Wing Jones(15)

“I love you,” she says, but it is more like a command than an endearment. “Do you hear me? I love you.”

And then she goes to her mother and to Granny Dee and hugs them too.

“I’ve spoken to his doctor,” she says, and Monica whips her head up.

“They talked to you! They told you how he is? They wouldn’t tell us anything!”

“Monica,” says Aaron. “Be quiet.”

“Mom!” I say, losing my patience “Tell us!”

My mom takes a deep breath and sits down. She looks smaller than I remember her looking this morning. She shuts her eyes briefly, presses her palms to her forehead, and then looks up at us.

“He’s alive,” she says, and it should be cause for celebration, but there is something in the way she’s just said those amazing words that makes us all pause and wait. “But he’s bleeding internally, his ribs are broken, his leg is shattered, and” – she takes a deep breath and I know she hasn’t told us the worst part yet – “his brain is swelling and he’s in a coma. They have to operate on his brain.” Her voice wobbles, and she must hear it because she presses her lips together and shakes her head. “They say there’s a very good chance he’ll wake up. Hopefully with all his motor functions and memories. But they don’t know for sure.”

There is no jumping. There is no celebrating. My Granny Dee gets up from her seat and goes to my mother and rubs her shoulders.

“It’ll be all right,” she croons softly. “It’ll all be all right.”

My mom nods and looks at Monica and Aaron. “You two should get home,” she says. “It’s been a long night.”

Monica is shaking. Shaking all over. “I shoulda been in that car, Mrs. Jones. I shoulda been with him. I shouldn’t have let him drive. I’m so sorry.”

“Sweetie, this isn’t your fault,” says my mom, but Monica still looks stricken. “And I am so grateful you weren’t in that car.” She swallows. “One of the boys who was … he died. The other one is in surgery right now. And the car Marcus hit … that woman died too.”

I am filled with an overwhelming sense of relief that the boy who died wasn’t Marcus. It’s an awful thought. One I wish I could push away as soon as I think it, but it stays and gets cozy in my brain, making itself at home, until it is the only thing I can think about. I’ve already lost my daddy; it wouldn’t be fair for me to lose Marcus too. A person can only lose so much.

There’s a polite but sharp knock at the door. Aaron opens it.

There’s a policeman standing there. Not one I recognize. He nods curtly to us all and comes in. “This Marcus Jones’s family?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He glances at me and then my mother, his eyes pingponging back and forth a few times before flying over my head and landing on Granny Dee and LaoLao, and a slow understanding dawns on his face. Figuring out that I’m half Granny Dee and half LaoLao and that’s why I don’t look much like my mom.

“Did any of you see the accident?” he asks.

Monica clears her throat. “Yes, sir.” Her voice is the calmest it’s been since we arrived at the hospital. “I did.”

“And you?” The man gestures at Aaron.

Aaron shakes his head. “No, sir. I was still at the house party when the accident happened.”

“Then how did you know about it?”

Monica answers. “Our friend Roddy, who was driving the car that I was in, went back to the house to call 911. And to tell everyone else what had happened.” I think about what that must have been like for Roddy, to be the messenger. Bursting back into the party, turning off the music, and announcing what had happened.

“And I asked him to drive me here.” Aaron’s face is grave, like he’s giving testimony in court.

“I stayed on the scene until the ambulance got there and then went with Marcus.” Monica is twisting her ring round and round her finger.

I stayed on the scene. I wonder how long she sat there, alone in the dark, on the side of the road, with nothing but dead and broken bodies for company.

“I’m going to need to talk to you some more,” the officer says to Monica.

A dark, cold feeling is spreading through me like frost on a windshield on a winter morning.

“Sir,” says my mother. “It’s very late. We’ve all had a very, very hard day. Can it wait?”

“I’d like to get her statement while it’s fresh,” says the officer.

“Her statement?” My mom frowns, her forehead creasing.

“Yes, her statement. Marcus Jones is potentially being charged with underage drinking, possession of false identification, driving while under the influence of alcohol, and possibly vehicular manslaughter.”

“Oh my sweet Jesus,” whispers Granny Dee.

There is a thump behind me and my LaoLao cries out. I turn, expecting to see my Granny Dee on the floor. Instead, I see Monica lying in a heap, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Turns out that a hospital is a good place to faint. As soon as Monica collapses, the police officer opens the door and shouts for a nurse. When the nurse comes bustling in, my mom hurries over and speaks in hushed, hurried tones, pointing at the officer. All I hear is “interrogating,” “exhausted,” “intimidating,” “collapse,” “breakdown,” “witnessed.”