Page 60 of The Wedding Party

Muffled voices lift outside the door, drawing me out of the convoluted memory that I’m not sure is even accurate. The voices grow closer and despite the soft tones, I make out my parents’ distinct tones in the mix. My gut clenches. Oh God. This is the moment I’ve dreaded, and that dread has me flashing back to a similar moment.

I’m standing with two police officers in the parking lot of the Dairy Queen where my brother and I just ate a few minutes ago, the one by our house, shaking, hugging myself, trying to form words to explain to them what happened to my brother. I can’t look to my left, where he’s in the street, his broken body sprawled out on the pavement.

I don’t want to tell them what happened. I don’t want to tell them, but they push me for more. “We need to know what happened.”

“It was so fast,” I whisper. “We were roughhousing and he’d taken off across the road, trying to beat me across the intersection.” My lips curl around my teeth. “Suddenly the car was just there, and . . . and . . .” My gaze lifts and my words fall away as my eyes lock on the navy-blue Chevy that pulls into the parking lot, my parents’ car. I sob at the sight of it and sob some more. Eric was their son. I’m just . . . I’m the outsider. They’re going to blame me. They’re going to hate me.

I suck in a breath as my mother exits the passenger side of the car and manages two steps before I watch in horror as she collapses. My father rushes to her side, and I sob harder now, sinking to my knees on the hot Texas pavement.

I blink back to the present, but I’m still thinking about that day.

I never finished telling my side of the story, not then, not to the police or my parents. Not everything. I couldn’t talk about it, and my mother couldn’t bear to hear about it, either. So I just didn’t explain what happened to anyone. Not even to Mr. Jordan, the counselor I saw soon after and for years to follow. I never could talk about it, not if I was going to survive it.

I never even really knew if I remembered anything right or wrong.

Chapter Fifty-One

Another set of voices lift from outside the door, and I land solidly in the present, leaving the past and the day my brother died with it. I can now identify Dr. Mendez and Danielle as part of the conversation. I can’t really hear what they are saying, but of course, it’s about me. My mother’s voice comes next, and all I can make out is her frustration.

I shove aside the tray and stand up. This time the thunder in my head doesn’t win. Dragging my IV pole with me, I walk toward the door and lean on the wall by the door as my mother says, “She didn’t do this. My daughter did not kill anyone.”

She’s always been the one who defended me. Always. It hurts my heart to even think about disappointing her. “What about the cut on her belly?” she demands. “She has to be terrified right now.”

“On that note,” Dr. Mendez says, “I’m concerned for your daughter’s mental well-being.”

“My daughter is not insane.” My mother cackles. “Do not even think of going there. She didn’t do this.”

“Honey,” my father coos. “Honey, he’s just looking out for Carrie.”

I can almost see his calming hand on her back and feel her deep breath that follows. “Go on, Doctor,” he urges, which tells me he’s succeeded in bringing down her stress.

I breathe out as well now. She’s calm. I’m calm, too. For now, at least.

“For my part,” he continues, “medically, she has a head injury that can affect her memory, as can a psychedelic reaction to certain drugs, which she certainly was symptomatic of when she arrived.”

“Wouldn’t that show on a drug test?” my father asks.

“Not if it’s a synthetic drug.” He moves on. “Additionally, we have to consider that mental trauma can cause memory loss. In my book, if she’s innocent, her best defense is her memory. Furthermore, I’m not a psychologist, who might be better equipped to help her retrieve those memories. That’s why we have Carrie lined up to speak with a qualified psychologist. I’ll compare notes with that person, and I believe we’ll agree to have her further evaluated upon her return to Denver.”

“All of this is good,” Danielle chimes in. “We’re building Carrie’s defense. We’re protecting her.”

“Defense?” My mother’s voice cracks. “You think she killed him?”

I wait for the answer, and Danielle doesn’t make me wait. “We don’t know what happened,” she explains. “But her best defense is one that prepares for an insanity plea, if it becomes necessary, even one that is drug-induced, and not at her own hand.”

“She didn’t kill him,” my mother says. “This is ridiculous. She’s a nurse. She cares for people. She loves Oliver. She didn’t do it.”

“We have to consider all options,” my father says, as if he’s considered the possibility I killed Oliver.

And he’s what gets to me. He sets me off.

There is a pulse in my jaw that vibrates through my entire body. He is always the one who turns on me. He never really saw me as his daughter. He blamed me for the accident. I tell myself to let it go, but before I can stop myself, I’m dragging my IV pole and shoving open the door, intending to do nothing but quietly defend myself.

To start, that’s what I do. I step into view. “I didn’t do this,” I say, finding my father just a foot away. “I didn’t kill Oliver.” His eyes meet mine, and the doubt I find in his stare cuts me. “I didn’t kill him!” I shout. “Do you understand me?! I didn’t kill him!”

All eyes are on me far and wide, and of course, now I look like a crazy person, just like they claim I am.

I step toward my father to plead for his support, the way I’m always pleading for his love, but the police officer grabs me, holds me. My gaze collides with Danielle’s, and I swear there’s a glint of satisfaction in her stare. This is what she wanted. She’s painting the narrative of me being crazy. Insane. Guilty by insanity.