about to help the patient brought in by ambulance. I allow myself a moment of calm, like the scene inside the hospital. If they're not rushing around frantically, then maybe it is just a scratch or a bump on the head. I take a small sip of air to calm myself more and then Mom steps out of a waiting room. She's hunched over, her face in her hands, and a woman doctor is holding her arm.

I grab hold of Weston's arm to keep from passing out. The ambulance driver and two policemen step out from another passage. They're wrapped in yellow rain gear, and they're mumbling to each other.

I keep a tight grip on Weston as Mom and the doctor approach us. I keep telling myself to wake up, to get out of this awful dream once and for all, but I'm still standing in the small corridor with its harsh lights and funny smells.

Mom reaches for Weston, and he holds her even though he's having a hard time holding himself up. "He can't be dead," Weston says. "He can't be."

I stand there frozen, still hoping this will all be a bad dream. I can see the police walk toward us through the tears. Everything is blurry, and the room is spinning. And I still can't wake up from this nightmare.

"What happened?" Weston's thin, hoarse voice floats over my head.

"There was a pedestrian on Harbor Avenue. It was raining hard. Apparently, your dad swerved to miss the boy, and his car left the road and hit a tree. It caused massive head trauma."

"Who? Who the hell was walking out on that road in the middle of a storm?" Weston asks angrily.

The policeman turns and looks down the hallway. A figure is sitting on a bench. He stands up and turns toward us.

"Fuck," Weston says through gritted teeth.

My feet carry me down the corridor before I know they are moving. Jameson stands completely still. Water drips off his hair and clothes, and there's blood smeared on his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Indi. I'm sorry," he manages to blurt out before I reach him.

And then my fists swing at him, and I pound his chest hard over and over again. "I hate you! Why the fuck is it always you?" I scream. He stands frozen to the spot and makes no attempt to stop me as I pound him. He stands firm, taking every blow and not even flinching. My tears are flowing so fast the saltiness coats my mouth.

Then two hands grab hold of me. "Enough," Weston says as he pulls me into his arms. "Enough."

Now

Iwipe away tears as I push aside the lilies and place the roses next to them.

"He comes once a week," the woman calls in a frail voice.

I blot my eyes with the back of my hand and walk over to the bench. The pigeons are angry with me for upsetting the balance of things. "That young man comes every week to put flowers on that grave."

"What young man? Do you know him?"

She chuckles and tosses another handful of seeds out. "He's a real looker. Like his dad once was."

Her cryptic clues only confuse me more. My mind goes to Zach. But that doesn't seem possible.

"I come here every day to feed the birds. My husband, Benjamin, he loved birds. He would hang feeders all around the yard, and I used to get so mad at him because they made such a mess." She takes out another handful of seed and throws it. A seagull has joined the lunch bunch, and the pigeons are not pleased. "I wish I could take back every one of those scoldings," she says in a far-off tone as if she's drifted back in time. She lifts a shaky hand. "Benny is right over there, next to the maple tree."

"I'm visiting my dad."

She looks over at me. "He must have died young," she says.

I nod. "Way too young."

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