The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry Read Free Book Online Page B

are days too late for that. I read terms like Glasgow Coma Scale and initials like MTBI. One Web site calls it “broken brain,” which is the best description I can find before I hear my name.
    â€œEve!” Cooper’s voice.
    â€œOh … Coop.” I shut the laptop. “What are you doing? Why are you out of bed?” I rise to hug my husband and I soften, tenderly touching his pale face. The bandage is tight against his head, shifting his face. In his right profile, I can’t see the damage.
    â€œI can’t sleep forever.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t be out of bed.”
    â€œMy parents are on the way.” He glances toward the back door and I hear the car then, an engine’s purr coming closer.
    â€œYour parents? They’re here?” I point outside. “You called them?”
    â€œNo, my mom called me. Ten times, actually. So I finally got up.” He takes a breath and then asks quietly, in almost a whisper, “How’s Willa?”
    â€œCooper.” My words rush out, unrehearsed, desperate. “She wasn’t drunk.”
    â€œSure, Eve. She wasn’t drunk. What else is she going to say?”
    â€œShe didn’t say it; her blood report said it.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThe thing that tells what’s in your blood or not in your blood. That thing.”
    He looks directly at me now, squinting, so the lines around his one good eye dig deeper. “Then she was on something else. Something that made her seem drunk. Some drug probably.” His voice is a hiss.
    I don’t answer; I can’t. We stare at each another, and then our gaze is broken as Louise and Averitt come through the back door without knocking. They never knock, and deep down I understand this impulse to enter a house that was once theirs, the home where their son lives. But I’m annoyed and it’s this feeling that rises up with its bitter taste.
    I greet them both with a kiss on the cheek. Louise releases her husband’s elbow and takes my hands in hers. “You said you’d call when he woke up.”
    â€œLooks like you woke him for me.” I attempt to smile.
    Louise rushes to Cooper’s side and takes his face in her hands, one palm on each cheek, softly. “My baby. Are you okay? How bad is it?”
    â€œIt hurts, Mom. But I’m okay. Really, I am.”
    Averitt looks to me. “His mother couldn’t stand to think of him hurt and alone. We thought you weren’t home.”
    The disapproval comes in such cordial context, with soft voices and sweet smiles, and yet I feel it, the sinking-stomach, sweaty-palm feeling of inadequacy. “I’m sorry,” I say. And I am sorry, for everything, for all the things that have led us to this moment. I try for explanations and reasons, which I know won’t matter, but I offer them anyway. “I went to check on my sister; I had to meet with the doctors. But I’m home now.”
    Averitt clears his throat and turns his attention to Cooper. “I’m glad you’re okay, son. I spoke to Chief Overman. It was a car wreck; we know that part. And you were driving.” It’s not a question.
    â€œYes, I was driving, but it wasn’t my fault.” Cooper is fifteen years old, defending his report card.
    â€œWell then, what happened?” Averitt asks.
    â€œThat’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I say.
    â€œWell, surely you know.” Averitt doesn’t even look at me; he jabs his inquiry toward Cooper.
    â€œDad, it was pouring rain. I was driving Willa home from a singing gig and the car slid. When I tried to right it, she grabbed the wheel in panic and we hit a tree.”
    Louise glances around the kitchen. “Where’s Gwen?”
    â€œUpstairs, I think,” I say.
    â€œNo.” Cooper holds out his hand to touch my elbow. “She wanted to see Willa. I let her go.”
    â€œOh…”
    Louise