True Intentions (2 page)

He was definitely intrigued, but I wasn't saying one
thing.

"What is so funny?" he started to question me, taking his eyes off the road and looking into the rearview mirror.

"Nothing," I insisted, smiling mischievously while opening the laptop as a distraction.

"Bull—" he started to say, but didn't finish because our dad was starting to tense up in the passenger seat.

"Aiden, keep your eyes on the road for God's sakes," our father demanded, slamming his right hand on the side window. This caught Aiden's attention. I was off the hook, at least for now. I sat back and sighed deeply. The traffic on the expressway wasn't too bad this morning. My grin intensified as my confidence grew. I may not end up wasting my entire day at the stupid store after all.

At least my essay might keep my mind off the dreaded school dance and my obligatory costume field trip with the boys.

The keys clicked as I typed away on my computer. The words transferred easily from my mind to the document for what seemed like quite a while. At least long enough that my wrists were getting sore and I was running out of ideas. Without warning, Dad loudly yelled Aiden's name, which caused me to jump up in my seat. I instinctively looked up and out the front window, seeing multiple things happening simultaneously. I caught only a glimpse of a semi crossing the yellow centerline before my head slammed against the back headrest. It was with such extreme force I never actually saw the truck impact our vehicle. Glass shattered throughout the car as the airbags deployed, making a horrific, loud noise. A sharp pain went down my arm causing me to cry out in agony. My left arm was way too injured to move or even to make the attempt to unbuckle my safety belt. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a strange fog engulfed the car, clouding my vision. I struggled to keep my eyes open. I was uncertain if the fog was due to a concussion from my head slamming into headrest or from the smoke coming out of the engine. It was becoming harder and harder to see.

Then he appeared from nowhere. A bystander, or maybe even a paramedic, in jeans and a gray T-shirt, leaned inside the driver side window and checked Aiden's pulse. One thing was weird—his clothes. He must be a bystander since a medic would surely be in some type of uniform, not street clothes. I wanted to call out, but my dry, irritated voice cracked when my lips parted. Before my throat cleared, and I was able to give a second attempt, the man swiftly removed his hand from Aiden's neck and drew it back outside the window. Within a split second, the figure disappeared into the traffic stopped on the freeway.

Stunned, I helplessly watched him leave. Why hadn't he approached the passenger side to check on Dad or me?

Sirens blared nearby. My heavy eyelids blinked repeatedly until they fully closed—I was too tired to keep them open. The light inside the car faded, and darkness filled my vision instead.

* * * * *

Awakening now, the bright, white light glaring down on my battered face, I don't really want to speak. I'm drained. Excuses hesitantly run in my mind about why I should keep my eyes closed instead of answering the "what day of the week" question.

After a few moments of deliberation, I muster up the energy to call out.

"Saturday."

I struggle to see clearly. My vision still isn't quite right. All the equipment and people around the room look blurry. But several silhouettes surround me—all wearing scrubs. As my vision becomes clearer, I notice two officers fully decked out in Chicago police uniforms standing in the corner.

I must be in an emergency room.

My heart speeds up, making the EKG monitor sound louder.

"It's okay, Ava, lay back down," a beautiful, mocha-skinned female in blue scrubs instructs me. Then she turns her head away and yells to someone else in the room, "Her mom can come back now."

I immediately recognize her voice as the same one that had asked me what day it was. Against my strongest desire to get away from this brightly lit, cold, and somewhat creepy room, I lie back on the gurney.

My internal dialog automatically kicks in.

Which room are Aiden and Dad in
?

This daunting question makes my stomach feel queasy. I want to curl up in a ball.

Every possible scenario spins through my mind. There has to be an explanation why I can't remember anything about being transported to the hospital.

Unconsciousness is the only thing logical.

My mother's voice abruptly breaks my train of thought and causes my eyes to open as wide as possible.

My head turns. She's on my right side. Before a word can leave my mouth, she grabs my hand and squeezes. I relax, her skin's warmth calming me.

Everything's going to be okay,
I remind myself.

"Ava, honey," she says in a voice so quiet it is almost a whisper.

I'm immediately suspicious of her tone. She never talks in a whisper. She is one of the loudest people I know.

"Ava . . ." she starts once again, this time pulling my chin up until our eyes lock.

She looks horrible. I have never seen her look so pale, so drained. Her eyes are bloodshot and sullen. Whatever she has to say is going to be very
bad.

Tears form in the corners of my eyes. Even blinking rapidly has no effect on the salty water piling up.

"Yes?" I answer in a voice even quieter than her whisper. I'm not completely sure she can hear me.

She doesn't reply. Instead, she's motionless, and appears to be searching for the right words. She exhales loudly, finally ready to speak.

"Ava, you guys were in a bad car accident." Her voice shudders. A single tear runs down her cheek as if she has been crying so intensely only one tear remained.

"How bad? Where are Dad and Aidan?"

"Av . . . honey, they did not survive." Her voice breaks.

I slowly swallow the lump sitting in the back of my throat. The blood begins to rush away from my limbs, causing my legs and arms to tremble slightly.

She rewords her statement as if she didn't get it the first time.

"They're dead," she cries out.

As I hear those horrific words come out of her mouth, the room blurs, and the rest of her speech sounds muffled—almost like when the adult characters speak in a
Peanuts/Charlie Brown
cartoon.

Chapter Two – Another Sunrise

It's been over three months since the accident, yet sometimes it seems like only yesterday. My world has changed. It has no resemblance to my life before that October day.

I desperately miss my dad and especially Aiden.

How I miss Aiden . . . .

I want to see him so badly, to speak to him, to hear his laugh, or even to have a drag down fight with him. Each night, I wake up crying after having another dream;
all
i
nvolve him. The dreams are scattered all over the place without any common themes.

The only consistent part in my dreams—Aiden is alive. Sometimes he is walking away from a burning car wearing dirty and torn clothes, and even though blood covers him, he is standing upright, appearing strong. Other times he is doing normal things like watching TV or eating breakfast, as if nothing ever happened.

My thoughts constantly go back to the male stranger who checked Aiden's pulse and then took off. Had he not seen Dad and me in the car? It seemed practically impossible not to notice us in there. So why didn't he check on us? Why would he just walk away after assessing Aiden?

The guilt makes me want to throw up. My brother and Dad are gone forever, but I survived with only a stupid concussion and a dislocated left shoulder.

Even though I internally sulk every minute I possibly can, maintaining a strong, outward appearance is essential.

Mom quit working at the hospital right away. She had been "more together" at their funerals than she has been lately. Now, she just sits around in her pajamas all day and night looking through photo albums and staring into midair without saying a word.

It's painful to watch.

People have been constantly calling our home wanting to check on her status, concerned they haven't heard from her.

I stopped answering the phone since I'm tired of lying to everyone all the time.

Even though I see her daily, she hasn't been what would be considered "mentally accessible" since the accident.

Today, she surprises me more than she has over the last three months.

A knock on my bedroom door causes me to jump. I'm nestled under the warm covers trying to sleep without the constant dreams—
or nightmares
—that take over my nights.

My door creaks as it moves into a slightly open position.

"Ava, are you awake?" she whispers, her head peeking through a crack.

"Yeah, sure." I respond. I hastily push the covers off my torso and sit upright, attempting to appear alert. It seems like an eternity since she's started a conversation with me. In recent times, I've been the one to approach her. I find myself secretly yearning to talk with her.

"We need to discuss something." She sounds more cautious than usual.

I nod, unsure of what she means by this sudden need to discuss something. She begins walking across my bedroom sluggishly, with the speed of a turtle. She quietly steps over the clothes scattered over the bedroom floor.

I can't remember the last time she asked me to clean my room. Without her constant nagging, picking up my stuff is not a priority. Even now, as she walks over the multiple piles, she says nothing. She finishes crossing the minefield, then sits on the edge of my queen-size, poster bed, looking around the room like she hasn't seen it for quite a while.

"Let me first apologize," she finally says.

That comment alone helps ease some of my built-up tension. Her tone is pleading; her eyes are red and swollen.

"I haven't been a good mother to you lately. I realize that, and I wish I would have behaved differently during these last few months. You don't deserve isolation.

You deserve a mom to be"—she looks around the room once again, and then continues—"supporting you."

Her lip is quivering.

"What I'm trying to say is . . . I should have been supporting you while you recovered from the accident and grieved. I haven't."

She continues to look down, struggling to make eye contact.

I consider interrupting her—telling her she is all wrong—but deep in my heart I know she isn't wrong. I decide to remain silent and wait to see where this conversation goes.

My bed moves slightly as she exhales. "I have done
a lot
of thinking over the past few months. I believe it's very emotionally unhealthy for us to remain here in this house. It's just . . . well, we've had tons of wonderful family memories here, and I can't seem to move past that fact. Maybe it would be best if we—"

"Move?" I interrupt, finishing her sentence.

"Well, yes." She seems surprised. "That's right, I think moving
is
the best option for us right now. We need to start fresh. We will never forget Aiden or your dad, but we can't stay here surrounded by the constant memories of them in this house. I don't believe
I
can emotionally move on while remaining here. It is just . . . too difficult for me," she finally says.

Personally, I love our house and don't want to imagine being in a different one, but I understand and am willing to sacrifice if it means helping her.

I nod. "I understand, Mom. I will move if you feel it is the right thing to do."

She smiles slightly at my response and wipes her eyes, which have filled with tears.

"I know it will be right for us, and your grandparents will love having you close again."

A gasp slips out.

Did I hear her correctly?

"What?" I exclaim, my body stiffing up at the very notion.

"You're planning to move us to California? You
just
said moving, you never mentioned out of Chicago."

My face flushes from the adrenaline.

How can she even suggest such an idea? Is she insane?

She sees through my outrage and quickly places her left hand on my leg.

"Honey, Lake Arrowhead is a great community. It will be a
real
fresh start.

Remember, I grew up there, Ava. We need to go someplace away from here, somewhere around supportive people to help us through this grieving process. Your grandparents are ecstatic to have me, well actually
us
, back home again."

"We have supportive people here!" I throw out.

I stare at my open closet door, trying to fight back the tears. My eyes burn.

Without thinking, I fire back.

"Do you even realize how many people have been calling for you while you sit in your room practically—" I realize my comment is completely rude and out of line. I instantly regret making such a harsh statement.

She stands up and glares at me. "I
do
understand that people are trying to be supportive. I get that and appreciate it, more than you think I do. I
need
this change. Try to understand this is what I want for us."

Those are the last words that come out of her mouth. She proceeds to stand up, turn around, and walk quickly out of my bedroom without looking back.

I stare blankly at the back of the door. My hands tremble as the nausea sets in. I want to throw up. The mere thought of leaving Chicago, my friends, my life, and starting a new school in the middle of the year in California is unbearable.

Can't there be another way?

* * * * *

Against my adamant wishes, we arrive in San Bernardino County mid-February.

Lake Arrowhead's multiple communities are nestled in the mountains within the San Bernardino National Forest. It's definitely not a place I would have pictured as our permanent residence, yet, according to the last census report, it is home to approximately nine thousand families.

Grandpa used to tell us stories of how the Serrano Indians originally inhabited this land. Although I'm not thrilled in the least bit to be living here, the Indians were right: this place is extraordinarily beautiful.

We exit the plane, and I notice how different the airport looks from my memories of the last time I visited my grandparents in California when I was nine years old.