The Jetta was being driven by thirty three-year-old Lisa Atwood who was bringing her six-year-old daughter, Samantha, home early from a slumber party. Samantha thought she was brave enough to stay away from home all night on New Year’s Eve. But once the realities of the darkness set in, combined with too many ghost stories and a belly that ached from eating too many brownies, she thought it best to call her mommy. She wanted to go home so she could sleep in her own bed. Where she’d be safe.

   When the Nova hit the Atwood’s car, it went spinning, too, from one lane to the next and then back again on the icy roads. It was hit again by an SUV that had already managed to miss it twice. Lisa Atwood wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and was ejected from the car during its impact with the SUV. She was subsequently run over by the mini van that had been trailing the SUV a little too closely and was killed. By that time Samantha was already dead. She had been sitting in the front seat, just like she shouldn’t have been, and her neck was broken when the airbag deployed during the first impact. The one with Emily Smart’s Nova.

   So in the ambulance, when Emily Smart said, over and over, I killed her, I killed her, none of the paramedics thought too much about it. Neither did the doctors and nurses in the emergency room. Not until one of the nurses stroked her cheek gently and murmured something comforting to try to settle her down. That’s when Emily Smart looked the kind nurse right in the eyes and said:

   “He told me to kill her and I did. He gave me a gun and I blew out her brains. They’re all over the snow.”

   Sure enough, there was blood on Emily Smart’s jacket. Some of it was hers and some of it wasn’t. And there were other stains. Stains that, like some of the blood, didn’t come from Emily Smart. And right before she was wheeled into the elevator that would take her into surgery, and right after she prayed out loud for God to strike her dead, Emily Smart told a State Trooper where she had killed Rachel LaChance.

   They found her less than twenty minutes later. Crumpled up, face down in the snow. Cold and dead. Alone in the woods, less than two miles away from the hospital. Because Emily Smart had been taken to the same emergency room in the same hospital where Brian and I had brought Rachel less than a week before she died. The same hospital where Rachel had signed the papers that admitted her into detox. The same hospital where she spent almost a week aching and shaking and puking. Trying to be strong. Trying to get clean. The same hospital where she had given up. Signed another paper. And made a phone call. The one that got her killed.

   And even though several skilled doctors worked on Emily Smart inside of a cold, white operating room she died, too. And when, at 12:45 a.m. on New Years Day, a very tall State Trooper sat beside me at Brian’s kitchen table and showed me a school photo of Emily Smart, a photo her grieving mother had given him just an hour earlier, I recognized her right away. Only, in my mind, she would always be Little Miss Seventeen.

   And now that she was dead there was no way to prove that the “He” she’d told the kind nurse and the overworked State Trooper about was Tim. No way to prove that the stolen gun she’d used to kill Rachel had come from him, either. No witnesses who had heard him tell her to kill Rachel. No proof, even, that the drugs she had taken, the drugs that had caused the car accident that had killed her and two innocent people, had come from him. No witnesses to anything at all. Nothing except for the half-conscious ramblings of one druggie loser girl and the semi-coherent journal entries of another. Even the fact that I’d seen Little Miss Seventeen at Tim’s house one evening meant nothing, since he freely admitted to having been involved with her. She’d been over the legal age of consent, so even that wasn’t a crime. And when he was asked about the call Rachel had made to him the morning she was killed, Tim said, with his lawyer sitting beside him:

   “She called for Emily, not for me. I don’t know what they talked about, and I have no knowledge of what happened after Em left my house.”

   So he was free, for now. And he was gone, hiding somewhere. We knew the truth and so did the police. But what we know and what they know doesn’t matter. All that matters is what they can prove.

   And for a day and a half after Rachel was murdered Brian did nothing but cry. Loud howls that came from a deep pit somewhere inside what was left of his soul. Anguish and fury and grief that ravaged through him, his heart and his brain and his gut, and it was so bad that I finally had to call Dr. Stephens. Because when a person cries for so long that there aren’t any more tears and they keep on crying, crying until they puke, until there’s nothing left to puke and even water won’t stay down, then something needs to be done. And so Dr. Stephens made a house call just like doctors used to do. He gave Brian something that made him sleep, and he slept for another day and a half. And he was still crying. Even in his sleep.

   When he woke up he stopped his crying, picked up the phone and made arrangements for Rachel. Because that’s what he had to do. There was a memorial service at the Grange Hall. It was Zeke who talked to all of us about Rachel, not a priest or a minister, because we all knew that Rachel hated religion and churches. That she didn’t believe in God. Except I think she did.

   But listening to Zeke, who loved her more than he loved almost anything in the world, was better than it would have been if we’d had to listen to a priest or a minister. They would have told us about God’s Will and about Not Losing Faith. Because, they would say, She’s In A Better Place. And they may have even told us that we should Rejoice to know that she was in The House of Her Father.

   Her father’s house.

   Instead Zeke spoke about a beautiful girl who was filled with joy and love and sorrow; with humor and pain and wonder. And hurt. He talked about friendship and family and love. How we should remember her and love her forever. Remember to love each other with hearts that were full and open. To love each other just like it was our last day.

   And after he was done, people who were kind spoke comforting words to Brian and me. To Zeke and the Burkes. Even Rachel’s druggie friends were shown a little bit of sympathy. But nobody spoke comforting words to Rick LaChance, who had come to listen and to mourn his daughter with the rest of us.

   So I walked over to where he was sitting alone and crying, without any idea of what to say. He looked up at me and managed a weak smile. His nose was slightly bent, a souvenir from his fight with Brian, and his hands were shaking. When he finally spoke, his voice was shaking too.

   “I fucked up bad with those two.”

   I wanted to say something appropriate, something comforting, but I couldn’t. There was nothing I could say and he probably didn’t expect me to. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but the tears were still coming down. And when he spoke again it wasn’t about Rachel or Brian. It was about their mother.

   “Wendy hated winter, you know. She hated everything about it. She hated the cold and the snow and…” He shook his head. “I was supposed to take her away from it. We were gonna graduate and pack everything in my car and head on out to California. She wanted to live on a beach somewhere and swim all day in an ocean that wasn’t freezing.”

   Then he laughed. Even though he was still crying.

   “Everyone else I knew was listening to disco and punk rock, but not her. She was obsessed with the Beach Boys. The girl had never been out of Maine, never even seen a surfboard, but, God, she loved that music. She was even gonna dye her hair blonde so she could look like a California girl, but I told her not to.” He gave a sad smile. “She was so beautiful and I didn’t want her to ever change.”

   I smiled back at him, wishing Brian would come over so he could see that he’d been wrong. So he’d know. Because even if I told him the words Rick had just said I couldn’t tell him, with any accuracy, the expression on his father’s face when he spoke about Wendy. And I wanted Brian to see that his mother really had known what it was like to be with a man who was in love with her. She had seen it--seen love--looking at her in this man’s eyes. Like she deserved.

   “Is that where Brian got his name from? Brian Wilson?”

   “Yeah.” He seemed surprised I made the connection.

   “What...about Rachel?” I wanted to fill myself up with everything about her, all of the things I didn’t know. Even though it hurt so badly to think about her. To see her face in my mind. Even to say her name.

   He shrugged and said quietly, “I have no idea where Wendy got that name.”

   And that’s how quickly it had faded. By the time Rachel came around Rick’s wife was a stranger to him, and probably he’d been one to her. Just six years of marriage. And by the time Wendy died, six years after that, things were so bad that she knew enough to tell Brian that his father wouldn’t stick around. Made him promise to take care of his sister. She had to make him promise. Because she knew this man wouldn’t.

   He had loved her once. Once. But not enough.

   And Wendy had loved him. She had trusted him with her dreams, with her future. He’d held it all, that fragile treasure, in his hands. And then he let it go. Because of the haze; the one that the bottle brought him. And he’d never given his kids the chance to even have those kinds of dreams. They’d been too busy trying to live. To survive. Carrying burdens that weren’t theirs, burdens that were too heavy. He’d left them alone and scared. Searching for a haven. Any haven. Anything.

   I knew I should hate him for what he’d done to them, to all three of them. That I shouldn’t even be talking to him or listening to him. But I couldn’t find any room in my heart to hate anyone, except for Tim. I did say goodbye, though, and walked away. Left Rick to fend for himself. Not because of hate, but because I was drained. It was all fading; strength and hope and energy.

   And I knew that I’d need to save my energy for Brian. I knew it already.

~~~~~

   The day after the memorial service is when the drinking started. Brian brought home a half-gallon bottle of Jack Daniels and we drank it together, fully clothed, in his bed. And, because he needed someone to blame, he picked the easiest target. His father.

   “He left her alone, Tess. He left her alone and she spent the rest of her life looking for a daddy. And she found one, right? She found one and fucked him and he fucked her up good.”

   He said other things, just like that, and when he woke up the next morning he’d forgotten he’d said them. He brought home more Jack the next day and got drunk every night for the rest of that week. He switched to Jim Beam the week after that and when he woke up one cold, sunny Saturday afternoon, the third Saturday in January, hung over again…that’s when he started thinking it was his fault.

   He didn’t do enough to protect her. Or maybe he pushed her away because he was over protective. He should’ve moved her out of New Mills. Away from the drugs, away from the losers, away, away, far away where she would’ve been safe. So it was all his fault. And nothing I said made him think that it wasn’t. Not, she knew you loved her. Or you did the best you could.

   “It wasn’t good enough, Tess.”

   By the time we looked at the calendar and noted that Rachel had been gone for one month he’d had a new revelation, this one courtesy of Jose Cuervo. It was everyone’s fault. Mine and his and Rick’s. It was Rachel’s fault. Zeke, too. Everyone who looked at her, knowing she was in pain, and said to themselves, oh, she’ll be alright. Or she’s just going through a rebellious stage. Or she’s too smart to do anything really stupid. And in a way he was right. But the worst really started a week later when he realized, like we all did, whose fault it really was. It was Tim’s fault.

   Yes, Rachel was in pain. Hurting inside. A hurt that was deep and obvious to everyone. And even though we tried we could have done more to help her; all of us. But that’s not what killed her. Because there are lots of people who are in pain like she was. People who try to hide from it in a haze, who float away on a cloud and pretend it’s not there. Just like she did. But most of them don’t die. Sometimes they do, of course, because sometimes shit like that just happens. And usually it’s nobody’s fault but their own. But this time it was. And there was nothing the police could do about it. Nothing Brian could do about it. Because Tim was gone; hiding from Brian.

   And so Brian took it out on his workers, because they were the easiest targets. He shouted and swore, tore apart work they’d already done and made them do it over again, to do it until it’s fucking right. What else could they do? It was the middle of winter and there was no work anywhere else. And even if there was, they knew the real reason Brian was being such an asshole. And even though it pissed them off, they said nothing, just waited patiently for the storm to pass. And that pissed Brian off even more.

   And one evening--the one that meant it was one month, one week and four days since Rachel died--I got home from work to a note on the table that said, Don’t wait up. I tried to anyway, of course, but after only one black and white movie I felt myself fading. I gave into it and went to bed, because there had been so many sleepless nights. And after a timeless eternity asleep, I began to dream.

   Rachel and I were lying side by side in the front yard, making snow angels. Everything was peaceful and silent. The whole world was beautiful, even though it was covered in white. White snow, blowing, freezing, more and more of it. So much that I couldn’t see Rachel anymore. So much that I couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t feel anything. So much that I couldn’t breath. I tried to take in a deep, silent breath through my nostrils, but I couldn’t find any air. Because we weren’t making snow angels anymore. We were just lying there. Face down in the snow…

   And when I jumped up out of bed I was shivering, even worse than usual, and still a little groggy. That land of in between awake and asleep. A land where I knew there was too much noise coming from a place that was close by, but I wasn’t sure exactly what the noise meant or who was making it. Until I heard Brian’s voice, loud and deep and obviously drunk:

   “Well if you had slipped a rubber on your dick back in high school then you wouldn’t have to worry about having to go home to a wife and a kid, now would you? You could stay here with me and drink all fucking night.”

   And then there was Jeff’s voice. It was too low for me to hear what he was saying, but I could tell that, whatever it was, it was something kind, instead of the crack over the head Brian’s remark had actually deserved. So I ran out to the kitchen, to where the voices were coming from, to see what was going on. Jeff was standing over Brian, who was sprawled out on the kitchen floor, leaning back against a table leg.

   “Do you need any help?”

   “Nope,” Jeff said. “I’ve got it.” He pulled Brian to his feet, held him firmly around the waist and started off towards the bedroom. Brian caught sight of me and grinned.

   “Holy shit, Tess. You look good enough to fuck.” Then he reached out with an unsteady hand and grabbed my breast.

   I backed away, out of his grasp, and folded my arms over my chest. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that I was standing there, in front of Jeff, wearing nothing but Brian’s t-shirt. It was emblazoned with the logo of a local radio station and quite long on me; but it was white and not very thick. And I wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

   “Oh, come on, Tess. Don’t be like that. Look, I got a hard on now so you can go for a ride. I know you’ve been waiting for it.”

   I backed up another step and hugged myself even tighter. Jeff gave him a hard kick and said, “Shut up, you stupid shit.”

   “No, Jeff, you don’t get it.”

   They stumbled forward a few more steps.

   “I haven’t been able to fuck her for a really long time and if I don’t do it soon she’ll--”

   Jeff stopped cold and slapped his hand over Brian’s mouth. “I told you to shut your fucking mouth.” He said it slowly and forcefully, came down hard on each syllable. Brian looked at him dumbly and nodded. And when Jeff dragged him into the bedroom he did it with his hand still over Brian’s mouth.

   I grabbed my bulky winter coat off it’s peg, threw it on and waited for Jeff to return. He was full of apologies, even though, of course, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Then he told me about Brian’s night.

   He’d walked into Zeke’s with the stated purpose of getting shitfaced. Zeke let him, because Brian was usually pretty easy-going under the influence, and because he figured he could use a temporary escape. He knew that it wouldn’t be difficult finding him a ride home. Everyone in the bar, everyone in town, was just looking for a chance to do something for Brian. Something kind. Until several hours--and several double shots of Jack Daniels--later.

   It began harmlessly enough. He and a few of the guys started ribbing each other. Good natured. Just guys being guys. Until Brian caught sight of an apparently familiar face and said, “Hey, didn’t my dad fuck your mom once? Doesn’t that make us brothers?”

   And it went downhill from there. Zeke’s was filled nearly to capacity, and Brian discovered that many of his ‘brothers’ were in the crowd. He made a point of letting everyone know about it. Loudly. Zeke cut him off at that point and tried to shut him up. When it didn’t work he hopped over the bar so he could pull him into the break room, much like Jeff had pulled him into our bedroom. But Brian pushed him to the floor and said, “Sorry Zeke, I don’t go that way. Why don’t you give Andy a go instead. He’s so desperate he’ll fuck anything.”

   Of course Andy leapt at Brian, wanted to beat the shit out of him, and that’s just what Brian had been hoping for. Because he hadn’t gone into Zeke’s to get drunk, at least it wasn’t the main reason he’d gone in. He’d gone in to bait, to badger, to instigate. He didn’t care who, just as long as he could get someone to take a swing. Anyone. Just so he could swing back, so he could really mess someone up. Anyone. And even though he’d managed to insult almost everyone in the bar, and even though they were all honestly pissed at him, no one there let Andy get anywhere near Brian. And they didn’t let Brian take a swing, either. They just held him back, held both of them back; kept them far away from each other. And called Jeff to take Brian home.

   “He’s…you might want to…” Jeff took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen him without them, and I was struck, more than ever, at his daughter’s resemblance to him. It almost made me smile. He put the glasses back on and said, “Why don’t you let me call Laura. You can stay at our house tonight and I’ll stay here with Brian.”

   “No, Jeff. I mean…thanks. I appreciate it. But I’ll be fine.”

   “Tess, he’s really messed up right now. There’s no telling what’s gonna come out of that mouth if he wakes up before morning.”

   “I’m sure I can handle it.”

   He sighed. “Well…just don’t take anything he says to heart. Okay?”

   “Okay.”

   I watched him drive away and waited until I couldn’t see his taillights through the trees before I turned off the kitchen light. I got my mop bucket from the kitchen closet and set it in front of Brian’s nightstand, then crawled back into bed. He was lying on his back, fully clothed, and his jeans felt rough against my legs. He rolled over onto his side, facing me in the darkness, threw his arm clumsily around me under the blanket and muttered, “It’s gone now.”

   “What’s gone?”

   He gave a long noisy yawn, then said, “I can’t fuck you tonight, Tess, and I’m sorry, because I know how much you like it.”

   “Stop it, Brian.”

   “But I don’t think I can do it tonight. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it again. So if you need to find someone else to fuck you, then you go right ahead ‘cause I’ll understand. And I promise I won’t get mad.”

   “Brian, just shut up and go to sleep.”

   “Okay.” He rolled away from me and fell off the bed. There was a moment or two of silence, followed by a hollow thump. “What’s this? A bucket?”

   “Yes.”

   “What for?”

   “For you to puke in. Just in case you don’t make it to the bathroom.”

   He sat on the floor laughing for some time, then finally let me in on the joke. “What’s the matter, Tess? You had someone puke on you in bed once or something?” And he laughed again.

  “As a matter of fact, Brian, yes I did. I was twenty and I met this wicked hot guy at a party and brought him home. And right after we fucked he--”

   “Tess?”

   “Yeah?”

   “Shut the fuck up.”

   I helped him back into bed, even though I really didn’t want him anywhere near me. And when I made my way back underneath the blankets again he said, “Tess, I lied. Before. I really don’t want you to fuck anyone else. I don’t think I could deal with that. So, can you please promise me that you won’t? Maybe you can just keep on doin’ it yourself for awhile. I’ll try and get better soon so I can take care of you again.”

   I didn’t answer him. I just rolled over, facing away from him. Facing the wall. Facing the window. Looked out at the cold, white moon. I knew I should be insulted by what he’d said, that I should be pissed at him. Knew that I should be embarrassed because he knew how I got myself to sleep most nights. Knew it should hurt that he was afraid I’d jump into bed with someone else; that I’d actually spread my legs and let the someone else inside of me while he was drowning in grief. I knew what it meant he really thought. And maybe that meant it was true. And I knew it should hurt, but it didn’t. I didn’t feel hurt or embarrassed or angry or insulted.

   I didn’t feel anything.

   And when Brian woke up the next morning he didn’t remember anything. Not what he’d said to me or to Jeff or to any of the guys at Zeke’s. He only vaguely remembered having gone to the bar at all. When he asked me if I knew anything about his night I reluctantly filled him in on what had happened. And once his hangover subsided he spent the weekend calling everyone he’d insulted during his drunken tirade; groveling and apologizing. And, of course, they all forgave him. Even Andy. I forgave him, too, even though he never apologized for what he’d said to me. Because, of course, I never bothered to tell him.

   Then came Monday. The work week. Rachel had been gone one month, two weeks and one day. And that’s when Brian started staying away from home. He left for work in the morning and didn’t come home until long after I was asleep. I did my best to stay awake for him, to wait for him, just so I could see his face. Because I missed seeing it. Missed him.

   I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Where he went. Maybe he was out looking for Tim. Maybe he drove around in his truck, wandering aimlessly, thinking. Or trying not to think. Maybe he went to the cemetery and stared at that headstone. And wondered what it would be like in the spring, when Rachel’s headstone would be there, too. Maybe he just parked his truck somewhere and looked up at the stars, trying to see Them up there, restless and beautiful…

   It’s what I tried to imagine he did, even though I had no way to know. All I knew was where he didn’t go. He was too embarrassed to go to Zeke’s or to Jeff and Laura’s house, even though nobody was harboring any hard feelings. And I knew he wasn’t out fucking anyone. He even told me he wasn’t one cold, starry night as he fell into bed.

   And I knew he was telling the truth. Because he couldn’t. Not with me or with anyone. Not at all.

   But I’m not sure where he goes, really. Because he doesn’t talk too much even when he’s home. And when he does talk it’s just to say things like, I miss her or to start sentences with If I had only. And when that happens I hold him and tell him that I miss her too and that it’s not his fault. And I always say I love you and he always says it back. And we both mean it, we really do. But I still can’t feel it. It’s still buried under the hard ground and the ice. Still. Even though, tomorrow, it will be two months since Rachel died.

Chapter 33

Chapter 35

Table of Contents

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