My mother, however, was convinced he’d feel differently eventually. She wanted me to be part of this, just as she wanted me to talk to Peyton when he called collect and write him letters, both things that I resisted. I knew this made me a terrible sister. But I hadn’t known what to say to my brother when he was sitting across this very same breakfast table, much less locked away in a prison in another state. It came naturally to both my mom and Ames to still be fully on Team Peyton, despite what he’d done to David Ibarra, not to mention our family. It wasn’t that easy for me.
I’d spoken to him only twice since he’d been sent away, both times when I was the only one home to answer the phone. Letting it ring until it went to voice mail was not an option. It was not easy for Peyton to get access to a phone. If he did, we were to accept the call and stay on as long as he was allowed to talk. Period.
I’d learned this the hard way one afternoon when my mom was at the grocery store. I answered, said yes to the call, then waited through a series of clicks and beeps. Finally, my brother spoke.
“Sydney?”
It was the first time I’d heard his voice in over a month. He sounded far away, like he was standing back from the receiver. Also, there was a steady buzz on the line, which made it hard to make him out. “Hey,” I said. “Mom’s not here.”
I regretted this the minute I said it. In my defense, though, she was the one he usually spoke with. If my dad answered, the conversations were always shorter and more about legal issues than anything else.
“Oh.” There was a pause. Then, “How are you?”
“I’m okay. You?”
I winced. You don’t ask someone in prison how they’re doing. Just assume the answer is “not so good.” But Peyton replied anyway.
“I’m all right. It’s boring here more than anything else.”
I knew he was just making conversation. But all I could think of was David Ibarra in his wheelchair. That had to be boring, too.
“You should write me a letter,” he said then. “Fill me in on what’s going on with you.”
This conversation was hard enough. Now he wanted me to put words on a page? My mom had said that mail could be a huge element in a prisoner’s mental health, which was why she’d recruited many in our family and several close friends to send letters and postcards. She’d even provided stamps and addressed envelopes, a stack of which sat untouched on the desk in my room. Every time I even thought about pulling out a piece of paper to try, all I could imagine was filling that empty white space with all the words I could never, ever say. Silence was safer.
I’d ended the call soon after, telling him I’d let my mom know he’d phoned. When she walked in ten minutes later and I passed along the message, she went ballistic.
“You didn’t wait until he was told to hang up?” she demanded, dropping one of her cloth shopping bags with a clunk on the island. “You just hung up on him?”
“No,” I said. “I said good-bye. We both did.”
“But he could have talked longer? No one was stopping him?”
I suddenly felt like I might start crying. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
My mom bit her lip, then looked at me for a long moment. Finally, she sighed, reaching out to put both her hands on my shoulders. “Sydney. I cannot emphasize enough how important it is for your brother to have contact with the outside world. Even if you only talk about the weather. Or what you ate for lunch. Just talk. Keep him talking until his time on the phone is up. It’s critical. Do you understand me?”
I nodded, not sure I could speak without sobbing. When she turned around to unload the groceries, I had to take several deep breaths before I was calm enough to help her.
The second time I’d talked to Peyton was when I came home from having coffee with Jenn and found Ames on the phone with him.
“Your gorgeous sister just walked in,” he said into the receiver, then waved me over with his free hand. “Yep. Oh, don’t worry. I’m keeping the boys away from her. They’d better think twice before they come around our girl.”
I felt my face get hot, the way it always did when he said stuff like this. Oblivious, he grinned at me, pulling out the chair right beside him.
“Yeah, she’s right here, I’ll put her on. Uh-huh. Be there in a few days with vending machine money in hand. Right. Here she is.”
He handed the phone out to me, and I took it. The mouthpiece was hot from his breath. I tried to hold it away from my own lips as I said, “Hey, Peyton.”
“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.” I looked at Ames, who was watching me. “Did you, um, get to talk to Mom yet?”
“Yeah. She answered when I called.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Well—”
A loud tone sounded on the line, followed by a recording announcing that the call would terminate in thirty seconds. “I’d better go,” my brother said. “Tell Mom I love her, okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Bye, Sydney.”
I didn’t reply, and then the line went dead. Still, I sat there a second, letting the dial tone fill my ear, before I hit the END button. “Time’s up.”
“Always comes too quickly,” Ames said. He smiled at me. “He sounds good, right?”
I nodded, although to me he hadn’t really sounded like anything. Not even Peyton.
But that was the phone; Family Day would be face-to-face. Now, in the kitchen, I sat down, picking up my fork while Mom slid into a seat across from me. I’d been starving since I smelled the bacon cooking, but now the last thing I wanted to do was eat.
“Is Dad going to this thing?”
“If he’s in town,” she said, taking a tiny nibble of her toast, then chasing it with coffee. “Otherwise, it’ll just be you, me, and Ames.”
I put my fork back down. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m worried I might freak out or something.”
She looked at me. “Freak out?”
I shrugged. “It’s just kind of scary.”
“It is,” she agreed. She took another sip. When she spoke again, her voice had a hard edge to it. “It’s very scary. Especially for your brother, who is locked away, alone, with no support system other than us, his family.”
“Mom,” I said.
“If he can deal with that for seventeen months,” she continued, “I think you can handle being slightly uncomfortable for a couple of hours. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” I said softly. She was still glaring at me, so I repeated it, more loudly this time. “Yes.”
That was the last we spoke of it. By the time I left ten minutes later, she was back to normal, checking that I had lunch money and waving to me from the front window as I pulled out of the driveway. As far as she was concerned, the matter was handled.
I, however, was still shaken. At school, I cut the engine and just sat in my car, watching everyone else head to homeroom until the bell rang and I had no choice but to join them.
Jenn called as I was walking to lunch, as had become our routine. She and Meredith would put me on speakerphone, so it was kind of like I was there as they caught me up on what was going on at Perkins. There was something soothing about their voices that balanced out the constant cacophony of Jackson. Today, though, it was Jenn who heard something.
“Are you okay?” she asked me after Meredith caught me up on the meet she’d had that weekend.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You just don’t sound like yourself,” she said. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” I said. I had a flash of that flyer on the table. “It’s just really noisy here. Like always.”
As if to punctuate this point, there was a burst of laughter just behind me. “Good Lord,” Meredith said. “How do you even concentrate?”
“I’m just walking to lunch,” I told her. “It’s not
that mentally challenging.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Now I was turning on everyone.
“Sorry,” I said. “Look, let me call you guys back in a bit, okay? I’ll just get somewhere quiet.”
“Okay,” Jenn replied. “Talk to you later.”
Meredith didn’t say anything. She was incredibly physically tough, but always the first to get flustered at raised voices or confrontation. “Bye, Mer,” I said, trying.
“Bye,” she replied, but now it was she who was clearly not okay. Before I could speak again, though, they were gone.
I sighed as I stepped out into the courtyard. As I walked to the food trucks, I glanced over at the grassy spot where Layla ate, but the benches there were empty. I got a grilled cheese and a drink, then sat down on the wall, dropping my bag at my feet. Then I did something I hadn’t allowed myself to do in weeks: I pulled out my phone, opened the browser, and typed in two words.
David Ibarra
There was a time I’d done this almost daily. I’d spent hours following the Internet presence of this boy I’d never met. I’d learned that his nickname was Brother because, according to one of the many articles after the accident, he treated everyone like family. His name popped up on several video game forums, so I knew he was really good at Warworld. The sports archive of the local paper had all his rec soccer stats: strong on defense, not so much on scoring. And while his Ume.com profile was private, there was an open page dedicated to him called Friends of Brother, which appeared to be maintained by his sister. That was where I’d gotten most of the info on his recovery and various fund-raisers to help with his medical bills. It was also a source for page after page of comments from his friends and family.
So proud of you for your continuing strength and courage! We love you.
Won’t be able to make the spaghetti dinner, but we’re sending a contribution. You’re our hero, Brother.
Sending good wishes from here in the Lone Star State! Can’t wait to see you at the reunion. Stay strong.
So many times I’d imagined leaving a comment of my own, although I knew I never could. My last name was the last thing they wanted on that page, even with an apology following it. But that didn’t stop me from crafting what I’d write. Sometimes, on really bad days, I’d go so far as to imagine myself going to him in person and saying everything I carried so heavily in my heart. Would he listen, and maybe somehow understand? In the next beat, though, it would hit me like a slap how pathetic I was for even thinking this. Like there was anything I could say that would give him that night—and his legs—back.
The hardest thing, though, was the summary of the Ume.com page, posted at the very top. I could wade through a hundred comments of love and good wishes. These few sentences, though, hit me like a punch to the gut, every single time.
In February 2014, David Ibarra was hit by a drunk driver while riding his bike home from his cousin’s house, leaving him partially paralyzed. This page is dedicated to his story. Please leave a comment! And thank you for your support.
Now, on the wall, I read these familiar words once, then twice. Like it was some sort of mantra, a spell to cancel out what had happened that morning with my mom. I’d always remember the truth. Just to be sure, though, I made a point of bringing it front and center, right there before my eyes
There had been no shortage of bad moments in those early weeks after Peyton’s accident. But one had really stuck with me. It was a passing remark I’d overheard as I came down the stairs one day. My parents were in the kitchen.
“What was a fifteen-year-old doing out riding his bike at two in the morning, anyway?”
Silence. Then my dad. “Julie.”
“I know, I know. But I just wonder.”
I just wonder. That was the moment I realized my mom would never be able to really hold Peyton responsible for what he’d done. Their bond was too tight, too tangled, for her to see reason. Like anyone deserved to be hit by a car and paralyzed. Like he was asking for it. For days afterward, I had trouble even looking at her.
In February 2014, David Ibarra was hit by a drunk driver while riding his bike home from his cousin’s house, leaving him partially paralyzed. This page is dedicated to his story. Please leave a comment! And thank you for your support.
I just wonder.
“Hey.”
As I looked up, startled, I had this fleeting thought that I would see David Ibarra in front of me. But it was Layla. When she saw my face, her eyes widened.
“What’s wrong?”
I swallowed, hard. And then, somehow, I was talking. “My brother’s in prison for drunk driving. He left a kid paralyzed. And I hate him for it.”
As I spoke, I realized I’d held these words in for so long and so tightly that I felt the space they left empty once released. It was vast enough that I could think of nothing to follow them.
Layla looked at me for a long moment. Then she sat down beside me and said, “So there’s this thing about me.”
I don’t know what reply I’d been expecting from her, but it wasn’t this. I said, “I’m sorry?”
“I never forget a face. Like, never. I wish I could sometimes.” She swallowed, then turned to look at me. “I saw you, in the courthouse. A few weeks back? You were coming out of the bathroom.”
Until that moment, I had totally forgotten everything about that day except Peyton being sentenced. But as she said this, the rest of the details came rushing back. Ames taking me to the bathroom and waiting outside. Washing my hands, dreading rejoining him. And a girl who met my eyes and didn’t look away.
“That was you?” She nodded. “I’d forgotten.”
“I know. Anyone else would have. But I recognized you the minute I saw you at Seaside.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Because it tends to creep people out.” She sighed. “I mean, for everyone else, you see a stranger and then forget them. Faces only stick for a reason. But with me, it’s like a photograph, filed away in my mind.”
“That’s nuts,” I said.
“I know. Mac always says I should join the circus, or run a scheme or something, so I’m at least putting my power to use.”
We were quiet another moment. Finally I said, “Why were you there?”
“At the courthouse?” I nodded. “I was with Rosie. She’s had to check in with the judge about her progress every couple of months since she got busted.”
I had a flash of the crack her sister had made about Logan Oxford and Layla’s equally snide reply. “Was it drugs?”
“Yep.” She sat back, turning up her face to the sun. “After her knee injury, she got a bit too fond of the Vicodin they gave her. Tried to pass off some fake prescriptions. Totally moronic. Got arrested, like, instantly.”
“Did she go to jail?”
Layla shook her head. “Rehab. Then they put an anklet on her. She just got it off a couple of weeks ago.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. You think she’s grumpy now, imagine her stuck in the house for six months.” She sighed. “It’s her own stupid fault, though. So infuriating. She had everything going for her and just blew it.”
“That’s like my brother.” It was new to be talking to someone I didn’t know well about this, but easier than I would have thought. “He had so many chances. But he kept getting into trouble anyway. And then the accident . . .”
I trailed off, not sure how much further I wanted to go into this. Layla didn’t say anything. In the silence, I realized I did want to keep talking. Really badly, actually.
“He’d been sober for over a year. Doing really well. And then one night, for no reason that we can figure out, he got drunk and behind the wheel. Hit a kid riding his bike. The kid is in a wheelchair now. Forever.”
Layla winced. “Wow. That’s awful.”
It was. It was real
ly, really awful. And not just for Peyton, my mom and dad, or even me.
“His name is David Ibarra.” I looked down at my hands. “I think about him all the time.”
“Of course you do.” She said this simply, flatly. “Anyone would.”
“It’s like you with the faces. I can’t stop.” I took in a breath. “And my mom, it’s like she can’t see what Peyton did for what it is. She just worries about him and how he’s doing, and my dad doesn’t talk about anything, and now she wants me to visit him. And I don’t want to. At all. We got in a fight about it this morning.”
Saying this, I realized one reason I’d never spoken to Jenn or Meredith this way. Layla might have known my face, but she was still a blank slate when it came to Peyton, not already in possession of some bias or feeling toward him. Unlike everyone else in my world.
“If you don’t want to go, you shouldn’t,” she said. “Just tell your mom you’re not in that place yet.”
“I don’t know if I ever will be. I mean, I’ve always loved my brother,” I said. “But I really hate him right now.”
Across the courtyard, someone laughed. Two girls in field hockey uniforms passed by, one on the phone, the other opening a piece of gum. Happy, normal lives going on in happy, normal ways, in a world that was anything but. Once you realized this, experienced something that made it crystal clear, you couldn’t forget it. Like a face. Or a name. However you first learn that truth, once it’s with you, it never really goes away.
CHAPTER
6
FOR THE first couple of days after I told Layla about Peyton, I kept waiting to regret it. It was strange, telling the story from the beginning instead of catching someone up on only the latest awful chapter. Like finally I was in a place quiet and safe enough to hear it, too. Just the facts, laid out like cards on a table. This happened, then this, then this. The end.