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The tires squeal to a stop in front of the crosswalk I’m on and I look up at the luxury SUV, finding a brunette with long straight hair and large dark sunglasses staring at me with her hands in the air as if she has more rights than I do. She honks again as I’m trying to pick myself up from the middle of the road. “It’s a crosswalk!” I shout, my voice hoarse and sticky with phlegm.
I scoop up my bag and hold it against my torso as I continue walking toward the lot. Not one of the reporters could be bothered to offer me a hand up.
When I reach the curb along the parking lot, I glance over my shoulder, finding the same dozen still following me but at a car-length’s distance. Nothing I say will make them stop so I pick up the pace, reach into my pocket for my key fob and unlock the car door as soon as I’m within arm’s reach. I lock the doors and toss my bag down onto the passenger seat. They look like zombies, slugging over here as if I’m going to roll down my window and start talking. Before they have the chance to block me in, I pullout of my spot and skim by them, thankful no one is in my way when I pull out onto the road.
I reach over to my bag and feel around for my phone, pulling it out as another wave of unease sloshes through my stomach. I touch the screen and peer over quickly to see if there are any missed calls or messages.
With a couple displayed, I take a turn down a side street filled with a row of on-campus apartments for upperclassmen and pull up against the curb. I glance in my rearview mirror to confirm the reporters aren’t behind me, then bring the phone closer to see what I missed.
1 Missed Call from Lara Smith
1 New Voicemail
THIRTY-ONE
MONDAY, JUNE 12TH 12:30 PM
I’ve been sitting in the parking lot of my apartment complex listening to Lara’s voicemail over and over, wishing I could hear the silent words in between the spoken ones. She’s sobbing, pleading for my forgiveness and rash accusation, and she’s terrified and doesn’t know what to do.
What in the world would make her decide to call me of all people? Surely, she has friends and I know she has family. She’s out of her mind if she thinks I’m going to call her back.
As if she knows I’m staring at the transcribed voicemail, she sends me a text message that makes me want to add her to my blocked caller list.
Lara: I know what you’re probably thinking…
Lara: You have no reason to want to help me after accusing you…
Lara: And I’m sure you’re wondering why I hired you.
Lara: I’m also sure you’ve figured out who my sister was and think that has something to do with this.
Lara: That’s not the case. I remember how kind you were after the fire. I remember you brought us flowers all on your own and told us how sorry you were for our loss. For thirteen, you were far more mature than I was at eighteen.
Lara: It stuck with me, and I felt awful when my parents sued yours for damages and death. It didn’t bring back my sister.
Lara: Then I saw your name in the classifieds and saw how well you were doing in life and…I figured maybe it was a sign that I could make things right with you after everything we had gone through.
Lara: Please, Haley. Can we talk?
A sign? She wanted to hire me to make things right… Until her finger was pointing directly at me as she blamed me for her missing child.
My phone stops buzzing, and I peer out the window toward Willa’s car parked three spots down. She’s waiting for an answer as to why I haven’t spoken to my parents in two years. I’m sure she asked them why when they so kindly pulled her into our family issues—trying to make me sound like a horrible person for pushing them out of my life. I can only imagine what they filled her head with this morning or what she thinks she knows about my relationship with the two of them.
I tap the screen on my phone, glancing at the messages from Lara again. If only these texts were from Liam, I might not have a pit growing at the bottom of my stomach. I need to put thatthought out of my head until the end of his school day though. My worrying thoughts are irrational, unlike Lara’s.
Sheshouldn’t want to talk to me after so obviously involving me in this situation. An attorney should be guiding her on how to handle this matter.
With the car ignition still running, I pull the gear into reverse and back out of my parking spot. I step on the gas and peel out of the lot, watching my apartment blur into the distance behind me.
In the very first psychology class I took, we studied the importance of perspective-taking, a method of attempting to see through another’s eyes, embrace their thoughts, empathize with their emotions, and take on their story as if it were our own. When we can adjust our mindset to match those we are trying to help, we form a better connection, and the probability rate of successful treatment rises. The method sounded easy at the time. I grew up learning to put myself in someone else’s shoes before assuming I knew everything there was to know about them. As a child this isn’t particularly difficult, but as an adult there are multiple layers to work through before successfully understanding the inner workings of another adult’s mind. A common adult can retain and access up to hundreds and thousands of memories and experiences at any given moment.
Lara’s life was uprooted thirteen years ago when her sister died in the fire. The trauma likely caused a plethora of compound side effects, many of which could have gone undiagnosed and unrecognized even by herself.
A cry for help can’t always be seen or heard but it can be a trap.
Everyone else would call me foolish, but I’m okay with that. I’m not. I’m intelligent and I fear for a nine-year-old child’s wellbeing, maybe two.
I pull onto the pebbled driveway, listening to the now familiar crunch beneath my tires. The front door doesn’t open upon expecting my arrival. Natural responses are best found when someone is unexpectedly confronted.
