“Okay.”
“But I didn’t want to that morning.” Saying just that much had the memories rushing back, so Abby could see it unwinding like a reel of sepia-tinted film in her head: her mother at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a couple of ibuprofen, looking exhausted; Abby, in the doorway, hands on her hips, anger flaring at the seeming injustice of her mother’s weary request. I have plans, Mom. You know Jason and I are going to Milwaukee, to shop for college. We’ve had it planned for weeks. Can’t Dad do it?
Her mother’s tiny sigh and tired smile. Yes, she’d known Abby had plans. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wouldn’t ask if I felt better…
Fine. A single word hurled like an insult. She’d grabbed the keys off the counter, making sure they jangled angrily in her hand, an accusation. I’ll do it. The voice of a manipulative martyr, still hoping to be excused.
And she was. Her mother rose from the table and held her hand out, smiling wearily, utterly unfooled by Abby’s theatrics. It’s all right, sweetie. Give me the keys.
For a second Abby had hesitated. She’d felt guilty for her petulant outburst, and she could see how unwell her mother looked, even though she didn’t want to. I really will do it, Mom… Uncertain, though. Craving reassurance. Still wanting an out even though she knew she shouldn’t take it.
Her mother’s smile had been both tired and tender. Understanding, sympathetic even. Her hand was still stretched out.
“Abby.”
She blinked Simon’s concerned face into focus.
“I gave her the keys,” she whispered. “I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
A frown creased his forehead as he studied her face as if looking for clues. “Why shouldn’t you have?”
She realized she’d been replaying it all in her head, but she hadn’t told Simon any of it. And so she did, in halting, haunted sentences, jumbled thoughts forming into a sobering whole. “She was sick… Luke’s piano… I had plans with my boyfriend… I knew I should have driven him.” Her throat thickened and she shook her head, unable to say any more.
“So she drove your brother to his piano lesson,” Simon surmised quietly. “And they were hit by a trucker who had fallen asleep at the wheel.”
“We don’t actually know that,” Abby felt compelled to point out, her voice sharpening like a lawyer’s. “It was just what the police decided must have happened, because it was a head-on collision on a straight road, on a perfectly sunny spring morning, but there’s no way to tell what really happened. Maybe the trucker didn’t fall asleep. Maybe my mother did, or maybe she felt so sick she swerved into the opposite lane…”
Simon pursed his lips. “Who told you that?”
She blinked at him, startled. “No one.”
“Exactly.”
“Still, it’s true,” she persisted. It felt like a point of honor somehow. “They did say they could never know for sure.”
“Even so, there seems like a most likely outcome, which was what the police described.” Simon was silent for a moment. “But you blame yourself.”
“Wouldn’t you?” It was a challenge.
“Yes,” Simon said, surprising her, hurting her, “I probably would.”
Abby sagged back against the pillows, shocked, gratified, and deeply wounded by his response all at once. If he’d said anything else, it wouldn’t have been honest. But to admit it, to as good as say she was right to feel guilty… that felt worse.
“Abby.” Simon tugged her hands from her knees where she’d locked her fingers tightly together. “That doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to think or feel. I’m just empathizing with you. I understand, at least as much as I can, considering I haven’t lived it, why you feel guilty. Why this has haunted you for so long.”
“I’m not haunted.” Now she sounded huffy.
“Tormented, then? Tortured? Troubled?”
“Why don’t you get a thesaurus out while you’re at it?”
“Actually, I’ve got one on my phone.” He smiled sadly. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make light of things. Tell me to shut up if you need to.”
“Shut up.”
He looked startled, and she let out a wavery little laugh.
“Not really. I just couldn’t resist.”