Finally he volunteered to give me a lift to my hotel—he was so kind and self-assured, “You’re doing great, I’m sure you’re eager to get out of here”—but I asked him to take me to the hospital instead. The next few hours reside in my memory as a murky movie montage: sitting in a waiting room, asking everyone and no one if my friends were okay; reaching for my phone again and again, realizing with a squirt of cortisol that I didn’t have it. I was untethered, a helium balloon that could float up into the stratosphere and pop without anyone noticing.
As the day began to wane, the ER’s doors slid open and ushered in a puff of hot air. A couple rushed inside. They reminded me a bit of my parents: thinning hair and crinkled eyes, but with the slim frames and expensive glasses of those who won’t give up their coolness without a fight. They glanced around, then hurried up to the front desk.
The woman behind it, whose hair was a beautiful tower of corkscrew curls, looked up at them with the same unimpressed glare she’d given me. I tilted my head, listening hard. Something about this stylish couple prickled at me, beyond their passing resemblance to my folks. Why did they look familiar?
The woman opened her mouth and the world stopped.
I froze and listened harder, in disbelief, with that same sense of corked time as when something wakes you in the middle of the night and you listen, listen, listen, waiting to see if it happens again.
But luckily for me, the receptionist made them repeat themselves, and this time there was no mistaking it.
“I’m Jennifer Rusch,” she said—Jamie’s mother. “We’re here to see Kristen Czarnecki. She’s our goddaughter.”
CHAPTER 42
I elbowed my way up to the desk.
“I’m Kristen’s friend,” I announced. “Have you heard anything?”
“She’s in emergency surgery.” The receptionist glanced up from her computer. “We won’t have updates till she’s out of the OR.”
“When will that be?” Jennifer Rusch and I said in unison.
The receptionist knitted her fingers together. “Can’t say.”
The Rusches turned to me, their eyes wide. “What happened? What do you know?”
“She— There was an accident. Can we sit down?” The room below me was tilting, the way the earth sways when you get off a carnival ride.
Thomas—I remembered their names from the memorial website with sudden certainty, Thomas and Jennifer—gestured toward a corner of the waiting room.
“Sorry, how do you know Kristen?” I asked, even though I knew. What I meant was: What are you doing here?
“We used to be next-door neighbors,” Thomas replied. “We were close with Kristen’s parents. We live in Las Vegas—Kristen’s grandfather called and we drove straight down. They’re on a flight here now. The doctor who called them said Kristen’s in critical condition.”
I was tingling everywhere, shock sparking me from the inside. I’d assumed it, intellectually—I’d seen her lifeless legs at the bottom of the canyon. But hearing it now ignited my grief, like gas fumes catching fire.
“They didn’t want Kristen to be alone,” Jennifer added. “We hadn’t heard from Bill in probably ten years. But I guess we’re the only people they know within driving distance. They didn’t…none of us knew she was here.”
“It’s awful.” Thomas’s hand swept over the nape of his neck.
Jennifer frowned at me. “And you’re her friend? You came out here together?”
“Not…exactly.” My voice cracked, a hair’s breadth away from sobbing. “I’m Emily Donovan, and I live in Milwaukee. I was—”
They interrupted with self-introductions, Tom and Jenny, and we resisted the urge to trade nice-to-meet-yous.
“So, my boyfriend and I came out here last night. And this morning Kristen…surprised us.”
“Surprised you?” Jenny repeated.
I nodded. “I didn’t know she was coming. She’s living with Nana and Bill.” I shook my head, unable to organize the pieces. “And you’re their old neighbors. Jamie’s parents.”
Jenny paled as Tom turned fire-engine red, as if the two shared a single blood supply.
“How do you know about Jamie?” Tom demanded.
I rubbed at the bridge of my nose. “Kristen told me about her—she said they were best friends.”
A look zapped between them.
“Who are you again?” Jenny stared as if she’d only just noticed me.
“I’m Emily. Kristen’s friend.” My stomach roiled and my voice bubbled with reflux. “My boyfriend was in the car accident. He’s in surgery now too.” I closed my eyes and the scene ran beneath my eyelids again: the front of the car plunging into Kristen, and then the entire mass pivoting downward, a roller coaster at the tippy-top of its hill.
“Wait, your boyfriend was in the car with Kristen?”
“No, he—he was driving the car that hit her.” Their brows lifted. “I think he was coming to get me, and then there was…an accident. It was a mountain road, with a drop-off on the side. He went over it and—and the car took out Kristen too.”
A stunned silence. Tom dropped his elbows onto his knees. “Why was Kristen on the side of a mountain road in Phoenix?”
This was it. I took a deep breath, steeled myself. “She had just pushed me. Into traffic. She didn’t know it was my boyfriend driving, and she certainly didn’t think he’d turn the wheel in time. But she…she pushed me.”
Another glance flickered between them. I searched their faces: alarm, horror, disgust, check, check, check. Noticeably absent: surprise.
Why would she try to kill you—that’s the question I expected next, that I was bracing for, my mind running a million miles an hour. It didn’t come.
It was now or never. “She followed me here. It was nuts. I was trying to get away from her, but Aaron—my boyfriend—posted a photo with a location tag, and she flew out here like it was nothing. And then she made it sound like I was the one who wanted her here, like it’d been my idea. She’s…I think she’s unhinged.” I shook my head and smeared at my tears. “I’m sorry—I heard you say she’s your goddaughter. I know how weird it sounds, but it’s the truth.”
They were silent, stone-faced. A doctor appeared, a stethoscope slung around her neck, and asked for Mr. Meuleman’s family. I darted over and met her skeptical “You’re family?” with a blank nod. I knew from the front desk that someone had contacted Aaron’s parents, at least.
“I won’t beat around the bush—the surgery was a success,” she announced, and I melted with relief. “That said, it’s going to be a long journey to recovery. He has a broken nose and multiple facial-bone fractures, two broken ribs, hemothorax—that’s a pocket of blood between the chest wall and the lung—and a shattered patella.”
“But he’ll be okay?” My voice was hoarse.
She nodded. “It’ll take some time and some physical therapy, but we expect him to make a full recovery.”