Lessons from a Dead Girl(40)

I climb carefully down the embankment.

The dew on the grass is cold and wet in my sandals.

The dinging is a whisper, calling me back to the road. But I keep moving toward the car.

The windshield is cracked into a spiderweb where her head hit but didn’t go through.

I move closer.

It’s still quiet. But now the crickets are beginning to join the steady dinging in the distance. And now the frogs.

The car is just out of reach of the truck’s headlights. I pause, afraid to move into the darkness. The car’s red taillights, like devil eyes, warn me away.

The smell of gas gets stronger as I force myself to move closer.

The driver’s door is smashed inward.

The window is shattered.

I move closer, closer, listening for a sound from inside.

She’s slumped over the steering wheel, not moving. But I see her pink halter. Her long, slender arms. Her blond, bloody hair.

I listen for a sound. A moan. Anything. But it is deadly quiet. So quiet. Except for the normal night sounds.

“Leah?”

She doesn’t move.

“Oh, God. Leah!”

I start to reach inside to shake her, but I stop. Somehow I know.

I know.

“No,” I say to her hair. “No!”

She doesn’t move.

“Wake up!” I scream, even though I know she won’t.

I hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance and panic. I turn and run back to the truck. Lights have come on in houses down the road. I get in and shut the door. The dinging stops, but my ears are ringing with the screaming in my head. No! No! No!

I put the truck in gear and drive, not knowing where to go.

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the glove compartment of my father’s work truck, held together with a twisted piece of coat hanger. My face feels stuck to the faded and dingy vinyl seat. Above me, the windows are all fogged up. Good. No one can see in. See me.

I breathe in the smell of my father’s work: wood stain, old furniture, sweat. A faded green air freshener in the shape of a pine tree dangles uselessly from the rearview mirror.

I force myself to lift my head to see the clock on the dashboard: 5:32 a.m. When I sit up, I feel the blood rush to my head. Everything hurts.

The key is still in the ignition. When I turn it, the motor starts reluctantly. I turn on the wipers to clear the dew on the windshield and immediately see the store window of the 7-Eleven. There are people inside buying coffee and scratch tickets and doughnuts. I put the truck in reverse before they notice me.

I drive home with the steady hum of the motor drumming into my head.

Leah’s dead. Leah’s dead. Leah’s dead.

When I get home, I open the front door carefully. The house is quiet. I go upstairs, shut my bedroom door, and change into my pajamas. I shove all my dirty clothes under the bed, then crawl into it and listen to the quiet. Listen and think. Listen and try to feel something. Anything. But all there is, is numbness. Nothing. I am empty. I close my eyes and wait for my mother or the police or both to come and tell me what I already know.

Leah Greene is dead.

And it’s my fault.





It’s dark out. I don’t know what time it is. It doesn’t matter. All day I’ve been in and out of sleep, remembering. Ignoring my mother each time she climbs the stairs and asks if she can get me something.

I sit up and see myself in the mirror. I look dirty and matted and disgusting, as if I haven’t showered in days.

I get up slowly, quietly, and creep to the bathroom. I turn the water on full and step in without waiting for the hot to kick in. The tub is cold against my skin. I reach for the soap and a washcloth and rub myself all over. Hard. I scrub and scrub until the water warms up and rises over my ankles, my shins, my knees. I scrub until my skin feels raw and the water is so hot it stings against my skin.

Leah Greene is dead.

It’s all my fault.

Leah Greene is dead.

I lean against the hard back of the tub and close my eyes.

I see flashes of Leah. Hear fragments of her voice.

Remember, Lainey?

Remember when we used to mess around?

First I did something to you, then you had to do it to me.

You liked it. You know you did.

Tears slip down my cheeks and along my neck. I sink under the water to wash them away. Under here, the quiet echo of the water moving makes me feel like I’m in another world. Alone. But I have to come up for air.

“Laine?” My mother knocks on the bathroom door. “Honey? What are you doing in there? Do you know how late it is?”

I don’t know how late it is. I have no idea what time it is.

“No,” I say from my side of the door.

“Honey, it’s nine thirty. Can I — can I come in?”

I sit up. The cold air feels twice as bad after being underwater.

“I’m OK, Mom. I’ll get out in a minute.”

“Laine,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry this happened. Don’t you think — don’t you think we should talk about it?”

Talk about what?

What does she know?

I don’t even know what I know anymore. What was real? What did I imagine?

“Laine?”

“I’m OK, Mom. I just need to be alone. Just a little longer. Please.”