Майкл Корита - If She Wakes

Not because she couldn’t handle I-95, with that press of traffic, cars squeezing you from all sides, like being caught in a tightening fist — of course she could handle that. A simple drive in traffic was no problem, but... well, maybe it was better not to rush things.

She tried not to consider how many months she’d been using that excuse. Tried not to consider that she’d come back to Maine promising herself she would be there just two weeks, that she would clear her head, get away from the tabloid photographers who wanted to run her picture beside images of gorgeous Luke London in his hospital bed, and then go back to LA.

No, she certainly wasn’t rushing things.

The Downeaster left Portland at 8:15 and arrived in Boston’s North Station shortly before noon, and the train gave her a way to relax after a largely sleepless night. Train travel was underrated, she thought. Sure, going by Amtrak took longer than driving, the stations weren’t pristine, and you ran the risk of sitting beside a talkative stranger, but wasn’t that all part of the romance of the rails? Simpler times, as Abby’s dad always said during reruns of black-and-white TV shows.

It was raining when she got to Boston, and she was soaked by the time she caught a taxi driven by a man who smelled like he would have benefited from a few minutes in the downpour, perhaps with a little shampoo mixed in. But, hey, simpler times. She reached the hospital a little after one — five hours to get here for a ten-minute conversation that she could have had over the phone. The shoe box was wet now, the cardboard starting to soften and peel, but the phones inside were dry. She wished she’d thought to put them in a briefcase or something more formal.

Tara Beckley could be seen by visitors if the family and doctor approved it, but Abby made it clear to the receptionist that she did not want to see Tara.

“I’m here for her sister,” she said. “Shannon Beckley. I’ll wait here for her.”

She sat in a vinyl-covered chair and jittered her right palm off a closed left fist as if drumming along to a song and she tried not to think of the hospital in Los Angeles where Luke had died. Abby had done a good job of making visits there. At first. Maybe not so good of a job later. But what was the point? Luke’s eyes were empty, and his family’s eyes were not. His mother stared at Abby with hate, his father stared at her with a naked question of Why couldn’t it have been you? and Hollywood magazines featuring the story piled up on the bedside table. The reporters called endlessly, and everyone advised Abby to say nothing.

She was the only one who could say something, though. Luke couldn’t say a damn thing, couldn’t defend Abby.

Would he have defended you? Sure, he would have. He’d have understood. He wanted to see how far you could push it. That was for him, not you. He loved risk, and he cast no blame.

And, yet... had he yelled at her to slow down just before the last curve? He’d said it so many times, but he’d been laughing, and it wasn’t a command or even a request, just the delight of a kid on a roller coaster saying, Slow down, slow down, but not really meaning it. That was how it had gone. His tone hadn’t shifted when Abby pegged the needle at 145. No way. That was her revisionist memory seeking to take blame, but it wasn’t reality.

Slow down! His hand on her arm, tightening, his nails biting into her skin.

In a hospital three thousand miles away from that scene, the receptionist cleared her throat loudly, and Abby realized how she’d picked up the speed and volume of the drumming of her open right palm off her closed left fist. She looked like a drug addict in need of a fix. Looked like a...

Speed freak.

She flattened her hands and pressed them together as if in prayer, giving a weak smile of apology to the receptionist.

I’m not a speed freak, ma’am. If you’d watched me driving around lately, you’d know I was anything but that.

The doors between the waiting room and the long hallway opened and a tall young woman with red-brown hair and very green eyes, bright enough to stand out above the puffy purple crescents of fatigue, strode through the doorway like a marshal summoned to a fight in a saloon.

“You’re the investigator?” the woman said.

“Yes. Abby Kaplan.” She rose and offered her hand. The woman seemed to consider rejecting it but then shook it grudgingly. Her fingers were long and slender and strong, like a piano player’s. Or like the Boston Strangler’s, judging from her grip.

“What’s this crap about her phone?” she said. “What does her phone have to do with anything?”

Abby saw the receptionist give a tired little shake of her head, as if she were all too familiar with this woman.

“Uh, I was just hoping to meet with the family and introduce myself and then we can get into any questions you all might have,” Abby began, because she knew there was more to the family than this woman, and she figured she might find more friendliness in that group. Or in a rattlesnake den.

“You don’t need to bother meeting the family,” Shannon Beckley said. “I’m the family’s legal representative.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“I’m the closest thing they have right now,” Shannon said. Contrasted against the dark red hair, her green eyes seemed aflame. “And in point of fact, I will be a lawyer.” She paused, and her voice was softer when she said, “Maybe a little later than I’d expected now. Stanford doesn’t stop. Not even for tragedy.”

She gave a cold smile that made Abby pity whoever would have to face this woman in the courtroom in the years to come.

“So I’ll lose a semester maybe.” She shrugged, but it was forced indifference. “Whatever it takes, fine. Because that girl in there?” Shannon pointed to the closed double doors. “She and I have been through...” She caught herself, and Abby had the distinct feeling she was walling off a rise of emotion, brick by brick. She wouldn’t allow herself to fall apart. Not in front of Abby, at least.

“So,” she said when she’d composed herself, “tell me what you’re doing, please, and why her phone matters.”

Yes, the emotion was gone now, and cold steel was back in its place.

“Her mother — your mother — is here, correct?” Abby asked, not because she had any desire to speak to the mother but because she wanted to counter this woman somehow, however politely, and show that she had at least a little power in this situation.

“My mother is glued to Facebook, where she posts updates every ten minutes on a Team Tara page that my stepfather created so she’d have something to do, something that calmed her down that did not involve a tranquilizer. Do you really need to interrupt that?”

Abby remembered Luke’s Facebook fan page, the blog, the Twitter account, all the endless updates fading from hopeful to resigned. She shook her head. “No. I don’t need to interrupt that. I’m just trying to answer your questions, and I was told you needed to see me in person to address them.”

“That’s right. But your boss said you wanted to show me her phone. What’s on the phone?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure if I have it.” Abby lifted the wet shoe box, feeling like a fool, and pulled back the lid. “The guy at the salvage yard gave me this. He’s pulled them all out of cars. I was wondering if one of them belonged to your sister.”

Shannon Beckley’s eyes narrowed and she reached in the box and sorted through the phones quickly with those long, elegant fingers.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Hers was a rose-gold iPhone in a case.”

“Okay. Well, maybe one of them belonged to her passenger, then. The guy who towed the car was positive that he found one of these inside.”