Rapid Falls(43)

“Sure.” I hope I sound sincere, even as I’m hoping that’s not the case.

My mom sets her half-eaten cookie on the cedar table in front of us, and I am surprised to see tears rolling down her face.

“Mom! What’s wrong?”

“I just keep thinking that this is my fault. That it goes back much further than . . . Jesse. I tried so hard for her. I thought if anyone was going to suffer from what happened, it would have been you.”

My hands throb like my heart just pumped a double beat. “Me?”

My mom’s eyes are glassy as she meets mine. Ingrid pats her arm. Something about the way she touches her makes me realize that this story is the reason I am here. My mom needs to tell me something. Anna’s black drawing comes back to me, but I push it away as I drain my glass. Ingrid fills it without asking if I would like more, as if she knows that I’m going to need it.

“I don’t know how much you remember about the mill accident in Rapid Falls. When your dad was a volunteer firefighter,” my mom begins.

“Very little.” Nearly every detail I know about it had come from conversations with my mom in the years that followed. I was five years old when it happened; Anna was four. “Dad was first on the scene, right? It must have been awful.”

My mom nods. “It was. Greg McDooley—he worked with your dad at the shop for a few months before he started at the mill. I think your grandpa had been hoping that he would stay on at the shop, but the mill job was just too tempting. Anyway, your dad did the best he could, after the accident, so no one blamed him for what happened.”

“It sounds like there was nothing he could have done.”

“Maybe.” My mom hesitates and wipes tears from both her eyes. “Remember Mr. Johnson? The man that owned the grocery store? Jesse worked for him for a bit.”

I nodded. I couldn’t think of him without remembering the way he’d looked at me at Jesse’s funeral.

“Sure.”

“He told me what happened. Your dad would never talk about it. Their training was so minimal, Cara. They learned basic first aid when they volunteered, but your dad wasn’t prepared for that kind of accident. They had just gotten the logs off when your dad arrived. Greg was still talking; he seemed fine. No one realized the kind of damage that had been done or how severe shock can be. Your dad left him, Cara. He put a blanket on him, trying to make him more comfortable. There was another guy there who had gotten his hand pinned between two logs, trying to help Greg out. He was bleeding, and I guess it seemed like he needed help more than Greg. Your dad took the other guy up to the office so he could find a splint. He left Greg alone.”

“Oh my God.”

My mom nods. “It was a spinal cord injury. There was probably nothing anyone could have done. It was ruled an accident. But your dad blamed himself.”

I am still piecing it together. “So Greg was alone . . . when he died?”

My mom nods again. “When your dad came home late in the afternoon, he was already drunk. He headed straight to the bar after he left the scene of the accident. I’d never seen him like that before. He was cold, so distant, but angry. I asked him what happened and he exploded. Told me that I had no idea what it was like. I was shocked, and I think I yelled back. I didn’t know Greg had died. I didn’t know.”

My mom starts crying again. “He hit me so hard that I thought I was going to throw up. He had never hit me before. You two must have heard us yelling because you both came downstairs. There was blood everywhere, and Anna started screaming and crying, but not you. You kept looking back and forth between us, like you were trying to figure it out. Even then, you were a problem solver.” She gives me a watery smile. “I panicked. I knew I had to get you out of there, but your dad started crying too, and you went to him. You put your arms around him, and it felt like you were on his side. Like you had chosen him, over me.”

My stomach flips, but I take another slug of wine to fight the panic. The sound of my parents yelling fills my ears. My face feels frozen. I can only hope I appear calm, as if my mother’s words are not opening up something awful inside of me that I can barely contain.

“He told me to go, to leave, that I wasn’t welcome there, and you nodded. I grabbed Anna; she was crying so hard that I couldn’t leave her. It felt like . . . she was the only person who cared about me.”

I was five years old! I want to scream, but I nod instead.

“As I carried her out to the car, you started to follow me, like you realized suddenly what you had agreed to. You were crying, holding on to my leg. I was so angry at you.” My mom’s chest starts heaving. “Oh God, Cara, I’m so sorry. I know how crazy this all sounds now, but I was hurt and confused. I put Anna in the car and I drove away. I left you there with your dad.”

“Where did you go?” My voice is emotionless even though my thoughts are crashing inside my head.

“I went to the Turners. I knew Marlene had a trailer that was empty. She took one look at me and told me I could have it for as long as I wanted. It was awful. We stayed for two weeks and that was as long as I could bear it. No one in town would give me a job. Mr. Johnson told me outright when I applied as a cashier that I should go back to my husband. The trailer was cold and crawling with fleas. Your dad wouldn’t let me see you unless I agreed to move back in.”