Mom and I hem and haw about the possibility of Utah for a couple of days, but then a witness to the actual accident comes forward and Brad Freeman is officially charged with vehicular manslaughter. The number of reporters outside our house grows from ten to twenty overnight and Mom decides she doesn’t want me to have to deal with it. Springdale, Utah, here I come.
It turns out a spaceship to the moon might have been quicker, because I have to take three different planes just to get close to where Dad lives. First I fly from St. Louis to Phoenix, then to Salt Lake City, and then into the town of St. George, which is about forty miles from Springdale. By the time I get off the third flight, I’ve logged an impressive eleven hours of traveling.
My dad is sitting on a bench, tapping away at his iPad when I enter the baggage claim area. I figure he’s probably doing something work-related, so I walk right past him and head for the black conveyor belt to grab my own bags.
“Uh, excuse me,” he says. “Father here, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.”
I stop and turn back to face him. He’s made quite a recovery since I last saw him—freshly shaven, hair artfully arranged in a style that hides his gray. No more rumpled shirt or dark circles under his eyes. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about me. My injuries are healing nicely and I’ve “regained full mobility,” physical therapist talk for saying I don’t walk like a one-legged turtle anymore. “I saw you. I just didn’t want to disturb you. I can grab my own bags.”
“You could never disturb me.” My dad rises up from the bench, leaving his computer completely unattended while he pulls me into a hug.
I squeeze him somewhat awkwardly. He left St. Louis the day before I got out of the hospital, so this is our first real hug in quite a while. Right after I had almost died and it was just him—no stepmom—it was easy to forget that I had spent the last couple of years mad at him, not just for breaking up our family, but for the way he did it, cheating on my mom for months and lying about it. But now I’m going to be face-to-face with that woman in less than an hour and my body is tight with tension.
“Someone’s going to steal your iPad,” I mumble into his armpit.
Dad pulls back and gathers his things. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to smother you. I’m just so glad you’re here.”
We turn toward the baggage carousel together. There’s only one, because this entire airport has only one gate.
“And like most men, I live to tote around heavy luggage for beautiful women,” my dad adds.
“Be careful what you wish for,” I say, as I pull the first of two shiny purple hardtop Samsonite suitcases onto the carpeted floor of the airport.
Dad tests it with one hand and fakes like he can’t even lift it. I point out my second bag—an even bigger one—as it nears us. He heaves that bag from the conveyor belt and arches an eyebrow at me. “Could there possibly be more?”
“Nah, that’s it.”
We each take one of my bags and head for the exit. “Thank you for coming to get me,” I say. “I figured you’d have patients to see, so you’d have to . . .”
“Send Rachael?” Dad arches a blond eyebrow.
“Yeah, I guess.” I fiddle with the handle of my suitcase, suddenly focused on peeling off the black-and-white airline tag.
“I had a valve replacement and a pacemaker insertion, but I finished surgery by four so I could do my rounds and come get you.” He pauses. “But I hope you’re going to cut Rachael a little slack while you’re here. She and I both made mistakes, but I’m the one who hurt you and your mom, okay?”
I nod. I’m pretty sure Mom blames Rachael as much as she blames Dad, but I don’t really know the details and I don’t want to. Rachael tried hard to get to know me when she and Dad got engaged, but after I made it clear I had no interest in that, she left me alone. So basically, as far as stepmoms go, I could do a lot worse. “I will,” I say.
“Good. She’s really looking forward to seeing you again,” Dad says. “Now please tell me you’re hungry, because I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
“Oh my God. All I got on the plane was a small bag of low-fat pretzels. I’m hungry enough to eat an entire cow.”
“I think there might be restaurants here where that’s possible,” he teases. “How do you feel about pizza? Real pizza, with meat and cheese. Not that gluten-free, vegetarian, flavorless crap your mom likes.”
“Sounds good.”
“Perfect. There’s a great pizza place in Springdale, so if you can last another forty-five minutes or so, we’ll wait until we get home and then walk over.”
“You live walking distance from a pizza place?”
“Almost everything is walking distance in Springdale,” Dad says. “Or if not, the national park runs a free shuttle through the town that anyone can hop on and off.”
“Cool,” I say. But then on the way out to the car, I notice a couple of girls with hot pink and white zebra-print luggage staring at me. It’s not their luggage that grabs my attention. It’s the black-and-white piano key bracelets they’re both wearing. Just like the bracelet Dallas used to wear.
I drop my sunglasses back over my eyes and lift a hand to my hair to make sure my headband is still covering the craniotomy scar. Mom took me shopping yesterday and bought me a pack of five headbands so I could wear them every day. She also let Shannon dye my hair brown so I would be less recognizable in Utah, though according to Mom I was being “a little paranoid.”
“So what’s with the new look?” Dad asks. “Testing that theory about whether blondes have more fun?”
Brown hair plus my new “soccer mom hairstyle,” as Shannon called it, mean I look nothing like the senior picture still being splashed all over the internet. I shrug. “I just needed a change.”
“Well, it’s very pretty,” Dad says.
“Thanks.”
Dad stops in front of a modest-looking midsize car and clicks his key fob to unlock the doors. He pops the trunk and lifts my suitcases into it one at a time.
“A Prius, huh? Who are you?” I open the car door and slip into the passenger seat.
“I’m a guy who screwed up when he was younger and made it all about the things instead of the experiences. But it’s never too late to change, right?” Dad slides into the driver’s seat and looks over at me. “Not that this isn’t a nice car.”
I fall silent as we pull away from the airport. It’s miles outside town, so all I can see are reddish-brown hills stretching off into forever. It reminds me of the way Mars usually looks when they show it in movies.
“So,” I say. “Is this what Utah looks like? Just piles of dirt everywhere?”
Dad snorts. “I don’t know. Is Missouri just one big cornfield?”
“Okay. Good point,” I say. “I guess I was just expecting something different. The internet made it sound like the whole state is full of breathtaking monuments.”
“There are quite a few monuments,” Dad says. “Just not right next to the airport.” Gradually the desolate landscape transforms into suburbs as we exit onto Interstate 15 and pass through St. George. Dad chats about some of his recent surgical cases. I try to focus but my eyes keep scanning everywhere. Aside from the mountains off in the distance, this city doesn’t look much different from Wentzville, the town where Dallas lived.
A few miles later, we leave the outskirts of St. George and the landscape grows barren again. We start to climb in elevation. Off in the distance, soft sweeping mountains give way to higher, sharper rock formations. The sky is so blue and bright, like it’s being lit up by a turbocharged sun in some other galaxy.
Dad exits the interstate and turns onto Highway 9. We hit the edge of a town called Hurricane and pass a couple of small subdivisions and a paintball place.
He drums his fingertips on the steering wheel. “I’m so glad you’re getting a chance to see all this.”
I’m about to ask what he means by “all this” when the sprawling parking lot of a Walmart Supercenter comes into view. “Hey, there’s a monument,” I say.
“Ha.” Dad glances over at me. “When you see how tiny Springdale is, you’ll be begging to borrow my car so you can drive back here.”
“Doubtful,” I mutter. “I’m not big on driving these days.” My MINI Cooper has sat in the garage since the accident. Mom tried to get me to take it out and drive it around the block a couple of times to keep everything running smoothly, but just the thought of crawling behind a steering wheel made me almost throw up.
We pass through two more small towns called La Verkin and Virgin. Just as I start thinking how awkward it would be to live in a town called Virgin, Dad points out the river running alongside the road. “That’s the Virgin River,” he says. “It runs all the way through Zion National Park.”
“It’s cute,” I say. The rivers back in St. Louis are wide and full of barges and floating casinos. This looks more like a stream.
“Well, when you see Springdale and Zion Canyon, keep in mind the whole thing was formed by that cute river.”
When we finally hit Springdale, it looks more like a small town in a movie than a place where people actually live. The buildings are made mostly of wood or stucco, with hand-painted signs in front advertising businesses like the Zion Prospector and Springdale Candy Company. People walk along the side of the road, some dressed in shorts and T-shirts and some in more rugged-looking hiking gear.
“They like rocks here, huh?” I ask, after we pass a second store with big bins of quartz and other stones for sale out front.
A smile plays at Dad’s lips. “They do like their rocks.” He gestures out into the distance.
Set back from the road, walls of red rock, banded with stripes of pink and white, rise up on either side of us, bright green vegetation sprouting improbably from the lower areas.
“It’s like driving into a painting,” I say. “What do you even call all this? They’re not mountains, exactly.”
“Cliffs?” Dad offers. “Plateaus? I’m not sure, but Rachael can tell you all about the geology of this area if you’re interested.”
“I was just curious. I can Google it.”
Dad turns off the main street and pulls the car into the driveway of a modest-looking ranch house. “We’ll just drop off your stuff and then head to the pizza place.”
As I slide out of the car, I see another girl about my age walking along the edge of the road. She’s not paying us any attention, but I can’t stop thinking about the girls at the airport. I figured Dallas wouldn’t be well-known here since most of the locals are older people. But I completely forgot about all the tourists who come through Springdale to go to Zion National Park. We’ve passed at least six motels on this road alone. Suddenly brown hair and sunglasses don’t seem like enough of a disguise.
“On second thought, I’m kind of tired,” I say. “And I should probably take a shower after all those plane rides. Any chance we can get that pizza for delivery?”
“Sure. Or better yet, I can pick it up while you settle in.” Dad lifts both of my suitcases out of the trunk of his car and we each wheel one up to the porch. He unlocks the front door and we step into an airy living room with a mildly vaulted ceiling, two overstuffed sofas, and a big-screen TV with surround sound. The décor is mostly earth tones, with one wall taken up by a stone fireplace.
“This is nice,” I say.
“Thanks. I assure you I had nothing to do with any of the decorating, unless you count picking out the television.”
I give him a sideways glance. “It’s smaller than the one at Mom’s.”
“Yes it is. As I said, I’m trying to exercise a bit of restraint in my old age.” Dad turns down a hallway before I can reply. “Rachael and I set you up a bedroom, but there’s a second spare room at the back of the house, so you’re welcome to whichever one you prefer.”
“I’m sure whatever you guys set up will be fine.”
Dad pushes the door open and immediately I can see how much effort he put into decorating it. He must have gotten Grandma Larsen to make another horse-themed patchwork quilt at some point, because the one on this bed is almost exactly the same as the one I have at home. There’s also a desk and chair that look like they were hurriedly assembled from IKEA, and a wooden shelf protruding from the wall that’s stocked with paperback novels.
Dad and I used to trade books back when I was in middle school. He’d give me the latest medical thriller by Tess Gerritsen or Robin Cook and I’d give him something by Dean Koontz or James Patterson, and then we’d compare notes at our weekly Sunday brunch, occasionally held on Monday night if Mom or Dad were on call that weekend. My mom thinks reading fiction is a brain-melting pursuit, so after Dad and I finished discussing a book she’d give us the highlights of the latest scholarly paper she’d read, twisting the clinical findings so that they sounded like a thriller novel.
I miss those days.
“This is great, Dad. Thanks.”
He exhales deeply, his body visibly relaxing. “Oh, good. I was worried you might hate it. The bathroom is right across the hall. You should be able to find towels and washcloths and all manner of girlie shower products you might need in the linen closet.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
“I’ll order the pizza and probably just walk down the street to pick it up.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Okay.” I close the door to my room and lie back on the bed. It’s surprisingly comfortable and I peel back the lavender sheets to find a memory foam mattress. Wow. Dad really went all out for me.
I curl onto my side and notice a series of pictures hung along a recessed area of the wall. Three photos of my dad and me from when I was young. In the first one we’re both riding horses out by Six Flags. I’m about eight years old but I look tiny sitting up on the giant horse the stable gave me. Dad has his horse pulled up right next to mine, so close our legs are touching. The second one is the two of us at a water park for my fourteenth birthday. I remember my mom taking this photo. Both of my parents seemed so happy that day—I felt like we were the perfect family. Now I’m wondering how much of that was an illusion, if my parents’ marriage was already starting to fracture, but I was just too blind to see it.
The third picture is of my dad standing behind me while I’m on a rocking horse, a Christmas present he built for me when I was three. I blink back tears. I loved that horse.
I turn away from the pictures and pull my smaller suitcase up on the bed. I start grabbing what I’ll need for a shower, trying to ignore the rumbling in my stomach.
My phone buzzes with a text. Shannon. I debate ignoring it for a second. I just got here and I want to enjoy the feeling of having completely escaped St. Louis. But it’s Shannon, and if she ignored me, I’d be hurt. I swipe at the screen.
Her: Are we there yet or what?
Me: Just got to Dad’s house. Preparing to wash off the airplane cooties and eat a crapload of pizza.
Her: I can’t believe it took you all day to go three states.
Me: They’re big states :P
Her: I know you’re going to be happier getting away from everything for a bit, but I miss the hell out of you already.
Me: Miss you too.
Even though I’m relieved to have escaped the reporters and the nosy kids at school, I really do miss Shannon. My dad said I could bring her with me if I wanted, but she’d already committed to a summer job in St. Louis and her mom wouldn’t let her back out.
Her: Don’t go replacing me with some cowgirl who says “Yeehaw” or anything.
Me: You know you’re irreplaceable <3
Her: You too, G. Call me later if you want.
Me: Okay. All the <333
Her: All the hugs.
Before I can even set the phone down it starts to ring. Mom.
“Hi,” I say. “I made it. I’m here.”
“You’re all the way to Springdale?” my mom asks.
“Yeah. Sorry, I should’ve called you from the airport. I was distracted by hunger, I think. Dad’s actually picking up a pizza right now.”
Mom clucks her tongue in disapproval. “That man is going to end up just like his patients.”
I should have known better than to mention my father. “Yeah, okay. I’ll keep in touch while I’m here,” I promise.
“Yes, do,” my mom says. “Oh, but I called for another reason. Detective Blake needs you to call her.”
So much for completely escaping. “What for?”
“She just wants to check and see if you’ve remembered anything else that might be helpful with the case the DA is building against Brad Freeman. I told her you’d call tonight.”
“Ugh, Mom. Couldn’t you have just told her no for me?”
“I tried, but she said she needs to hear it from you for it to be official.” Mom sniffs. “I get the feeling she thinks I’m a bit overbearing.”
Normally that would make me smile. Mom? Overbearing? Where would anyone get that idea? But there’s a weird gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about talking to the detectives again.
Mom rattles off the number I’m supposed to call and I scribble it down on a piece of scrap paper from my purse. “If you don’t call her, she’s going to call you.”
“Okay. I can do it right now.” It’s almost eight p.m. in St. Louis. Hopefully, Detective Blake will be gone for the day and I can just leave a message.
“I’m assuming you haven’t remembered anything else?”
“Not yet,” I say.
“Then keep in mind what we talked about, all right?”
“I will. I’m not going to say anything stupid.” I think about the onslaught of words and images that hit me while Ashley Losito was trying to push herself into the house. The rain. The dark pavement. Genna, what are you doing? What if I really was on the left side of the road?
But I can’t tell the police about a bunch of memory fragments and some vague hunch that I might have been responsible for the accident with nothing else to go on. It’ll just mess up their case, like my mom said.
I hang up and call Detective Blake. The phone rings once . . . twice . . . three times. I breathe a sigh of relief and start to compose a voicemail message in my head.
But then a voice says, “This is Blake.”
Pain knifes through me as my heart skips a beat. I can’t believe she’s answering her work phone so late.
“Hello?” she says.
I debate hanging up, but then I realize she’s almost definitely got caller ID and it will take her two seconds to find out who I am and call me back. “Hi, this is Genevieve Grace,” I say rapidly. I continue talking without giving her a chance to reply. “My mom said you wanted to know if I remembered anything else about the crash.”
“Genevieve. Thanks for getting back to me,” Detective Blake says. “As you know, Brad Freeman has been charged with manslaughter. The DA just wanted me to check in with you to see if you remembered anything more from that night that might help.”
My heart skips another beat. I take in a deep breath. “Unfortunately, I don’t have anything that can help with your case. I’m sorry.”
“So you haven’t regained your memory of the accident then?”
“I haven’t,” I say. “I’m sorry. I mean, I wish I had.” I need to stop apologizing. It probably sounds fishy.
“Well, you have my number, so let us know if you remember anything, all right, even if you’re not sure it’s useful.”
“Will do,” I force out, my voice high and unnatural. My heart makes up for those skipped beats by pounding double-time as I disconnect the call. It’s not like anything I said was a lie, but it still feels like I’ve done something wrong. Almost criminal.
Like I’ve crossed a line that I can’t come back from.