Lessons from a Dead Girl (17 page)

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.”

I picture her on the other side of the door, leaning her head against the wood, wondering what she should do. “All right, honey. We’ll talk later.”

Later.

What happens next? Will the police come? Will they take me away?

I sink back down under the water again and listen to the water swish around me, wishing it would swallow me whole.

On the far wall is the door to the doll closet with the worn brass handle that Leah and I touched so many times. I know the nesting doll is in there, all broken on the floor.

Not long after Leah and I became friends, I made the mistake of telling her that when I was really little, I used to think that my dolls and stuffed animals came alive when I left the room. She teased me, saying I still believed. She grabbed my old Curious George and punched him in the face. I laughed, just so she’d stop. But inside, I was cringing. After that, even though I was way too old to believe such a thing, I still imagined that the dolls who watched us in the closet hated Leah. I imagined them giving her the evil eye when we weren’t looking.

I stand up in the tub and let the cold air rush over me. After I dry off, I put my robe on and tie it tightly across my waist. Then I reach for the handle to the closet and open the door.

As soon as I smell the room, old feelings rush through me. I hear her voice, feel her hand.

I can’t do it.

How can I do it?

Slowly I force one bare foot forward across the cold wood floor. Then the other. I breathe in deeply before reaching my head in and pulling the tiny chain that clicks the lightbulb on.

It’s the same as we left it. The little chairs and table are still there. The dolls sit neatly in the corner, still watching. Except for a few bags of outgrown clothes piled in the middle of the room, it looks exactly the same. And on the floor, there’s the nesting doll, all in pieces.

Finally, I can’t hold my breath anymore and let it out. When I breathe in again, I smell the dust and must and memories.

The little doll halves look up at me with their permanent, knowing smiles.

Slowly, I bend down and pick up the pieces. First the smallest one, then the next smallest. I fit them each inside the other until I close the last shell. I push the two pieces together snugly and glance over at the tiny space where it all started just one more time, before I click off the light.

Back in my room, I put the doll on my dresser, then find my warmest pajamas, grab my ratty old Curious George off the bookcase, and get into bed. Jack snuggles up next to me. I rest my face on his back, and he starts to purr. Soon his fur is wet with my tears. He pulls away, then comes back to sniff around my face. I make room for him next to me. I lean my face against his back again and listen to his deep, soft motor.

The doll stares at me from the dresser, smiling despite it all. I close my eyes, but I still feel her watching me. I can’t take it.

I squeeze the doll in my hands as I carefully open my bedroom door. The house is quiet. I walk silently down the hall, through the darkened dining room, the kitchen, and to the back door. I slip on my mother’s garden clogs, grab the flashlight by the hook next to the door, and step out into the dark.

The grass looks gray-green in the moonlight. I wait until I reach the edge of the woods and the short pathway that leads to the big rock before I turn on the flashlight. I walk the path quickly, still clutching the cold, hard doll in my hands. I feel the trees watching me, their branches ready to reach out and grab me. I want to turn and run back to the house. But I don’t. I get to the rock and kneel down next to it. I place the doll beside the flashlight in the dried leaves. The ground is soft there, and I dig up the leaves and dirt with my hands until I have a hole big enough to bury the doll. I place her in face up, then quickly cover her with the dirt and leaves. I shine the flashlight on the spot. It looks the same way it did before. No one will find her here.

I turn off the light as soon as I reach the backyard safely. Then I quietly make my way back to my room and climb into bed next to Jack and George.

Tomorrow,
I think to both of them.
Tomorrow I will tell the truth.

I fall asleep to images of Leah. We’re twelve again, cantering around the riding ring, doing our victory lap. Leah waves the strip of newspaper in the air as she turns back to me. “We did it!” she yells over and over again. I wave my own empty hand in the air, following behind her, smiling so hard my face hurts as the crowd cheers, and I make a secret wish that this moment will last forever. That we’ll just keep riding around and around, laughing and waving to each other.

But I wake up alone in my dark room instead. And when I close my eyes again, I dream that she’s riding away from me. And instead of waving the strip of paper over her head like before, she’s looking back at me, waving her empty hand. Waving good-bye.

What happens when you finally decide to tell the truth and no one listens?

Three weeks have passed since Leah died. The Greenes held a private service for family only and buried Leah in a tiny cemetery near their home. Leah and I used to ride our bikes here and dare each other to go inside the gate, though we never did it.

It seems strange to me now, as I sit here under a wide oak tree in front of Leah’s grave, that we were ever afraid of this peaceful place.

I tried to tell the truth about what happened that night. First to my parents, then to the police. But they all said it was clear from the lack of skid marks on the road and the alcohol and drug content in Leah’s blood what really happened.

What really happened?

Leah was drunk. Leah was stoned. Leah was going too fast.

She didn’t even try to take the turn.

She went straight off the road.

“But it was
me,
” I told them. “She was going too fast because of
me.
I was the reason —”

“It doesn’t matter,” the police officer told me. “You weren’t doing anything wrong. That girl had a death wish. Just look. Look at the evidence.”

He told me about the scars on her wrist that I never saw. He reminded me about the drugs in her system. He told me, quietly, about the bruises they found on her ribs, back, and upper thighs that had been on her body before the accident.

“That girl had some serious problems,” he said. “She was headed for disaster.”

“But I left,” I tried. “I left her there.”

He nodded and was quiet for a minute. “Your friend died the second she hit that tree. You couldn’t have saved her. Losing your friend? That’s gonna stay with you the rest of your life. Whatever you think you did, that’s up to you to figure out.”

I’m still trying.

If what he said is true, and Leah really did have a death wish, I believe I was in the very place Leah wanted me to be. I think she wanted me to see her drive away from me.

I’ve rethought a thousand times the way she looked at me that night. I was so sure it was hatred toward me. But now I think maybe it was the hate she felt for herself. I think she hated herself for what she let happen to her as much as I hated myself for what I let happen to me. We were both victims. I know that now.

I went back there, to the place it happened, a few days after the accident. There were stuffed animals and candles and letters for Leah all over the side of the road where the tire tracks led into the woods.