Out of Nowhere (10 page)

He recited this tale of horror so casually and matter-of-factly, it was like he was discussing the plot of a movie. It took me a minute to gather a response. “Oh my God, Cole,” I said softly. “That’s awful. What happened when you woke up?”

“Pain,” he said, laughing a little. “But my brain was fine. I mean, no worse than it was before the accident.”

Now was not the time to joke around. “Was your father okay?”

“Barely a scratch from the crash, but he sliced his arms up when he tried to pull me out. He’s still got the scars from that.”

The story just kept getting worse. “Your dad was…awake the whole time?” He nodded, eyes not moving from the trees. “Jesus. That must have been terrifying for him.”

“Yeah. He probably could have gotten me out through his door but he didn’t want to move me too much, in case…anyway, he had to sit there and wait for the ambulance.”

My heart skipped and all of a sudden I was thinking about my dad. As a paramedic, he’d helped people through the same kind of situation Cole and his dad had been in. I’d always tried not to think about it, the horrible things he must have seen on the job. Hurt kids. Hysterical parents. Blood. Death.

“You could’ve died,” I told him, and he nodded again. No one knew that better than him, of course, except maybe his poor father.

“I could have,” he said, turning his head toward me again. “But I didn’t.”

We looked at each other for a moment, and I thought about how I’d never met anyone as
alive
as he was. Always in motion, experiencing, experimenting, testing himself. Even a near-tragedy hadn’t changed this about him. I wanted to know his secret, how he managed to be so brave after experiencing firsthand how risky and fleeting life could be.

“What happened to the person in the other car?” I asked, breaking our intense gaze.

“He was okay, but the crash knocked him out too. Well, more like he passed out. We found out later he was drunk.”

A jolt of anger shot through me. “That asshole! Did he go to jail? The stupid idiot almost killed you.”

He seemed amused by my vehemence. “Just for a few days. He lost his license for a while too. And got a fine.”

My hand, resting palm down on the grass, clenched into a fist. “A fine,” I muttered.

Cole reached over and touched my hand, nudging it out of its balled up position. “It was four years ago. I’m done being mad about it. Shit happens and you move on, right?”

My grip relaxed under his, but he didn’t take his hand away. Now would be the perfect time to tell him about my father, I thought. He already knew how he died, but he didn’t know I’d been there with him, that I’d been the one to call 911, waiting helplessly for an ambulance just like his father had done for him. I could have told him everything right there on the grass, but I didn’t. Whenever people heard the whole story, they’d give me this look that was a cross between pity and morbid curiosity. I hated that look, and I didn’t want to see it on Cole’s face right now.

“Riley,” Cole said, his voice taking on a tone I’d never heard before. He leaned up on his elbow, making his face level with mine, and tightened his grip on my hand. His gaze flicked to my mouth and I knew he wanted to kiss me. People like Cole always went after what they wanted, even if it was scary.
Especially
if it was scary. For him, life was about living in the moment. For me, it was about looking ahead and planning accordingly. Still, both my heart and my breathing sped up in anticipation, something I’d never felt—and shouldn’t feel—when I was with Cole. Kissing him would surely ruin my “don’t get too attached” plan.

“I should probably be getting home,” I said, sitting up quickly. The temperature had fallen and dusky shadows danced along the ground, giving the park a sinister feel. Mom was probably home now, starting to worry about me. Soon she’d be calling my cell.

“Me too,” Cole said, clearing his throat. “I feel more focused now. Maybe we should do this every night until exams are over.”

He bounded to his feet in one graceful movement while I struggled like an upturned beetle. My legs were tired from all that exercise on the court. Taking pity on me, Cole offered his hand and pulled me upright. We smiled at each other as if our awkward moment had never happened.

“Thanks,” I said, brushing grass off my behind. “Yes, we should do this every night. I mean, if it helps our concentration.”

“You know what else helps?” Cole said as we walked back to his car. “Ice cream.”

I nodded. “Especially if it’s blueberry flavor. Blueberries improve cognitive function.”

“How about chocolate?”

“Dark chocolate, yes. It has antioxidants. Also good for the brain.”

He opened the trunk of the car and threw his basketball in. “How do you know all this?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I like to read,” I replied, feeling a tad defensive. Adam used to hate it when I spouted medical facts. He said it bored him.

“Remember when you said I was the most athletic person you’d ever met?” Cole asked. He slammed the trunk closed. “Well, you’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met.”

“You must not know many girls, then.”

“I know lots,” he said, unlocking my door. “But you’re the only one who educates me on dopamine and antioxidants.”

“Sorry,” I said, my cheeks growing warm as I climbed in the car. Did I sound like one of those annoying know-it-all types?

“Why are you sorry? I didn’t say I minded. I like hearing you talk about all these medical terms and conditions and statistics.” He started the car and eased away from the curb. “In fact, I think I’m going to start going to
you
when I get sick. You seem to know a lot more than my regular doctor.”

“Oh stop,” I said, even though my insides were fluttering at his compliments. He meant them too, I could tell. There was nothing phony about Cole.

“So do you have time for some brain food, or do you need to go right home?”

I thought about the hours of math problems waiting for me at home, not to mention a suspicious mother and a lunkhead houseguest who didn’t care if I plunged into the toilet bowl in the middle of the night. Then I thought about chocolate ice cream with whipped cream and sprinkles.

“Brain food,” I decided. Everything else could wait.

Chapter Eight

Exams ended a couple of weeks later, and I felt like I’d been granted a furlough from prison. No more hours of studying in my room at night. No more reduced shifts at work. No more sitting in stuffy classrooms, trying to ignore the loud nose-breathing of the person next to me and wishing I was at the beach.

My mother and brother did not share in my glee. They were both mourning the loss of Jeff, who’d left last week for his big month-long welding gig. Mom walked around sighing pitifully, and Tristan started every day asking where “dada” was. As for me, I secretly enjoyed the reprieve. The house felt so much
bigger
without Jeff in it.

After a few days of sleeping in and watching TLC shows, I started feeling a little bored and lonely. None of my friends were around. Eva’s family headed to their summer cottage the minute school ended, Sydney was busy with another new boyfriend, Lucas had gone full-time at Jitters, and Cole was working for his dad during the day. I would have gone full-time at Jitters too, just for something to do, but Rudy didn’t need me. Lucas, who’d been there longer, always got seniority when it came to extra hours.

Everyone seemed to have gone and gotten a life without me.

I even missed my exercise/brain food excursions with Cole. Now that exams were over, there wasn’t any need for us to go burn off excess energy. He did that at work, and I did it by walking to the kitchen for more Cheetos during commercials. He still came by Jitters at least twice a week, and we hung out sometimes on my evenings off, but he always seemed exhausted from working outside all day. Nowadays
I
was the restless one.

With all this time on my hands and nothing to distract me, my hypochondria—as Mom called my sensitivity to my bodily rhythms and functions—began to flare up. When my stomach hurt one night after eating too many tacos, I was sure it was appendicitis. When I found a red bump on my hip, my first thought was chicken pox (even though I already had them when I was three). The worst was the nagging pain in my lower back, which sent me to Dr. Kapur’s office in a panic, positive I was about to drop dead any second from kidney failure.

As usual, Dr. Kapur was patient with me. He collected a urine sample and prodded my back and abdomen, feeling for abnormalities. And as usual there were none, unless you counted my mental state.

“Riley,” he said, helping me into a sitting position on the examination table. “Remember when we discussed psychosomatic symptoms?”

I nodded. “Emotional stress sometimes manifests as physical symptoms, I know. But it’s not that, Dr. Kapur. There is something wrong with me. I can feel it. I came here because I thought you could figure out what it is and fix it.” Would I ever find a doctor who didn’t think I was insane?

“All right,” he said, patting my arm. He sat behind his desk, motioning to the chair across from him. I hopped off the table and took my regular seat. I could feel him studying me as I sat there, near tears. “Is everything okay at home?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes,” I said, wary of this line of questioning. We needed to discuss diagnostics, figure out some procedure we could do or some magic pill I could take to make me feel okay again. “I mean, now that school’s over I’ve been by myself a lot, but…why do you ask?”

Dr. Kapur tapped his pen on my chart. “Have you been thinking about your father lately?”

I looked up sharply, surprised he would go there. I’d told him about my father and the details of that night, but it wasn’t something he brought up often. “I think about him sometimes,” I admitted. “More often when I’m home by myself. I don’t really like to be alone in the house.”

“That’s understandable, considering what happened to you there.”

“Happened to
me
,” I said, puzzled as to why he put it that way. “It happened to
him
, not to me. He was the one who died.”

“You were there, Riley. It happened to you too.”

I focused on the BMI chart beside me, willing myself not to cry. It had been a long time since I cried over my father and I didn’t want to do it now. Not here. But Dr. K’s gentle voice and warm brown eyes got to me every time.

“Would you like me to make arrangements for you to talk to someone?” he asked, holding out a tissue. I took it and dabbed at my nose.

“I did that already. A grief counselor.”

“Right after it happened, correct? You suffered through a very traumatic experience, Riley. It was a long time ago, yes, but you’re still processing it. A therapist can help you bring your stress to a manageable level.” He dropped the pen and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t misunderstand me, okay? I don’t doubt you’re genuinely feeling physical pain. You know I’ll always see you, but at some point we have to deal with these underlying issues.”

I blew my nose and nodded again. Maybe he was right. Maybe these symptoms were all in my head. If being left alone in my own house for a few hours a day could turn me into an obsessive, alarmist freak, how was I going to handle college? Living on my own? A demanding career?

“I’ll have Paula send off a referral to Dr. Maser,” Dr. K said as he scribbled in my chart. “She’s an excellent psychiatrist. I think you’ll like her.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was a little freaked about seeing a shrink, but at this point I was willing to try anything.

That evening when Mom got home from work, I told her all about my doctor visit and what he’d said. At first, I thought she might be mad at me for still having issues with something that happened five years ago. I mean,
she
seemed to get over it just fine.
She
didn’t have some sort of weird malfunction in her brain that made her incapable of letting things go. She’d mourned for a long time, of course, and went through the stages of grief right on schedule. Then she met Jeff and had Tristan and things got better. Life went on for her, and for the most part it went on for me too. Still, there were times when I felt stuck at age eleven, unable to stop the loop in my brain that kept bringing me back to that night.

Mom didn’t get mad though. When she heard about Dr. Maser, her face collapsed a little and she pulled me in for a hug. “I’m proud of you, babe,” she said into my hair. “It takes a strong person to ask for help.”

I hadn’t really asked, but I knew what she meant. “So you think it’s a good idea, to talk to someone?”

She finally stopped hugging me. “It can’t hurt. Honey, why didn’t you tell me being alone in the house affected you so much?”

“What could you have done? Quit work to babysit me? I’m sixteen, Mom. I should be able to handle being home alone without feeling like I’m going crazy.” I didn’t mention The Spot in front of the microwave that I couldn’t bear to step on. She’d probably question my mental health even more than she already did.

Later that night, Mom and I were sitting on the couch, watching some sitcom with a really annoying laugh track. After a dose of Advil, the pain in my back had finally tapered to a dull ache. Tristan was in bed but not asleep. We could hear him singing over the baby monitor.
Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star
, it sounded like. His favorite.

“I still think about it too,” Mom said suddenly. “That night.”

“You do?” I asked, vaguely surprised. She seemed so together now, so strong, like she didn’t have time to reflect on the past.

“Of course. Coming home to find your daughter white as a sheet in the living room and your husband dead on the kitchen floor is not the type of thing you forget. Your father was my high school sweetheart, my first love. Things weren’t perfect between us, especially in those last two years, but we did the best we could. Not many teenage boys stick around when their girlfriends get pregnant. For him there was no question. He loved me and adored you. Losing him was…well, it was a nightmare. I wasn’t sure how we’d cope without him.”