Page 57 of Goodbye Days

My mom enters, followed by my dad. They wear grave expressions. My dad is holding a newspaper. My heart starts thudding.

“Hi, sweetie,” my mom says. “Can we talk for a second?” Her voice bears the slightest tremor. But for the context of our interaction, I would’ve missed it.

“Um. Sure.”

My dad sits on my bed, and my mom sits next to him. My mom turns to my dad. “Callum, will you? I don’t—”

My dad clears his throat. He holds me in his gaze for a moment and looks down at his newspaper. His voice is soft. Same tremor as in Mom’s. “Carver, Mr. Krantz called and told us about this article in the Tennessean. The district attorney has decided to open an investigation into the accident.”

My pounding heart becomes a drum roll. “Did he say anything else?”

“He said they’ll probably want to talk to you now. So make sure no talking to police unless he’s there,” my mom says.

My mouth is parched. My palms are sweating. I can’t breathe. A horribly familiar feeling. “Can I be alone for a while? I just—I need to be alone.” I try not to sound frantic, even as my lungs collapse in on themselves.

They hug me and leave, gently closing the door behind them.

I fall on my bed, head swimming. Black spots form in my field of vision. I have a fleeting premonition of lying on a prison cot, having an attack.

I guess these miniature deaths are just part of my new landscape. At least I’ll have plenty to talk about with Dr. Mendez at our next session.

When the worst has passed, I text Jesmyn and ask her if she’ll put the phone by the piano and play for me. I don’t tell her why and she doesn’t ask.

It helps a little.

When she finishes, I tell her that I might be heading to prison.

It happens the most when my mind is at its quietest. While I’m drifting off to sleep. When I’m listening to Jesmyn play. When I wish it were filled with the words for my next story but instead it’s a slate-gray winter sky.

I start the what-ifs. The do-overs. The replays.

It’s an absence of action. I don’t text Mars. What else could it be? I guess I could try to keep them from going to the movie in the first place. But that’s harder to imagine because that involves my convincing them not to go to a movie they really wanted to see, with no reason to believe they’d be in danger by doing so.

I don’t imagine what Mars could have done. I wasn’t there. I had no control over that. I don’t imagine what the driver of the semi could have done. I only have control over what I do. And in this scenario, all I have to do is nothing. Nothing is easy to do. I can do nothing.

So I don’t text Mars. Instead, I simply wait fifteen minutes. I tell myself that they’ll be there soon, and texting won’t make them arrive any faster. I’m tempted, but I don’t do it. I don’t text Mars.

While I wait, I flip through a book I’m supposed to be shelving. As I go back to work, I hear an unholy mockery of a female voice.

“Excuse me, young man, where are your copies of Fifty Shades of Grey? Only the new copies, please.” It’s Blake. Eli and Mars stand beside him.

I grin. “You know that book involves humans and not sheep, right?”

“Oh…never mind then.”

We all bust a gut.

“How was the movie?” I ask.

“Awesome,” Blake and Eli say simultaneously, with Mars saying “Shitty.”

They look at him. He shrugs. “DC’s getting owned by Marvel.” They roll their eyes at him.

“Imagine being such a nerd that it prevents you from experiencing joy,” Eli says.

“Hey, I’m surprised you even came to the movie. I thought Jesmyn kept your balls in a little velvet-lined box,” Mars says.

Ohhhhh­hhhhh­h, we all moan.