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“With their advanced ages, the bones will take much longer to heal. They’ll require extensive physical therapy—for months. I’ve given your sister all the paperwork.”
I nod, numbly. “All right. Thank you, Doctor.”
I turn around and gape at Colleen, who’s leaning her blond head against the wall.
“How did this even happen?” I ask.
My sister holds up her hands. “How it happened? That’s a whole other story.”
I flinch. “Do I want to hear it?”
“Nope.” She grins evilly. “But I had to, so you’re going to also.”
Colleen fixes her gaze behind me. “Ryan, you’re back. Perfect timing.”
I turn around—and look at that—Ryan Daniels is a Lakeside cop. I did not know this. He’s also the older brother of my high school boyfriend—I practically lived at his house for those four years. The last time I remember seeing him was when he came home from college early and caught me and his brother dry-humping on his parents’ living room couch. Great.
He smiles at me warmly. “Hey, Callie. Good to see you.”
“Hi, Ryan.”
He must be thirty-six or thirty-seven now, but he looks almost the same as I remember—just with some new, light wrinkles around the eyes and a few strands of gray in his dark hair. But he’s still broad, tall, and handsome, like all the Daniels boys.
“So . . . I reviewed the report again and, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to give your dad a ticket for the accident. There’s really no way around it. Reckless driving.”
Colleen nods, suppressing a giggle. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” My father yells from inside the hospital room. “I’ve never gotten a ticket in my life and I’m not paying the man now!”
Then he starts to sing “Fuck tha Police,” by NWA.
“Dad!” I yell. “Stop it! I’m so sorry, Ryan.”
“They’ve got them hopped up on a lot of painkillers,” Colleen explains.
He chuckles. “No problem.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck the police . . .”
I clench my teeth. “How does he even know that song?”
“The new Buick he bought came with a free satellite radio subscription,” my sister says. “He’s been listening to Urban Yesterday, all the classics are on there—NWA, Run-DMC . . . Vanilla Ice.”
My father stops singing and goes back to yelling. “I remember you, Ryan Daniels—puking in our rosebushes after drinking that crap liquor you brought to Colleen’s sweet sixteen!” Then he does a spot-on impression of Scarface. “You’re not giving me no stinking ticket.”
A pink flush crawls up Ryan’s neck. “Wow. Your dad has a really good memory.” He calls into the room, “Sorry about those rosebushes, Mrs. Carpenter.”
“That’s all right, honey,” my mother’s gravelly voice calls back. “You can regurgitate in my bushes any day—as long as you rally afterwards.”
I cover my eyes. Praying for a tear in the space-time continuum to swallow me whole.
“So, a reckless driving ticket?” I ask Ryan. “Dad’s usually a great driver; what happened?”
“His mind wasn’t on the road, that’s for damn sure,” Colleen answers.
Ryan’s flush burns brighter. “Your parents were being . . . affectionate . . . at the time of the accident.”
“Affectionate?” I repeat, happily clueless.
Until Colleen ruins it.
“Mom was blowing Dad,” she busts out, then folds over with horrified laughter.
I think I scream. Because those words should never, ever be put together in the same sentence.
“We had a good night at the slots in AC,” my mother yells back. “We were celebrating.” Then her tone turns disgustingly proud. “I’ve still got it. Though I think taking out the dentures might’ve helped.”
I’m stunned, speechless—afraid to say anything that could make it worse. With my mom and dad it can always be worse.
“Your parents are so much funnier than mine,” Ryan says, and now he’s cracking up with my sister.
“Oh yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. “Wanna trade?”
~ ~ ~
Coming home to Lakeside always feels kind of odd—the way everything seems smaller and yet, no different at all. It’s been longer this time since I’ve been back . . . years. I look out the window as my sister drives us from the hospital to my parents’ house, passing the streets I know so well and the sweet ghosts that live on every corner. Colleen fills me in on the latest happenings around town—who’s having babies, who’s getting divorced. There was a fire at Brewster’s Pharmacy a few months ago, but they rebuilt, painted it an ugly orange color.
It wasn’t really a conscious decision for me to come home less often . . . life just sort of worked out that way. Money was tight my first few years of school; my parents were footing the bill for two full-time college tuitions, and a plane ticket from California to New Jersey wasn’t cheap. I waitressed my way through those first Thanksgivings and spring breaks at a diner near campus . . . only coming home for Christmas.
It wasn’t bad—I liked San Diego—the newness of it, the sunshine. And my mom had, once upon a time, hitchhiked her way from one corner of the country to the other—so she was always encouraging me and Colleen to get out there, see the world, make their own nests, and get to know the birds on all the other branches . . . to fly.
