This time, I do.
Polly answers, saying only hi. But in that one syllable, I can tell she’s been crying, probably for a long time.
“Where did you get that?” I say, too shocked to cry myself. “Did Finch send you that?”
“No. It’s actually a photo I took off his phone. They don’t know I have it,” she says, her words slurring together a little.
“They?” I ask, even though I already have a pretty good guess who his wingman is.
“Finch and Beau. I found so many photos of them with girls,” she says. “Including me.”
“You?” I say, floored.
“Yeah. And videos of me and him, too,” she mumbles. “Sex videos he told me he deleted. But they’re all there. On his phone…”
“Oh my God, Polly!” I say, completely freaking out. “You have to tell on him. We both do!”
“No,” she says. “I can’t. My parents would kill me.”
“But we can’t let him get away with this!” I say. “We can’t!”
“It’s too late.”
“What do you mean it’s too late?” I shout. “The Honor Council meets tomorrow. It’s not too late at all!”
“I can’t….I’d rather be in trouble for what they’re saying I did than have my parents see all of this.”
“No!” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong! You just had sex with a boy you liked.”
“You don’t know my parents,” she says, her voice sounding oddly distant. “I can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t…I just want to disappear…forever.”
“No, wait! Polly!” I yell into the phone, but she’s already hung up.
My mind races, wondering what to do, just as I hear my dad call me for dinner. I suddenly want to see him—if only not to be alone—and practically run to the table.
“Voilà. Linguine and clams,” he says when I get there. “Just pretend they’re not from a can. And the broccoli’s not from a bag!”
I manage to force a smile. But of course he sees how fake it is and says, “Are things really that bad?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I say, feeling shaky. “Kinda. Yes.”
“Talk to me,” he says through the steam still rising from our plates of pasta.
I want to tell him. I really do. I even take a deep breath and try to tell him. But I just can’t. Not about this. I get one of my intense pangs of wishing Mom were around. Well, maybe not Mom herself. But a normal mother.
“Lyla? What’s going on?”
I shake my head, then tell him the truth. That I love him and he’s a great father, but this just isn’t the kind of thing I want to talk with him about. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
I expect him to get frustrated, maybe even angry, but instead he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a Post-it note. He slides it across the table and says, “Here.”
I look down and see Nina Browning’s full name printed in small, pretty script. Under it is her phone number. “She gave me this today—to give to you.”
“Why?” I say, picking it up, surprised to realize that there is nothing I’d rather be holding at this second than Mrs. Browning’s phone number.
Dad shrugs and says, “I guess because she’s worried about you. And she likes you. She said you could call her. Anytime.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s so nice.”
Dad nods and says, “Yes. She is nice.” Then he picks up his fork and suggests we eat.
“Dad? Can I please be excused?” I ask.
He looks surprised, and maybe a little disappointed, but simply says, “Yes. Go ahead. You can eat later.”
* * *
—
A MINUTE LATER, I’m back in my bedroom, the note still in my hand. I dial her number. “Mrs. Browning?” I say when she answers on the first ring.
“Yes. Is this Lyla?”
“Yes. My dad just gave me your number….Are you busy?”
“No,” she says. “I was just finishing coffee. I’m at Bongo. The one near you.”
Feeling overcome with relief that she’s so nearby, I ask her if she’ll come get me. I tell her that I need to talk to someone about Polly. That it’s kind of an emergency. That I’m worried she may try to hurt herself.
Her voice is calm and reassuring as she tells me she’s going to hang up and call Polly’s parents—and she’ll head over to see me after that.
“Are you sure?” I say, feeling guilty. “I know it’s getting late.”
“I’m sure, Lyla,” she says. “I’ll be right there.”
After leaving Tom and Lyla’s house earlier this afternoon, I do not go home. I can’t. Instead, I drive around again. Only this time, it’s not quite as aimless. As filled with despair as I am, I have a vague purpose now, along with hope. I am looking for somewhere to live after I move out, trying to imagine the beginning of a new, different life. I decide East Nashville really might be the answer. Not the only answer—I can actually picture moving back to Bristol for a while. Or maybe I’ll get an apartment in Princeton—or wherever Finch winds up going to college. But if I do stay in Nashville, I want to be on this side of the river, with people less like Kirk and Melanie, and more like Tom and Lyla. All I know for sure is that Finch is now my only real priority, and wherever I physically end up, I will do everything I possibly can to help him become a good man. The person I know he can be.
As afternoon becomes evening, I wind up at the same coffee shop in Five Points where Tom and I first met. Our table is taken, but I sit at the one next to it, laying out the real estate brochures and newspapers that I’ve picked up over the day. I then pull a pen from my purse and start circling listings while I sip a decaf latte. I allow myself to dream a little about all the possibilities of a new life that could lie ahead for Finch and me.
Then, just as I’m gathering up my things with thoughts of going home, my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. At first I think it might be a realtor calling me back, as I’ve contacted a few already. But when I answer it, I hear a girl’s voice saying, “Mrs. Browning?”
“Yes,” I say. “Is this Lyla?”
“Yes. My dad just gave me your number….Are you busy?”
“No,” I say. “I was just finishing coffee. I’m at Bongo. The one near you.”
“Oh, wow,” she says, then blurts out, “Could you come get me?”
“Now?” I say.
“Only if you can….I’m just worried, and it’s kind of hard to talk to my dad about this,” she babbles, then uses the word emergency. Of all things, she says she’s worried about Polly. That she may do something to hurt herself.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, heading toward my car. “What happened?”
“She’s just really, really upset about some things,” Lyla says.
I tell myself that teenage girls are prone to melodrama, and yet, I can’t help but think of some of the calls I’ve answered for Nashville’s suicide helpline, as well as the girl from Windsor who took her life. The very reason Kirk and I went to the gala the night of Beau’s party. “Honey, let me try to call the Smiths,” I say. “Then I’ll head over to see you. Okay?”
“Are you sure?” Lyla says. “I know it’s getting late.”
“I’m sure, Lyla,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”
In a low-grade panic, I hang up and log on to the Windsor directory, finding the Smiths’ home and cell numbers. I don’t expect them to answer—and they don’t—but I leave multiple messages asking them to please call me. I add that it’s urgent and about Polly. Then I start my car and drive back to Avondale for the second time today.
When I arrive five minutes later, I see Lyla standing by the street, her white high-top sneakers, light jeans, and a silver bomber jacket all glowing in my headlights. There’s no way that I could miss her, but she still waves frantically at my car, t
hen runs up to my window.
“Hi,” she says, out of breath. “Did you call Polly’s parents?”
“Yeah. I tried them, but no one answered.”
“She’s not answering her phone, either,” Lyla says.
“Okay,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I think I’ll drive over there and knock on the door. Just to be sure.”
Lyla nods, then asks if she can come with me.
For reasons I can’t pinpoint in the adrenaline-filled moment, I feel relieved by the offer. Her mere presence. “Okay,” I say. “Is it all right with your dad?”
“Yes. I told him you were coming over. But I’ll text him,” she says, then runs around my car and gets in. The second her door is closed and her seatbelt fastened, she pulls her phone from her jacket pocket.
As I do a quick three-point turn, then make a right on Ordway, I ask Lyla to tell me more about her conversation with Polly.
I feel her looking at me as she hesitates, then says, “She told me that she has proof it wasn’t her who took that picture of me. And that there are other pictures, too. Of other girls.”
“What kind of pictures?” I say.
“You know…embarrassing…sexual-type pictures she doesn’t feel like she can tell Mr. Q or her parents about.”
As things start to come into horrifying focus, I clench the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. “Lyla?” I say. “Did Finch take these pictures?”
“Yes. Along with Beau, apparently,” Lyla says softly. “I might not have believed her…but Polly sent me one of them tonight. It was of me. And Finch. When I was passed out. And it was…really bad.”
“Oh my God,” I hear myself say, my heart shattering.
As I press down on the gas pedal, I am bombarded with images of Finch. The perfect newborn baby sleeping in my arms. The spirited five-year-old, making rutabaga stew on the steps of the Parthenon. The ten-year-old at the beach, building sand castles with Julie’s girls, only half his age.
I just can’t believe it. What’s happening now. The person my son has both slowly and suddenly become.
And yet I do. Because sometimes you just can’t see the things that are the closest to you.
* * *
—
BY THE TIME we pull into Polly’s driveway, my focus has returned to her, and what we need to do in the moment. All the lights are on and two cars are in the driveway. I take it as a hopeful sign, although I can still think of a bad scenario, too.
“What should we do?” I say, as if Lyla’s the adult and I’m the child.
“I dunno. Go ring their doorbell?” Lyla says, just as a figure passes by one of the front windows. “Is that her?”
“I can’t tell….It might be her mom,” I say.
“We should probably just go find out,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, but I feel paralyzed with fear.
Lyla, on the other hand, swings open her door and gets out of the car. I stare at her, marching toward the house, amazed by her bravery. I make myself follow, reaching her as she’s ringing the doorbell, noticing how much her stoic profile resembles her father’s.
A few seconds later, we can hear someone coming to the door. I hold my breath, then stare into Mr. Smith’s eyes. His first name suddenly escapes me.
“Hello, Nina,” he says, looking first startled and confused, then angry but calm. “What brings you here so late?”
As I open my mouth to reply, he shifts his gaze to Lyla and says, “And you are…?”
“Lyla Volpe. The girl from the photograph,” she says, talking quickly and utterly matter-of-factly. “But we’re not here for that, Mr. Smith. We’re here because you and Mrs. Smith weren’t answering your phones…and neither was Polly. And I’m…we’re…really worried about her.”
He furrows his brow and says, “Worried how?”
“Um…Well…Polly called me earlier today. And she sounded really upset….”
“She is upset,” he says, shooting me a harsh look.
“Is she here?” Lyla presses onward.
“Yes. She’s in her room,” he says, now looking full-fledged pissed. “But she has nothing more to say about this.”
Meanwhile, Polly’s mother appears over his shoulder. “Yes. None of us do,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “And I’m so sorry for overstepping…but could you just…check on her? Lyla’s worried that Polly may be in trouble….”
“Just what are you suggesting?” Mrs. Smith says, her voice ice cold, pushing past her husband.
“I’m suggesting that your daughter may be trying to hurt herself,” I say, my voice finally conveying my sense of panic.
I watch as their expressions drastically change, both of them spinning away from us and flying up the spiral staircase. Mr. Smith takes the steps two and three at a time, his wife not far behind. I feel frozen again but manage to turn and look at Lyla, her expression mirroring the way I feel. One second later, we hear horrible shrieking. First them calling Polly’s name, then frantic shouts for us to call 911. Lyla finds her phone first, her fingers dialing those three dreaded digits.
“I’m calling to report an emergency,” she says, her voice shaky but slow and clear. “I think someone has tried to kill herself….Yes, just now…a girl…seventeen….The address?…Hold on….” She looks at me, wide-eyed with fear.
I blank for the second time in minutes, unable to conjure even the street name. What is wrong with me, I think, as Lyla heads right up the stairs, shouting, “I need your address! I’m on with 911!”
I hear more hysterical screaming. Then nothing. A second later, Lyla reappears at the top of the staircase, wildly motioning at me. “Mrs. Browning! You need to move your car! An ambulance is coming!”
In a state of shock, I do as I’m told, running to my car, then back to the foyer, where I pace and pray. For both Polly and Lyla.
It is totally impossible to process. Both where I am and what I am watching unfold, second by second. Only a few hours ago, Polly was my mortal enemy, and now I am standing in the corner of her enormous bedroom, the walls painted a muted gray-lavender, witnessing the most intensely personal, gut-wrenching moment of her life. A moment that could possibly end in her death.
Her parents are here, too, of course, both of them hysterical, and no less so since the arrival of two paramedics—a badass all-female team doing what I’ve seen so many times on Grey’s Anatomy and countless other shows and movies. Checking Polly’s vitals. Moving her from her canopy bed (the same one I’ve admired in the Restoration Hardware Teen catalog) onto a stretcher. Cutting her black sweatshirt right down the front with a huge pair of scissors. Ripping open packages of vials and other supplies. Inserting a tube down Polly’s throat. All the while, they talk to each other in a foreign medical language, while trying to keep Mr. and Mrs. Smith at bay.
At one point, when Polly convulses and her mom really starts to freak out, one paramedic looks up at me and shouts for my help. “Get her back,” she says.
“Mrs. Smith. Let them work!” I say, rushing forward to hold her arm for a moment. Before I retreat again, I get an unwanted closer look at Polly. Her body is completely limp, her skin pale. Yet, thank God, she still looks more asleep than dead. Then again, I’ve never seen a dead person. I pray that Polly won’t be my first. She just can’t die.
I look away from her, returning my gaze to the empty bottles of Ambien and Maker’s Mark that her dad was holding when I first ran into the room and that are now on the floor next to the bed. Her mom’s pills and her dad’s booze—details gleaned when the paramedics first arrived and asked their questions. How many pills were left? How much whiskey was still in the bottle?
At least a dozen, Mrs. Smith said.
Half a bottle, Mr. Smith said.
I wonder now whether the combination was purposeful. Polly’s one-two pu
nch to her parents, whom she felt she couldn’t talk to in a crisis. Or maybe, actually, her relationship with them was more like mine with my dad. Maybe Polly loved her parents so much that she would rather die than see shame on their faces.
If only she could see how much worse this is. How much more painful, even if she winds up being okay.
I can’t help thinking of my dad on the night he picked me up at Grace’s. How much it must have hurt him to see me the way I was. I vow that no matter what, I won’t ever do something like this to him. That I will take better care of myself. Make better decisions. Be more like him and less like my mother. It’s the least I can do.
Suddenly Mrs. Browning is in the room beside me, holding my hand. I notice that her back is to Polly—that she doesn’t look at her once, not until the stretcher is being carried out of the room and down the stairs and to the ambulance. Mrs. Browning and I follow, then stand on the porch, still holding hands, watching as Polly’s parents climb into the back with the stretcher and one of the paramedics, while the other one runs around to get in the front and drive. We stand there, frozen in place, watching as the ambulance races away in a blur of red lights and wailing sirens.
After everything is silent once more, I turn and close the Smiths’ front door. We then walk to Mrs. Browning’s car and get in, both of us staring out the windshield.
“Do you think she’s going to be okay?” I say to Mrs. Browning but mostly to myself.
She shakes her head, then wipes away tears. “I don’t know, sweetie. But if she is? It will only be because of you.”
“And you,” I say. “Thank you for helping me.”
Mrs. Browning looks into my eyes. “You’re welcome….And I promise you, Lyla, I’m going to keep helping you.”
“Thank you,” I say, my mind returning to the photograph Polly sent me, just as Mrs. Browning brings it up, too.
“Lyla. You have to come forward about the pictures Finch took. You know that, right?”
I stare at her.