Author: Adele Griffin
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/424_9
“Why were we going to Aunt Gail’s?”
“She said you’d called about a week before, and you hadn’t mentioned a guest. That’s why we think you were giving him a lift, dropping him off somewhere before Gail’s. You hadn’t told me you were going to visit her, either—I’d never have let you drive in that storm. Never. I suspect your plan was to call us once you’d gotten there. That bridge was a sheet of ice. The car skidded, you lost control, and that, unfortunately, is the whole story.”
A story with a lifetime of consequences. I dropped the clipping. I was sleepy. Addington-nap sleepy, as if my body yearned to spend a few hours in the dark, healing.
Mom went to the fridge and began to take out options for dinner. Ordinarily I would have helped. Not tonight. I didn’t have the energy to lift a loaf of bread. I wandered back to the living room, to the couch. I wrapped up in the afghan and listened to dinner being prepared. Through closed eyes, I could feel the room gradually turn to night.
Did it matter that I didn’t know Anthony Travolo? Probably not.
Whispers: Interactive StoriesMake your own choices and decide what happens next!
It’s not as if knowing him would have changed anything.
One night, one car, one bridge, one survivor. I was here and he wasn’t. The poison of this knowledge was inside me. Now and forever.
6
Because. You Glow.
“Your journey to full rehabilitation is complicated,” Dr. P had told me at our last session, the afternoon before I left Addington. “And not every day will be perfect.”
Perfect was a funny word, when I thought about it later. No way could a whole, entire day be perfect. With or without a car wreck in your past. There were only perfect moments, and those moments were precious. But most moments were flat, or hazy, or sleepy, or boring, or baffling, or just okay.
I got through the rest of the week with no more hope than for “okay,” trying to function in an approximation of normal. But there weren’t many moments when the shadow of Anthony Travolo didn’t claim me. Memory had also cleared a path to those early weeks at Addington, when all I’d felt was the horror of it.
The horror and the guilt. My knowledge was like a vine that had sprung up and tangled around me, clingy and resilient as if I’d learned about Anthony’s death just yesterday.
And now, finally, it was Friday. The last school day of my first week back home. Friday wasn’t perfect, either. But it seemed better. Possibly because I allowed myself a feeling of quiet achievement that I’d crossed the finish line. Or because the day itself was such a bright, shiny apple. Blue sky, newly turned orange leaves, October crispness.
A perfect day? Sure. Was I perfect, spinning inside it? Not a chance.
Friday also meant that the weekend was on its way.
And even if the shock of Anthony Travolo hadn’t receded, at least I was dealing with it consciously again, and his death was mine to drag around with me, along with my own recovery. But I’d bailed on my physical therapy classes. Just couldn’t handle it. Dr. P had sort of conceded Mom’s point—that I needed to take it low-key. Today, though, on his urging before my long weekend rest, I was scheduled to show up for an hour of PT.
“You’re not ready,” Mom had judged as she watched me walk out the door that morning. But at least she didn’t stop me.
After school, I walked to the subway station on Dekalb Avenue, breathing deep, and descended gingerly. It was my first public transit trip in nearly a year.
The moment the L train roared into the station, I felt the familiar cold-hot-cold panic—turn around, turn around! Instead I inhaled like a scuba diver, ready for the plunge. I waited right to the last moment before leaping into the car, its motion detectors bouncing the doors apart at the shove of my shoulder. I found a seat and sank heavily into it. My breath and body were shaking. I plugged in my earbuds and let Weregirl transport me. Okay. For real.
After another minute, when I realized I wasn’t going to implode—that I was, in fact, fine—I reached into my backpack and withdrew some note cards for my Theory of Knowledge course paper, “Individual and Society,” which was due Monday. Might as well get a leg up. I used to love doing my homework on the subway—something about the motion, the quiet, the knowledge that I couldn’t get online…it had been better than the library.
Course work was all a little bit loopy for me, since I’d started the year almost six weeks later than the rest of my class. I knew my teachers were grading me with a softer touch—so maybe that was why I’d been enjoying school more than I’d anticipated.
I uncapped a pen and got cracking on my theory statement.
Creating a high-functioning society does not mean we should become robotic drones that serve only to aid productivity. It is every bit as important to be a thinking member of the majority while learning what makes group dynamics…
The paper was so white. My concentration was melting into sleepiness. Lulled by my iPod and the motion, my eyes unfocused, I yawned and looked around at the colorful blur of Tupperware seats and tired faces. I relaxed, letting my muscles soften and the back of my head come to rest against the window. Slowly but surely, trancing out so deep that I woke with a jolt.
Where was I?
Panic set in. I couldn’t breathe. Because I’d waaaaay missed it—I was out in…Bushwick?
That arty black business card stuck up in my bedroom mirror had a Bushwick address. Earlier this week I’d looked up Areacode online and found a site for some sceney club dance space. Obviously, I hadn’t been planning to come see it today. But if I doubled back on my route, I’d be at least twenty minutes late for therapy class.
Skipping another class was not exactly the way to Dr. P’s—or my brand-new therapist’s—heart. But what if I just got out in Bushwick? What if, instead of therapy, I went to check out Areacode? Maybe something would click. After all, I’d grown up hitting dance performances and concerts all over the city. From Manhattan to the Bronx, from Alvin Ailey to Symphony Space and all the halls and theaters in between. Last year I’d even dragged Rachel out to a couple of clubs, too—not exactly her best environment.
I’d been to Bushwick. I knew it. It was inside the memory pocket. What if I’d met Anthony Travolo out here? What if I started walking the streets and suddenly discovered all those days like easy treasure, a scattering of shells washed up on the beach?
Yes. Do it. I ran up the subway stairs, my backpack knocking my side. There must have been a hundred steps. My breath petered out pretty quickly. Through the exit, I found my cell and made the call to Jenn Stoller, my new therapist, in a whisper.