Was all of this somehow her fault?
At moments like those, she would slip down the hall toward Kyle’s bedroom and watch him while he slept. He slept with a white blanket curled around his head, small toys in his hand. She would stare at him and feel sorrow in her heart, yet she would also feel joy. Once, while still living in Atlanta, someone had asked her if she would have had Kyle if she had known what lay in store for both of them. “Of course,” she’d answered quickly, just as she was supposed to. And deep down she knew she meant it. Despite his problems, she viewed Kyle as a blessing. If she conceived it in terms of pros and cons, the list of pros was not only longer, but much more meaningful.
But because of his problems, she not only loved him, but felt the need to protect him. There were times each and every day when she wanted to come to his defense, to make excuses for him, to make others understand that though he looked normal, something was wired wrong in his brain. Most of the time, however, she didn’t. She decided to let others make their own judgments about him. If they didn’t understand, if they didn’t give him a chance, then it was their loss. For despite all his difficulties, Kyle was a wonderful child. He didn’t hurt other children; he never bit them or screamed at them or pinched them, he never took their toys, he shared his own even when he didn’t want to. He was a sweet child, the sweetest she’d ever known, and when he smiled . . . God he was just so beautiful. She would smile back and he’d keep smiling, and for a split second she’d think that everything was okay. She’d tell him she loved him, and the smile would grow wider, but because he couldn’t talk well, she sometimes felt as if she were the only one who noticed how wonderful he actually was. Instead Kyle would sit alone in the sandbox and play with his trucks while other children ignored him.
She worried about him all the time, and though all mothers worried about their children, she knew it wasn’t the same. Sometimes she wished she knew someone else who had a child like Kyle. At least then someone would understand. At least then she’d have someone to talk to, to compare notes with, to offer a shoulder when she needed to cry. Did other mothers wake up every day and wonder whether their child would ever have a friend? Any friend? Ever? Did other mothers wonder whether their children would go to a regular school or play sports or go to the prom? Did other mothers watch as their children were ostracized, not only by other children, but by other parents as well? Did their worries go on every minute of every day, seemingly without an end in sight?
Her thoughts followed this familiar track as she guided the old Datsun onto now recognizable roads. She was ten minutes away. Round the next curve, cross the bridge toward Edenton, then left on Charity Road. Another mile after that and she’d be home. The rain continued to fall, and the asphalt was black and shiny. The headlights shone into the distance, reflecting the rain, diamonds falling from the evening sky. She was driving through a nameless swamp, one of dozens in the low country fed by the waters of the Albemarle Sound. Few people lived here, and those who did were seldom seen. There were no other cars on the highway. Rounding the curve at nearly sixty miles an hour, she saw it standing in the road, less than forty yards away.
A doe, fully grown, facing the oncoming headlights, frozen by uncertainty.
They were going too fast to stop, but instinct prevailed and Denise slammed on the brakes. She heard the screeching of tires, felt the tires lose their grip on the rain-slicked surface, felt the momentum forcing the car forward. Still, the doe did not move. Denise could see its eyes, two yellow marbles, gleaming in the darkness. She was going to hit it. Denise heard herself scream as she turned the wheel hard, the front tires sliding, then somehow responding. The car began to move diagonally across the road, missing the deer by a foot. Too late to matter, the deer finally broke from its trance and darted away safely, without looking back.
But the turn had been too much for the car. She felt the wheels leave the surface of the asphalt, felt the whump as the car slammed to the earth again. The old shocks groaned violently with the bounce, a broken trampoline. The cypress trees were less than thirty feet off the highway. Frantically Denise turned the wheel again, but the car rocketed forward as if she’d done nothing. Her eyes went wide and she drew a harsh breath. It seemed as if everything were moving in slow motion, then at full speed, then slow motion again. The outcome, she suddenly realized, was foregone, though the realization lasted only a split second. At that moment she blasted into the tree; heard the twisting of metal and shattering of glass as the front of the car exploded toward her. Because the seat belt was across her lap and not over her shoulder, her head shot forward, slamming into the steering wheel. A sharp, searing pain in her forehead . . .
Then there was nothing.
Chapter 3
“Hey, lady, are you all right?”
With the sound of the stranger’s voice, the world came back slowly, vaguely, as if she were swimming toward the surface in a cloudy pool of water. Denise couldn’t feel any pain, but on her tongue was the salty-bitter taste of blood. She still didn’t realize what had happened, and her hand traveled absently to her forehead as she struggled to force her eyes open.
“Don’t move . . . I’m gonna call an ambulance. . . .”
The words barely registered; they meant nothing to her. Everything was blurry, moving in and out of focus, including sound. Slowly, instinctively, she turned her head toward the shaded figure in the corner of her eyes.
A man . . . dark hair . . . yellow raincoat . . . turning away . . .
The side window had shattered, and she felt the rain blowing in the car. A strange hissing sound was coming from the darkness as steam escaped from the radiator. Her vision was returning slowly, starting with the images closest to her. Shards of glass were in her lap, on her pants . . . blood on the steering wheel in front of her . . .
So much blood . . .
Nothing made sense. Her mind was weaving through unfamiliar images, one right after another. . . .
She closed her eyes and felt pain for the first time . . . opened them. Forced herself to concentrate. Steering wheel . . . the car . . . she was in the car . . . dark outside . . .
“Oh God!”
With a rush, it all came back. The curve . . . the deer . . . swerving out of control. She turned in her seat. Squinting through the blood in her eyes, she focused on the backseat-Kyle wasn’t in the car. His safety seat was open, as was the back door on his side of the car.
Kyle?
Through the window she shouted for the figure who’d awakened her . . . if there had been a figure. She wasn’t quite sure whether he had been just a hallucination.
But he was there, and he turned. Denise blinked . . . he was making his way toward her. A moan escaped her lips.
Later she’d remember that she wasn’t frightened right away, not the way she should have been. She knew Kyle was okay; it didn’t even register that he might not be. He’d been strapped in-she was sure of it-and there wasn’t any damage in the back. The back door was already open . . . even in her bewildered state, she felt certain that the person-whoever he was-had helped Kyle out of the car. By now the figure was at the window.
“Listen, don’t try to talk. You’re pretty banged up. My name is Taylor McAden, and I’m with the fire department. I’ve got a radio in my car. I’m gonna get you help.”
She rolled her head, focusing on him with blurry eyes. She did her best to concentrate, to make her words as clear as possible.