Authors: Katie Klein
Collateral Damage (40 page)
He takes a deep breath, shoulders lifting, exhales days, weeks, months, years of being the brother tasked with the responsibility of looking after a little sister who means the world to him. Then, like the protective older brother he is, he issues a single, solitary threat: "Don't fuck this up. I'm
serious
."
I lift the wiper of Jaden's windshield and place a red rose beneath it—what has become my calling card. A hackneyed gesture of both love and
please forgive me
. The little white Civic is recently washed and detailed, the driver's side window replaced. I'm glad her car is not her house, that someone handled the repairs quickly—Daniel, probably.
And just in case I can't win her heart with flowers, I circle the building, heading toward the front of the school. The secretary in the main office eyes me curiously when I tell her I need to speak to Principal Howell. I know what she's thinking: Parker Whalen? Undercover cop?
His office door is already open. He stands, greeting me as I enter: "Afternoon, Officer. What can I do for you?"
I shut the door behind me, shake his hand. "First, I'd like to apologize about the basketball team."
He returns to his chair, removes his glasses, wipes his eyes, exhales a troubled sigh. "Yes, that was disappointing, but the school board appreciates the job you did here." He replaces his glasses, sits taller. "Even if things didn't go exactly as planned, I think it taught everyone a valuable lesson."
A valuable lesson. I can hardly imagine what Jaden endured when she returned to this place. The gossip. The speculation. Conversations dimming every time she walked into a room. And I realize, and not for the first time, that it's going to take a hell of a lot more than flowers to regain her trust.
A valuable lesson.
"Yeah. The reason I stopped by is because I was hoping to speak with Ms. Tugwell. It won't take long."
"Your final project?"
I nod, producing the red folder containing my essays. "Yes, Sir."
He slides his desk drawer open and removes a visitor's tag. "I'm sure she's in class, so it would be best to talk to her between periods. The bell is about to ring, anyway."
I clip the tag to my jacket. "Thanks. I won't be long."
The hallways are deserted, classes in session. Already it feels like a million years ago that I sifted through these lockers searching for a lead I would never find, that I sat in these seats, that I was more than a visitor with a tag. And with Jaden on the other side of one of those doors, these halls are everything to me.
I wait outside Ms. Tugwell's room, even after the bell rings, watching the line of students exit. Several make eye contact, recognizing me. As soon as it's empty, I slip inside. "Ms. Tugwell?"
"Mr. Whalen. This is certainly a surprise." She finishes erasing notes on the white board.
"I'm full of those."
"So it would seem. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" She smiles warmly at me, pushes her glasses further up her nose, a gesture I never imagined I would miss. This room, this teacher, these ridiculous posters on the wall—they're more reassuring than I care to admit. I follow Ms. Tugwell as she moves toward her desk.
"I wanted to drop off my English project. Since it was a team assignment, I didn't want my...Jaden's grade to suffer."
The
I don't want Jaden to suffer at all
hangs
left unsaid between us.
I don't know how much she knows, after all. If any conversations were overheard. If the gossip ever made its way to the teachers' lounge. I don't know if she knows that this project—her project—started it all.
"It's red." Her smile broadens, knowing.
"Seemed appropriate."
"Ms. Wharton would approve, I think." She takes the folder from me, opens it, flips through the pages. "
Ethan Frome
," she mumbles. "May I ask how you and Jaden decided on this particular novel?"
"It was short?" I reply.
She laughs again. "Forgive me, but neither of you seem the type to forego quality literature for 'length.'"
"I guess not." I exhale a sigh. "We had some trouble agreeing on a book at first, so we decided to pick one at random. I closed my eyes and pointed and..."
"And
Ethan Frome
was the winner?" she finishes.
My shoulder lifts, half-shrugging. "It was an accident."
"There are no accidents, Mr. Whalen," she says, re-adjusting her glasses. "I do appreciate you bringing this by. In light of the events that transpired, I didn't hold your lack of submission against Jaden. In fact, I was determined to waive the oral report requirement because of the headaches she was having. She wouldn't hear of it, of course, and proceeded to give me her entire speech right at my desk between periods."
"Of course," I repeat. "That sounds...
just
like her." I laugh, but it's more sad than happy, and my cheeks burn at the realization. I run fingers through my hair. Clear my throat.
Ms. Tugwell shakes her head. "Jaden is not Zeena Frome. She is not Mattie Silver. She will never be a victim of her circumstances."
No. She's stronger than that—strong enough to tell me to leave. To walk away.
A survivor.
"Thank you for this," she finally says, breaking the silence. "I'll let Jaden know her partner held up his end of the deal."
*
*
*
My apartment is too empty—too quiet—so I go home early Friday afternoon. Just before the end of the workday, I get the phone call I've been waiting for. Chief Anderson.
The committee made their recommendation: I'm officially clear to come back to work.
My mom is thrilled to hear the news. My dad—he can think what he wants—because the truth is, I'm relieved.
I did the right thing—what I had to do.
And I might not be a street cop forever, but this is who I am right now, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to give it all I've got.
My mom is in the laundry room, folding a pair of my jeans, when I approach her later that night.
"You don't have to do my laundry. That's not why I brought it home."
"I know. It's nice to be able to do something for you, though. You haven't needed me for such a long time now. You're so...focused. I hardly recognize you sometimes." She pulls a t-shirt from the dryer.
Unfocused and undisciplined.
"You're my mom. I'll always need you," I remind her.
"Shame on you for making me feel so old, but I'm really proud of the man you're becoming, Chris. And even though your dad can be a stubborn ass, I know he feels the same way."
"Language, Mom," I tease.
"It's true. We both know it. But deep down I know he's proud of you, too."
Deep down I'm not sure I believe her, but I smile and nod anyway, because sometimes that's the best thing you can do for someone else.
"So, I wanted to give this back," I say, reaching in my pocket, removing the gray ring box she handed me months ago. Her shoulders fall a little when she sees it.
"Oh, Chris. I'm so sorry. I really thought Callie was the one."
I'm not sure how to respond to this—what to say. Maybe, yes, she could've been the one. Probably not. Maybe we could've made it work. I don't know.
"Have you heard from her?" she asks.
"No. But she's not the one I want to hear from," I admit.
She forces a smile. "So this girl from Bedford.... Any chance I'll get to meet her one day?"
"I'd like to say yes.... For now, I want you to hold on to this ring for me."
"Okay," she replies, sticking the box in her sweater pocket. "You ever gonna come back for it?"
"Absolutely. I just need to make sure it's on the right girl's finger."
That night I lie in my old bed, unable to sleep. I stare at the ceiling—the ceiling of my childhood—the same ceiling I stared at on a thousand sleepless nights like this one.
Only this time, it's different.
Because every time I close my eyes I see her. I see her tucking her hair behind her ears. I see her smiling at me from beneath those long lashes. I see her hair, shining in the sunlight. Tears filling her eyes. I feel her body, shaking as she sobs, arms wrapped around my neck. I feel her warm breath against my cheek. Her lips pressed against mine. I feel her body beneath me on that attic floor.
I feel forever, staring at that ceiling, thinking of her.
And, in that moment, I know what I have to do.
The sun is barely over the horizon when I grab my cell phone off the end table, scroll through the list of recent calls and dial that number.
Voicemail. But that's okay.
"Daniel? It's Parker. Give me a call back when you get this. I know what to do for Jaden."
The key is beneath the planter beside the door, just like he said it would be. It jams in the lock, sticking halfway, refusing to go further. I jiggle it, pull it out, and try again. It takes several seconds of twisting and turning to get that key all the way in, but, when it does, the door unlocks, opens easily.
Jaden's voice sings in my ear.
Something else that needs to be fixed.
I step inside the house. "Hello?" I call, cautious.
My voice echoes, but no one answers. I close the door behind me, wind the lock. The front room, closed off the last time I was here, is open. And trashed. Clothes, hair dryers, curling irons, make-up. It's like a war zone.
"Shit," I mumble.
Instead of aged wood and paint, I smell flowers. Perfume. Hairspray. I know Jade was here getting ready for Daniel and Sarah's wedding with the rest of them, but I can't find her in any of this.
I head upstairs with my bag, taking steps two at a time. I turn the corner, push open her bedroom door….
The sight of it sends shocks of familiarity coursing through my veins. This.
This
is her. The blue comforter, the breezy curtains, the door to her closet—that secret passageway leading to the attic.
The attic.
And there, on her dresser....
The hardwood floor creaks beneath my shoes as I move closer. I touch the soft petals—the pink and purple tulips I left on the windshield of her car before slipping inside the gymnasium—before I stood along that wall, waiting for Principal Howell to call her name at graduation.