A Shattered Moment (Fractured Lives 1)

“Fantastic.” Sherman and I had a hate-hate relationship. He liked to show his distaste for me by spitting and hissing. As far as I was concerned, he deserved a shallow grave.

Opening the bathroom door, I kicked a pile of Chad’s and Michael’s clothes out of the way to get to the shower. I couldn’t complain. None of us were the best housekeepers. The only time it was ever really clean was when we knew one of our moms would be in town. We’d learned that lesson the hard way sophomore year when Chad’s mom almost had a coronary when she walked through the front door.

Plucking a towel off the floor, I sniffed it to see if it was clean. It still had a faint scent of detergent, so I figured I was safe. I tossed it on the counter and approached the shower with trepidation. I should have told Chad to come get Sherman himself, but that would earn me the title of Total Pussy for a solid week.

I groaned, glaring down at the fluorescent green demon that was hanging out in an inch of water in our tub. “Don’t be an asshole, Sherman.” He responded to my words by hissing at me—ungrateful reptile. He obviously didn’t give a shit who the shower belonged to. Reaching a hand down cautiously, I tried to extract the iguana, which was more than a foot long. That wasn’t even counting his tail, which was almost as long. His tail whipped against the ceramic tub with a thud. I jerked my hand out of harm’s way, but not before he grazed it. The little fucker, he did that on purpose. I swear the green monster had it in for me. After a few more failed attempts at grabbing him, I finally wrapped my hands around his leathery body and deposited him into his aquarium in Chad’s room. Several welts decorated the back of my hand for my trouble. He was lucky I didn’t feed him to the German shepherd next door. Sherman would make an excellent chew toy.

Twenty minutes later, I was showered and had another slice of pizza in my iguana tail–whipped hand. I shoved a pile of discarded clothes off my bed and sat down in front of my laptop, clicking the Google icon. I’d be up half the night studying, but that didn’t stop me from investigating what had been occupying my mind all afternoon. It didn’t take a lot of searching to find a list of articles about Mac and her friends. I clicked on the first website and a full picture of Mac and the others filled the screen. I’d seen this image dozens of times. It was the one the news stations loved to show viewers because of the poignant feel of lost youth. In the picture, Mac and her friends were decked out in graduation robes with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. They all looked so damn happy. Apparently, it was their last picture together. Little did they know that hours later their lives would never be the same.

I was beginning to feel like a stalker, but I enlarged the image so I could see Mac’s face more clearly. She was laughing and seemed so carefree. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and her full lips were stretched into a wide smile. The girl I saw today was a far cry from the one smiling out at me on my computer screen. Her eyes no longer gleamed. They were flat and dull like an old stone.

four

Mac

Friday morning I still felt a little out of sorts over my encounter with Bentley, so I decided to take the cowardly approach and give up the sanctuary of the library for the weekend. With any luck, he would find another study spot and my world could return to normal on Monday. Since I had no Friday classes, I spent the day reading in bed and mentally preparing myself for the impending dinner with my parents that I had grudgingly agreed to. Trin

a never made an appearance, which wasn’t surprising. I had no idea where she had gone, but she hadn’t slept in her bed in days. She obviously still came and went from our dorm room when I wasn’t here, because occasionally I would return to find some of her clothes freshly folded on her bed. I guess she was using our room for nothing more than her closet at this point.

Later that afternoon, I sat in a booth with my parents at Olive Garden, engaged in the customary small talk about school and how I was feeling. Inevitably, the conversation shifted to “the case.” Every time the subject came up, it felt like I was watching a scene in a movie. I could almost hear the dramatic soundtrack of dun-dun-duunn as Mom’s and Dad’s normal faces would shift on cue to hardened expressions of concern. Over the past year and a half I’d gotten used to their transformation from loving, gentle-minded parents to unforgiving, hard-as-granite protectors whenever they discussed the accident. They were prepared to fight the insurance company and the trucking company for as long as it took until reparations were satisfied. I was not looking for a battle¸ though. The longer the fight dragged on, the more the memories of losing my friends gnawed at me. At times I felt like a dead carcass being devoured by wild animals.

Eventually we exhausted the subject, only to move to my second least favorite topic—Tracey’s mom.

“She misses you. She feels like she not only lost Tracey, but you, too,” Mom implored when I shook my head at her suggestion that I give her a call. I had always been closer to Tracey’s mom, Patricia, than any of my other friends’ parents. She looked younger than her actual age. Tracey had physically favored her so much that quite often people mistook them for sisters. It was a fun game we played throughout high school. Tracey and her mom would even go so far as to call me their sister when anyone would ask. “You spent as much time growing up at Tracey’s house as you did at your own home. The twins miss you,” my mom added.

“They don’t miss me. They miss their sister,” I mumbled. My bite of food lodged in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

“Sweetie, they miss you, too. You haven’t seen them since . . .” Her voice trailed off as she worked to compose herself before her emotions got the best of her. As steadfast as my parents were in their quest for justice, Mom had a hard time saying the word accident. It had become a tainted word. She didn’t have to say any more for me to understand. The last time I had seen Tracey’s twin brothers was when I hugged them after the graduation ceremony on that fateful night. Before my life changed so radically that I couldn’t remember who I was.

Patricia had come to see me in the hospital two days after the accident. More than anyone else, I felt I owed her an explanation, but between the grief and the painkillers that had turned my thoughts into a jumbled mess, I couldn’t put two coherent words together. I wished badly that I could go back now and wipe the slate clean. To tell her everything I wanted to say.

• • •

graduation night 2013

The beach was just what I needed to mellow me out. I was still trying to process what I had seen between Zach and Tracey. It didn’t mean I wasn’t hurt, but somewhere between splashing in the water with my friends beneath the stars and plucking up a few seashells to commemorate our night, I decided I would not allow this to cause a rift in our group. Tomorrow would be soon enough to talk about it.

After rinsing away the remaining tiny grains of sand from our feet at the outdoor showers, we began to pile into the Suburban. My foot hesitated on the running board as my hand gripped the handle I used to propel myself into my usual seat. Over the last two and a half years since Zach got his license, I had always ridden shotgun. Everyone assumed the front seat belonged to me. For the first time ever, it no longer felt like mine. Zach watched me with curiosity. I could tell he saw my indecisiveness. My eyes flickered to Tracey, who was watching us both intently. She looked apologetic, ready to throw herself on the mercy of the group. My eyes moved to the rest of our friends, who were oblivious to what was going on. If I moved to the second row, giving Tracey the front seat, it would be like posting one of those giant theme park billboards over our heads. Then we would have to spend the rest of the night explaining who knew what and when and how I felt. I wasn’t ready to spend an evening discussing it. Seeing no diplomatic way to handle the situation, I finally climbed into the front seat, feeling like a complete fraud.

• • •

My hesitation that night still festered like an open wound, leaving me to forever deal with if only. Two words that should be stricken from the English language. If only we would have stayed at the beach a little longer, or if only we would have left just a few seconds earlier. If only I would have climbed into the Suburban without pause. Worst of all, if only I would have traded spots with Tracey. The thought of it keeps me up at night in a cold sweat, haunted by the rattling chains of guilt that bind me. If I would have switched seats, Tracey would be here and I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to be the person who said I was glad to be alive. Admitting that would be the same as accepting my friends’ fates. How could I explain that to Tracey’s mom or to her brothers? I was ashamed that I was glad to be alive. What kind of person did that make me?

Dad saved the day by finally changing the subject to something I could participate in, and by the end of our dinner I no longer felt the urge to stab myself in the eye with a fork. I considered that a success.

My parents refused to take no for an answer regarding the movie, threatening to follow me back to my dorm room to sit and chat for the next two hours as my only other option. Since the theater shared the same parking lot as the Olive Garden, we didn’t bother to move the car. The surrounding area of different shopping complexes and restaurants was littered with people, mostly students because of the close proximity to campus. Usually I avoided this area like it was a breeding ground for some epic disease. Navigating through crowds with my leg was never fun, and I got enough stares from my peers while walking back and forth to classes every day. Before the accident I never gave much thought to people who were different. Dragging a bum leg around with a cane had opened my eyes to a new level of understanding. People couldn’t seem to help looking. Not that anyone ever had an unkind word to say, but the pity in their eyes made me want to scream.

Walking bookended by my parents toward the theater, it occurred to me that it was the first time I had gone to the movies since the accident. Subconsciously, I think I realized it earlier, which was one of the reasons why I protested going. My thoughts transported me back to my adolescent years when Mom and Dad would take a turn at chaperoning my friends and me.

Over the years, all of our parents would take chaperoning duty on occasion to give the other parents a date night. My parents always liked taking us to the movies, saying it was an easy way to keep us corralled for a couple of hours. They would allow us to sit in our own row so we could feel like we didn’t actually have parents looking over our shoulders.

That was how my life was now defined—before the accident, and after the accident. A simple movie with my parents today had become a significant moment in my life because everything I did that used to involve my friends would now be a first. I hated all the firsts, absolutely loathed them. They would sneak up on me in the form of inconsequential everyday occurrences to bite me in the ass.

In all the sessions during the past year with my therapist, Tanya, she had neglected to tell me how to deal with firsts. Like the first time I picked up my phone without thinking about it to text Tracey or Jessica, and forgetting neither of them would be there to answer, or how I would feel two months after the accident when our graduation pictures arrived in the mail. That day was tough to remember. Anger had rippled through my body until I shook so severely I could barely focus. My computer had suffered the wrath of my pain as I hurled it with all my might against the wall, leaving nothing but broken pieces.

That was the curse of surviving. You’re left to pick up the pieces of your broken, shattered, decimated life. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be whole.

I managed to make it into the lobby without either of my parents catching a hint of what I was feeling inside. They lightly bickered over what size popcorn to get, while I shoved my pain deep down like I did all my feelings these days.