CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Aimee
“Where are you off to?”
I crane my neck over my shoulder. My dad, home early from work, is coming down the stairs cradling a magazine under one arm and a kayak paddle under the other. I don’t ask.
He pauses on the fourth step. “Aimee?”
“I’m actually going down to the pool for a swim.” I finger the strap of the black bathing suit peeking out from under my tank. “It kinda feels like time.”
He flinches in surprise at the words pool and swim, but just barely. He takes the next stair as he works out what to say. “That’s… that’s tremendous, Aimee.”
Tremendous? Who says words like tremendous? “Yeah, um…” I stand and stretch my legs, pressing my slick palms into my thighs. “Try not to make a big deal, okay? I didn’t mention it to Mom.”
Dad smiles. It’s the conspiratorial, it’s-us-against-them smile that he used to use with me. “Of course. No big deal. No deal at all.” He wipes his hands in front of his body to emphasize that he gets it. “Do you want a ride, sweet pea?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m going to take my bike because I actually have a couple of stops to make first.”
The smile slips a bit. “Oh, alright.”
“But hey,” I say, heading toward the garage. “Would you mind checking the air in my tires for me?”
Dad makes me wait while he fiddles with my bike for a few minutes and I feel twelve again. Then he follows me down the driveway and once we’ve reached the end, he hugs me for a long time. We don’t use actual words but it feels strangely like a conversation. As I peddle away, I decide that it’s not perfect but at least it’s a start.
My first stop isn’t far so I don’t have much time to get psyched up. I tell myself that it’s like swimming in a race. You don’t think, you just do.
Don’t think, just do. The words move inside of me like fast water, propelling me down the road, around the curve. Panting, pushing, I drop the bike at the crest of the hard-packed shell walkway, take the familiar front steps two at a time, and ring the bell before I can stop myself. Don’t think, just do.
“Do you know how many times I’ve played the what if game with myself?” The words are fizzing in the air before I can register the lines on her face. “What if we hadn’t gone that night? What if we’d gotten a ride with Brian?” My voice breaks and tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I can barely make myself look at her but I keep going. I came here to talk to Jillian’s mother and that’s what I’m going to do. “What if I had known about the pills? How could I have not known, right? She was my best friend and I thought that was the kind of thing that we told each other. Maybe she’d gotten good at pretending… I-I don’t understand any of it and still, I wake up every morning and think: What if I could go back to that night and choose all over again? What if?”
Mrs. Kearns takes a step forward then stops. “But you can’t.”
“Right. I can’t.” I think of Jillian, taking my hand, jumping into the void. And I think of her taking my keys out of my hand, laughter creasing her eyes. I’m fine.
“Aimee…”
“I’m sorry. I just… God! I miss her so much that it hurts. And sometimes it hurts so much that I’m convinced she’s trapped inside of me trying to beat and claw her way out of my chest.” I pound my fist against my breastbone. “And I don’t even know if that’s what I want… because, because… if she gets out—if the memories stop haunting me—I’ll be alone. Really and truly alone.”
“Oh, Aimee,” she says and her voice holds more sadness than anger. “It’s me that wants to go back. What if I had been stricter? What if I’d gotten her into ballet instead of swimming? What if I were the type of mother to search her daughter’s room? Would I have found the pills then? What if I could go back and live an entirely different life? Would one single choice make a difference?” She closes her tear-soaked eyes. “And, honey, I’m the one who should be telling you that I’m sorry. You were just a kid—a kid that I loved and then turned my back on for one mistake and all the other things that you couldn’t control. Do you know what Jillian would do if she were here right now?”
Unable to look her in the eye, I give my head a little shake.
“She’d slam a door in my face and not talk to me for over a week.” Mrs. Kearns finds my hand, winds her fingers into mine. Her skin is warm and smooth. “You aren’t to blame for Jillian’s death. You never were.”